by Laura Martin
‘Surely it can’t be scandalous if I bring my husband,’ Lucy said.
‘I can just see the headlines: Lord and Lady Sedgewick seen entering notorious gambling den.’
‘It’s not a gambling den.’
‘Lord Sedgewick takes his wife to obscene theatre performance.’
‘They would blame it on your corrupting influence of course. I’ve been shut away in Sussex for a year.’
This time he laughed, a proper eye-crinkling, spontaneous laugh that seemed to come from deep inside him. She hadn’t seen him laugh like that before and instantly she wanted to hear it again.
‘I wouldn’t be so sure the gossips think you’re the innocent party in our strange relationship—many see me as the suave and dashing wronged husband, dedicated to a wife who’s either mad or melancholic.’
‘I suppose my behaviour at the Hickams’ ball didn’t help,’ Lucy said with a sigh.
‘But all the young women are now swooning over me, talking about how I must be the finest of husbands to put up with your behaviour.’
‘And where have you been to hear the opinions of swooning young women?’ Lucy asked.
‘Here and there...’ he sighed dramatically ‘...I just can’t seem to get away from them.’
‘I’ll have to step up my role as protective wife,’ she murmured and, although Oliver laughed, she was only half-joking.
What a difference a couple of days could make. Just a week ago she’d been doing anything she could to persuade Oliver to end their marriage, to allow them to go their separate ways and live independent lives. Now, only a few days later, she felt a mild pang of jealousy as he spoke of other women, even though their entire conversation had been in jest.
Throwing a sidelong look in his direction, Lucy regarded her husband. He was tall and lean, with dark hair and dark eyes. His expression was normally serious, but when he smiled he was a devastatingly handsome man. She could see other women being interested in him romantically and that was before one took his social standing and substantial fortune into account.
Trying not to overanalyse her feelings, Lucy sat back and watched their progress through the streets of London.
* * *
Before long they’d crossed the river and the carriage had slowed in the narrower streets of Southwark.
‘Southwark,’ Oliver said with a grimace. ‘This can’t be good.’
‘Don’t try to tell me you don’t frequent Southwark when the fancy takes you,’ Lucy said, watching as he leaned forward to peer out of the window.
‘Maybe as a young man, but I’ve found my tastes have changed as I’ve got older.’
She couldn’t really imagine him as young and carefree, just another twenty-year-old making his way in the world, enjoying a break from his studies with all the delights Southwark had to offer. By the time she’d met him he was already in his late twenties and hardened by years spent in the army.
‘This way,’ Lucy said as the carriage drew to a halt and they stepped down. She took him by the hand and led him across the street to a gaudily painted set of double doors.
Lucy had been to the Charleston Rose twice before, both times with Mary. Today she took out a couple of coins, paid the small entrance fee and waited while a woman clad in a very tight dress guided them to a table.
‘I’m trying to work out why you’ve been here before,’ Oliver said, a frown on his face as he perused the room. The tables were half-full, mainly consisting of single or groups of men, varying in age of barely adult to old and decrepit. Sashaying between the tables were women, some young, some past their prime, all dressed in brightly coloured dresses with tight bodices that left little to the imagination. In one corner an elderly man played a jaunty tune on the piano as other patrons continued to enter and take their seats.
‘Don’t worry—I’ve never worked here,’ Lucy said. It was meant as a joke, but she saw his face darken and realised she’d pushed too far. ‘One of the young women we took in to the Foundation a little over six months ago is the star of the show. She’s done very well for herself and I like to keep in contact whenever I can.’
With that explanation Oliver relaxed a little and went back to regarding the other audience members. There were one or two women perched on the hard chairs, but it was predominantly a male audience.
A few minutes later, the curtain lifted and seven women walked on to the stage, their heels clattering across the wood, and the pianist quickly changed the music he was playing and picked up the tempo. Six were dressed identically, with white skirts fat with petticoats ready to be flung around and red-and-white bodices. The seventh, a pretty young thing called Millie, stood front and centre, dressed in a deep maroon, her hair loose and cascading down her back.
