The Viscount's Runaway Wife

‘At the end of the Season we shall host our own ball, to confirm to the world you are back for good.’

All she could do was nod.

‘Good,’ Oliver said, as if he had just concluded a business meeting.

They ate dessert in silence, the clinking of the spoons heightening Lucy’s feeling of confinement. She wanted to be loose on the streets, free to go wherever she desired, not trapped here with a man who seemed determined to carve her into the perfect society wife.

Oliver stood as Lucy finished eating, offering his arm and escorting her to the hallway.

‘I am going to retire for the night,’ he said softly.

With a sharp inhale Lucy glanced up at her husband, wondering if he was suggesting she joined him, but there was nothing but his usual, unreadable expression on his face.

‘I hope you sleep well,’ he said. ‘Don’t leave in the night.’ It was a command more than a request, but Lucy found herself nodding none the less.

He turned and made his way quickly up the stairs, leaving her to stare after him in the flickering candlelight.

Chapter Four (#u5ec3ef9e-a5f0-502a-970d-e80f8cac0b31)

Oliver didn’t lift his head as he heard Lucy’s soft footfall on the stairs, instead turning the page of the paper and pretending to be engrossed in the news. Out of the corner of his eye he saw her hesitate, then enter the dining room.

‘Good morning,’ she said.

Carefully he closed the paper, lowered it and looked up.

He grimaced—she was wearing that ugly brown woollen dress again. It made her look more like a milkmaid than a viscountess.

‘Good morning.’

He’d have to throw it out, perhaps instruct one of the maids to squirrel it away on the pretence of washing it and then unfortunately misplace it. Eyeing the coarse wool, he reconsidered, throwing it out wasn’t drastic enough; he’d have to burn it.

‘I’m ready to leave for the Foundation,’ Lucy said, the smile tight on her face as if she were having to force herself to be polite. ‘You mentioned a chaperon...’

‘Yes.’

She looked around, as if waiting for him to summon someone.

‘Perhaps you changed your mind...’ she suggested hopefully.

‘No.’ He stood, crossing to her side and offering her his arm. ‘I’m ready.’

He felt her stiffen beside him and wished he could see the expression a little more clearly on her face, but a loose strand of dark blonde hair had escaped her bun and obscured some of her features from him.

‘You?’ she asked, the tremor obvious in her voice.

‘Yes, me.’

‘Surely a footman...’ she suggested.

‘No,’ he said without any further explanation. He wasn’t anywhere near the point where he could trust her not to trick or evade a footman and disappear off into the slums of London.

She opened her mouth to protest, but nothing came out. Oliver smiled in triumph and gently steered her towards the door. He felt the exact moment that she rallied and pre-empted her protest by striding on ahead, only pausing for her to catch up when he reached the carriage.

They spent the entire carriage ride in silence, Lucy’s face stony and her indignation at being outmanoeuvred by him rising from her like steam from a kettle. For his part, he was content to sit quietly, pretending to peruse the top sheet of papers he’d brought with him, while surreptitiously regarding his wife out of the corner of his eye.

Even in the offensive woollen dress there was something almost regal about her. She sat with a straight back and lifted chin, a posture that screamed defiance. He couldn’t imagine her fitting in the slums of St Giles. She might be able to walk and talk with the locals, but she’d never assimilate. He couldn’t quite believe she’d spent the last year living there. Most people didn’t choose to live somewhere as deprived as St Giles and not for the first time he wondered what motivated her to live in such squalid conditions when, unlike many of the other residents, she did have other options available.

As the carriage made its way through Charing Cross, slowing to avoid the numerous pedestrians, Oliver stifled a yawn. It had been a long night and he had not got much sleep, finding himself staring at the canopy above his bed much as he had on the days following Lucy’s initial disappearance. He was happy to have found her, happy to know she hadn’t died of a fever or been stabbed for her purse, but he wasn’t so naïve to think these next few months were going to be easy. She didn’t want to resume her role as his wife and he knew that meant they would clash in the coming weeks. For his part, he was torn between wanting to spend time with his wife, so they could more easily take up their positions as husband and wife again, and wanting to distance himself from her. He wasn’t sure if he would ever be able to forgive her for taking their son away. It wasn’t something that a simple apology could solve. He doubted the trust between them could ever be repaired, but he was willing to accept a less-than-perfect marriage.

The carriage rounded a corner, turning north towards St Giles, and Lucy’s body momentarily rocked into his. Even through the coarse wool of her dress he could feel the heat of her skin and he had to take a deep breath to compose himself. The last thing that should be in his mind was renewing the physical side of their relationship. First he needed to focus on ensuring she wasn’t going to run away at the next available opportunity.

Even so, the distant memory of the nights they had shared at the beginning of their marriage fought to the surface. Her body writhing beneath his, the soft moans of pleasure, the frantic way she’d clutched his back, urging him on. He hadn’t expected such a physical connection and had known at the time Lucy had felt embarrassed by her reaction to him. That all seemed a long time ago, a different life, and he doubted they would ever share such intimacy again.

‘We’re here,’ Lucy said, forcing Oliver back to the present.

Quickly he regained his composure, gathering the papers from his lap before vaulting from the carriage and turning to help his wife down. They’d stopped on the main thoroughfare, the carriage being too large and unwieldly to take into the rabbit-warren streets of the slum, but already Oliver could see his wife growing in confidence, as if she were more comfortable now she was back in the area she considered home.

He could feel eyes on them as they entered the narrow streets, curious but not overly malicious at present. Not for the first time he wondered how his refined wife had thrived in such an environment and once again he had to remind himself that he barely knew the woman beside him. There was clearly much more to her than he’d realised when his mother had proposed her as a marriage candidate.

It would be easy to lose your way in the maze of streets, but the years Oliver had spent in the army meant he had a sharp eye for observation and thought he probably could escape from the slums if he needed to.

‘We’re here,’ Lucy said flatly, her voice without enthusiasm.

They stopped in front of a nondescript door, situated in a brick building with crumbling windows and nestled between a lodging house on one side and a building that leaned dangerously out over the street on the other. To Oliver it looked as though it should be condemned, but as they watched, a young girl threw open a window and hurled a bucket of water into the street below. Definitely lived in, then.

He observed her as Lucy hesitated for just a second, then pushed open the door. They entered into a narrow alley, the bricks on either side dank and dirty, and walked the fifteen feet to a courtyard at the other end.

‘Caroline,’ a middle-aged woman shouted as they entered the courtyard. She abandoned the scruffy young woman she was talking to and came rushing over. ‘I’ve been so worried.’

Oliver watched with curiosity as the two women embraced, wondering if this was the woman who ran the Foundation. Mary, Lucy had said her name was.

‘I should introduce my husband,’ Lucy said, the reluctance evident in her voice.

Mary’s eyes widened and Oliver wondered exactly what Lucy had told the older woman when she’d first arrived, desperate and destitute.

‘Mary, this is Lord Sedgewick, my husband. Lord Sedgewick, this is Mary Humberton, proprietress of the St Giles’s Women’s and Children’s Foundation.’

‘A pleasure to meet you, my lord,’ Mary said, rallying splendidly.

Oliver inclined his head in greeting, catching the puzzled glance Mary threw at his wife.

‘You are reunited?’ Mary asked eventually.

He saw Lucy hesitate for just a moment, and then nod.

‘Lucy has been telling me of the work you do here,’ he said, filling the awkward silence that was stretching out before them.

‘Caro—’ Mary started and then corrected herself. ‘Lucy has been a godsend. I don’t know what we would have done without her this last year.’