Page 8 of The Lady of the Lamps (Vows in Vauxhall Gardens #1)

S pencer did not attend the Pollark Ball. He considered it, but told himself it was too late to turn up without having responded to the invitation.

In truth, he knew that they would have happily welcomed him, as an elusive marquess—and especially considering he was unwed, and there would be plenty of young ladies at the ball looking for husbands.

But he was not looking for a wife, and he did not wish to have people point and stare and gossip about his strange behavior in the gardens.

He had avoided reading any of the gossip columns, in case they conjectured about his sudden exit, and turning up to the ball just seemed like a disaster waiting to happen.

He did meet his friends for a drink again the following day though, and started promenading through St James’s Park on fine mornings when spring took the chill out of the air, so that he didn’t turn entirely into a hermit again.

Lady Beatrix remained on his mind. He knew he could call on her, since they had been introduced, but he couldn’t bring himself to.

She would expect that he was interested in courting her—as he would have been had he managed to call on her before he had left for France—and he didn’t want to disappoint.

So when, on a particularly pleasant March morning, he saw her across the busy park, he found himself unsure as to what to do.

He wanted to speak to her, but he didn’t seem to be very good at making conversation anymore. And if he did speak with her, how would he possibly explain his abrupt departure from Vauxhall Gardens?

But if he walked away, and did not speak with her…could he forgive himself?

He continued on his path, knowing that if she did the same, they would certainly run into each other. She was promenading with a maid, and he wondered if her father was too frail to join her on such walks now. He certainly looked like age had taken its toll on him when Spencer had seen him again.

He could tell by her eyes widening and her jaw clenching the moment that she spied him. He couldn’t blame her for not wanting to speak with him. He forced his features to remain neutral, slowing down as he approached her and removing his top hat.

“Good day, Lady Beatrix,” he said with a bow.

“Lord Leighton,” she replied softly, curtsying and not quite meeting his eye. Was she embarrassed to be seen with him, after his behavior the other night? Was she worried that onlookers might think they were a courting couple?

“I hope you are well.” It was the only comment Spencer could think to make. “And your father, too?”

“Yes, thank you. And you…are you well?”

Her piercing blue eyes finally met his and a jolt traveled down his spine. What a question. He knew she was asking whether he had recovered from his strange behavior, but for him it went so much deeper.

He wasn’t well. And no matter how much he wanted to be, he didn’t know if he ever would be again.

But that was not a topic for polite conversation.

“Yes, thank you. Fine weather we’re having, is it not?”

The conversation was stilted and awkward, and Beatrix was sure Jemima was listening in to every word with rapt interest. After all, this was the gentleman that Beatrix had waxed lyrical about, once upon a time. And now they could only discuss the weather…

“Yes. Beautiful. I do like to walk in the park when it is dry,” Beatrix said.

When she had first seen him, casually strolling along the very same path as she was, her heart had almost stopped in shock. Then it had raced faster than it ought as she had tried to think what to say, and wondered whether he would stop to speak to her after leaving her at the fireworks.

Oh, how she wanted to ask him why he had left. But she couldn’t. It would not be polite to do so—and besides, what if he were honest with her in answering, and she didn’t like the answer?

And so they stood awkwardly conversing as happy young couples wandered along, some newlywed and some still with chaperones trailing behind them.

Beatrix had walked through this park for years, often with her father, and she had always looked upon those couples in the first flush of courtship and wondered how it would feel when it was her.

And, when Ambrose had flirted with her and courted her, she had felt a little like she had imagined those couples would feel.

Now she couldn’t look at those couples without feeling rather disgruntled. But she would have settled for feeling disgruntled rather than the next emotion to accost her: horror .

For her father’s friend the Earl of Filton was speedily approaching her—and he had made it all too apparent at the Pollark Ball that he considered her an excellent candidate to become the next Lady Filton.

An idea that made her want to be sick.

And yet… What options did she truly have? If she wanted to be a wife and mother, and have an estate to run, might she have to settle for a man who was already a grandfather?

Father didn’t seem horrified by the idea… And that was almost harder to stomach than Lord Filton’s lecherous smirks.

The handsome young earl before her didn’t even seem to want to make conversation with her, if she read the way he kept looking off into the distance correctly.

Her options were pitifully limited.

To be that girl in Vauxhall Gardens again, with her whole life ahead of her, full of possibilities…

“Well. Good day, Lady Beatrix,” Lord Leighton said with a stiff nod.

As she watched him stride off into the distance, Beatrix wanted to call out and ask for an explanation.

His awkwardness around her felt like such a rejection; like a punishment for something she had done wrong, and yet she had no idea what it was.

And why was she pining for a man she didn’t know? It was the fantasy of him in her head; the perfect memory of a night so long ago that she surely could not keep all the details straight in her head.

She needed to let go.

“Lady Beatrix!” Lord Filton called, raising a hand in greeting. His cheeks were reddened from his increased speed, and his calling of her name ensured she could not walk off and pretend she had not seen him.

She greeted him with a sinking heart. “Good morning, Lord Filton,” she murmured politely, though she felt anything but good.

“I thought I might walk you home, if you were headed that way. I was actually planning to call on you…”

Beatrix forced a smile on her face. There was no use in being rude. She didn’t want to marry this man, to step into the role of mother to children older than she was, and become a grandmother to babies before she’d had any of her own—but if he was her only option, she did not wish to offend him.

Apparently, if her interaction with Lord Leighton was any indication, she could do that without knowing how.

“It is a lovely morning, is it not,” she said as they began the walk back home. Banal conversation could in no way be considered offensive.

“Oh, yes. Well, too warm really. In the countryside there is always some fresh air to balance these things…”

Beatrix hid her sigh and tried not to picture what her future held.