by Laura Martin
Taking a deep breath, Lucy opened the door and stepped out into the hall.
‘Good afternoon, Lady Sedgewick,’ a smartly dressed young footman said, giving a formal little bow.
Lucy’s eyes narrowed as her heart sank. Oliver had posted a guard at her door. A guard. Someone to make sure she didn’t sneak away. It was insulting and showed her true position in the household: she was a prisoner.
With her cheeks reddening, she conceded that she had planned to slip away, but still, how dare her husband send a footman to monitor her movements.
‘Is there anything I can get you?’
‘Some tea, and water to wash my face.’ She hoped he would step away, hurry downstairs and organise the things she had requested, but he didn’t move a single inch.
‘Of course, Lady Sedgewick. I’ll arrange for them immediately.’
Neither of them moved and Lucy raised an imperious eyebrow. She had never been one to talk down to servants, always seen them as the hard-working, genuine people they were, but she wasn’t above a bit of play-acting if it meant securing her freedom.
‘Immediately,’ she said, injecting a sharp note into her voice.
He nodded but still didn’t move. Lucy hated any kind of confrontation, but a year living in St Giles had taught her how to look confident even when scared or uncertain.
‘Please don’t keep me waiting...’
‘Peterson, Lady Sedgewick,’ the footman supplied with a smile, as if oblivious to the tension between them. ‘You’ll have your tea and hot water in no time.’
‘Thank you,’ she murmured, giving in and spinning on her heel, closing the door firmly behind her. No doubt Peterson had strict orders from her husband not to leave his observation post and Oliver was not a man people seemed to disobey lightly.
Sighing, she regarded the room, crossing to the bed to flop down on the floral covers, but hesitated just as her body began to sink down.
They were only on the first floor, barely ten feet from the ground. The window had a generous ledge outside and she was sure she would be able to lower herself down. The remaining drop would only be a few feet. She’d be at risk of a twisted ankle, but nothing more serious, and if she landed correctly she might even get away unscathed. From what she could see there was a garden gate, leading to what she assumed would be a side passage and an easy stroll back to the street.
With a glance at the door, aware that her tea and hot water could arrive at any moment, she dashed to the window and pushed it up. To her relief it was unlocked and, before she could talk herself out of it, she had one leg over the casement and resting on the ledge. The skirts of her practical woollen dress tangled a little around her knees, but one swift tug and she was free, swinging the other leg out the window.
Cautiously she looked down. The garden was deserted, the small patio beneath her devoid of any furniture and the neatly trimmed lawn unbroken by any flower beds. It meant there was nowhere to hide, but if she dropped to the ground she could quickly skirt around the house to the side gate and let herself on to the street.
For a moment she hesitated. Perhaps she did owe it to Oliver to stay, to explain a little more about what had happened this past year. She’d been cruel and selfish to remain distant for so long, but truly what did he think they had to gain by renewing their relationship now? No, she’d escape from here, from the pressure he was putting on her to explain, from the guilt that was threatening to destroy her from the inside. Once she was back on more neutral ground she would consider how best to make amends to her husband, but she couldn’t think with his dark eyes boring into her, couldn’t reason when he fixed her with that haughty stare.
Before she lost her nerve, Lucy manoeuvred herself first to her hands and knees and then eased her body over the edge of the ledge. As she dangled, her fingers gripping the rough stone, she wondered if she had miscalculated. The drop seemed further than she had first imagined, but knowing there was no way she would be able to pull herself up again, she closed her eyes and let go.
She plummeted for a fraction of a second before coming to a juddering halt. A strong hand gripped her arm, stopping her from falling to the stone patio below. Lucy opened her eyes, looking up into the frowning face of her husband.
‘Peterson, in here now,’ Oliver shouted, his fingers digging into her flesh as he held her firmly by the wrist.
He said nothing more as the footman joined him at the window and together they hauled her back inside. Lucy stumbled as he set her on her feet and immediately Oliver’s arm was around her waist, guiding her to the bed.
