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The Guilty Wife
Sally Wentworth
Can their marriage survive the truth? Lucie has everything. The perfect husband, a cherished son and a new baby on the way… . Her marriage is blissful - until a secret in her past returns to haunt her. How can Lucie tell her husband, a glamorous barrister, that she was once in prison? It was for a crime she didn't commit, but now she's being blackmailed by the man who framed her.For five years, Seton Wallace has idolized Lucie as the perfect bride… . What will he do if he discovers she's now a guilty wife?"Sally Wentworth pens an explosive tale with intense characters." - Romantic Times
Should she confess everything to her husband? (#u159cd30a-f1f3-5818-9c81-edec6c471c6b)About the Author (#ubf5437c1-e0e2-5ab5-8499-9cb645162e0d)Title Page (#ua5dffbd3-f3c2-5abd-b4a1-5159857c5a7a)PROLOGUE (#u8d4ba842-0acd-5c52-8f00-f872a9da568a)CHAPTER ONE (#u05aa1c34-82ca-5930-8dbd-b393a695856b)CHAPTER TWO (#u65383504-a527-50e5-a8df-f59e3fde0629)CHAPTER THREE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
Should she confess everything to her husband?
Lucie didn’t want to. What would Seton think when he knew that she had deceived him like this?
But he loved her, and surely he would understand. She tossed anxiously in her bed, wondering what to do, afraid of losing the perfect happiness they shared....
Wouldn’t he be appalled that he, a lawyer, had a wife who had been to prison, that his son had an ex-convict for a mother? No matter that Lucie had been innocent of any crime, that stain was on her record and always would be....
SALLY WENTWORTH was born and raised in Hertfordshire, England, where she still lives, and started writing after attending an evening class course. She is married and has one son. There is always a novel on the bedside table, but she also does craftwork, plays bridge, and is the president of a National Trust group. They go to the ballet and theater regularly and to open-air concerts in the summer. Sometimes she doesn’t know how she finds the time to write!
The Guilty Wife
Sally Wentworth
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
PROLOGUE
IT ALL happened so suddenly.
Lucie was cycling along the sunlit suburban avenue past the park, the trees lining the road on both sides casting dancing shadows as she rode under them. The traffic wasn’t heavy, which was quite normal for a late Saturday afternoon in the small market town of Hayford where she lived. She registered the sleek-looking car coming from the opposite direction, on the side nearest the park, but took little notice, her mind occupied with her own thoughts.
Then everything seemed to happen at once. A ball flew over the park fence into the road. A big dog held by a young boy came out of the park entrance at the same moment, saw the ball and dashed after it, pulling the boy along with him.
Somebody—a woman—screamed, the shrill, terrified note cutting through the peace of the day. The car braked and swerved violently just before it reached the boy—but avoiding the boy brought it heading straight at Lucie.
The world seemed almost to stand still. The car, big and dark red, the colour of blood, hurtled down on her. Yet it was happening in slow motion too, each second long and drawn out as Lucie’s mind and body became paralysed by fear. She glimpsed a man through the windscreen, his face as appalled as her own, saw him try to swing the car round yet again. There was a sickening screech of protesting tyres and brakes. And then it hit her!
The back wing of the car smashed into the front of her bike, the impact sending her flying onto the grass verge. Lucie felt herself roll over and over, her body crushing the long grass and flowers, her senses strangely aware of the scent of damp earth, of whirling sun and ground. Her arms and legs seemed to have no connection with her body, her brain had no control over them; they just flew about as she tumbled down the sloping ground, until she stopped with a jolt, her left side up against a garden fence.
She lay very still, her eyes tightly shut, her shocked brain unable to take in what had happened. Then Lucie became aware of sounds, of the woman still screaming, a dog barking, then the car engine being switched off and, a moment later, footsteps running towards her.
‘Dear God!’ An unsteady hand touched her neck, felt for the pulse in her throat. ‘Are you all right? Can you hear me?’ The voice was sharp with fear, raw with it.
Slowly, carefully, Lucie opened her eyes, and was relieved to see that the world had stopped revolving, that the sky was in its usual place. Most of it, though, was blocked out by the head of the man who leaned over her, the shocked horror clear in his eyes. She stared up at his lean face, unable to speak, and he gently brushed grass and leaves and strands of her pale gold hair from her face.
