The Masquerade (13 page)

“Nonsense! Mama is being overly dramatic, as always. Papa is sad, but he will recover, as you have always been his favorite. Lizzie, time heals all wounds. We will get through this,” Georgie said firmly, holding her hand tightly and squeezing it. “I promise.”

“At least he is speaking to me,” Lizzie said despondently. She wondered if Papa would ever love her again as he once had, so completely and so trustingly.

Georgie suddenly halted in her tracks.

Lizzie had been so absorbed in her brooding that she hadn’t been paying attention to the passersby. She faltered, following her sister’s gaze.

Tyrell de Warenne was approaching.

He was a half a block away, but there was no mistaking his tall, broad-shouldered form. Lizzie would know him anywhere, even after a full year and a half. He was on foot, his strides long and purposeful, and another gentleman accompanied him. They were in a deep conversation and he had not seen them yet.

Lizzie whirled in complete panic. “Rosie! Take Ned into the baker’s and do not come out!” she cried frantically. Her fear knew no bounds. She had tried so hard to tell herself that it was unlikely she and Tyrell would ever meet, as he was so often in Dublin these days. But he was there, just a few steps down the street!

Rosie paled. Without a word, she wheeled the carriage with Ned into the baker’s shop.

Rational thought escaped her now. Her back remained to Tyrell and she prayed he would cross the street or go into the alehouse that was farther up the block. But even as she prayed for him to leave, his dark, handsome face, his smoldering eyes, his strong, powerful body filled her mind. She
closed her eyes, perspiring, but his virile image remained. It had been so long since she had laid eyes upon him.

“Oh! They are coming this way! I think they are approaching us,” Georgie said in disbelief.

“That’s impossible,” Lizzie choked.

And from behind, a very familiar voice cried, “Lizzie? Lizzie, is that you?”

It was Rory McBane.
Lizzie whirled, incredulous, meeting his friendly green gaze and not daring to look at the man he was with.

“It
is
you!” he cried, clearly pleased. His glance slipped to Georgie, briefly assessing her, but as quickly returned to Lizzie. He bowed deeply. “But I had forgotten, your home is here in Limerick. Somehow, I thought that you remained with Aunt Eleanor at Glen Barry.”

Lizzie knew she had to respond. Her cheeks becoming excruciatingly hot, she curtsied. And finally, she glanced sidelong at Tyrell.

He was staring at her with wide, stunned eyes—as if he
recognized
her. Of course, that was simply impossible—wasn’t it? Never had he seemed more masculine, more utterly virile. He was wearing a dark, immaculately cut blue coat and fine doeskin breeches with high, gleaming riding boots. Lizzie was as breathless as if she had been punched. Confusion reigned.

“Lizzie?” Rory asked.

Lizzie came out of her trance. She whirled to face him, aware of the feverish heat spreading from her cheeks to her throat and breasts, her body becoming gloriously alive for the first time since learning of Anna’s treachery. “Hel-hello,” she stuttered. It was impossible to think. “I am…I am so pleased to see you, Rory.”

His concern grew. “Are you all right?”

She somehow nodded and dared to glance at Tyrell
again. His expression had hardened as if carved in stone and his gaze had turned black. In fact, he appeared angry, terribly so.

His gaze wide, Rory said, “Where are my manners? Lizzie, meet his lordship, Tyrell de Warenne, a good friend. Ty, this is Miss Elizabeth Fitzgerald.”

Lizzie prayed she would not faint. Rory and Tyrell were friends? She was doomed, wasn’t she?

“My sister,” she somehow whispered, “Miss Georgina May Fitzgerald.”

Lizzie was vaguely aware of Georgie curtsying, although she was stiff with tension, too. Rory bowed gallantly in return and smiled at her in that charming rakehell way he had. “It is a pleasure, Miss Fitzgerald. I can only say that I am sorry we did not make our acquaintance last summer at Glen Barry. I so enjoyed your sisters’ company. You have missed some very amusing times.”

A slight flush colored Georgie’s cheeks, making her impossibly attractive. She was almost as tall as he was and she looked him in the eye when she spoke, “I am afraid I spent last summer looking after our parents. Lizzie did not…. she did not mention you.” Her color deepened when she realized what she had said was quite ungracious.