Only once they were alone, the door firmly closed behind them, did he open his mouth.
‘That was foolish,’ he said quietly.
Lucy looked down, unable to meet his eye. It had been foolish, but she was desperate.
‘I had a man under my command on the Continent, James Havers,’ Oliver said, his voice betraying an uncharacteristic amount of emotion. ‘He was young, barely twenty when he joined. One day, in the heat of battle, he was trampled by a horse.’ Oliver grimaced. ‘Our own cavalry. His leg was broken in three places.’
Lucy tried to swallow, but realised her throat was too dry.
‘The surgeons tried to set it, but they couldn’t. Three days later they amputated, above the knee. Two weeks after that he was dead. The stump had festered.’
Unable to look away Lucy glimpsed a hint of pain in her husband’s eyes. She had always thought of him as cold and aloof, but there was no doubt he’d cared for the young man who’d died. She suspected he’d cared for all the men under his command.
‘Havers could not help what happened to him. You can,’ he said brusquely. ‘I do not want to see you putting yourself in such danger again.’
He left, without looking at her again, closing the door softly behind him despite the heat of emotion that had been in his voice.
As she sank to the bed, her whole body shaking at the realisation of what she could have done to herself, Lucy found herself staring at the door Oliver had just left through. She realised she didn’t know anything about her husband, at least not anything that wasn’t common knowledge among the rest of society, as well.
A few minutes later a pretty young maid bustled into the room, but Lucy barely noticed.
Chapter Three
Oliver stood stiffly by the window, regarding the comings and goings of the street below as he waited for his wife. She was late, but that was hardly unexpected, probably trying to work out a way to swap identities with the maid and escape the house that way.
As the door opened Oliver felt his heart skip a beat in his chest. Gone was the worn, brown woollen dress, gone was the sensible bun and slightly grubby visage, and in their place the Viscountess he remembered.
‘Sorry to keep you waiting,’ Lucy said, her voice not containing even a hint of remorse.
Oliver had to suppress an unexpected smile. Nearly two years ago he’d asked his mother to find him a suitable bride. With his father and two older brothers dead from a particularly virulent fever, Oliver had unexpectedly inherited the title, land and responsibilities he’d never imagined would be his. Aware his career in the army wasn’t normal for a viscount, he’d realised he would need to start fathering some heirs just in case he, too, was taken from earth before his time. Too busy, and often a continent away, to search for himself, he’d asked his mother to make a list of suitable candidates. Lucy had been at the top. His mother had described her as respectable, docile and amiable. Looking at her now, he thought she might look respectable once again, but certainly not docile or amiable.
‘Shall we eat?’ Oliver asked, holding out his arm.
She hesitated before taking it, but eventually placed her gloved hand on his jacket.
As they walked through to the dining room, Oliver glanced at his estranged wife out of the corner of his eye. She’d always been pret
ty, in an unassuming way, but when they’d married she’d been young, only nineteen. The girl who’d walked down the aisle had blossomed into a beautiful young woman and Oliver was remembering why he had dreamed about her every night of their separation for the first few months.
‘We need to talk about the future,’ Lucy said quietly but firmly as she took a spoonful of soup.
‘And the past.’
‘Why dwell on it?’
He levelled her with a cool stare, only relenting when she hastily diverted her eyes and focused once again on the bowl in front of her.
‘We haven’t lived as husband and wife for a whole year. It seems silly to take up the pretence again.’
‘But we are married, so not living as husband and wife would be more unnatural,’ Oliver shot back.
‘I’m sure we’ve both moved on with our lives...’
‘I haven’t,’ Oliver said bluntly. ‘A year ago you left and an entire year I’ve been searching for you.’
This at least made Lucy look up and meet his eye. He kept his expression neutral, determined not to let his wife see just how much her abandonment had hurt him.
‘I’m sorry,’ Lucy said softly and this time Oliver could see she genuinely meant it.
