at her parents who looked resigned to a fate none of them imagined possible or ever wanted. “I will marry Viscount Newland. Write them and organize the nuptials to take place within the month or sooner if possible. The child I carry needs a father and the viscount needs a wife.”
“Then it is done.” Her father stood, walking over to her and taking her hand. “Did Henry promise you anything, Elizabeth? The letter is so out of character for him, I’ve wondered since receiving it that it isn’t really of his opinion but his uncle’s only.”
“He wanted me to wait for him, to give him time to save his family’s estate. He did not wish to marry a woman for her money; he wanted to be a self-made man, I suppose.”
“Lies, Elizabeth. All lies,” her mother stated, her voice cold. “Henry has used you, I fear, and I highly doubt he’ll ever come back to England or Scotland, for that matter.”
Elizabeth swallowed the lump in her throat, not wanting to believe the man she’d given her heart to would treat her in such a way. She’d thought Henry was different, was a gentleman who loved her. At the look of pity her father bestowed on her, she pushed him aside and ran from the room.
She needed air, fresh, cooling, calming air. Opening the front door, the chilling icy wind hit her face, and clarity assailed. She’d go for a ride. Her mount Argo always made her feel better.
It took the stable hand only minutes to saddle her mount, and she was soon trotting away from the house, the only sound that of the snow crunching beneath her horse’s hooves. The chill pierced through her gown, and she regretted not changing into a suitable habit, but riding astride in whatever they had on at the time was a normal practice for the children of the Duke of Penworth. Too much freedom as a child, all of them allowed to do whatever they pleased, and now that freedom had led her straight into the worst type of trouble.
She pushed her horse into a slow canter, her mind a kaleidoscope of turmoil. Henry, once her father’s ward, a person she’d thought to call a friend, had betrayed her when she needed him most. Guilt and shame swamped her just as snow started to fall, and covered everything in a crystal white hue.
She would never forgive Henry for this. Yes, they’d made a mistake, a terrible lack of decorum on her behalf that she’d never had time to think through. But should the worst happen, a child, she had consoled herself that Henry would do right by her, return home and marry her.
How could she have been so wrong?
She clutched her stomach, still no signs that a little child grew inside, and as much as she was ruined, could possibly ruin her family, she didn’t regret her condition, and nor would she birth this child out of wedlock. Lord Newland would marry her since his situation was not looked upon favorably by the ton; it was a match that would suit them both.
Guilt pricked her soul that she would pass off Henry’s child as Lord Newland’s, but what choice did she have? Henry would not marry her, declare the child his. Elizabeth had little choice. There was nothing else to be done about it.
A deer shot out of the bracken, and Argo shied, jumping sharply to the side. Elizabeth screamed as her seat slipped. The action unbalanced her and she fell, hitting the ground hard.
Luckily, the soft snow buffered her fall, and she sat up, feeling the same as she had when upon her horse. She rubbed her stomach, tears pooling in her eyes with the thought that had she fallen harder, all her problems would be over. What a terrible person she was to think such a thing, and how she hated Henry that his refusal of her had brought such horrendous thoughts to mind.
Argo nuzzled her side as she stood; reaching for the stirrup, she hoisted herself back onto her mount. Wiping the tears from her eyes, Elizabeth promised no more would be shed over a boy, for that was surely what Henry still was, an immature youth who gave no thought to others.
She would marry Viscount Newland, try and make him happy as much as possible when two strangers came together in such a union, and be damned anyone who mentioned the name Henry Andrews, Lord Muir to her again.
America 1805