Rory murmured, “What an impression I must have made!” He smiled at Georgie. “How very noble it is, to take care of one’s parents. I do hope no serious ailment afflicted either one of them?”

Georgie looked away. “Everyone is fine, thank you, sir.”

Georgie seemed rather flustered, which was quite unlike her, but Lizzie could not think about that now. Tyrell’s stare was unwavering. She tried to breathe yet again and found it even more difficult.

Ever since learning of Anna’s betrayal, she had refused to think of him in any way except as Ned’s father. She had refused to dream about him in any way, but especially as a lover. And any shameful dreams she’d had while asleep she’d refused to consider or recall.

Now, staring at him, she was so overcome that all she could think about was him leaning seductively close, as he had at the All Hallow’s Eve ball.

Tyrell took a single step forward and he bowed. “But we have met, have we not, my lady?” His tone was soft, dangerously so.

Lizzie’s alarm knew no bounds. How could he recognize her? She must remain anonymous. In fact, she should stay as far away from him as possible! “Sir, I am afraid you are mistaken,” she finally managed to say.

“Ah, but my memory rarely fails me, especially not when faced with such beauty,” he purred, giving her a frank look.

Lizzie was speechless. Could he, amazingly, still think her attractive? She found her tongue. “Sir, I am afraid this conversation is not appropriate. Such flattery belongs in the ballroom.” When she realized what she had said, she winced.

He laughed, yet the sound was without mirth. “I will flatter where I choose,” he said flatly.

She inhaled. “Your eyes do fail you, sir.”

A beat of silence passed in which he assessed her. “Have you never heard that beauty is in the eye of the beholder?”

Lizzie swallowed.
Did he think her beautiful?
“So it is said. But that is neither here nor there—my sister and I are late.” She curtsied, about to flee. She was not given the chance.

His hand seized hers. “Why do you pretend that we are strangers?” he demanded.

His grasp inflamed her as nothing had in almost two
years. “Had we ever been introduced, I would remember it.”

“So I am unforgettable, then?”

She tensed, debating a range of answers.

He smiled. “I must take your silence as a
yes.
You play a merry game, my lady,” he said. “And you lead a merry chase.”

He was flirting with her, just as he had done that All Hallow’s Eve, and it remained as incomprehensible now as it had been then. She could not look away and neither could she admit to their having any acquaintance at all. “You clearly mistake me for another,” she said at last. “I am hardly a fox to be pursued through the wood.”

“I might beg to differ,” he said smoothly. “And I do recognize a game when it is played.”

“Then you play by yourself, sir,” Lizzie said firmly.

“And who mocks whom?” he demanded. “I never play alone.”

Her heart thundered. This flirtation was going too far too quickly. Worse, she was almost enjoying herself. “I beg your apology, my lord.”

But he was through with banter. “We did make our acquaintance, madam. In the Shire Wood.”

Lizzie backed up. What should she do now?

“Do
not
deny it,” he warned.

Lizzie’s dismay remained, but a part of her grew elated. He knew she had been Maid Marian. It had been a good year and a half since the masquerade, but he not only remembered their heated encounter, he remembered her well enough to know her now without her disguise. A part of her mind, no longer repressed, opened like a dam gate, and a hundred lurid fantasies spewed forth. Illicit images flashed in her mind, and in each and every one she was in Tyrell de Warenne’s embrace.

“The two of you met in the Shire Wood?” Rory asked, and for the first time in minutes, Lizzie realized she and Tyrell were not alone. In fact, they stood on High Street between a pair of vendors hawking corn cakes and meat pasties, some carts and cotters passing by, churning up mud. Rory’s regard was keen. “Do you mean Sherwood Forest?” he asked.

Tyrell said, “We met at an All Hallow’s Eve ball. Miss Fitzgerald was costumed as Maid Marian.”

Lizzie opened her mouth to deny it, and her words died. He would never believe anything she said now, not when he was so convinced of her identity.

Rory’s brows lifted as he glanced back and forth between them. “Ah. That does explain everything,” he said wryly.

Lizzie inhaled, shaken in every possible way and still consumed with desire for a man she must never have. Hearing a stranger’s baby crying in the street, she was painfully reminded of Ned.
Tyrell was a threat to her—the greatest threat she had ever faced.
She wet her lips. This must end now, forever. “I am afraid you have mistaken me for someone else.”