They sat in silence for some minutes, waiting as the next course was served. Then Lucy pushed on.
‘What did you tell everyone about me?’ she asked, lifting her head to look him in the eye.
‘What do you think I said?’ he asked.
‘I thought perhaps you’d tell everyone I’d died in childbirth.’
‘That would have been too easy.’
She nodded. ‘So what does everyone think?’
He shrugged. ‘Most people don’t ask. They whisper in corners about my mysterious wife, wonder if I have you locked in a tower in deepest Sussex or if you are too mad or melancholic to be allowed out into society.’
‘And those that do ask?’
‘I tell them that you have been unwell.’
‘Even after all this time?’
Oliver fixed her with a stony stare. ‘I knew I would find you, Lucy, even if it took ten years.’
Her cheeks flushed and she looked hurriedly away.
‘We could...’ She paused as if summoning up the courage to continue. ‘We could get divorced.’
Trying to suppress the snort of laughter, Oliver grimaced. ‘Why would we want to do that?’
Divorce was uncommon and scandalous, requiring the husband to make an application to Parliament and for a private act to be passed. It was extremely costly and, if Oliver wasn’t very much mistaken, required the husband to prove his wife had been adulterous. He’d only known one person to get divorced in his entire life and the woman’s reputation had been completely ruined by the ensuing scandal. The gentleman in question had been left free to remarry, but Oliver had often wondered if the palaver had been worthwhile for the man.
‘I know it is unheard of and damages reputations, but it is possible. It would allow you to remarry, get on with your life, start afresh.’
‘I don’t need to remarry. I already have a wife, Lucy.’ He said it sternly.
‘You truly mean for us to pick up where we left off a year ago.’
He nodded gravely. ‘It will take time. I’m aware of that. The trust between us has been broken and it will need to be built up again, but I am willing to put in the work.’
‘And what about me?’ Lucy asked quietly.
‘I’m not a monster, Lucy,’ Oliver said. ‘It won’t be that terrible living with me as your husband.’
‘I didn’t mean...’ She rallied. ‘I have a life, responsibilities.’
‘Ah, your Foundation.’
‘It’s important to me.’ She bristled.
‘Then I’m sure we can find some acceptable compromise.’
‘I don’t want a compromise,’ she muttered, but Oliver chose to pretend he hadn’t heard the mutinous comment.
‘We are married, Lucy, and we shall be until one of us dies. It is best you accept things are going to change.’ The words sounded harsh even to his own ears, but he wasn’t about to pander to the whims of a woman who’d abandoned him a year ago and prevented him from ever knowing his firstborn son. ‘I am your husband and you are my wife. That’s the end of it.’
She studied him for over a minute in silence and Oliver could see his quiet perseverance was getting his point across. They were married, no matter how they felt about one another, and he didn’t want to hear any more ridiculous suggestions about divorce or separation. He didn’t plan on letting Lucy slip away, even if the next few weeks of adjustment were awkward and uncomfortable.
* * *
Lucy’s eyes narrowed. It was hard to tell exactly what her husband was thinking. He always spoke in that same calm, infuriating voice, his words carefully considered and chosen. She had to admit she felt a little suspicious. An entire year she’d kept him in the dark as to her whereabouts, her safety, and now he was talking about compromise. Although in the short time they’d spent together after their wedding he had always appeared courteous and kind, if a little distant, Lucy had expected something different when he’d manhandled her into the carriage bound for St James’s Square. Perhaps to be locked in a room and physically punished; perhaps to be denied her freedom to walk in the fresh air ever again. Instead he was suggesting they resume their roles as husband and wife, as if nothing much had happened in the intervening time.
‘We barely know each other,’ Lucy said quietly.
‘Luckily we are not alone among married couples of the ton—many of them have spent less time together than us.’
She knew it was true. Many marriages were made for reasons of money or titles, with the husband and wife meeting only on important occasions. Theirs had always been a marriage of convenience, allowing Lucy to escape from an overbearing family and Oliver to gain a wife to give him heirs.
