The Masquerade (15 page)

Lizzie nodded. “And he already thinks poorly of me.”

“This is so unfair,” Georgie exclaimed.

“I do not believe there is any other possible solution,” Lizzie said.

“Not unless we wish to ruin Anna’s life.”

The sisters stared at one another. Georgie stood. “You are too good for words, Lizzie. Maybe, one day, Tyrell will see that, too.”

Lizzie doubted it.

Lizzie had not slept the entire night. Now she sat with her parents in an opulent salon, her hands in her lap, awaiting the earl and the countess of Adare. Ned was on Rosie’s lap in an adjacent chair. Upon their arrival, Papa had handed the butler a calling card and insisted that he must speak with the earl.

Lizzie knew well enough that the earl could send the butler back, claiming any excuse for not greeting them. But Adare was known to be very generous and very compassionate, a truly honorable gentleman. While Papa hardly traveled in the same circles as the earl, Mama claimed he had a very distant relationship with the earl’s stepson, Devlin O’Neill. Apparently they both could trace their lineage back to Gerald Fitzgerald, the infamous earl of Desmond for whom Papa had been named. That connection, and the fact they were neighbors, made Lizzie feel certain that they would be seen.

Footsteps sounded, clearly a woman’s slippered steps. Lizzie tensed as the pair of large oak doors was opened. The butler stood there with the countess.

Lizzie’s heart flipped. She stood, curtsying, while Mama did the same and Papa bowed. The countess had paused upon entering the room, a gracious smile on her beautiful face. She was darkly blond of hair but her skin was very fair, and the blue topazes she wore on her throat and hands and as earrings matched her eyes.

Papa cleared his throat and Lizzie realized he was nervous. “My lady,” he said. “I really had hoped to have a word with the earl.”

The countess nodded at him, glancing with some confusion at Rosie and Ned. “My dear Mr. Fitzgerald, how are you? It is so pleasant of you to call. I am happy to entertain you, but I am afraid my husband is preoccupied at the moment. I am sure you have heard that we have quite a number of guests in residence.”

“Yes, of course I have heard,” Papa said stiffly, his countenance strained. “My lady, I am afraid I must speak with the earl. Unfortunately this is not a social call. There has been a terrible injustice perpetuated, one which only your family can solve.”

The countess’s brows lifted. She did not seem very taken aback; perhaps she thought Papa prone to exaggeration, like his infamous ancestor. Or perhaps it was her nature to remain calm and at ease. Lizzie could not help but be impressed with the great lady’s graceful bearing and gracious manner. “An injustice? I can hardly imagine of what you speak. I am terribly sorry, but I cannot interrupt his lordship at this moment. Would you care to return another time?” She smiled pleasantly at Papa.

“Then I am afraid I am going to have to burden you with my shocking news.”

The countess seemed mildly perplexed. However, she smiled as she said, “Should I sit down?”

“I do think so,” Papa said grimly, holding out a chair for her.

Her smile finally fading, the countess sat and glanced briefly at Lizzie, who flushed, her heart banging wildly like an unhinged shutter in the wind. As if sensing Lizzie’s distress, she sent her a kind smile. “Do proceed, sir,” she said.

Papa looked at Lizzie. “Come forward, Elizabeth,” he said.

Lizzie steeled herself for the awful moment of revela
tion. Obeying Papa, she walked over to stand beside him. Now she avoided the countess’s eyes, which were trained upon her with unconcealed curiosity.

“My daughter Elizabeth Anne Fitzgerald,” Papa said.

Lizzie curtsied, so low she touched the floor with her fingertips to steady herself.

“Do rise, child,” the countess said, and Lizzie felt her touch on her shoulder.

Lizzie obeyed and met her eyes. In that moment, she knew this woman could only be kind.

“My daughter has been away from home for almost two years,” Papa said tersely. “She never told us why she wished to go to her aunt Eleanor in Dublin and we believed that Eleanor had summoned her. But Lizzie wasn’t summoned. She went away to have her child in secret. Her child—your grandson,” Papa said.

The countess stared, her eyes widening. “I beg your pardon?”

“Rosie, bring Ned,” Papa barked. He was crimson now.

Lizzie turned and took Ned’s hand as he came forward. She had begun to shake as she scooped Ned up, holding him tightly. In that moment, she was afraid she would be tossed out while Ned would stay.

“Your stepson, Tyrell, fathered this child,” Papa said sternly.

Lizzie closed her eyes. “I am sorry,” she whispered for the countess’s sake.

“This I do not believe,” the countess said. “I need not look at your daughter again to see that she is a gentlewoman. Tyrell is no rake. He would never behave so dishonorably.”

“He must do the right thing by my daughter and his son,” Papa cried.

Lizzie dared to look at the countess. Their gazes met and instantly, Lizzie looked away. She was lying to the countess on one account and it disturbed her to no end.

“Put the child down,” the countess said firmly.

Although she spoke softly, her words were an order and there was no mistaking it. Lizzie slid Ned to his feet. He beamed at her and said, “Mama, walk? Walk!”