“I am afraid you dissemble, Miss Fitzgerald. I do not mistake you, oh, no. And that begs the single question—why?”

Lizzie bit her lip. Now, how to proceed? She knew instinctively, that to toy with him thus was to play with fire.

Georgie rushed to her side, looping her arm firmly in hers. “My lord, you have made a mistake, I am afraid. You see, Lizzie did not attend your family ball costumed that way. She went as a widow. But she resembles our sister Anna a bit. Anna went as Maid Marian,” she said.

Lizzie almost moaned. She seized Georgie’s hand in warning, not that Georgie would understand why she
must not speak of Anna in that costume. But Tyrell ignored Georgie. Staring only at her, he said, “Then I do concede defeat. You are the victor, madam. My
sincere
apologies, Miss Fitzgerald.”

Lizzie knew his words were but a mockery. This man knew she had been at the ball in that costume and he was not ever going to be convinced otherwise. “How gracious you are,” she murmured.

He gave her a warning look. Tyrell turned abruptly to Rory. “How is it that you know Miss Fitzgerald?” he asked tersely.

“Lizzie’s father is the brother of my aunt, Eleanor Fitzgerald de Barry,” Rory said. “We are cousins through marriage and we met well over a year ago.”

Tyrell folded his arms across his chest, turning his hard gaze on Lizzie. “So you are Rory’s cousin,” he said reflectively. “How interesting.”

Lizzie hesitated. Where was he leading now? She did not like his new tone. She looked at her sister for aid.

Georgie said decisively, “It has been a pleasure, sirs. But we are late for an appointment.”

Rory glanced at her and bowed. “Then I do apologize. Please, do not allow us to keep you from your schedule. And the pleasure has been mine.” He smiled.

But Tyrell was quite clearly not ready to depart. He looked at Lizzie. “Where is your home?”

Her heart lurched.
“What?”

“Rory said you are from the county. There are a half-dozen Fitzgeralds here. Where do you live? Who is your father?” He spoke rapidly, clearly impatient for her answers.

Lizzie blinked. Her cheeks went hot. As she tried to think of a way out of telling him where she could be found—where she and
his son
could be found—Rory spoke. “They reside at Raven Hall.”

Lizzie gave Rory a beseeching look, much to his confusion.

“You are from Raven Hall,” Tyrell said slowly, and she knew his mind was racing, although she could not fathom why. His gaze narrowed. “So you are the daughter of Gerald Fitzgerald.” It was not a question.

He was prying and she was, finally, afraid. “Yes.” She could hardly deny it, but now he knew her name, her family and where she and Ned lived.

He folded his arms across his chest, appearing oddly satisfied.

“May I call?” Rory asked her, and she saw that he was perplexed by their exchange.

Lizzie was aghast. Matters could not get worse. As fond as she was of Rory, he must never come to Raven Hall.

Georgie stepped forward to save the day. Unsmiling, she said, “I am afraid our mother is very ill. She has not been out of her rooms in days. Now would be a terribly inconvenient time.”

Rory was taken aback, but Tyrell merely seemed amused. “We will call later in the week, then,” he said, his lashes lowering to conceal his eyes. He bowed. “Good day.”

Lizzie could not reply.

Rory also bowed, and without a backward glance, the two men strode off.

Lizzie faced Georgie in wide-eyed disbelief. “He intends to call?”

At first Georgie did not seem to hear her. She stared after them both, and it was a moment before she responded. “Yes. He intends to call, and if I do not mistake it, there will be no stopping him,” she said grimly.

L
izzie rushed into the house, her intent to flee to her rooms where she might try to comprehend the events of that afternoon. She remained shaken, and now dread also consumed her. Tyrell must not call! But before she could pass the salon, her mother’s words halted her.

“Lizzie! Where have you been?”

Lizzie faltered, as she had not expected to find her mother out of her rooms. She reversed direction and hurried into the parlor, where Mama sat with Eleanor, an open book on her aunt’s lap. She could not help being relieved that Mama had decided to get up and forsake her brooding. “Mama? How are you feeling?” she cautiously asked.