‘Are you hurt? Are you in pain?’
His anxious voice, insistent on an answer, got through to her. With a tremendous effort, Lucie managed to say, ‘I—I don’t know.’ She tried to move, felt a stabbing pain in her left arm, and promptly passed out.
She must have been unconscious for only a minute or so, because when she surfaced the man was still there, talking on a mobile phone this time. There were other people there too now. A sobbing woman clutched a young boy back against her, so closely that it must have hurt him. But the boy was staring down at Lucie, his face paper-white. Other people were gazing down at her, but the man, finishing the call, turned on them angrily, his voice a snarl, and made them step back.
Kneeling beside her again, he said, ‘Don’t worry. The ambulance is on its way. You’re going to be fine.’ Taking off his jacket, he put it under her head, lifting her only a fraction, his hands strong but infinitely gentle.
‘Is that the boy?’ Lucie managed. ‘You didn’t hit him?’
‘No, he’s all right.’
The woman burst out, ‘I’m sorry! I’m so terribly sorry. The lead was wound round his hand; he couldn’t let go.’
Lucie felt a wave of anger, but another look at the boy’s ashen face made it quickly fade. She looked away, met the eyes of the car driver. They were an unusual colour, not quite grey, not quite blue, and were topped by thick dark brows that were still drawn into a frown of anxiety. ‘I’d like to sit up,’ she said, her voice stronger now.
‘No, don’t let her,’ a voice put in. ‘She might have broken her neck.’
‘Have you broken your neck?’
‘No, but I think I’ve broken my wrist. And I’m leaning on it. Besides, I feel like an idiot, lying here.’
The eyes lost some of their anxiety as the man, ignoring the advice being given to him from all sides, helped her to sit up. Lucie’s head swam for a minute and she was quite glad to rest her head against the man’s broad shoulder. Pulling his jacket round her, his arm supporting her, he said, ‘What’s your name?’
‘Lucie. Lucie Brownlow.’
‘Is there anyone I can call for you?’ He glanced at her ringless hands. ‘Your parents?’
‘No. There’s—there’s only my aunt and she’s away at the moment.’
‘But surely—?’
He was interrupted by the wailing sound of a siren. A police car pulled up, almost as violently as the red car had done; two policemen got out and started to take control of the situation. Then an ambulance came and the man moved away as the paramedics examined her. They wanted to put her on a stretcher, but Lucie, aware of the boy still watching, insisted on getting to her feet and walked with their help towards the ambulance.
As she reached it she saw her bike still lying in the road, and gave a gasp of horror as she saw the front wheel squashed almost out of recognition. It had been a very near thing, she realised. If the driver of the car hadn’t managed to swerve again it would have been she lying squashed like a pancake instead of the wheel.
The driver must have heard her horrified gasp; he turned away from the policeman he’d been talking to and came quickly over. ‘I know it’s a mess, but please don’t worry. I’ll replace it.’
Lucie raised stricken eyes to his. ‘Oh, no. It’s—it’s not that.’
‘Come along, miss. Let’s get you to Casualty,’ one of the paramedics urged.
‘Which hospital?’ the man asked him.
Lucie didn’t hear the answer. She was helped into the ambulance and was glad to go, to get away from that awful scene.
It was a couple of hours later, when she’d had her arm set and was propped up in a hospital bed, that a policeman came to ask her about the accident.
When she’d described what had happened he nodded and said, ‘That’s the same story we’ve heard from the other witnesses. Mr Wallace clearly wasn’t at fault.’
‘Who?’
‘The driver of the Jaguar. The car involved,’ he explained.
‘Oh, I didn’t know his name. No, it definitely wasn’t his fault. In fact it was his quick reaction that probably saved both the boy and myself.’ A thought came to her and she said, ‘Did he miss the dog as well?’
The policeman smiled as he closed his notebook. ‘Yes, he even managed to miss the dog.’ Getting to his feet, he said, ‘Mr Wallace is still here, waiting to hear how you are. We told him you would be here overnight, but he’s insisting on coming to see for himself. Is that all right?’