The show started. Millie sang while the other girls danced behind her, fast numbers with lots of risqué glimpses of stockinged calves and bare thighs. When Mary had first brought her here last year, Lucy had been enthralled; her sheltered upbringing hadn’t prepared her for this sort of spectacle. Even the time she’d spent living in St Giles hadn’t broadened her horizons as much as she’d first thought. It had seemed inconceivable for a young woman to mesmerise so many men, to use her voice and her body to enthral and entertain.
‘She’s very good,’ Oliver murmured in a gap between songs. ‘Lovely voice.’
Most of the men in the room had their eyes fixed on Millie, despite the ever-increasingly scandalous dancing of the women behind her. There was something enthralling about her, something special you couldn’t put into words, but was there all the same.
* * *
After half an hour and an energetic finale, Millie took a curtsy to raucous applause and whistling and trooped off the stage with the dancers.
‘What did you think?’ Lucy asked.
‘I never imagined I would be sitting in a place like this in Southwark with my wife,’ he said slowly.
‘But did you enjoy it?’
‘I did.’
That reserved admission was enough to keep a smile on Lucy’s face as Millie came hurrying over to greet them.
‘Caroline,’ she gushed, kissing Lucy on the cheek, ‘I’ve missed you.’
Curious eyes turned to Oliver.
‘My husband,’ Lucy said.
‘You’re married? Congratulations. When did that happen?’
Lucy hesitated and felt herself stiffen in anticipation as Oliver stepped forward.
‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss...’
‘Millie, everyone calls me Millie.’
‘It’s a pleasure to meet you Millie. You gave an enthralling performance tonight.’
Millie blushed a little, then gave a pretty curtsy.
‘My wife tells me you know one another from the Foundation.’
‘Caroline was the reason I had the courage to come and audition for the job here. Without her I don’t know where I’d be now.’
‘Excuse me, miss, can I buy you a drink?’ a young man said, fumbling over his words to the delight of his cackling friends at the table behind him.
‘Go,’ Lucy urged, knowing socialising with her fans was as much part of the job as singing and dancing.
‘We’ll catch up soon,’ Millie promised as she turned away, smiling sweetly at her admirer.
Lucy allowed Oliver to guide her outside, but stopped him before he had chance to hail a carriage.
‘Let’s walk for a while,’ she said, slipping her hand into his arm.
The evening was clear and cool, but the moonlight gave a pleasant glow to the streets as they walked.
‘It seems your friend is happy in what she does,’ Oliver said as they walked.
‘I think she is. She loves singing, loves being up there on stage.’
‘And what comes after?’ Oliver asked quietly.
Lucy knew there was more to Millie’s job
than just singing and enjoying the odd drink with an admirer. She needed patrons, men who provided her with that little bit of additional income that allowed her to survive. It was the cruel way of the world, that someone as talented as Millie still had to degrade herself if she wanted food on the table.
‘It’s not ideal, of course, but I’m amazed what conditions people will thrive in when they’ve come from worse situations.’
‘Lucy,’ Oliver said, his voice with an uncharacteristic amount of emotion, ‘did you ever have to...?’ He trailed off, unable to finish the question.
‘No,’ she said simply.
‘Good.’
‘I was one of the lucky ones. Mary found me before I became desperate.’
He nodded, eyes fixed ahead.
‘Let’s talk of something else.’
Arm in arm they strolled along the cobbled streets. It wasn’t a romantic spot; Southwark had a reputation as the borough of vice and crime, but Lucy felt peculiarly content walking with her husband along the moonlit street.
Skirting the impressive building of the cathedral, they climbed the stairs, Oliver lifting her bodily over the prostrate form of a drunk lying sprawled across two steps. Up on the bridge they paused, leaning on the wrought-iron barrier, looking down into the river.