Mama shrugged. Other than the fact that she was neither smiling nor overcome with her customary excitement over this or that bit of gossip or news, she seemed in her usual health. There was some color in her cheeks—rouge, no doubt—and she wore a beautiful bronze gown with darker stripes. Topaz jewels completed the ensemble. “I have been better, but it is time to return to society,” she announced. “Where have you been?”

Lizzie tensed. “Georgie and I decided to take a stroll in town.”

Mama studied her. “Did you see anyone?” she finally asked.

Lizzie knew she was referring to any lady of consequence. “No.”

“Lizzie, what happened when Lady O’Dell and Lady Marriott called?” Then she shook her head. “No! Don’t bother to tell me—I already know.”

Lizzie went to her mother and took both of her hands in hers. “Mama, I am so sorry to cause you so much grief and heartache,” she said, meaning it. “I never meant for this to happen. But I love Ned so. I thought that you would, too. I will leave Raven Hall, if that is what you wish,” she said, trying to hold back the anguish that the mere thought provoked. But wouldn’t leaving now be best, considering her recent encounter with Tyrell? “I don’t want you, Papa and Georgie to suffer because of me.”

Mama smiled sadly at her. “You have always been the kindest, dearest of the girls,” she said softly. “There is not one selfish, unkind bone in your entire body. You will go nowhere, my dear. Raven Hall is your home. Papa and I need some time to recover from the shock you have given us, that is all.”

Lizzie slipped to her knees and laid her head in her mother’s lap. Mama stroked her hair and whispered, “Poor Lizzie! You have gone through so much without me. Poor, poor Lizzie. If only we had known!”

“I am fine,” Lizzie whispered. She had been afraid that her mother would never forgive her for ruining the family name, and she was relieved, in spite of everything.

Mama encouraged her to rise. “I am going to take a walk in the gardens, as I have been cooped up for far too long. Lizzie, I do crave one of your famous pies.” Smiling at her daughter, she left the salon.

Lizzie turned to lock glances with Eleanor, who had sat
quietly through the entire exchange, reading a book. “Mama doesn’t despise me for what I have done,” Lizzie said.

“Is that what you were afraid of? You poor dear. Lydia has always adored you, child.” Eleanor closed the novel.

Lizzie hurried to the salon door and closed it, facing her aunt. “Something terrible has happened,” she said grimly.

Eleanor raised her brows.

“We met both Tyrell de Warenne and Rory in Limerick.”

Eleanor’s brows shot higher. “Rory is here? Did he see you with Ned?”

Lizzie shook her head. “Aunt Eleanor! If he hears me claim Ned as my son, he will know it is a lie. I have to speak privately with him and beg his promise of secrecy.”

Eleanor stood. “Rory has been friendly with Tyrell de Warenne and his brothers for a number of years, but he has only been to Adare once or twice. I never thought there was any chance of his running into you here.”

Lizzie wrung her hands. “Why didn’t you tell me he was a friend of Tyrell’s?”

“It simply did not seem important,” Eleanor said seriously. She took a closer look at Lizzie. “What is wrong? What happened in town? May I assume you finally made Tyrell’s acquaintance? Surely Rory introduced you.”

Lizzie paced away from her aunt so Eleanor could not see her expression. “Actually, Aunt Eleanor, I met Tyrell on All Hallow’s Eve at a costume ball.” Suddenly Lizzie realized that, considering Tyrell’s recognition of her and his anger toward her, she was out of her depth and she really needed Eleanor’s wisdom and advice. And that meant she must be honest now. “Aunt Eleanor, he pursued me.”

Eleanor’s eyes widened.

“He wanted a tryst. I did not go,” Lizzie managed to say, swept back to that stunning time when he had wanted
her. “Instead, I gave Anna my costume, my mask. She had ruined her gown. Instead, I went home…but Anna stayed. And now there is Ned.”

Eleanor’s mouth had dropped open. She closed it and took Lizzie’s hand. “Are you telling me that the man whose child you now claim, the man with whom you have been in love your entire life, pursued you with romantic intent?”

Lizzie recalled his smoldering eyes, the way he had leaned over her, trapping her against the wall, and his order that she meet him in the gardens. “Yes.”

