Page 4 of The Lady of the Lamps (Vows in Vauxhall Gardens #1)

A s the boat approached the gardens, Spencer tried to summon up some enthusiasm. His friends had insisted that Vauxhall Gardens was still the place to be, even though their popularity had surely been waning.

Putting on a top hat and heading to drink and dance was so far removed from the life he had lived for the last few years that Spencer found it hard to acclimatize. He’d seen men run through with swords and disemboweled in front of him, watched starvation and illness ravage a camp of soldiers.

He’d come back physically whole, but mentally he did not see how he could ever be the carefree man he had been when he’d left to fight in France. Since returning, he had secluded himself at home, not wanting to see anyone or to hear his new title.

But eventually, his friends had persuaded them to join him.

“Come on, Leighton. A couple of drinks will put you in the mood for frivolity.”

Spencer wasn’t sure he would ever be in the mood for frivolity again. He still couldn’t bear to hear anyone address him as “Lord Leighton”, and yet, of course, they did.

Because that was his title.

He was the Marquess of Leighton, and he would be until the day he died and his heir—whomever that might be, should there even be one—took on the title.

He followed his friends into the gardens, trying to remember the excitement he had felt when he had visited them in his youth.

There had been one magical night, when he had been there with the very same friends, James and Timothy, where he’d met a woman who remained in his thoughts for a long time.

Even in France, during the grimmest, darkest moments, the way the lights had glinted off her beautiful golden hair had shone in his memories like a beacon of what was once good in his life.

Not that he’d expected to experience that goodness ever again.

But there was no point in thinking back to that night. That was in the time before. When he was confident of the path that lay before him. When his father was the Marquess, his brother primed to take his place when he unfortunately passed.

“Come on Spencer, they’ll be lighting the lamps soon,” Timothy called from up ahead. Spencer had no excuse for lagging behind, other than a lack of enthusiasm. He’d not sustained any serious wounds while at the front, somehow.

And yet, Jack…

He forced back the tide of emotion that always threatened to overwhelm him when he thought of Jack. His older brother. The sensible, thoughtful one of the two of them. The heir to the marquisate.

They’d thought the battle was over. The guns had fallen silent, and the wounded were groaning where they lay, hoping for help or for the mercy of death.

Jack hadn’t been able to leave a friend dying mere feet away from their trench.

He’d become far more impulsive during their time in France.

Spencer had followed him onto the battlefield, of course; Jack was the whole reason he was in France, after all.

And then, as they were dragging the groaning man back to safety, the musket ball had found its way into Jack’s chest.

One minute he had been alive and talking and telling his comrade that everything was going to be well. And the next the life had gone from his eyes, and his blood was covering the soldier they were dragging, and Spencer.

“See?” James said, handing him a glass of something not nearly alcoholic enough. “Aren’t you glad you came?”

The honest answer was “no”, but Spencer didn’t feel he could say that. His friends weren’t trying to make him miserable. They had made it clear that they didn’t think it was healthy for him to stay locked away in his London townhouse all the time.

They had suggested he head to the country, even though the fashionable time of year for doing so had passed—but he couldn’t bring himself to.

Their country seat just reminded him of his father, who had lost his battle against old age the previous year, and his brother, who should have inherited.

While the townhouse held many memories, it had at least been somewhere he had spent plenty of time in the Season without his father or brother. It was hard to get used to the servants calling him Lord Leighton, but other than that, he could pretend nothing had changed.

“Indeed,” Spencer said, feeling like an answer was expected of him.

The lamps were lit, and the assembled crowd oohed and ahhed .

Spencer wanted to feel awed by the sight.

He had—before. But now… He hated how the war had changed him.

But what joy could he find in lamps when he had seen so much death and destruction?

He’d dragged his brother and the fallen soldier—Lieutenant Johnson—back to base camp, somehow avoiding any musket balls himself.

His eyes had stung with unshed tears, but he had forced himself to continue, hoping in his heart that the medics might be able to magically and miraculously do something to save his beloved older brother even as his rational mind knew Jack was beyond hope.

“Did you see that young lady in the blue dress?” James said, nodding his head towards the refreshment table. “I’m going to ask her to dance.”