“Later,” Lizzie whispered.

The countess stared incredulously at Ned. Then she said stiffly, “Miss Fitzgerald.”

Lizzie met her regard.

“Tyrell is the father of your son?”

Lizzie inhaled. All she had to do was deny it, but oddly, she could not. She nodded. “Yes, my lady,” she said.

The countess looked at Ned, who grinned at her and said, very demandingly, “Walk! Walk!” He pounded his fist on the arm of the chair, then he grinned, pleased with himself.

The countess inhaled, appearing shaken. “I will summon his lordship,” she said.

“Wait.” Mama stepped forward, tears in her eyes. “May I speak, please?”

The countess nodded.

Mama took a handkerchief from her sleeve and wiped her eyes. “Our Lizzie is a good girl,” she managed to say brokenly. “We had no idea when she went to Dublin to visit Lady de Barry that she was with child! You see, my lady, Lizzie is the shyest of my daughters. She has always been the wallflower. She has not an improper bone in her entire body!”

The countess glanced at Lizzie and Lizzie could guess what she was thinking—if Lizzie had a child out of wedlock, she was not all that proper or good.

Mama said, “I can only think of how such a seduction occurred.”

Lizzie cried out. “Mama, no!” She would accuse Tyrell of dastardly seduction. “It was my fault entirely!”

The countess seemed amazed, both by Mama’s accusation and Lizzie’s declaration. “I know Tyrell as well as I know my own sons,” she said tersely, “and Tyrell is a gentleman. There could be no seduction. Not of real innocence.”

“Can you not look at Lizzie and see how shy and modest she is?” Mama cried, her jowls trembling. “She is no coquette and no hussy! But he has turned her into one. Somehow, he made her forget her entire upbringing! Surely justice must be done!”

“Oh, Mama, please stop,” Lizzie begged.

“Yes, you should cease,” the countess said with quiet warning.

And even Papa understood, because he took Mama’s arm. But Mama cried, “Everyone knows Lizzie’s reputation? You need only ask anyone about my youngest daughter!”

“I will get the earl,” the countess said.

But Lizzie could not stand another moment of conflict. She rushed headlong to the countess, aware that she must speak with her now although it was not a part of her plan. “Please, may I speak? Just for a moment? And when I am through, you will see, there is no need to send for the earl or Tyrell.”

The countess faltered. And then, kindly, she nodded.

“It was my fault entirely,” Lizzie said, her gaze now unwavering upon the great lady she faced. “Tyrell is not to blame. I was in costume…I have loved him my entire life…he flirted with me, just a bit…and I seduced him. He had no idea who I was, and I am sure, from my behavior, he thought me an experienced courtesan.”

“Lizzie!” Papa cried in anger.

“Lizzie,” Mama echoed, aghast.

“You are telling me that my son made a mistake?” The countess asked.

“Yes. My lady, I take all of the blame. There is no need to disturb your husband or your stepson. Do not blame Tyrell for what has happened. Blame me—accept my apologies—and let me take my son home. I did not want to come here today!” She gripped the lady’s hand. “Let us go back home! I love Ned—I am a good mother—do not bother your husband or Tyrell!”

Mama sank into a chair and started to genuinely weep.

The countess stared at Lizzie in real surprise, lifting her chin with a gentle hand. “But you have come into my home seeking marriage.”

“No,” Lizzie whispered. “I am no fool. I know that Tyrell would never marry me. That is what my parents seek, not me.”

“You do not want to marry my son?”

And Lizzie hesitated, her heart almost bursting now. “No.”

The countess’s gaze was searching.

Lizzie flushed. “Do not take Ned away from me,” she said. “Please. You are kind. I have heard it and I can see it. I did not want to come here today. Please. Let us go—let me take my son home.”

The countess dropped her hand. “You will stay here for another moment.”

Lizzie felt real dread then.

“I will be right back,” the countess said. “I am summoning my husband—and my son.”

T
yrell de Warenne paused on the flagstone terrace, gazing out upon the sweeping lawns and gardens behind the house at Adare. Roses were his stepmother’s favorite flower and they were in bloom everywhere, in every color, but he really did not see them. He was vaguely aware of his brother, Rex, seated on an iron lawn chair, a drink in hand. Feminine laughter sounded.

He quickly followed the noise. Several ladies could be seen emerging from the maze on the other side of the gazebo. One of them was his bride.

Tyrell had been raised in the de Warenne tradition from the very moment of his birth. It was a proud and ancient heritage of honor, courage, loyalty and duty. But it was far more than that, for he was the next earl of Adare. His duties as heir had always been clear—he alone would be responsible for the stature, political position and finances of the family and estate. He had always known that he would one day make a very advantageous marriage, one that would enhance the de Warenne position financially, politically, socially—or all three. He had never questioned his fate.

He wanted this match. Like his father and his grandfather before him, he would do his duty with pride. And
that duty included making sure that no one in his family lacked in any way. He would be the one to provide for his brothers, his sister and, eventually, his parents; his actions would make or break the great and ancient name of Adare.