Lucie nodded, and as soon as he was out of sight used her right hand to try and fluff up her hair, but it had been brushed, pulled severely back and tied with an elastic band by the nurse who had washed off the dirt she’d gathered as she’d rolled across the grass verge. Her face was scratched too, and Lucie strongly suspected she had a black eye. The hospital nightdress, washed so many times that it had faded to an almost non-existent blue, didn’t help either—not when your eyes were the palest hazel and needed richness of colour to enhance them. She sighed, definitely not feeling at her best.
The policeman had pulled back the screens around the bed so Lucie was able to see the car driver as he came into the ward and looked round for her. He was dark-haired and looked to be about thirty, and he was very tall; she hadn’t noticed that before, when he’d been kneeling down beside her. He was wearing a dark suit, the knees grass-stained, but even so you could see that it was very well made. And he held himself erect, like a soldier, which gave him a distinct air of authority. The Jaguar was right for him, Lucie realised; both were big, well-bred, and looked expensive. A lesser car wouldn’t have suited him at all.
He saw her and walked quickly down the ward. ‘How are you feeling now?’
‘Fine.’ She smiled at him. ‘It was kind of you to wait so long.’
‘Nonsense,’ he said brusquely. ‘I was very worried about you. I’m most dreadfully sorry that you’ve been hurt.’
‘But it wasn’t your fault!’ Lucie protested. ‘It was an accident; I told the police that. They’re not going to charge you or anything, are they?’
‘No—but thanks for your support.’ He smiled, the grin transforming his face, taking the frowning anxiety away and making him somehow look younger and more carefree, and definitely more approachable. Holding out his hand, he said, ‘I know your name but I haven’t told you mine. It’s Seton Wallace.’
Lucie put her hand in his and let him shake it; his skin was smooth and his grip strong. ‘What a strange way to meet.’
‘Yes.’ He grinned again. ‘You could say we had quite an impact on each other.’
Lucie’s eyes lit with appreciative laughter but she gave a mock groan. ‘That was terrible.’
‘Sorry. Put it down to relief from tension.’
Because she liked his smile so much, because she was beginning to like him, Lucie said, ‘I hope I’m not keeping you from your family.’
Shaking his head, Seton answered, ‘No, I’m down here visiting my parents, and I’ve already rung to tell them what happened. But how about your family? Are you sure there isn’t anyone you’d like me to contact for you?’
‘No, I live alone.’
‘Not even a boyfriend?’
There was a note in his voice that wasn’t just polite enquiry. Lucie gave him a quick glance, her interest suddenly heightened. ‘No. No one close.’
He nodded, his eyes smiling a little, but then a nurse pushing a trolley came up to them and he said, ‘I’d better go. But will you let me have your address? To send your bicycle to when it’s repaired,’ he added, when Lucie raised her eyebrows.
‘You don’t have to see to that. After all, it wasn’t—’
‘I want to,’ he interrupted firmly.
‘All right. Thank you.’ She gave him her address and he noted it down in a fat Filofax.
He left then and Lucie settled back against the pillows. She felt bruised all over—probably was—but also felt strangely on a high. It must be the aftermath of shock, she thought, the joy of being still alive. Or perhaps it was just the memory of a lean, goodlooking face bending over her, of the width of a masculine shoulder and the strength of the arm that had held her. She might not ever see Seton again, of course; he might just send the repaired bicycle. But somehow she knew that he would bring it himself.
Her eyes drooping with sudden fatigue, Lucie fell asleep trying to work out how long it would take for the bike to be repaired.
But she saw him much sooner than she had expected. The next morning, after Lucie had dressed with the help of a nurse, reluctantly having to put on the torn and dirty clothes from the day before, she went down to the reception and asked for the number of a taxi company. But then a voice behind her said, ‘Will I do instead?’
She recognised Seton’s voice at once and was already smiling when she turned to face him. ‘Hello.’
‘Hi. You look better this morning.’
Lucie laughed. ‘In that case I must have looked really ghastly yesterday. I saw myself in the mirror just now and nearly died.’
