The Viscount's Runaway Wife. Laura Martin
the world she’d been living in, but realistically he knew that wasn’t an option.
He wondered if she would ever thaw, if she would ever look at him with anything more than distant coolness. Surprisingly he wanted that, even though he doubted he could ever return the feelings. Perhaps they were destined to live their lives as many married couples did, putting on a front for society events and then barely speaking at home. It was what he’d imagined, when he’d first found her, but every so often he wondered if that would be enough or if one day, when his vexation had burnt itself out, whether he would want more than a cold and unfeeling marriage.
Lucy shifted uncomfortably on the seat, feeling the layers of petticoats clinging to her legs and making her hot despite the cool October air.
‘Try to at least pretend you’re enjoying the evening,’ Oliver said from his position across the carriage.
Lucy felt like screaming. He was so calm, so unfazed by the evening Lucy had been dreading ever since he’d found her again.
Tonight was the night of the Hickams’ ball; the night when Oliver would introduce Lucy to his friends and acquaintances as his wife. All week she’d seen this event as the point of no return; once he’d brought her out in public there was no way he’d ever let her slink off into the night as a free woman.
‘Remember to smile once or twice.’
Suppressing the urge to deepen her frown, Lucy contented herself with looking out the window. They were barely moving, the press of carriages thick as they approached the house, and the temptation to get out and run was strong.
‘It might not be as bad as you’re dreading,’ Oliver said more softly, even giving her a brief but reassuring smile.
His words threw her. It was much easier to build her husband up into a heinous villain, but deep down Lucy knew that wasn’t the truth. Oliver was asking her to do something she didn’t want to, but he wasn’t a monster. He’d kept his side of the bargain and allowed her to continue her work at the Foundation. She knew the sensible thing to do would be to keep her husband happy and play the part of the dutiful wife tonight.
Somehow she couldn’t follow her own advice. Something inside was driving her to keep pushing, keep fighting. Perhaps it was fear, perhaps it was a certainty that she didn’t want to return to the mundane routine of her old life, but whatever it was kept her from doing what she knew was right; plastering a smile on her face and pretending she was happy to be there.
Letting a deep sigh escape, Lucy looked out of the window. They’d inched forward, but still weren’t at the front of the long line of carriages. This felt so different from her Season as a debutante, before she’d ever met Oliver, when her mother had whisked her around London in the hope she would find a suitable husband to marry. Lucy had hated it, not the balls or the socialising, but the constant pressure from her mother to impress a gentleman with a title and a fortune, when Lucy had been young and shy.
That had been part of the reason she’d accepted Oliver’s proposal so readily. Of course he was titled and rich, which kept her parents happy, but also marriage to him meant she wouldn’t have to endure another Season as a young woman seeking a husband. It wasn’t the main reason, which had been escape from her odious father and unhappy home life, but it had certainly been an added incentive.
Their carriage finally reached the steps in front of the house and a footman opened the door.
‘Come,’ Oliver said as he took her hand to help her from the carriage. He ensured she was steady on her feet before leading her up the steps and into the house.
The press of people was suffocating as they edged through the guests to the ballroom. Lucy had certainly been in more crowded places, but the scent of perfume and the press of layer upon layer of fabric was a different kind of crowded to the jostling mass of people in St Giles.
‘Lord and Lady Sedgewick,’ a footman announced as they entered the ballroom.
Lucy wondered if she imagined the slight pause in conversation that followed their names. No one looked directly at them, but there were a number of sideways glances directed their way. For a moment she wondered what the gossips had said about her absence from society for the year she’d been away. Then, just as her nerves were getting the better of her, she felt Oliver squeeze her hand.
Straightening her back and lifting her chin, she smiled, surprised at how reassuring she found Oliver’s subtle reminder of his presence at her side.
‘Sedgewick, what a surprise,’ a tall, thin man shouted as he made his way through the crush of people. ‘And the elusive Lady Sedgewick.’ The man leaned in closer to Lucy and gave her a conspiratorial wink. ‘We all thought he’d made you up.’
‘You’re not meant to actually say that,’ Oliver grumbled.
‘Seeing as Sedgewick has forgotten his manners, I’m Lord Redmoor.’
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