Laughing, he shook his head. ‘I don’t know what other criminals you’ve got lurking around corners ready to rescue you. We’re getting straight out of here.’
‘It’s not that bad,’ Lucy mumbled.
‘It’s the most deprived area in London.’
She couldn’t deny the truth in his words. She’d said as much to the governors of the women’s and children’s Foundation she helped at during one of their biannual funding meetings. Here, in St Giles, the destitute mixed with criminals and prostitutes and, most heartbreaking of all, the shoeless children who ran wild through the streets, willing to do anything for a hot meal or a few coins.
‘I can walk by myself,’ she said, wriggling free of the restraining hand on her arm.
‘I don’t trust you,’ Oliver barked. That was fair, she supposed. They hadn’t known each other well during their short marriage and her behaviour over the last year hadn’t endeared her to her husband.
They marched rather than walked, Lucy having to take two steps to every one of Oliver’s long strides, and within two minutes they were leaving the narrow, shadowed streets of St Giles and emerging back on to the main thoroughfare.
Hailing a hackney carriage, Oliver almost stepped out into the path of the horses, but dutifully the coachman pulled to a stop just in front of them.
‘St James’s Square, number twelve,’ Oliver instructed, before bundling her inside and following quickly.
‘I...’ Lucy began to speak, but Oliver held up an authoritative hand.
‘I’ve waited over a year to hear why you abducted our son and disappeared without a word. We are not going to have this conversation in a carriage.’
‘I just...’
‘I said no. Whatever it is can wait for twenty minutes.’
Disgruntled, Lucy settled herself back against the padded bench, turning her body away from her husband and looking out the window instead. Ten months she’d lived as Oliver’s wife, although for almost nine of those months he had been away at war. She barely knew the man, but that didn’t mean she had to tolerate such rudeness.
As they weaved through the streets Lucy recognised most of the landmarks. She’d lived in London for the past year and although she didn’t have much reason to set foot in the more elite areas, she had passed through on occasion. She fidgeted as she watched the carriage round the corner into St James’s Square, knowing the next few hours were going to be difficult and really she only had herself to blame.
‘Come,’ Oliver ordered as the carriage stopped in front of a white-painted town house. It was immaculately kept and for a house in the middle of the city huge in size. They could house twenty mothers and children comfortably in the space, maybe more, but instead it was the domain of a single man and a few servants. It seemed such a waste.
The door was opened promptly by a smartly dressed young man with a scar running from eyebrow to chin.
‘I trust you had a pleasant afternoon, my lord,’ the young butler said, sparing a look for Lucy, but valiantly trying to hide his curiosity.
‘Yes, thank you, Parker. We will be in my study. I don’t want to be disturbed.’
‘Yes, my lord.’
And with that Oliver had whisked her into his study, closed the door and clicked the lock. Lucy swallowed, eyeing the windows which were all firmly closed. She shouldn’t be afraid—for all his faults, her husband was a noble man; he wouldn’t hurt her. At least she was reasonably sure he wouldn’t.
‘Sit,’ he instructed, motioning towards two comfortable leather armchairs positioned in front of the unlit fire.
She complied immediately. For all her strong-willed dislike of being told what to do, she recognised now they were completely in her husband’s domain. For the next few hours at least she would have to remember he was in charge here.
Watching nervously as Oliver stalked about the room, selecting two glasses and pouring two generous measures of whisky, Lucy was surprised when he set one in front of her. Never in their short marriage had he invited her to join him for a drink, but she supposed then they were occupying more traditional roles of gentleman and his wife. Now it was clear he had no idea how to regard her.
‘Talk,’ he commanded eventually, settling back into his chair.
Copyright © 2018 by Laura Martin
ISBN-13: 9781488087066
Beauty and the Brooding Lord
Copyright © 2018 by Sarah Mallory
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