The Viscount's Runaway Wife

by Laura Martin

  For a moment she allowed herself to picture a happy scenario, her and Oliver, smiling and content, with four or five healthy, boisterous children. It was seductive and she could feel herself being pulled towards the idea. If life was that simple and good, then of course she’d choose a large and happy family, but she knew it couldn’t be like that.

  ‘How will you react?’ she whispered, confident that Oliver was fast asleep and wouldn’t ever hear her question. ‘When you see our child for the first time and he looks different.’

  That was her main fear, despite all his assurances, all his protestations, that Oliver would be unable to love a child like David, or like William. He was a good man, one of the best, but when it came to their firstborn, men could be very particular. She’d seen it with her own father and society was full of children who had been more or less disowned by their families.

  ‘You look very serious,’ Oliver said, opening his eyes and studying her face.

  She should tell him. Soon he would guess and it would be better if she was the one to break the news.

  ‘I feel a little nauseous,’ she said, giving a weak smile.

  Immediately he was wide awake, sitting up in bed. She couldn’t deny he would look after her. Attentive and considerate, that was her husband—why then did she find it so hard to believe that he would be the same to their children?

  Perhaps the problem was hers: a lack of trust. She’d always suffered from it, never having had a close confidant growing up.

  ‘I think there’s something we should talk about,’ Lucy said, feeling his eyes on hers as if he were reading her very soul.

  ‘You look worried.’

  ‘I’ve been feeling sick for a few days and tired.’

  Oliver remained silent, looking at her expectantly, and she wondered if he had already guessed. He was an intelligent man and, although he’d been absent when she’d had the worst of her symptoms with David, most people knew unexplained nausea and fatigue in a young woman often hinted at a pregnancy.

  ‘I think...’ She trailed off before taking a deep breath. ‘I think I might be pregnant.’

  She watched his face, saw the range of emotions flicker across it until he managed to get himself under control and nodded silently. For a moment she felt sad that neither of their first reactions was that pure pleasure, that limitless excitement, she’d felt when realising she was going to be a mother for the first time. Instead they were both plagued by worry.

  ‘We will get through this, together,’ he said, pulling her into a deep embrace. The words were reassuring, but his body felt stiff and unfamiliar.

  Desperately she wanted to believe him, she wanted that perfect family of her imagination, one filled with love and happiness.

  ‘I’m scared,’ she whispered, surprising herself with the show of vulnerability.

  She expected him to offer words of comfort, but he just nodded, as if he were too preoccupied with his own thoughts to be able to reassure her. Slowly she backed out of his arms, saw his eyes searching her face and realised for the first time in a long time that he was wary of her and how she was going to act.

  ‘Tell me we can get through this,’ Lucy whispered.

  He hesitated, just a second, but it was enough to break her heart. ‘We can get through this,’ he said, but there was no conviction behind his words. After a moment he seemed to rally a little. ‘There’s no reason to suspect anything will go wrong,’ he said, as if trying to reassure himself.

  Lucy felt a stab of pain through her heart.

  ‘Whenever you feel uncertain, I need you to come to me,’ Oliver said, gripping her by the arms and waiting until she met his eye.

  She nodded. It wasn’t a promise she was sure she could keep, but right now she was determined to try. For their child, their baby. She knew that the best way to face the challenges of this pregnancy, all the fears and worries, would be together, but already she had a deeply ingrained desire to run, to hide somewhere and withdraw into herself until her baby arrived into the world.

  With a small nod of his own Oliver released her. Feeling a pang of disappointment, Lucy busied herself with rearranging the bedclothes. She’d hoped for something more, for a positive reaction to her news. Deep down she knew Oliver wouldn’t abandon a child, he wasn’t like her father, but his reaction hadn’t exactly been reassuring.

  * * *

  He’d left Lucy in bed, battling the nausea. She had reassured him she would rather he got up and started his day and she would join him in her own time. Normally Oliver wouldn’t hesitate to spend the morning in bed with Lucy, but he’d felt an overwhelming need to escape the house, go somewhere deserted and try to make sense of all the emotions fighting for supremacy inside him.

  Once again he was going to be a father and he wasn’t quite sure how he felt about it. On the one hand, he felt like shouting a prayer of thanks to the heavens. The loss of David still affected him every day and he knew another child would never heal the hole in his heart, but perhaps it would allow him to move forward with his life. He’d never hoped for a child again so soon, knowing his heart was still fragile from the loss of his son, but he knew he did want to have another child one day. Ideally first he and Lucy would work through some of their residual issues with trust, get to know one another properly and build a solid foundation to start a family on, but he knew not everything could be planned so precisely.

  On the other hand, his first reaction had been one of fear. Fear of history repeating itself. Lucy didn’t want to have another child, not yet, and that could only mean a difficult road ahead of them. Oliver had remained strong for over a year, but if Lucy were to disappear again, if she were to take another child away from him, he didn’t think he could cope. She had assured him time and time again that she wouldn’t run, wouldn’t abandon him, but what if something were to go wrong? What if they were to lose another child, or the pregnancy never reached that far—could he really be sure she wouldn’t flee again because of it?

