The Viscount's Runaway Wife. Laura Martin
she realised it was the bedroom of the lady of the house, complete with connecting door to his own room. ‘Take some time to get settled in. Dinner is at eight.’
Stepping out, he left her alone, keen to put some distance between them. The revelations of the afternoon had given him a lot to think about. Oliver wasn’t the sort of man who made any decisions quickly and he would appreciate having a few hours to himself before he resumed questioning Lucy. One thing was for certain—he wasn’t going to let her slip out of his life again and if that meant keeping a close watch on her these next few days, then that was what he’d do.
* * *
Sinking down on to the bed, Lucy glanced around the room. It was rather oppressively decorated with dark furniture and busy flowery wallpaper. Quite the change from her room back in St Giles. She had no doubt Oliver’s late mother had chosen the decor for the bedroom; it was not a room made for comfort and her mother-in-law had not been one for relaxing.
Quickly she stood, refusing to let the despair she could feel creeping in overtake her. There would be a way out, all she had to do was find it. She sympathised with Oliver, felt dreadful about how she had treated him and understood his desire to know everything that had happened since she’d run away, but she just couldn’t stay here. She was needed at the Foundation; people were relying on her—she couldn’t 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