She swallowed, trying to suppress the heat in her cheeks despite knowing it was an uncontrollable reaction to what she was about to ask. ‘What do you expect of me?’
His eyes met hers and she fancied she saw a flicker of amusement behind the serious façade. Surely he couldn’t be enjoying this.
‘I expect you to be my wife,’ he said, his voice low.
A shiver ran down her spine, not of fear or dread, but anticipation. In the month after their marriage they had been intimate a number of times, as was expected of a husband and wife. Far from the painful, awkward encounters her married friends had whispered about, Lucy had found to her embarrassment she looked forward to the nights Oliver had quietly knocked on her door and slipped into her room.
‘We will attend functions together, entertain here and at our home in Sussex, you will oversee the household...’ he shrugged ‘...all the duties of a wife.’
Lucy felt the blush on her cheeks deepen. He wasn’t even thinking about intimacy in the bedroom. She lifted her eyes to find he was looking intently at her, not even the hint of a smile present on his lips.
‘And the Foundation?’ Lucy asked, forcing herself to focus on what was important.
‘You may visit, of course. Properly chaperoned.’
‘Visit?’
‘Yes, advise them on their books, play with the street children, whatever it is you do,’ Oliver said with a dismissive wave of his hand.
‘We keep dozens of families alive,’ Lucy said, the pitch of her voice rising. ‘Provide shelter and food and education to those who truly have nowhere else to turn.’
‘I’m sure they managed perfectly well before you became involved—they will survive if you take a step back now you have other responsibilities.’
‘I won’t do it,’ she said quietly.
‘Won’t do what?’
‘Attend your parties, organise your household. Not if I can’t cont
inue with my work.’
Oliver sighed, rubbing his forehead with the fingertips of one hand as if he had a headache coming on.
‘There will be changes to both our lives, Lucy,’ he said quietly, his reasonable words and measured tone inflaming her spirit even further. ‘We shall have to compromise.’ Again he paused before pushing on, holding her gaze as he delivered his next words. ‘And if you can’t compromise, then I am your husband and you need to remember the obey part of your vows.’
She supposed she’d pushed too far, but his words inflamed her anger and reminded her why she’d stayed away for so long.
‘They need me,’ she said, forcing herself to be reasonable.
‘Then you will have to find a way to make them need you less.’ He held up his hands in a placating gesture as she pushed her chair away from the table. ‘Do not take offence, Lucy. All I mean is the kindest thing to do for any person or organisation is to make it more self-sufficient.’
Forcing herself to calm down, she settled back into her chair. He wasn’t saying she couldn’t go, not exactly, although it was clear he meant for her to step back from her responsibilities at the Foundation and focus more on those at home. She probably should be thankful. She’d feared he might keep her under lock and key to ensure she didn’t disappear again. Perhaps he would send a footman to accompany her for the first few days, but once he realised she wasn’t going to run away she doubted her husband would interfere too much in her life. After all, he had his own life to lead. Just over a year they’d been separated; surely he would have built his own life for himself in that time. Friends, a mistress, regular social engagements. He wouldn’t want to disrupt his routine too much either, she was sure of it.
Pausing for a second, Lucy glanced again at the composed profile of her husband. Surely he had moved on, built a life for himself. He’d told her he’d been searching for her this entire time, but she wasn’t quite sure she believed that. It wasn’t as though theirs had been a union of love. They’d barely known one another, not enough to inspire that sort of devotion.
‘That’s settled, then,’ Oliver said, laying down his cutlery. ‘I shall arrange for you to have a schedule of our social engagements over the coming weeks and mark in a few suitable dates for you to visit the dressmakers. I brought some of your clothes from Sussex, but it is by no means a full wardrobe.’ He paused and Lucy wondered what it must be like to have such an ordered way of thinking. ‘We shall refuse all visitors this first week and I shall reintroduce you to society at the Hickams’ ball next week.’