  ‘You need to forgive her,’ he murmured to himself.

  It was true, despite all the progress they’d made over the last few weeks, he still hadn’t really forgiven Lucy for everything she’d put him through. It was hard to. She’d apologised and Oliver believed she was truly sorry for hurting him so badly, but when she’d left without a word Lucy had ripped his trust to pieces and he wasn’t sure if anything could ever mend that. And now they were bringing a child into the mix.

  Striding out over the lawns at the back of the house, he revelled in the crisp crunch of the frosty grass under his feet and had to suppress the urge to break out into a run. He was still Lord Sedgewick, master of Sedgewick Place, and certain standards of behaviour had to be adhered to even when he felt like running as fast as he could and never stopping.

  Only when he had circled behind a small copse of trees and was completely hidden by the house did he allow himself to slump on to a fallen tree trunk and rest his head in his hands.

  This time will be different, he tried to reassure himself.

  He wasn’t going to spend the majority of Lucy’s pregnancy away from her as he had before. Every day he would work on building their relationship, ensuring that when their child was born they were a strong family, ready to face any adversity.

  But she might still leave.

  And that was the crux of the matter. He couldn’t allow himself to be excited about impending fatherhood because he didn’t know what his wife would do, how she would react, if something were to go wrong with the pregnancy.

  Forcing himself to appreciate the calm morning sunshine, despite the cold bite of the air, Oliver strolled back through the gardens at a leisurely pace. He felt agitated and uncertain, but knew he had to give himself time to work out the best way to tackle his fears.

  ‘Parker,’ he called as he entered the house through a side door. His butler was there almost immediatel
y. ‘Ready for some practice?’

  The butler grinned and strode off to collect the fencing foils. Oliver needed to work off some pent-up energy.

  At Sedgewick Place there was no need to clear a room for their practice. There was a long, flat terrace that ran the entire length of the back of the house and it made the perfect location to fence. Even on a day like today when frost covered the grass, the sunshine struck the terrace early meaning it was rarely too icy for them to fence.

  Oliver shrugged off his jacket, despite the cool temperatures, and stretched out his arms, swinging them from side to side as Parker reappeared with the foils. They fenced without the protective outfits that were popular among those who practised seriously, with an unspoken agreement that both men would avoid blows to the other’s face or neck. The foils were not sharp and tipped with a smooth metal ball so no real injury could be sustained from that either. Both men had experienced enough violence and injury in the army to be careful about not hurting the other and both were talented enough to be able to control their movements with fine precision.

  ‘Fine day for it, my lord,’ Parker observed as he stretched out his shoulders in much the same manner Oliver had.

  ‘Indeed,’ Oliver agreed grimly.

  Without any further conversation they began. Each man advancing forward in attack before having to retreat under the other’s onslaught. Foil clashed against foil, with satisfying metallic clinks and swishes and today Oliver scored point after point after point.

  ‘You’re very fast today, my lord,’ Parker observed as they took a few minutes to catch their breath.

  Oliver knew it was the effect of his agitation from Lucy’s news, but he forced a grin at his butler and slapped him on the back.

  ‘Or maybe you’re getting slow.’

  ‘I blame a life of domesticity,’ Parker observed.

  ‘Better than another decade camping in muddy fields and being hated by at least half the local population,’ Oliver said.

  ‘Very true, my lord, even with that menace of a child Mrs Finch has in her kitchen now.’

  Freddy had still not settled into the life of a servant. He caused mischief and extra work for almost everyone in the house, but Oliver had noticed Parker take him under his wing. The young butler treated the scallywag of a child like a younger brother and hopefully soon Freddy’s behaviour would benefit from the calming influence.

  ‘I came to see if you were ready for breakfast,’ Lucy said, her pale face peeking out from the warmth of the house. ‘And I find you fighting our butler once again.’

  ‘Thrashing the butler,’ Oliver corrected her.

  ‘Only this once,’ Parker remarked. ‘Shall I let Mrs Finch know you’re ready for breakfast, my lady?’

  Oliver’s household was a little unusual in that he transported many of the more senior members of servants between his two residences. He put it down to being a creature of habit, preferring one cook and one butler to run the households rather than two competitive sets. Here at Sedgewick Place he also had the indomitable Mrs Hardcastle as housekeeper, to keep everything running like a military operation.

  ‘Yes, please, Parker—although no kipper this morning.’

  ‘Very well, my lady. I shall inform Mrs Finch.’

  Lucy stepped outside and immediately Oliver was by her side. ‘It’s too cold for you,’ he said. She smiled at him warily.

  ‘Don’t fuss,’ she said, although her expression told him she didn’t mind really.

  Placing an arm around her shoulders, he led her back inside, trying to act as normal as possible, but knowing Lucy would sense his tension.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  It was mid-morning by the time Lucy’s nausea had properly subsided. Up until then she’d been hiding out in the vast library, curled on a sofa in front of the fire with a book in her hands but barely turning the pages. Now she was feeling a little better, she thought she would seek out her husband to have a serious talk about what this baby would mean for them.