‘In that case,’ he said, mimicking her, ‘you must look really fantastic normally.’ It was a nice compliment and he looked as if he meant it. Seton put his hand under her elbow. ‘The car’s outside.’
He looked after her carefully, as if she were a fragile doll instead of a girl of five feet five, who weighed a hundred and fifteen pounds and worked out regularly. Lucie, who wasn’t used to such tender treatment, found that she rather liked it.
She had trouble fastening the seat belt and he leaned across to do it for her. The scent of his aftershave was subtle, evocative. He was wearing casual clothes today, jeans and a sweatshirt, but the air of strong self-confidence was still there; he hadn’t lost it with the suit. He drove quite slowly, careful not to jolt her around, and took a route that avoided the park, although that would have been the more direct way. It was so that she wouldn’t be upset at seeing the scene of their accident, Lucie realised, and felt a lump in her throat at his thoughtfulness.
He pulled up in the road outside her flat. It was only a two-storey house converted into a flat on each floor. Nothing special. But, to Lucie, getting it had been the achievement of a great ambition, a longed-for dream.
Seton helped her out of the car and obviously expected to go up with her. Inside, he gave a small sound of pleasure as he looked around, which pleased Lucie as she’d expended a lot of loving care on the decor and furnishings.
‘The kitchen is in the back.’ Lucie pointed. ‘Perhaps you’d like to make some coffee while I go and change?’
‘Sing out if you have any difficulty and need a hand,’ he called after her as she went into the bedroom.
Her eyebrows rose a little; did he expect to help her dress? But Lucie found that she could have used some help; though it was easy enough to undress, putting on a clean bra by herself was impossible. She had to give up and just pull on a loose tracksuit, easing the material over her cast. She went back into the sitting-room, where Seton was waiting. His eyes went over her, lingered for a fraction of a second too long, and she knew he’d noticed she was without a bra.
‘Here’s your coffee.’
‘Thanks.’
Going across to the window, she sat on the deep, padded sill, unaware that the sunlight shining through lit her head like a brilliant halo. Her hair was loose now and hung thick and straight to her neck, the sun turning it into a cascade of molten gold. Glancing up, she saw that Seton had his eyes fixed on her, rapt, arrested. Lucie gave him a questioning look and he blinked, and said after a moment in a slightly unsteady voice, ‘Do you work here, in Hayford?’
‘Yes, in an office.’
‘As a secretary? You won’t be able to type with that wrist, surely?’
Lucie gave a small grimace. ‘Nothing as grand as that. I just check invoices against goods, that kind of thing. I expect they’ll find something for me to do.’
‘But you must take some time off, give your wrist a chance to mend.’ And he frowned in concern.
‘I’ll phone them tomorrow, tell them what’s happened.’
‘You promise?’
She nodded, her eyes smiling. ‘I promise.’ She hesitated for a moment, then, fear from past experience pricking her, felt compelled to add, ‘But you really mustn’t worry about me; I can take care of myself, you know.’
‘You shouldn’t have to,’ he said brusquely. ‘Look, I’ve taken a week off work so I’ll be around. Use me. If you need to shop, go to your doctor, or back to the hospital. Anything. Just tell me and I’ll be here.’ He saw the surprised uncertainty in Lucie’s eyes and, holding up a hand, said quickly, ‘I’m insisting on this. And if you say no I shall just sit in the car outside your flat and won’t go away until you agree.’
Lucie laughed. ‘Are you always this autocratic?’
His eyes, more blue now than grey, crinkled into an attractive grin. ‘Only with people I come close to killing.’ He stood up and went to the phone, tore a sheet off the scrap pad and wrote on it. ‘Here’s my parents’ number. Call me if you find you need anything. At any time. Promise?’
‘All these promises you’re demanding I make,’ Lucie said on a flippant note. ‘I’m not used to being made such a fuss of.’
Coming over, Seton leaned a hand against the wall and smiled down at her. ‘Well, I think you’d better start getting used to it.’ She didn’t speak and he walked to the door, then turned. ‘You won’t want to cook tonight; how about sharing a Chinese take away?’
Lucie hesitated, knew that she ought to refuse, but found herself saying, ‘I’d like that.’
