grateful for. So many girls ‘in trouble’ were cast out and shunned by their families, even more had to suffer the horrendous grief of giving up their child and never seeing or daring to mention the poor thing again. Fortunately, she had been spared both of those ordeals. For the first year she stayed largely at the family estate in Cheshire with her brother, his wife and their young son Frederick, venturing back into town to keep up the necessary appearances when the need arose, but after her mother had died, Lizzie and George were summoned back to Mayfair to live with her father, something she had agreed to do temporarily because she could not stand the thought of him being all alone.
Aside from the bothersome London Season and the shorter Christmas one, where she was forced into a society which would instantly turn on her if they were ever appraised of the truth, she got to live her life exactly as she wanted to.
Almost.
Yet to all intents and purposes, little George did not exist outside their Mayfair house. Small children, it turned out, were very easy to conceal from the prying eyes of the world. For the longest time it had been surprisingly easy to behave in public as if nothing untoward was going on. Back when he was a baby, Lizzie had only been too pleased to comply. It would have caused the most horrendous scandal for both their family and the Government to have done otherwise. As the most senior man at the Foreign Office, the King’s chief advisor on the delicate art of global diplomacy, her father had to be seen to be above reproach and she had not wanted to bring his ambitions to a shuddering halt because of her foolish indiscretion. She had returned to society after her clandestine confinement and nobody was any the wiser. All in all, they had done such a good job that even now, remarkably, her pristine reputation was still intact and, to all intents and purposes, she was just another single young lady on the marriage mart.
Except she wasn’t.
Despite her father’s steadfast refusal to give up the hope Lizzie would find a suitable man to marry, there was nothing which would ever tempt her to take a trip down the aisle again. Once bitten, twice shy, and Lizzie had been bitten too hard. So hard she was certain she still bore the treacherous Rainham’s teeth marks. From the outset, she had rebelled against her papa’s misguided belief she would soon snare another man who could be convinced, or bribed by his powerful father-in-law, into claiming the new-born child as his own. Instead, she actively repelled any man who dared to come within six feet of her. And, for good measure, any woman, too. The last thing she needed was allowing anyone to get too close, just in case she inadvertently let slip something which might embarrass her family or, more importantly, bring unwarranted shame and censure on her son.
Heaven forbid she would consider the alternative and marry a man who was shallow enough to be bribed to take on her child. Georgie deserved better than that and Lizzie would never allow him to be an inconvenience to a husband who would prefer her delightful little boy did not exist at all. As a wife, she would be bound by her husband’s edicts. What if Georgie was banished to boarding school or some remote property to be brought up by strangers? Unloved and all alone. She would protect him from that with the last breath in her body. No, indeed. The very last thing she could ever risk, for the sake of her beautiful boy, was marriage.
However, her dear papa refused to acknowledge her fears or that the trusting, foolish girl she had been had died the day Rainham had jilted her. What had emerged from the wreckage was a stronger, harder woman who would never be seduced into the merry dance of courtship again, no matter how charming or handsome her would-be suitor was. If she could thank the scoundrel Marquess for something, other than the fruit of his lying, deceitful loins, then it would be for opening her eyes to the harsh realities of life. Lizzie had been a hopeless dreamer then; now she was a realist. Her papa called it pessimism. It was much better to always expect the worst, that way you were guaranteed never to be disappointed. Being at the mercy of fate, or fickle men, was not a situation she would ever allow again.
And, on the subject of plans, soon she would put her most audacious one into action. This would be her last foray into polite society. One more month of maintaining this ridiculous charade for the sake of propriety, and her dear papa’s career, before she withdrew from the ton for ever. Georgie was not a baby any more. He could run around, talk and asked an increasing amount of questions about everything, the most consistent one causing her the most sleepless nights. Where is my papa? There was only so long her darling boy would accept her blithe answer of far, far away without complaint, yet she knew she was being unfair to him by keeping him the dark.
Her little boy needed to go to school and experience the sort of childhood all little boys deserved. He needed to play outside, not be restricted to twice-weekly jaunts to Richmond Park with his mother. The infrequent visits with her brother’s son were not enough and, as good a grandpapa as her dear father was to George, or no matter how many hours he spent playing with him, her son needed to be with children his own age, not adults. She wanted him to grow up feeling confident and secure in who he was. It was hardly his fault he was the Wildings’ dirty little secret.
Her dirty little secret.
After Christmas was done and dusted, and after she had found the right words to tell her beloved father of her decision, Lizzie was going to leave the sheltered safety of their Mayfair house. The spacious cottage in Yorkshire had already been purchased in the name of Mrs Smith with the small inheritance she had been left from her grandmother and via an attorney sworn to secrecy. It was already decorated and comfortably furnished in readiness. The well-paid attorney had seen to that, too. In a few short weeks, Lizzie would, to all intents and purposes, cease to be Lady Elizabeth Wilding for as much of her life as possible.
Instead, she would pretend to be a young widow—lord knew there were enough of them thanks to the carnage of decades of war—and Georgie would grow up like a normal boy, free from the stain of illegitimacy. Nobly fatherless because of Napoleon. Just the two of them. In quiet, peaceful, utter bliss. No more questions. No more lies—all bar that one.
Even so, she dreaded telling her father. He had stepped into the breach all those years ago and still believed his protection was necessary, until she learned to trust again and found a man to relieve him of the duty. Hence, she was at the Renshaw Ball at her misguided papa’s request, miserable and beyond bored, and would no doubt have to attend all manner of so-called similar entertainments for the next, interminable, miserable month.
In desperation, he had even taken to approaching potential husbands on her behalf. Sensible, staid men who were nothing but upright and no doubt he had significantly inflated her dowry as bait. Luring them with the enticing scent of money, encouraging them to come and talk or ask her to dance. Refusing to believe her insistence that she was done with men and never wanted another one, no matter how dull, staid and annoyingly persistent the fellows he selected were.
So pathetically, because she could not bear to hurt her papa’s feelings, she was hiding in the furthest chairs reserved for the most committed of wallflowers, attempting to be invisible. A sorry state of affairs, indeed, but easier than upsetting her father with yet another argument.
Why couldn’t he see that time was running out and the scandal he had vehemently suppressed for years was in danger of blowing wide open? They could not keep George sequestered in the house for ever, or wire his talkative mouth shut, and hell would have to freeze over before she would allow the rest of society to judge her innocent baby based on the circumstances of his birth. Lizzie would never regret George, regardless of how he had come to be in her life, and she was so very tired of hiding him. Poor Papa. His eagerness to find her a husband was beginning to drive a wedge between them and that broke her heart as well. The last five years of nonsense could not be allowed to continue much longer.
‘A penny for your thoughts?’
The deep male voice from behind startled her, yet Lizzie hid it instinctively. Sometimes, particularly arrogant young bucks still attempted to flirt with her for sport. Something which was always ruthlessly nipped in the bud. A slow, calculated glance to the side revealed Henry Stuart, the newly minted Earl of Redbridge. Handsome as sin and with a sinful reputation to match. She did not bother hiding her irritation at recognising him.
‘Do not trouble yourself, my lord. I can assure you that whatever misguided impulse sent you my way, it was most assuredly