A Vow from a Viscount (Vows in Vauxhall Gardens #3)

Chapter One

“Is that Laurence Walsham?” The words were whispered behind fans by giggling débutantes and scandalized matrons as Laurence strode through the hall, pretending not to hear his name on their lips.

He tipped a wink at a lady dressed in a green gown, her red hair piled high upon her head. Her cheeks flushed scarlet, and her companions immediately looked at her with wide eyes.

They obviously thought she was the latest of his paramours—although, in truth, he had never met the lady before. He just rather liked redheads and how easy it generally seemed to be to make them blush.

He planned to enjoy a dance or two, a chance to see what exquisite ladies were present at this point in the season, and then retire to the cardroom.

He was sure he had spotted more than one fellow he knew from his days at Eton, so it would be a pleasant evening.

Then, he thought, he might go on to visit Lady Astley, who was his actual latest paramour—although, somehow, her name had so far stayed out of the gossip columns.

Not that he thought she’d be overly bothered. She was a widow twice over and had no wish to remarry. Her reputation was not so important to her these days.

He reached the refreshment table and took a glass of wine before turning to survey the room. It was busy, despite the season drawing to a close. One last hurrah, he supposed, before everyone disappeared to the country for hunting and other such genteel pursuits.

Laurence enjoyed the city, but he would return to his family estate to see his father, Viscount Walsham.

Perhaps unusual for fathers and sons within the ton, they enjoyed one another’s company—although his father no longer wished to return to the city every year for the season.

He only occasionally attended Parliament if the vote was particularly important.

With no plans to take a second wife, he said there was no point in returning for the whole season every year.

He did not like to hear that Laurence had no current plans to take a wife either, yet still found London and the season most enjoyable.

“Walsham?” Laurence turned at the sound of his name, spoken directly instead of whispered behind a fan, and found himself face-to-face with Henry Cassel, a classmate from his school days.

“I thought it was you. How are you, old friend?”

Laurence raised his glass with an easy smile. “I cannot complain. And you? The last I heard, you were touring the Continent.”

“I was—I returned in the spring with my wife, Emily. And I cannot complain either, thank you.”

“I had not heard that you had married. Congratulations,” he said, raising his glass once more and then draining it.

His friend seemed happy, and it clearly was not the time to give his own views on marriage.

It wasn’t that he thought it was a bad thing, just that he was not sure whether two people were really meant to spend their entire lives together.

People grew and changed—did that not mean it was better to move on and find someone with whom you had things in common?

Laurence’s acquaintances rarely lasted an entire season—and that was fine by him. But he did not think those were words to say to a man newlywed and clearly happy about it.

“Thank you. We met and married in France, so no one really knew until we returned. And I presume, considering the amount of gossip I heard when you walked into the room, that you are not yet wed?”

Laurence laughed. “You should know better than to listen to gossip, Henry.”

“You cannot be oblivious to the fact that your name ripples around the room as soon as you enter,” Henry said with a raised eyebrow. “And that the words ‘rake’ and ‘ruinous’ seem to follow you.”

Laurence let out a huff. “Rake I’ll accept. Ruinous is unfair and unfounded.”

Henry laughed. “Understood.”

“You are right, I have not married yet.”

“I suppose we are still young,” Henry said with a smile. “One day, the viscountcy will surely need an heir…”

Laurence felt his jaw stiffen at the topic.

Of course, it was an undeniable truth that one day he would need to wed and produce an heir.

But he did not like to think of that day—because he did not wish to contemplate his father dying and leaving him as the viscount.

And he did not like to ruminate on the promise he had made his father…

A promise that would certainly require him to change the way he had been living his life for the past few years.

And he very much enjoyed his life. He liked flirting, he liked dancing, he liked knowing that the women he spent time with were happy and content and knew there would be no offer of marriage forthcoming.

He didn’t want things to change… But even a future viscount had no power to stop the future from coming.

“All in good time,” he said in the end, reaching for another glass. “You must introduce me to your lovely wife, Henry. And we must have dinner sometime. It has been too long since I last saw you.”

Henry smiled. “Indeed. Perhaps I’ll see you at the faro table later—if you can tear yourself away from the lovely ladies in here.”

*

Miss Anastasia Carrington felt decidedly awkward in the ballroom, standing at the edge of the dance floor, completely alone.

She did not feel ready to be out enjoying such gaiety. However, her brother had insisted that it was time for them to cast aside their mourning clothes and re-enter society. She didn’t want to be there, but Oliver had made it clear she needed to find a husband.

