Chapter 16 #2
Theodosia stepped lightly along the gravel path, her slippers crunching softly as she navigated through the towering hedgerows of the gardens’ maze.
The moon hung low above Vauxhall Gardens, casting a silvery sheen upon the sculpted greenery and lending the night an otherworldly glow.
Laughter and the distant strains of a violin floated in the air, but here, at the heart of the maze, the world had gone still.
She emerged into the center clearing, where a marble statue of Venus rose from the middle of a stone pedestal, her pale form bathed in moonlight.
Theodosia paused, momentarily awestruck.
Her mother had once described Vauxhall Gardens as a place of enchantment, and now she understood why.
Everything—the lanterns, the music, the scent of roses blooming even at night—felt like something out of a dream.
She inhaled deeply, trying to still the flutter in her chest. It was almost too much to believe that she was finally here. For so many years, she had read of Vauxhall Gardens in the newssheets, imagining the elegance, the spectacle. Tonight, it had exceeded her every expectation.
Footsteps crunched behind her. She turned slightly, smiling to herself, expecting Lord Wilton and Olivia to appear from the hedges, no doubt ready to scold her for rushing ahead.
But the voice that spoke near her ear was neither warm nor welcome.
“Were you waiting for me, my dear?” The words rasped against her skin, sending a chill straight through her.
No.
That was not Lord Wilton.
She stiffened and turned sharply, only to find herself face to face with Mr. Pritchett.
Her heart sank, dread tightening in her chest. Taking an instinctive step back, she squared her shoulders. “What do you want?”
He dipped into a mockery of a bow. “Merely the pleasure of your company.”
“Mr. Pritchett—”
“Adam,” he interjected smoothly.
She lifted her chin. “I would never presume to address you so informally. We are not acquainted in such a manner.”
He chuckled, a sound that sent unease crawling along her spine. “We know enough. I’ve admired you from afar for years, Miss Theodosia. Surely you must see that we would suit admirably.”
“I do not share that opinion.”
He stepped forward. “We are both practical people. You must admit that a marriage between us would serve us both. Our estates—”
“I am not seeking a practical arrangement,” she asserted. “I want a marriage founded on respect. On affection.”
He scoffed. “Love? Is that truly what you believe you’ll find among the ton?”
An image of Lord Wilton flickered in her mind—his dry wit, his thoughtful gaze—but she pushed it away. He had given no indication that he cared for her. “I believe I might. And even if I do not, I would rather remain alone than marry someone I do not care for.”
His expression hardened. “You would choose spinsterhood over marrying me?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
She glanced around the quiet maze, hoping that someone would appear. “I mean no offense—”
“Then how did you mean it?” His voice dropped lower.
“I should return to the main gardens,” she said quickly, stepping past him.
But he moved into her path, blocking her escape. “Not until you agree to marry me.”
Her stomach twisted. “I am not going to marry you.”
“Then we are at an impasse,” he replied coolly. “But I am convinced I could make you happy.”
“And how, precisely, would you accomplish that?”
He leaned in, his breath unpleasant. “Between our lands, we would be the most prominent landholders in the county.”
“So that is what this is truly about,” she retorted. “You want my estate.”
“I never said that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
He ran a hand through his thinning hair. “Perhaps I came on too strong. Let us begin again.”
“It will not make a difference,” she responded. “I desire a partner, not a transaction.”
“You are a fool,” he snapped.
Theodosia’s eyes darted towards the nearest hedgerow. “It is entirely improper for us to meet in this manner. Come to Lord Wilton’s townhouse tomorrow if you wish to speak again. We can discuss the matter properly.”
“Only for you to dismiss me again?” His lips curled. “I came to London to make you mine.”
Suddenly, he reached for her, seizing her arm and yanking her close.
“You will not succeed,” she stated, trying to pull away.
His fingers dug into her flesh. “I don’t think so.”
“You are hurting me.”
He didn’t release her. Instead, he crushed his mouth against hers—a kiss without tenderness, without consent.
She reared back and struck him across the face. “How dare you take such liberties!”
“I’ll take whatever liberties I please,” he snarled. “And when I’m done with you, no one else will want you.”
Terror clutched at her throat. She stumbled back, desperate to flee—but then, like a thunderclap in the night, a familiar voice rang out.
“Unhand her!”
Lord Wilton stood at the edge of the clearing, fury carved into every line of his face.
Mr. Pritchett tightened his grip and turned. “Leave us. This doesn’t concern you.”
“It does,” Lord Wilton said, stalking forward. “Miss Theodosia is under my protection.”
“Not any longer,” Mr. Pritchett shouted. “We are engaged.”
Theodosia’s voice rang with outrage. “That is a lie!”
“It’s a lover’s quarrel,” Mr. Pritchett insisted. “Leave us be.”
Lord Wilton’s gaze dropped to Theodosia’s arm, still caught in Pritchett’s grasp. “I warn you—release her. Now.”
“And what if I don’t?” Mr. Pritchett sneered. “I doubt you’ve ever engaged in fisticuffs in your life.”
A soft click interrupted them.
Olivia stepped out from the shadows, her face determined, and a small muff pistol raised in her hand. “You heard my brother—unhand her. And trust me, I have no qualms about shooting you.”
Mr. Pritchett’s face paled. “You wouldn’t.”
“I suggest you don’t test me,” Olivia said, cocking the pistol with deliberate precision.
Mr. Pritchett let go of Theodosia at once, and she rushed to Lord Wilton’s side, trembling.
“This is all a misunderstanding,” Mr. Pritchett stammered, his voice laced with desperation.
“Is it?” Olivia asked, advancing a step. “Because it looks very much like you were taking liberties with a woman who had already told you no.”
