The Viscount's Runaway Wife. Laura Martin

heartbreaking of all, the shoeless children who ran wild through the streets, willing to do anything for a hot meal or a few coins.

      ‘I can walk by myself,’ she said, wriggling free of the restraining hand on her arm.

      ‘I don’t trust you,’ Oliver barked. That was fair, she supposed. They hadn’t known each other well during their short marriage and her behaviour over the last year hadn’t endeared her to her husband.

      They marched rather than walked, Lucy having to take two steps to every one of Oliver’s long strides, and within two minutes they were leaving the narrow, shadowed streets of St Giles and emerging back on to the main thoroughfare.

      Hailing a hackney carriage, Oliver almost stepped out into the path of the horses, but dutifully the coachman pulled to a stop just in front of them.

      ‘St James’s Square, number twelve,’ Oliver instructed, before bundling her inside and following quickly.

      ‘I...’ Lucy began to speak, but Oliver held up an authoritative hand.

      ‘I’ve waited over a year to hear why you abducted our son and disappeared without a word. We are not going to have this conversation in a carriage.’

      ‘I just...’

      ‘I said no. Whatever it is can wait for twenty minutes.’

      Disgruntled, Lucy settled herself back against the padded bench, turning her body away from her husband and looking out the window instead. Ten months she’d lived as Oliver’s wife, although for almost nine of those months he had been away at war. She barely knew the man, but that didn’t mean she had to tolerate such rudeness.

      As they weaved through the streets Lucy recognised most of the landmarks. She’d lived in London for the past year and although she didn’t have much reason to set foot in the more elite areas, she had passed through on occasion. She fidgeted as she watched the carriage round the corner into St James’s Square, knowing the next few hours were going to be difficult and really she only had herself to blame.

      ‘Come,’ Oliver ordered as the carriage stopped in front of a white-painted town house. It was immaculately kept and for a house in the middle of the city huge in size. They could house twenty mothers and children comfortably in the space, maybe more, but instead it was the domain of a single man and a few servants. It seemed such a waste.

      The door was opened promptly by a smartly dressed young man with a scar running from eyebrow to chin.

      ‘I trust you had a pleasant afternoon, my lord,’ the young butler said, sparing a look for Lucy, but valiantly trying to hide his curiosity.

      ‘Yes, thank you, Parker. We will be in my study. I don’t want to be disturbed.’

      ‘Yes, my lord.’

      And with that Oliver had whisked her into his study, closed the door and clicked the lock. Lucy swallowed, eyeing the windows which were all firmly closed. She shouldn’t be afraid—for all his faults, her husband was a noble man; he wouldn’t hurt her. At least she was reasonably sure he wouldn’t.

      ‘Sit,’ he instructed, motioning towards two comfortable leather armchairs positioned in front of the unlit fire.

      She complied immediately. For all her strong-willed dislike of being told what to do, she recognised now they were completely in her husband’s domain. For the next few hours at least she would have to remember he was in charge here.

      Watching nervously as Oliver stalked about the room, selecting two glasses and pouring two generous measures of whisky, Lucy was surprised when he set one in front of her. Never in their short marriage had he invited her to join him for a drink, but she supposed then they were occupying more traditional roles of gentleman and his wife. Now it was clear he had no idea how to regard her.

      ‘Talk,’ he commanded eventually, settling back into his chair.

       Chapter Two

      She looked nervous, Oliver thought with grim satisfaction. Drumming her fingers on the fine crystal glass he’d just placed in her hand and shifting her weight in the armchair every few seconds. In truth, Lady Sedgewick looked as though she wanted to be anywhere but here with him.

      ‘What do you want me to say?’ she asked, raising her dark eyes to meet his.

      He felt a surge of irritation, but tried to conceal it. He’d been raised to be civil even in the most trying of circumstances. And reuniting with his estranged wife could certainly be described as trying.

      ‘I want to know everything,’ he said calmly. ‘What happened with the birth of our son? Why you left. Why you stayed away. What you’ve been doing all this time.’

      Sighing, Lucy took a gulp of whisky, unable to hide her discomfort as the amber liquid burned her throat.

      ‘I’m sure you’ve worked most of the details out by now,’ she said softly.

      ‘But I want to hear it from you.’

      Of course he’d imagined a thousand scenarios in the year he’d been searching for her. An inappropriate lover, a nervous breakdown and, in his more desperate moments, even more unlikely stories involving French spies and a need to serve her country. Despite all his searching, all the time and effort he’d put into finding her the last year, he still didn’t know the truth behind why she’d disappeared.

      ‘I got scared,’ she said simply. Nothing so extravagant as French spies, then.

      ‘Scared?’

      There was a long pause before Lucy continued. As he waited for her to speak, Oliver realised his wife had changed immeasurably in the time she’d been absent. Not that he could pretend he knew her very well when they’d been married. Twice they’d met before they’d said their vows, two awkward meetings where neither had revealed much. And then he’d only lived with Lucy for a month after their wedding before being called back to the Peninsula. All the same, she’d certainly matured in the time they’d spent apart. Gone was the shy, meek debutante and in her place was a poised and almost worldly young woman. It appeared his wife had matured in her absence, in more ways than one.

      ‘We barely knew one another,’ Lucy said eventually. That he couldn’t deny.

      ‘True.’

      ‘I loved David,’ she said quietly. ‘I loved him from the first time I felt him kick inside me, maybe even before that. I spent hours dreaming of what he would be like, what he would enjoy and who he would resemble. When he was born...’ She trailed off.

      Oliver had spoken to the doctor who’d been present at his son’s birth. Apparently it had been a difficult labour and for a while it had seemed like their son would not come, but eventually, after many hours, Lucy had given birth.

      ‘He was so beautiful—’ her voice was barely more than a whisper ‘—so perfect in every single way.’

      That wasn’t how the doctor had put it. ‘Characteristic facial features’ had been mentioned a number of times and ‘a likelihood of mental difficulties’.

      ‘The doctor commiserated with me when he looked David over, told me that there was no reason I couldn’t have a healthy child next time.’ There was bitterness in her voice as she recalled the words.

      Lucy glanced up at him and he could see she was on the verge of tears again, but no matter how difficult this was for her he had to know what had happened next.

      ‘I lay there with our son resting on my breast, cuddled in all warm and safe once the doctor had gone, and I started to realise that he wouldn’t be the only one judging our son, finding him wanting.’

      ‘You can’t mean...’ Oliver said, his eyes widening.

      ‘I didn’t know you,’ Lucy said quietly, unable to meet his eye. ‘I knew