‘Tonight we sampled the entertainment from your world. Tomorrow shall we try some from mine?’ Oliver asked.
He probably meant an opera—the favourite entertainment of the ton. A place where fewer people seemed focused on the stage than on being seen.
‘That would be lovely,’ she said graciously. Opera had never been her favourite choice of evening entertainment, but he had agreed to her excursion. The least she could do was agree to his.
‘Thank you for a most interesting evening,’ he said, turning towards her.
His eyes were dark in the moonlight and, as he straightened and took a step towards her, Lucy had an overwhelming desire to kiss her husband. She felt her body sway towards him before she could grasp any sort of control and to her horror she felt her lips part in anticipation.
As a new bride she had enjoyed the physical part of her relationship with her new husband, but they’d last kissed well over a year ago. He was barely more than a stranger. She shouldn’t be throwing herself at him. Only a few days ago she was doing everything in her power to get him to let her live her life completely separate from him.
‘Lucy,’ Oliver said, lifting a finger to brush a strand of hair behind her ear. It was an intimate gesture, one that made her want to melt into his arms and never come up for air.
Quickly, before he could see the naked desire in her eyes, she stepped away. A friendly, mutually respectful relationship was one thing—she had found these last few days she could tolerate and even enjoy a platonic marriage to Oliver—but she could not allow it to become anything more than that.
Shivering, but not from the cold, she reminded herself of the pain she’d felt when she’d lost her son. She couldn’t ever risk heartbreak like that again and the only way to ensure that was to avoid being intimate with her husband. No matter how much her body was drawing her towards him.
Chapter Nine
He’d sensed something; Oliver was sure of it. A gentle sway of her body towards him, a softening of her lips. For a moment he would have sworn she wanted to be kissed, but he’d hesitated, worried about scaring her away, and then the moment had been gone.
When analysing that moment, Oliver realised with surprise that he’d wanted it, too. He’d wanted to kiss his wife, wanted to pull her into his arms and renew the intimacy they’d once shared.
With a shake of his head he dismissed the idea. The progress they’d made on their relationship in the past week had been nothing short of extraordinary. He shouldn’t complicate matters with thoughts of a more intimate relationship. Still, sitting here in his study, he couldn’t help but mull over the previous evening, when he knew he should be reading through the letters his steward had sent up from Sussex.
A loud crash from the kitchen followed by muted shouts got him on his feet. Normally he didn’t interfere with the running of the house. He had a very capable butler and cook here in London, and a housekeeper who ran his country estate like a military operation back in Sussex. Nevertheless, when the shouting didn’t abate he headed for the back stairs down to the kitchens.
He was surprised to find Lucy had beat him and was working on calming the normally stoical cook down, patting her gently on the arm and guiding her to the long bench that ran along one side of the table.
‘He’ll have to go,’ Mrs Finch said, waving a trembling finger in the direction of a boy Oliver recognised.
‘I didn’t do nothing wrong,’ he protested. ‘You said I could eat the leftovers. You shouldn’t have said that if it wasn’t the truth.’
‘Freddy, why don’t you sit down and we can talk in a moment?’ Lucy said.
He was tempted to leave them to it. Lucy seemed to have matters under control, but he was curious as to how she would mediate between the cook and the young boy. And he was curious as to why Freddy from the St Giles’s Women’s and Children’s Foundation was standing in his kitchen causing his normally calm cook to shake with anger.
‘He ate a whole ham,’ Mrs Finch said, shaking her head. ‘It clearly wasn’t a leftover.’
‘Shouldn’t have been left on the side, then,’ Freddy grumbled.
‘And the insubordination—he’s hardly got the attributes to work in a great house.’
‘Mrs Finch,’ Lucy said, her voice low and soothing, ‘Freddy has had a difficult life and sometimes the things we take for granted—such as food on the table—he hasn’t always had. He’s young and enthusiastic, and he might not have the polish that most of the lads in service do, but I know you’ve been running this household for a long time and I hoped if anyone could take him under their wing and show him how to act in a good household such as this it would be you.’