“Your father nagging you to wed again?” Timothy asked with a chuckle.

Times had definitely changed. The last time Spencer had been there, his friends had no thoughts of marriage at all. Both had planned to put it off until a much later date—but that “much later date” was fast approaching. Indeed, it may have already passed.

Timothy was already betrothed to a young woman Spencer had not yet met, and James was clearly planning to head up the aisle soon after him. He wouldn’t be asking eligible young women to dance otherwise.

“You should dance too, Spencer. Take your mind off everything for tonight. I know being a marquess is a heavy burden, but it does not mean you cannot have fun.”

Spencer struggled to explain to them exactly why being the marquess weighed so heavily upon him.

It wasn’t the work associated with the role, for he had an estate manager who was very experienced, and he was willing to learn how to manage the paperwork.

And it wasn’t that it curtailed the enjoyable activities in his life—because his days of drinking and gambling and raking through London were long behind him.

No, it was a burden because it didn’t feel like it should be his. The title, the money, the estates, the duty to pass on the title to an heir one day… none of that had been meant to fall to him.

And perhaps, if he’d done a better job of protecting Jack in France, it wouldn’t have.

“Just leave me to my misery,” Spencer snapped at Timothy, and then immediately felt guilty. None of it was Timothy’s fault. “My apologies. Please, go and dance. I will join you after this drink…”

They hurried away, and Spencer couldn’t blame them. Who would want to be someone so angry and miserable, a shell of his former self?

He hated that war for so many things. For taking Jack. For filling his head with images of dying men. For haunting his nightmares. For irrevocably changing who he was.

Spencer watched his friends dancing with beautiful young women under the light of the glass lamps as he knocked back another drink.

If he left and went home now, it would only be to sit in his library with a bottle of whisky, hoping that he could stop the nightmares from coming if he was drunk enough.

He closed his eyes for a moment and tried to picture that night, seven years earlier, when he had danced with the enchanting Lady Beatrix.

Her name was imprinted on his mind even all these years later, even with all the horrors he had witnessed.

When she smiled, it had made his heart feel like it might burst. One perfect evening with his lady of the lamps—and then he had never seen her again.

She was surely married by now. Such a beautiful, sweet woman would not have remained on the marriage mart for long after her debut. He had considered asking around after her, but had concluded there was no point. He didn’t know her, and she probably didn’t even remember him.

She was most probably at home right now with some adoring husband and a couple of children in the nursery in a life so far from his own it was hard to even imagine it.

When he opened his eyes, he thought he was seeing things.

He did not know how, but somehow his imagination had conjured the vision of Lady Beatrix before him.

Just like that night seven years earlier, she seemed to glow under the lanterns. Her blond hair still shone, and when she smiled at the man whose arm was entwined with hers, it made Spencer’s heart feel warm.

It was the strongest positive emotion he had felt in years.

His eyes slid to her companion, and he was surprised and pleased to note that the gentleman was her father, Lord Haxbury, and not a husband. That didn’t mean one did not exist, of course…but it made it far easier for him to ask her to dance without incurring anyone’s wrath.

Which he decided he had to do.

No, it wouldn’t change anything. He was a broken, bitter and twisted man, and he’d danced with her once seven years ago and never seen her again.

But if he could relive a little of the magic and romance of that night… well, perhaps he could start to look to the future. He hurried over before he could change his mind and stopped abruptly before them to remove his top hat and bow.

When he rose, Lady Beatrix was staring at him, her eyes wide and her mouth forming an “o”.

“Lord Haxbury,” Spencer said, his heart jumping at the notion that she recognized him. “We met several years ago. It’s a pleasure to see you again.”

Lord Haxbury’s eyes were cloudy with age, and although he smiled, there was no recognition there. “Indeed. A pleasure to see you, Lord—”

“Clement,” Lady Beatrix whispered, her eyes focused on Spencer.

She remembers me. He hadn’t expected to feel so intoxicated by the fact that she clearly remembered their encounter as vividly as he did.

The weight on his heart lifted and for brief moment—half a breath, at least, he was the young man he’d been and not the bitter husk of a human that he’d become. He was whole.