Page 52 of How to Wed a Courtesan

His arm fell away from Lottie as the shock of her words sank in.

They had a daughter?

Emotions slammed into him with enough force to make his knees go weak. Elation at the idea of having a child, guilt at having abandoned her for all those years, at having never met her, and anger at having never been told until this moment.

Six years.

She would be five.

His little girl.

‘Good God, Lottie,’ he said in awed shock. ‘How could you have kept this from me? All this time I’ve been back I could have seen her, got to know her, let her see how much I love her.’

He stepped back from Lottie as she began to cry harder.

‘We had a daughter.’ Lottie covered her face with her hands, her words muffled but not indistinguishable. ‘Three years ago she died.’

The ache splitting Lottie’s chest was great enough to make her wish for her own death as she spoke the words she had put off saying for far too long.

Sarah, insubordinate though she may have been, was correct: Evander did need to know.

‘I don’t...’ He regarded his empty hands as if they might somehow hold the answers. ‘That is, I... When...?’ His face crumpled, mirroring the hurt radiating through her, and he shook his head. ‘Please. Tell me everything.’

Lottie sank into the ladderback chair near her easel and he pulled over the silk padded stool from before her vanity, his actions loose with the effects of his shock. As he gathered the small seat she did what she could to collect herself. As much as she could, given the circumstances and the magnitude of such loss.

But she had to do this.

A light clatter sounded from outside the door. ‘I’ve brought tea, if you want it.’

Tea. Lottie swallowed, not realising how parched she was until that moment.

Evander lifted his brows in question and Lottie nodded. He stood swiftly, as though grateful to have purpose, and went to the door. He returned with a tray bearing tea, along with several rough sandwiches—clearly made by Sarah, as the cook had been given the day off with everyone else.

Lottie thanked him as he prepared a cup of tea for her with hands that trembled. When he poured a second cup for himself, she took a sip, letting the wet heat of the tea soothe her dry throat.

‘I told you my father died soon after you left.’

She set her cup into the saucer perched on her knee. It would be best to explain it all from the beginning. Not only so Evander could learn about Lily, but also so he would understand why Lottie had taken the path she did.

‘I didn’t realise I was with child at the time.’ She looked into her teacup and shook her head at her own youthful ignorance. ‘I was overcome with grief at my father’s death, and assumed that food being so disagreeable to me was due to my mourning. By the time the new vicar arrived, however, I had deduced the reality of my situation. I was with child.’

Her free hand went to her stomach as she recalled the wonder of realising a baby was in her womb—Evander’s baby. That their love had created something so magnificent.

‘My father had always provided me with a comfortable life,’ she continued. ‘His death was so sudden there was little left for me to live on. Enough for a year or so.’

‘And you expected I would return home to you by then,’ Evander murmured.

Lottie did not reply. He already knew the answer. Her confirmation would only shove the dagger of guilt deeper into his chest. This tale needed no further pain. It captured enough on its own.

‘I couldn’t stay in Binsey, of course.’ She tried to breathe around the ache in her chest. ‘I couldn’t sully my father’s memory with my delicate state any more than I could bring shame to the home of anyone who tried to help me. I found lodging near London, where jobs would be more plentiful. I left my new address at Huntly Manor for you and waited out my pregnancy at this cottage.’

She indicated the painting with her eyes, and lingered on memories that tugged her back. ‘I could wear my ring there, since no one in that small village knew me as anything more than a wife in a delicate condition.’

She smiled, recalling her pride at being referred to as ‘Mrs Murray’.

‘And when she was born...’ Lottie’s voice caught. The teacup rattled on its saucer, threatening to topple. She withdrew it from her knee and set it on the floor. ‘Oh, Evander. She was so lovely.’

Tears welled afresh in Lottie’s eyes as the night of Lily’s birth pushed to the forefront of her thoughts. The hearty wail of a healthy baby girl. ‘She had a tuft of auburn hair, like her father. And blue eyes.’