The cook looked a little mollified and Oliver had to suppress a smile. He could see how a year of working with a host of different people had made Lucy into quite the negotiator.
‘Be patient with him and I’m sure soon he will be more of a help than a hindrance.’
‘He needs to stop eating so much,’ Mrs Finch grumbled, but Oliver could see his wife had won the cook over.
‘When he realises there will always be food available, that he won’t go for days without eating again, then I’m sure he will not feel the need to eat whatever is in sight. Until then, Lord Sedgewick and I are happy for him to have an extra helping here and there.’
Oliver nodded in support as Mrs Finch glanced in his direction.
‘Will you give him a chance?’ she asked.
‘Yes, my lady.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Finch. I won’t forget this.’
Turning to Freddy, Lucy smiled kindly. ‘Be a good lad and do what Mrs Finch tells you,’ she said encouragingly.
Oliver slipped from the kitchen, climbed back up the stairs and waited for Lucy. She jumped in surprise as he stepped out into her path as she reached the top of the stairs.
‘Since when is Freddy a member of our staff?’ Oliver asked.
Lucy bit her lip and looked a little sheepish.
‘I thought Mrs Finch could use a hand in the kitchens and Freddy is a good boy. He just needs someone to believe in him to get him started in life.’
‘Am I going to find any more of your waifs and strays around the house?’ Oliver asked. In truth, he didn’t mind, as long as none of her protégés started pilfering the silver.
He could tell there was at least one more by the way her cheeks flooded with colour.
‘I might have asked a young woman called Florence to be my lady’s maid,’ Lucy said.
‘I’m sure she has great experience of dressing hair and looking after clothes,’ Oli
ver said drily.
‘She’s a quick learner.’
‘In the meantime, can I expect you to adopt a simple style?’ he asked and before he could stop himself he was thinking of Lucy in nothing but a thin shift, her hair loose and falling down her back. Involuntarily he reached out, curling a stray strand of dark blonde hair around his fingers.
Even this simple contact was enough to send a jolt through his body and quickly he was suffused with an overwhelming desire for his wife.
‘I’m sure I can manage to be adequately turned out,’ Lucy said, oblivious to his discomfort.
‘Mmm...’ Oliver didn’t trust himself to speak. He wondered how she would react if he just bent his head and kissed her. Surely one kiss couldn’t ruin their fragile relationship.
‘I will prove it to you tonight,’ Lucy said, setting her shoulders back as if preparing to go into battle.
‘I’m sure,’ Oliver murmured, hardly hearing her words, instead wondering what the skin at the base of her neck tasted like. It looked so soft, so inviting. Once he’d kissed her there—the memory of it was burned into his mind—but what he wouldn’t give to brush his lips over her sensitive skin again.
‘And if I look the part of a viscountess tonight, Florence can stay?’ Lucy pushed for an answer.
‘Florence?’ Oliver asked, his mind trailing a long way behind the conversation, too preoccupied with thoughts of Lucy pressed up against him.
‘My maid.’
‘What about her?’
‘Are you quite all right?’ Lucy asked, peering at him strangely.
‘Yes,’ Oliver said, managing to pull himself together. He was a man of thirty-one, not some green boy, and this was his wife. Perhaps, he thought, there was no harm in reminding Lucy of some of the pleasures of marriage.
* * *
Lucy adjusted her hair in the mirror and turned to one side, then the other, checking everything was in place. Despite what she’d said to Oliver, Florence was an appalling lady’s maid, but it was hardly surprising when she’d been dragged up by an alcoholic mother in one slum of London and beaten near to death by a gin-drinking husband in another. What the young woman lacked in skill or refinement she made up for in enthusiasm and Lucy was sure, one day, she’d make a fine lady’s maid.