Page 3 of The Lady of the Lamps (Vows in Vauxhall Gardens #1)

Seven years later

A smile flitted across Lady Beatrix’s face as Vauxhall Gardens came into view. She had not visited them in such a long time. In her first Season, she had been filled with so much disappointment at the disappearance of Lord Clement that she hadn’t been able to bring herself to go.

And in her second Season, when she had discovered, through someone happening to mention it, that he had gone to fight in France, she had found her excitement over the beautiful gardens could not be renewed.

The image of that handsome, kind man who had made her heart race being in the middle of a battlefield was one that haunted her at night.

She knew it was silly. She didn’t know him.

He’d been gone a year before she’d even known that he had gone to France. She shouldn’t be worrying about him.

But he came to her thoughts far more often than he ought to have done.

In her third Season, when her aunt had warned her she was in danger of becoming a spinster, destined to live alone forever, she had surprised everyone by being courted by the most notorious rake of the ton.

He was dashing and shocking and Beatrix was sure he made every woman weak at the knees—even if they did not think he was a suitable prospect.

But Ambrose Trentham had singled her out, and danced with her more times than was appropriate, and set tongues wagging. In spite of his reputation, he did not complain when she hesitated to kiss him, nor when she would not allow his hands to wander where he liked.

It was exciting to be swept away in a haze of desire and gossip, to know that he wanted her, to no longer feel like a wallflower watching on while everyone else got to live their lives.

She had dreamed of excitement and romance, before she had entered society.

She had dreamed of Lord Clement.

But somewhere, it had all gone wrong.

It was approaching dusk as the boat pulled up to the pontoon, and Beatrix was offered an arm to help her from her boat, followed by her father.

He was far more fragile than he had been the last time they had visited the gardens together, seven years earlier, and Beatrix hated to notice the changes in him. The thinning, gray hair. The shaking hands. The cough that never quite went away, even in the summer months.

The last few years had not been easy on either of them. Beatrix’s life had not gone the way she, or her father, expected—and although that meant more time at home with him, there was a fair amount of stress involved.

At a house party at her father’s country seat, at the end of her third Season, Ambrose Trentham had proposed loudly and publicly to Beatrix, and Beatrix had agreed to be his wife.

He wasn’t the man she had dreamed of, but he was young and handsome, and he wanted her.

She could be happy with him, she had been sure. Yes, his rakish ways caused gossip, but she had hoped he would become a reformed rake once they were wed.

Besides, she had not wished to go into a fourth Season still unwed. Yet here they were.

“Careful, Papa, it’s a little slippery here,” she said, supporting her father with her arm through his as they made their way slowly to where the beautiful lamps would be lit once dark had fallen.

When her father had suggested this excursion, she had hoped she might feel some of the magic again that she had the last time she was here, but she wondered if that was just a product of her youth.

She was no longer young, and life did not seem so exciting or full of promise.

Her fourth Season had started off well. She had been engaged, and she did not need to worry about trying to attract a husband, as she had done every year prior. Even Aunt Elspeth had been pleased about that—although she did not keep her negative comments about Beatrix’s intended to herself.

But by the middle of that Season, Beatrix found herself purchasing black mourning clothes, her life turned upside down.

“I always said he was no good,” Aunt Elspeth had said, showing her customary lack of tact. “Who gets themselves killed in a duel these days, honestly? It’s illegal for one. And downright foolish for another.”

Beatrix had kept her mouth shut and sipped her lemonade and tried to hold back tears.

Had she loved Ambrose?

She wasn’t truly sure. He had stirred up passion with her, that was for sure. And he had been fun and carefree and so full of life. And he had wanted her. She had envisioned her life with him. They were going to be married.

And in a stupid, drunken, foolhardy instant, he was gone.

And she was alone.

Not a widow, because she had never been a wife. Just another lady looking for a husband. Again. Still.

So here she was. Entering her seventh season, unwed, tainted by her association with a rake—however chaste their courtship had been—and his subsequent death, followed by her own mourning period.

“I think I need to sit down, dear,” Papa said, and Beatrix found them seats, before excusing herself to get them refreshments.

She worried about Papa. His health had declined so rapidly, and the doctors didn’t seem to know why.

They threw around scary words and tried increasingly aggressive and expensive treatments, but no one ever seemed to have a solution that would actually cure him of whatever it was that ailed him.

Worse, it was possible that all that ailed Papa was that he was growing old, and there was no cure for that.

She stood by the refreshment table and took in the scene around her. So many important people filled the gardens, which were still as popular as they had been when they opened. Young men and women, eager to find their match. Matchmaking mamas and long-suffering fathers and maiden aunts…

Could one be a maiden aunt, if one had no siblings and therefore no nieces and nephews?

Beatrix sighed. This was not what she had imagined. When she had stepped into the shining light of society, she had thought her life would be marvelous. But the only other men to offer her marriage had been old enough to be her father. Her grandfather, even, in some cases.

Life certainly didn’t hold such magic anymore.