She had not expected him to disappear almost as soon as they arrived.

This was her first ton event since her father had passed.

She was not well acquainted with anyone.

She had no older female to guide her through society, with their mother having died many years earlier.

And apparently, her brother did not plan to keep her company or instruct her in the ways of such gatherings.

So she stood at the edge, feeling shy and unsure, wishing desperately for a mother, sisters, or friends…

Some camaraderie with whom to enter this fray.

Anastasia hugged her arms around her waist and found herself wishing she could disappear.

Although, she thought, perhaps she was already rather invisible to the crowd.

While her red hair and blue eyes were often commented upon, her petite stature and the fact that she was alone meant that she did not attract much attention.

And she didn’t want to. She didn’t want to be here. But she could not go home without Oliver. And who knew how late he would want to stay? Once he had a drink or two and sat down at the card table… Well, it was hard to pry him away.

She watched the couples dancing, intricate steps that she knew by heart from her hours with the dance master.

Not that she’d had much opportunity to put those skills into practice.

With her father passing away so soon after she had first made her debut in society, there had been no cause—nor any desire—to dance.

But she had not forgotten those skills. She rather thought it was like when one learned to ride a horse…even if you did not ride again for several months, you did not forget how to do so.

“Not dancing, Annie?” a loud voice called, and she was startled to turn and find her brother ambling toward her, his eyes bright and his cheeks red. He only called her Annie when he was in his cups, and that was the only time he smiled like that, too.

He had barely spoken to her since Papa had died, other than to bark orders. So this friendliness was a welcome change—even if he was clearly drunk.

Although she did not wish for him to attract so much attention with his loud words.

He was carrying a glass of wine—only the one, he would never have thought of getting his sister some refreshment—although its contents had mostly been drunk.

“No,” Anastasia said softly. “No one has asked me.”

Oliver harrumphed. “Well, you don’t exactly look like you want to, do you? Standing there with your arms wrapped around your stomach and your shoulders slumped. The gentlemen will think you’re sickening for something.”

Anastasia felt her cheeks flush red, something that happened all too frequently, and she let her arms drop down by her sides, embarrassed that her brother already found her wanting in such a social situation.

“You cannot be a burden forever, sister. You must find a husband—you know that.”

“Yes, brother,” she said with a nod. She didn’t feel that Oliver was being entirely fair, but she knew better than to argue with him. She had heard that redheads were famed for their tempers, and while she did not think it true of herself, it certainly was for Oliver Carrington.

She wanted to marry, and she would ensure that she did everything she could to find herself a husband who would make both her and her brother happy. But it wasn’t as if she had been out in society for years and years without an offer.

This was her first night back in society—could she really be criticized for not yet having found a husband?

She drew her shoulders back and tried to portray a confidence she did not feel. At least if a gentleman asked her to dance, her brother might be more pleased with her conduct.

“Goodness me,” Oliver said, waving his wine glass in the air so exuberantly that several drops of the ruby liquid spilled onto the floor. “Walsham! Is that you?”

A tall, lean gentleman with dark hair tied back with a red velvet ribbon, paused and turned his head. He had an angular face, and yet his brown eyes were warm, almost in contrast.

“Mr. Carrington,” the man said, “what a pleasure to see you again.”

“The pleasure is mine, Mr. Walsham,” Oliver said with a bow of his head.

The man’s eyes flickered in Anastasia’s direction, and Oliver clearly remembered that she was there.

“Please, allow me to present my sister, Miss Anastasia Carrington. This is Mr. Walsham—we met at White’s last year.”

Anastasia curtsied to the handsome gentleman before her. He nodded his head in return, a smile playing on his lips.

“A pleasure to meet you, Miss Carrington. I do not remember seeing you at any of the events this season.”

He gave her a look that suggested he would remember if he had seen her, and it made her stomach feel rather strange.

“My father passed away,” Anastasia said by way of explanation.

His appraising gaze softened. “I am sorry to hear that. I can only imagine how difficult such a loss would be.”

“Thank you,” Anastasia said, holding his gaze.

Oliver mumbled something that sounded rather like, At least you’ll get a viscountcy when your father passes. Anastasia could not quite believe that her brother could be so callous, even in his cups—and she hoped that Mr. Walsham had not heard him.

“Are you enjoying your evening, Mr. Walsham?” she asked, hoping to cover the blunder.

“I am, thank you. And if you would give me the honor of the next dance, I believe I would enjoy it even more.”