“We belong together!” he cried. “If she would only think rationally—”
“You have exactly three seconds to leave,” Lord Wilton growled. “And I strongly suggest you never return to Town.”
“Or what?” Mr. Pritchett demanded.
Lord Wilton took a step forward, his presence towering. “Or I will see to it that every door in London is closed to you.”
Mr. Pritchett’s eyes narrowed. “Why do you care what happens to Miss Theodosia? She’s nothing to you.”
“She is my sister’s companion,” Lord Wilton replied, his voice taut, “and under my household’s protection.”
“You want her for yourself!” Mr. Pritchett shouted. “And when you tire of her, you’ll cast her aside like rubbish.”
Lord Wilton’s jaw clenched, his hands curling into fists. “Do not speak that way in front of ladies.”
“You didn’t deny it,” Pritchett said, triumphant.
“Because your accusation was so ludicrous, it wasn’t worth addressing,” Lord Wilton snapped. “I would never treat Miss Theodosia with anything but the respect she deserves.”
Pritchett opened his mouth, but Olivia lifted the pistol higher. “Go,” she said simply.
This time, he obeyed.
As soon as Mr. Pritchett disappeared around the corner and the sound of his footsteps faded into the distance, Lord Wilton turned towards Theodosia, his thunderous expression still shadowing his features. His voice, though quieter, carried the weight of urgency.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
She managed a small, tremulous smile. “I will be—thanks to you and Olivia.”
His gaze dropped to the sleeve of her gown, where the skin beneath the fabric was reddened.
“He hurt you,” he said grimly—not a question, but a dark, resolute fact.
She winced slightly as she rubbed at the soreness with her other hand. “Yes. He did.”
A muscle jumped in his jaw. Without a word, he turned as if to stride after the man.
Alarmed, she reached out and grasped his arm, her fingers curling around the fine fabric of his coat sleeve. “No—please, don’t.”
He halted midstep, glancing down at her hand before looking into her eyes. “You’re protecting him?”
“Of course not,” she insisted, her voice thick with emotion. “I’m trying to protect you.”
His brows drew together in confusion. “From what?”
“From doing something rash,” she said earnestly. “I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to you because of me.”
His expression softened, the anger in his eyes fading just slightly. “I assure you, Miss Theodosia, I am quite capable of defending myself.”
“I know that,” she murmured, her fingers still clinging to his coat. “But I would prefer it if you stayed here—with me.”
The tension in his posture eased. For a long moment, he simply looked at her, as if weighing the meaning behind her words. Then he nodded. “If that is what you would prefer, then here I shall remain.”
She exhaled a shaky breath, her grip loosening, but her gaze never wavering from his. His presence steadied her, settled something frantic within her chest. Just having him there, close by, was reassuring and dangerously intoxicating.
Olivia’s voice cut through the night air. “Just say the word, and I’ll shoot Mr. Pritchett in the foot. Fingers crossed it gets infected and he loses it. Then we can call him ‘One-Foot Pritchett.’”
A laugh escaped Theodosia’s lips, despite herself. “There is no need to shoot him,” she said, though the amusement lingered in her tone.
“A pity,” Olivia muttered, tucking the small pistol back into her reticule with a dramatic sigh.
It was only then that Theodosia realized her hand was still resting against Lord Wilton’s arm. Embarrassed, she released him and took a small step backward, smoothing the fabric of her gown as if to gather her composure.
“I imagine Mr. Pritchett has finally received the message loud and clear,” she said, her voice regaining some of its steadiness.
Lord Wilton’s attention shifted to his sister, his tone somewhere between concern and exasperation. “Since when do you carry a muff pistol?”
Olivia shrugged. “London can be a dangerous place. I find it best to be prepared.”
He gave her a long look, and a reluctant smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “I would urge a bit of caution, Olivia. You carry that pistol with such confidence, but one misstep and you might very well be called ‘One-Foot Olivia.’”
Olivia huffed with theatrical indignation. “I am far too clever to shoot myself in the foot.”
“We shall see,” he said dryly.
She rolled her eyes in response, entirely unbothered. “Very well. If your teasing is quite finished, shall we resume our grand tour of Vauxhall Gardens? There is still the Chinese Pavilion and the fireworks display to admire, assuming we haven't missed them entirely.”
Theodosia stood silently for a moment, her hands clasped before her as she looked out into the hedged paths beyond.
Her heart was still thudding in the aftermath of what had occurred, and though she tried to compose herself, the idea of returning to the public gaiety of the gardens felt overwhelming.
But she would not be the one to spoil the evening again—not after such a dramatic interruption. She straightened her shoulders and forced a pleasant expression, even as her nerves still prickled beneath the surface.
Lord Wilton turned towards her with gentleness in his gaze as if sensing her hesitation.
“I believe it would be best if we called it an early night,” he said, his tone laced with concern.
“There’s no need to press on when we can easily return another evening.
Vauxhall Gardens will still be here tomorrow. ”
“That sounds perfect,” Theodosia murmured, grateful for his understanding.
With a gracious nod, he extended his arm to her. “May I escort you to the carriage, Miss Theodosia?”
She slipped her hand into the crook of his arm. “I would greatly appreciate it.”
“Good,” he said, his voice suddenly low and purposeful, “because I don’t want you out of my sight.”
She looked up at him in surprise, her breath catching at the intensity in his gaze. Then, he blinked and shifted his gaze towards the path leading out of the maze.
Behind them, Olivia’s wry voice rang out. “Do feel free to leave me behind. I’m certain I can find my way back to the coach through this charming labyrinth of hedges in the dark.”
Lord Wilton glanced back with a chuckle and held out his other arm with a gallant sweep. “My deepest apologies, Sister. Come along—we shall all exit this romantic maze together.”
Olivia linked her arm with his and offered a grin. “Much better.”