the Foundation?’ Lucy asked, forcing herself to focus on what was important.
‘You may visit, of course. Properly chaperoned.’
‘Visit?’
‘Yes, advise them on their books, play with the street children, whatever it is you do,’ Oliver said with a dismissive wave of his hand.
‘We keep dozens of families alive,’ Lucy said, the pitch of her voice rising. ‘Provide shelter and food and education to those who truly have nowhere else to turn.’
‘I’m sure they managed perfectly well before you became involved—they will survive if you take a step back now you have other responsibilities.’
‘I won’t do it,’ she said quietly.
‘Won’t do what?’
‘Attend your parties, organise your household. Not if I can’t continue with my work.’
Oliver sighed, rubbing his forehead with the fingertips of one hand as if he had a headache coming on.
‘There will be changes to both our lives, Lucy,’ he said quietly, his reasonable words and measured tone inflaming her spirit even further. ‘We shall have to compromise.’ Again he paused before pushing on, holding her gaze as he delivered his next words. ‘And if you can’t compromise, then I am your husband and you need to remember the obey part of your vows.’
She supposed she’d pushed too far, but his words inflamed her anger and reminded her why she’d stayed away for so long.
‘They need me,’ she said, forcing herself to be reasonable.
‘Then you will have to find a way to make them need you less.’ He held up his hands in a placating gesture as she pushed her chair away from the table. ‘Do not take offence, Lucy. All I mean is the kindest thing to do for any person or organisation is to make it more self-sufficient.’
Forcing herself to calm down, she settled back into her chair. He wasn’t saying she couldn’t go, not exactly, although it was clear he meant for her to step back from her responsibilities at the Foundation and focus more on those at home. She probably should be thankful. She’d feared he might keep her under lock and key to ensure she didn’t disappear again. Perhaps he would send a footman to accompany her for the first few days, but once he realised she wasn’t going to run away she doubted her husband would interfere too much in her life. After all, he had his own life to lead. Just over a year they’d been separated; surely he would have built his own life for himself in that time. Friends, a mistress, regular social engagements. He wouldn’t want to disrupt his routine too much either, she was sure of it.
Pausing for a second, Lucy glanced again at the composed profile of her husband. Surely he had moved on, built a life for himself. He’d told her he’d been searching for her this entire time, but she wasn’t quite sure she believed that. It wasn’t as though theirs had been a union of love. They’d barely known one another, not enough to inspire that sort of devotion.
‘That’s settled, then,’ Oliver said, laying down his cutlery. ‘I shall arrange for you to have a schedule of our social engagements over the coming weeks and mark in a few suitable dates for you to visit the dressmakers. I brought some of your clothes from Sussex, but it is by no means a full wardrobe.’ He paused and Lucy wondered what it must be like to have such an ordered way of thinking. ‘We shall refuse all visitors this first week and I shall reintroduce you to society at the Hickams’ ball next week.’
Involuntarily Lucy’s hand rose to her throat, rubbing the skin of her neck as she tried to control the urge to flee.
‘After that, I expect acquaintances will be very curious—we may be inundated with well-wishers for quite a while—but I shall leave it up to you to decide how to deal with them.’ He waved his hand dismissively as if not wanting to be concerned with the minutiae of running a household and maintaining a social calendar.
Lucy didn’t plan to be at home to visitors; she had much more pressing things to occupy her time than to sit sipping tea with nosy old women.
‘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.
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
