The Viscount's Runaway Wife. Laura Martin
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just disappear. With a shudder, she wondered what her husband’s long-term plan was—surely he couldn’t mean for her to stay with him indefinitely. Their lives had changed too much for that to work. Plenty of couples led completely separate lives. There really was no need for them to become entangled once again.
With a glance at the window she shook her head. There was no reason to consider acrobatics when she could easily just walk out the front door. She hadn’t heard Oliver turn the key in the lock; she wasn’t his prisoner here. All she needed to do was open the door, stroll down the hallway, descend the stairs and slip out the front door. She’d send him a note, of course, perhaps arrange a meeting in a more neutral environment to resolve their remaining issues.
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.
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