  Sedgewick Place was large, but not enormous by ancestral-seat standards. It was originally an Elizabethan mansion, with various wings and rooms added over the years giving it a maze-like interior structure, but still retaining its original charm. The warren of corridors was the reason Lucy was still searching for Oliver ten minutes after she’d left the library.

  She’d checked his study, the drawing room, the master bedroom and even stepped out on to the terrace to see if he had decided to continue fencing with the butler.

  Just as she was about to give up and retreat to the warmth of the library again she heard a few creaks above her head. The old building was prone to making strange noises, but it definitely sounded as though someone was walking about in the far reaches of the west wing.

  Ascending the main staircase, Lucy proceeded along to the west wing, the rather grand name for a collection of six rooms that led off the main upstairs corridor. They hadn’t been used in years and Lucy wasn’t sure what their original purpose had been. The rooms weren’t small, but lacked the fancy design features of some of the grander bedrooms in the house. She supposed they could have been servants’ bedrooms at one time, before the roof space had been renovated to accommodate most of the house’s serving staff.

  As she reached the door of the first room in the west wing she paused, hearing Oliver’s voice and wondering who exactly he was talking to up here.

  ‘We don’t know what sort of challenges they might face,’ Oliver was saying, ‘so we need a dedicated space.’

  ‘And this is the room?’

  ‘I think so, but I was wondering if it was possible to add a door, with a lock of course, in here.’

  Lucy felt her blood run cold in her veins. Why was Oliver talking about converting a room only to put a lock on the door? He could only be talking about their child, mentioning the challenges they might face, and already he was thinking about locking them in.

  ‘That would be possible. This wall isn’t load-bearing. It would be simple to add a door through here.’

  ‘Privacy is of the utmost importance,’ Oliver stressed.

  And with those words Lucy’s heart broke. She’d been almost convinced he was speaking the truth when he’d said nothing would induce him to abandon a child, but here he was thinking about how to shut their unborn baby away from the world and she wasn’t even two months pregnant yet.

  ‘We may not need it,’ Oliver said quietly, ‘but I’d rather be prepared.’

  Unable to listen to any more, she crept back along the corridor, trying to process the words she’d heard. There was no other possible meaning; he had to be talking about their child, and the plans he was making weren’t those of a proud father, more that he was thinking how to hide their son or daughter away.

  She reached their bedroom before the tears came, great heavy sobs that racked her body, the sorrow making her legs buckle underneath her.

  ‘I’ll look after you,’ she whispered to the unborn child inside her.

  And she would. That was what being a mother was about. It appeared she couldn’t trust Oliver to be the perfect father to their son or daughter, so she would have to trust her instincts and strike out on her own once again.

  A small voice of doubt niggled inside her head, telling her not to be so hasty. Oliver was good and true and had never lied to her before. Surely she could give him the benefit of the doubt this once and, instead of fleeing without an explanation, she could confront him about the conversation she had overheard.

  Slumping down on the bed, Lucy tried to think rationally, but panic seized her, and the urge to get away was strong. She couldn’t think while she was under the same roof as her husband. His kind gestures and soft words blinded her to what was really going on underneath and she couldn’t afford to be blind. She needed some space, some time to think and plan.

  Quickly she rummaged arou
nd in the wardrobe for a small bag, nothing that would be too obvious so someone might see and work out her purpose, but big enough to hold a change of clothes and a little money. Before she could stop herself she had packed the bag, snapped it shut and was peering out the door into the hall.

  She hesitated before leaving the bedroom, then placed her bag back down on the bed and slumped down next to it. She couldn’t leave, couldn’t just run away again. That was the coward’s way out. Oliver might not have seemed happy about the pregnancy and had been acting strangely all morning, but she couldn’t just run without giving him a chance to explain himself.

  * * *

  Five minutes later she was still sitting on the bed, lost in her own thoughts when the door opened and Oliver entered the room. Steeling herself to confront him over what he had been discussing with his steward, she saw his eyes flick immediately to the small bag that was beside her on the bed.

  Without a word he crossed the room and opened the bag, peering inside.

  The blood drained from Lucy’s face and she felt her head spinning.

  ‘It’s not what you think,’ she said quietly.

  ‘You’ve packed a bag. You’re leaving.’ His voice was flat and devoid of any emotion.

  ‘No...’ She hesitated. ‘Well, yes, I packed a bag. But then I reconsidered.’

  ‘Oh, how wonderful—you reconsidered,’ Oliver said.

  ‘You don’t understand.’

  ‘I understand perfectly well. You tell me you’re pregnant again, decide you don’t trust me and run away again, without a thought for me.’

  ‘No,’ she protested, trying to keep as calm as possible. ‘It’s not like that.’

  ‘Then what is it like, Lucy? Because it certainly seems that way to me.’

  ‘What were you talking about in the west wing?’ she asked, hating the accusing tone of her voice.

  ‘You were up there?’ Oliver asked. ‘Listening?’

  He made it sound as though she’d been spying on him.

  ‘What were you talking about?’ she persisted.