Page 33 of The Lady of the Lamps (Vows in Vauxhall Gardens #1)

S pencer’s blood burned through his veins as he held the soft form of Beatrix in his arms and kissed her in the way he’d been dreaming of since he had first seen her in Vauxhall Gardens, years earlier.

He wanted her in a way he’d never wanted a woman before.

Oh, there had been women, he wasn’t a monk.

But never had he been consumed with desire in this way before.

Where he could not think of anything else, could not breathe, could not worry about how broken a man he was or whether he ought to be doing this.

She pressed her body close to his, and while one hand held her head, entwined in those golden locks he had so admired, the other ran down her back, the soft fabric of her chemise the only thing between his hand and her bare skin, and held her tightly.

He was sure she could feel his desire for her, and he did not wish to alarm her, but he could not keep his body away from hers.

His knee slipped between her legs as the kiss deepened, and she groaned. Her hands pulled at his shirt, untucking it, and as her fingers touched his bare skin, they left a fiery trail in their wake.

A loud crash outside the bedchamber door was perhaps the only thing that could have interrupted them. Spencer’s nerves overreacted, as they always did, and he jumped away from her, ending up falling onto the hard wooden floor as he did so.

His ardor quite drastically cooled, and panic sending his heart racing, he strode over to the door and pulled it open, needing to see what danger he needed to protect Beatrix from.

But all he found was a scruffy looking lad trying to clear up several broken plates from the floor.

No danger at all.

“What is the meaning of this?” he growled, his ire rising, although not entirely covering his embarrassment. He was not the only half-dressed gentleman stood in the doorway, trying to see what was going on.

“I’m ever so sorry, milord,” the boy said, stumbling over his words. “I slipped while collecting the tray and—”

“Just clear it away quietly,” Spencer snapped, closing the door and taking a deep breath.

He couldn’t bring himself to turn around. What a fool he had made of himself. Right in a passionate moment, he had flung himself from the bed at a loud noise.

“Spencer?” Beatrix called timidly, and he forced himself to turn, and to try to smile.

Her hair was mussed and her lips swollen, and desire roared up inside him once more at the sight of her.

But this wasn’t right.

They needed to wait until they were wed. In case she changed her mind and did not wish to be tied to a broken man.

“Just some broken plates,” he said, his voice sounding raspier than he had expected. “We ought to get some sleep. We have an early start in the morning.”

She blinked, looking both surprised and offended, and had she tried to persuade him into continuing with the direction their night had been heading, he would have been powerless to stop her.

But she did not.

“Very well. Goodnight, Spencer.” And then she turned, so he could see only her chemise-clad back in the firelight.

She was probably very upset with him. But she would realize that it was for the best. Either they would consummate the marriage on their wedding night, as it ought to be done, or she would change her mind, and she would not risk being left with a bastard to raise because of a moment of weakness.

*

It took a long time for Beatrix to fall asleep. She felt frustrated. Her body had warmed to his touch, and she’d felt as though she needed something—something which was abruptly interrupted by the loud crash of plates outside the door, and Spencer’s decision that they needed sleep.

And that wasn’t the only thing keeping her awake. She was also wondering what she had done wrong to make him stop. He had been as passionate in that kiss as she was, she was sure of it—and yet once he’d thought better of it, he’d decided things shouldn’t progress.

Was it her lack of experience? Had she done something wrong? Kissed incorrectly? Or had she been too forward, especially when she had pulled up his shirt and touched his bare skin?

Perhaps it had been wrong of her to do so. But she’d felt as though she were on fire, and she’d wanted him so desperately…

She heard his breathing change when he fell into sleep, and felt irritated that he could drift off while she lay awake, very aware of his presence on the other side of the bed, obsessing about what had gone wrong.

And what still could go wrong.

Would he change his mind at the altar, just as he seemed to have done tonight?

Would Thomas discover them, before the vows had been said?

She wished she could send word to Jemima that she was safe, but it was too risky. Thomas might intercept a note, and force Jemima to reveal where Beatrix had gone, or hurt her in the false belief that she knew where Beatrix was.

Hopefully all would be forgiven the following day, once she was safely wed to Spencer and there was no danger any longer.

*

She must have finally drifted off, because she was startled awake by a loud shout.

She sat up, immediately assuming that Thomas had come to find her, and was on the other side of the door—only to realize that the noise came from within the chamber.

In fact, the cry came from the sleeping man beside her.

The fire had died in the grate and there was only a sliver of light from the moon peeking through a gap in the curtains, but it was enough for Beatrix to see the anguish on Spencer’s face. And yet his eyes were still closed.

He threw a hand out, and then a leg, becoming trapped in the blankets. And then he shouted again. A pained cry, followed by discernible words: “No. Don’t shoot him. Take me instead.”

He had warned her he might have nightmares, but she had not expected to be so moved by them. She hated to see the torment he was clearly in—and had no idea what to do for the best. She could not bear to see him in such pain, and yet she did not know if waking him would be worse.

“Please, no,” he pleaded in his sleep, and she couldn’t not stop herself from reaching out and putting her hand on his arm.

“Spencer,” she murmured, and when he did not respond, she repeated it louder. “Spencer.”

His eyes shot open, and for a moment she felt fear in her heart. He did not look like he recognized her. His hand grabbed her arm tightly, and she was about to speak again when he pulled her towards him.

“Spencer, all is well,” she whispered, as he clung to her tightly and buried his head in her chest. It was closer than they had been even earlier that evening, when their kisses had almost led to something more.

She could feel how deeply he was breathing as she held him in her arms, but she was sure he was at least half-awake now, since the shouting and thrashing had stopped.

Her heart was still racing like a horse out of control, but she held him close, and stroked his hair in a way she hoped was soothing.

To think that he had suffered alone with these nighttime terrors for so long broke her heart—as did thinking of what he must have seen to induce them, and for whom he was pleading. She was fairly sure he was begging for the life of his brother, in exchange for his own.

It was a trade she was glad he did not have the power to make. She did not want to lose him. She had dreamed of him for so long, and now he was here, in her arms, and almost her husband.

She would help him to heal, as she had promised.

“Beatrix?” he said in a muffled voice.

“Yes, Spencer. I’m right here.”

He nodded, and let go of the tight grip he had upon her—but he did not roll away.

“You’ll stay?” he asked.

She leaned back against the pillows, pulling him with her into a more comfortable position for sleep.

“I’m not going anywhere.”