Sally Wentworth - The Guilty Wife

Should she confess everything to her husband? 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.... About the Author 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! Title Page The Guilty Wife Sally Wentworth www.millsandboon.co.uk PROLOGUE CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN Copyright

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

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.