“Are you also telling me that your sister got herself with child
that night?
”

Lizzie nodded.

“And today Tyrell de Warenne recognized you?”

“Not only did he recognize me, his behavior was strange. Aunt Eleanor, he was angry.” And she stared helplessly at her aunt. “Why?” she asked in whisper. “Why would he be angry with me? And why would he insist that I am beautiful? Why would he look at me the way that he does?”

For one moment, Eleanor was still, then she clasped Lizzie’s shoulder. “He must be told. You must relinquish your claim to Ned and he must be told the truth—that Ned is his son.”

“No!” Lizzie wrenched free. “What good would that possibly do? He would take Ned away from me!” Her aunt’s words felt like the stabbing of betrayal. Suddenly she feared Eleanor, who until then had been her staunchest and most trusted ally.

“Perhaps he would not take Ned away from you,” Eleanor began, lowering her tone and making it kind and quiet now. “Perhaps he would do what is right.”

But Lizzie did not hear her. “No! No, you have made
a promise. We both made a promise! We have promised Anna we will die before ever revealing the truth. No! Promise
me
now. Promise
me
you will never breathe a word about this to Tyrell. Promise me you will never tell him Ned is his son!”

Eleanor stared.

“Aunt Eleanor!”

“I promise,” she said slowly. “But, Lizzie, this will not proceed smoothly, I can assure you of that. This deceit has gotten quite out of hand.”

Lizzie backed away. Unfortunately, she knew that her aunt was right.

The following afternoon, Lizzie, Georgie and Ned were in Lizzie’s bedroom. Both women were seated on the floor with the toddler, who was playing with toy soldiers and small, matching toy horses. Georgie was building a fort to accompany the toys out of papier-mâché and the floor was a mess.

“Ned? You can put the soldier inside. Inside,” Georgie encouraged.

Ned beamed at her and threw the toy soldier at the fort.

“That is not what I meant,” Georgie said with a smile. “Inside. He can sleep inside,” she said, righting the fallen structure.

“Gee,” Ned said proudly. “Gee!”

Lizzie smiled at them both, still sick with the dread she had not been able to shake since yesterday’s encounter in Limerick and Eleanor’s frightening advice. She got to her feet and wandered aimlessly about the room. Her mood was dismal and gray and it matched the cool, misty day exactly. Lizzie heard a buggy approaching and wondered who would be calling now. She had no
intention of parading herself or Ned about for their neighbors, not another time.

Georgie must have been thinking the same thing, for she said, “I don’t feel like entertaining anyone today.”

“Good.” Lizzie tried to smile at her. “Neither do I.”

Georgie straightened, still seated cross-legged on the floor, and she regarded Lizzie unwaveringly. “You are so sad. Lizzie, do you want to talk about it?”

Lizzie walked over to the window, her back to her sister.

“Or rather, do you want to talk about him?”

Lizzie gripped the sill. The window was slightly ajar to let the wonderful June breeze into the room. She desperately wanted to talk about Tyrell. “I don’t know what to do,” she said in anguish.

Georgie stood, dusting off her ivory dress. “Lizzie? He is interested in you.”

Lizzie whirled. “That’s impossible!”

“Why do you deny it? After all, he gave you this child. Clearly his interest has not waned.”

Lizzie shook her head in denial as her heart leapt in her breast. She remained head over heels in love with Tyrell de Warenne, and she always would, but she feared him as she feared no other human being.

“What—what makes you think he has an interest in me?”

Georgie almost laughed. “Well, take your pick! He intends to call. He could not take his eyes off of you. His stare was, at times, frankly lecherous. He was clearly angry with you, and such heat indicates interest, at least. Did you slight him somehow?”

“I have not seen him since All Hallow’s Eve in 1812!” Lizzie exclaimed. “That is a year and a half ago—no, more!”

“Perhaps he knows you have had his child?” Georgie suggested.

Lizzie turned miserably back to the window. “No.” She suddenly wondered if she dare tell Georgie that Ned was Anna’s child, not hers. She needed her as a confidante, just as she needed Eleanor, too. And she was so sick of the lies. But she had promised Anna that her secret was safe forever. And Anna was so happy now. Her most recent letter indicated that they were hoping to have a family soon. She seemed deeply in love with Thomas.

