Page 24 of The Lady of the Lamps (Vows in Vauxhall Gardens #1)
I n spite of the fractious conversation, the fishing trip was a success.
They all caught plenty, some of which would be sent down to the village to feed the poor, and some of which would grace their dinner table.
Women had not been mentioned again, and that led to a much more convivial atmosphere on the ride home.
There was just time when they returned to the house for a hot bath and a change of clothes before dinner. The busy schedule of the house party kept time moving quickly, and Spencer allowed himself a few moments to soak in the copper tub and let his mind wander.
Beatrix.
Her name being mentioned today had surprised him.
As had his reaction to the thought of her.
He had been avoiding letting her into his mind, because she was so hard to get out again.
But now, just for a moment, enveloped by the warm water and the smell of the lavender soap, he allowed himself to think of her.
To imagine things were different.
If he had not followed his brother onto the battlefield—in fact, if his brother had not gone at all. He would have remained Lord Clement, second son. And if his father had still passed away at the same time, he would have then become younger brother to the marquess.
He would have called on Lady Beatrix, once she was out in society. He would have called on her, and taken tea with her and her father, and asked to escort her round the park. All the things he and his friends had thought silly and foppish back then—but he would have done them, for her.
They would have danced at balls, and he would have courted her and asked her father for her hand.
He was sure of it. There had been something between them that night at Vauxhall Gardens.
Something that in his youth he would have laughed off, but that now he could appreciate.
And the spark was still there, even though the years had taken their toll on them both.
And yet now it was too late. He was too broken to be a good husband, and she was betrothed to another man. His days of romance were long past—and yet, for a few minutes in the rapidly cooling bath, he allowed himself to imagine what it would be like if things had gone to plan.
Perhaps they would be at this house party still—but together.
Perhaps they would happily be ensconced in the countryside, ignoring the world and enjoying their own little bubble of happiness.
Perhaps they would have a brood of children, none of whom were ever likely to be marquess, but all of whom would be loved desperately.
He sank under the water to wash the dreams away. Dreams were just as painful as nightmares, in a way. When all was said and done, you still had to come back to reality—and his reality was an evening of socializing without the woman of his dreams by his side.
By the time Spencer retired for the night, he was exhausted.
The day’s riding, fishing, and socializing had worn him out, and he was hopeful for a long, dreamless slumber.
Not that he held out much hope for the dreamless part.
Nightmares always came, whether he was happy or sad, tired or full of energy.
He didn’t always remember the details, but he always recalled the fear, the panic, the twisted sheets, and the echo of his own screams. It was a penance he had resigned himself to paying for the rest of his life. The punishment for surviving the war, when his brother had not.
His attempts to cure himself with the waters at Bath had been foolish and unsurprisingly unsuccessful. Sometimes, he thought he deserved to feel so broken. After all, he had everything Jack should have had: the title, the future, the property. A life.
It wouldn’t be fair if he was happy and at peace, too.
It was with such heavy thoughts that he closed his bedchamber door behind him with a sigh and loosened his cravat. When he turned, he let out an expletive that certainly should not have been uttered in front of a lady, and took a step backward.
Had he inadvertently entered the wrong chamber? That was his first assumption—but then he noticed his jacket on the armoire door and his comb on the dressing table, and he knew he had not.
Had she wandered into the wrong room? She had come to bed sometime earlier and was dressed in a sheer night rail that he certainly should not be seeing her in.
“Miss Louisa,” he began, unsure where to look. She was an attractive woman, there was no denying that—but she was not his.
She would never be his.
He did not want her to be his…
There was only one woman he wanted dressed like that in his chamber—and she would also never be his.
“Lord Leighton,” she said, her voice wavering a little as she spoke. “I thought, perhaps, we could spend some more time together. After all, the house party will soon end, and I had hoped we could become better acquainted…”
“This is not appropriate, madam,” he said, his palms beginning to sweat. He didn’t like to sound like some old man, but surely she knew what would happen if she was discovered here, in this state of undress?
She’d be ruined. They would have to wed. And she would be tied to a broken man for the rest of her days—and he to a woman he could never love.
It didn’t bear thinking about.
“We’ve been getting along, have we not?” she said, shyly looking to the floor and biting her bottom lip.
Her attempted seduction was not having the desired effect.
Was she trying to trap him into marriage?
He’d been polite to her, certainly, but was sure he’d done nothing to make her think that a marriage proposal was likely.
“Miss Trentbridge, please leave and return to your chamber, before someone should discover you here.”
“I thought we could speak more privately, just for a little while…”
Spencer was becoming frustrated. She was surely not as naive as she was trying to appear. This action seemed planned—and he would not be trapped into a marriage. Nor would he tie her to a broken man for the rest of her life. She did not know the man she was trying to net.
“I do not wish to be rude. But you have made a mistake, Miss Louisa. This is not something I desire, and you will regret it too. Please, leave, before—”
There was a knock at the door, and Spencer froze. Who would be knocking on his door at this time of night? And what would they say when they saw the half-dressed young woman unchaperoned in his bedchamber?
He groaned; she was ruined. He was ruined. There was nothing to be done.
The girl did not make an attempt to hide. In fact, she reached for the door handle—and before Spencer could tell her not to, she threw the door open, and their fate was sealed.