Lizzie saw a familiar, bulky figure climbing down from the single horse-drawn curricle in the courtyard below. She groaned. “Georgie! It’s that toad—I mean, it’s your fiancé, Mr. Harold. He has undoubtedly heard the news.”

Georgie somehow nodded. Two bright spots of pink colored her cheeks. She said, “He must be calling to end our engagement.” She remained expressionless.

“Oh, I do hope so!” Lizzie raced to Georgie and hugged her, thrilled that Georgie would be off the hook at last. Finally, there was a bright side to her predicament.

And Georgie began to smile. “I have so tried to be a soldier about this,” she whispered. “Oh, Lizzie, one good thing shall come of your ruin! The truth is, I should so prefer to remain a spinster than to marry Mr. Harold.”

“I know,” Lizzie said, smiling widely. “Now, go. Frown with distress, and when he breaks it off, shed a tear or two!”

“Yes!” Georgie’s expression sobered. “Yes, I am very upset, for I know what is coming.” Then she grinned again. “Oh, thank God!” And she ran from the room.

Lizzie decided it was time for Ned’s nap, as he was looking sleepy and now playing with a spider he had found on the floor. Scolding him, she put him in his
cradle. He made no protest, smiling up at her as she covered him with a fine wool blanket. His lashes lowered, long, black and thick, exactly like his father’s, and he fell instantly asleep.

Tyrell’s image loomed. She could almost feel his presence, there in the room.

Lizzie wished she knew what to do.

Trying not to brood, Lizzie returned to the window, expecting to see Mr. Harold departing. But after a quarter of an hour or more, there remained no sign of him and she began to worry now about Georgie. Breaking off an engagement only took a moment or two, especially as Mama was not home to prolong the encounter with any hysterics. What was taking him so long?

And as she waited at the window, two riders approached Raven Hall.

Instantly, unease filled her. Who could possibly call on horseback? Every caller they might expect would come in a carriage of some kind.

She pushed the window open wider as the riders came closer on two very handsome mounts. One horse was big and black, the other an elegant chestnut with a striking white blaze. She recognized the chestnut immediately. The gelding belonged to Rory.

Lizzie froze, her gaze veering from Rory’s horse to the black and its rider. There was no mistaking the larger of the two horsemen.

He had said he would call later in the week. It was only the next day!

Clearly his interest has not waned.

Her heart thundered in her breast. In another lifetime, she would have given anything to have Tyrell de Warenne call upon her. But not now, not with his son asleep in his cradle, in her bedroom!

Lizzie watched both men lithely dismount. They walked up the house’s front steps and then they disappeared from her view.

She pressed herself against the window. Why had he come? What did he want?

Meet me in the west gardens at midnight.

She would never forget that command or the way he had looked at her when he had spoken it. He had been looking at her the exact same way yesterday on High Street.

Lizzie’s blood ran hot although she was chilled with fear. She ran over to the cradle to check on Ned, but he was soundly asleep.

Georgie rushed into the room. “Lizzie! He is here! He has called—with that buffoon—and you had better come downstairs.” Her eyes were wide, her cheeks flushed.

Lizzie was too shocked to take Georgie to task for calling Rory such an unkind name. “I can’t,” she began. “You must tell him I am ill.” Yet she was on the verge of throwing all caution aside and racing downstairs, anyway.

Georgie seized her wrist. “I will do no such thing. You may tell him you are ill, if you wish to be such a fool! Isn’t this what you have wanted your entire life?”

“But there is Ned,” she cried.

“Yes, there is Ned—and there is also this amazing opportunity! Go downstairs, Lizzie! You are hardly jumping back into his bed! See what he wants!” Georgie cried.

His presence was already compelling her, and a fever ran in her veins. She wet her lips and went past Georgie, who followed her from the room.

Tyrell stood with his back to the door, staring into the gardens. Rory paced with uncharacteristic impatience and Mr. Harold sat in a chair, his huge girth spilling over his pantaloons. Lizzie had forgotten that
he was still there and she cast a confused glance at Georgie. Her sister’s cheeks remained bright and she gave Lizzie a helpless look. With dismay, Lizzie realized at once that Mr. Harold had not broken off the engagement.