While his family’s holdings were rather large, they had recently sold off a lucrative estate in England to replenish their finances with an eye to the needs of future generations. It was not enough to guarantee a life of wealth and power for his own children and those of his brothers and sister. Lord Harrington was only a viscount, the title awarded a decade ago. However, he was incredibly wealthy, having made his own fortune in manufacturing. Marriage to his daughter would ensure a very solid financial position for the next generation of de Warennes, while giving the family another foothold in Britain.

He watched the woman who would be his wife approaching.

“So she does not have black teeth,” his brother remarked.

Tyrell turned as Rex hauled himself to his feet, no simple task as he had but one leg, the other lost in Spain in the Peninsular War in the spring of ’13. He had been given a knighthood and an estate in Cornwall for his heroism. He had spent most of the past year in utter seclusion there. Rex was a touch shorter than Tyrell and far more muscular. Their features, however, were similar; both had dark complexions, high cheekbones, straight noses and strong jaws. Unlike Tyrell, Rex had dark brown eyes, a throwback to a famous ancestor, Stephen de Warenne. Now Rex’s dark face had a sardonic twist to it. Or was his expression formed from pain? Tyrell knew that the stump that was left of his right leg bothered him tremendously; Rex lived with pain.

“I did not expect her to resemble her portrait,” Tyrell commented calmly, still watching her closely. In fact, usually the likeness sent upon a prospective match was hardly a likeness at all. He had expected pimples, obesity or a hooked nose. Instead he had been surprised to be confronted with a genuinely attractive woman with small, classic features, pale blond hair, blue eyes and porcelain skin. Many men would find her terribly beautiful. He supposed that he did, too, in a clinical way.

“She is very beautiful, and more so than her portrait.” Using a crutch, Rex limped over to Tyrell’s side. “But you do not seem all that pleased. You seemed at odds last night, too. In fact, you were scowling at the fireplace. Is something amiss? I would have expected you to be satisfied—she will be amusing enough in bed and she will give you handsome sons and pretty daughters.”

Last night, he had been well into a bottle of brandy. Instantly, he recalled the reason for his brooding.
She
had gray eyes and wild titian hair. “I am pleased. Why wouldn’t I be pleased with my marriage?” His manner remained composed. “I have waited long enough for this day. Lady Blanche is beautiful, and her father is Lord Harrington. Of course I am pleased.”

Rex was eying him. Tyrell suddenly realized that he felt very little emotion at all, other than some mild surprise that his marriage would finally come to be. Pleasure seemed to be escaping him now.

He was terribly distracted by his pursuit of Elizabeth Fitzgerald and he knew it. And maybe that was why pleasure and satisfaction were failing him now. But he would not let anything or anyone jeopardize his future, including himself—and certainly not a gray-eyed woman whom he simply could not comprehend.

Tyrell turned away from his approaching fiancée. Elizabeth Fitzgerald appeared sweet and innocent, well-bred and proper, but it was a stupendous lie. How could he not face the facts?
She had returned to the county with another man’s child, born out of wedlock.

And why was she refusing him now? She had no reputation to lose. He knew women well enough to know that she wanted him, too. What did she think to gain by refusing him again? Or was this another one of her clever games? For she had certainly played him like a fool that All Hallow’s Eve.

“You do not look pleased. You do not even sound pleased. You sound thoroughly disinterested,” Rex said, cutting into his thoughts.

Tyrell acknowledged the truth—he could not summon up any real interest in his soon-to-be bride, but his interest in a very fallen woman knew no bounds.

Tyrell focused on his brother, a disturbing topic but a safer one. “Is your leg bothering you?” He hoped that was why his brother was drinking at noon, but he did not think so.

“My leg is fine, but you are not,” Rex replied, but belying his words, he rubbed his left hand over the stump that was his right thigh.

Tyrell saw and instantly berated himself. He was preoccupied with a slip of a woman who was
not
his bride, while his brother had lost a leg, lived in constant pain, and seemed intent on inflicting some kind of self-imposed exile on himself. “I am not bothered by the impending union, Rex.” He hesitated. “I happen to have another woman on my mind.” The remark was an impulsive one and he instantly regretted his candor.

“Really? Then I suggest you take your fill so you can turn your attention where it belongs.” Rex seemed sur
prised. They both watched Blanche approaching with her two friends.

He wanted nothing more than to have his fill of Elizabeth Fitzgerald. Tyrell was unpleasantly stabbed by a surge of desire at the thought, just as he realized that Lady Blanche was waiting expectantly before him, a pleasing smile on her face, her two lady friends standing just behind her. He smiled as pleasantly in return, bowing as she curtsied. “I hope you are enjoying this fine Irish day,” he said, continuing to smile.

“How could I not?” she asked simply. “It is a very pleasant day and your home is beautiful, my lord.”

Tyrell searched her blue-green gaze for any pretense on her part, but could find none. Many Englishmen and women looked down upon his country and he was well aware of it. Blanche did not seem at all condescending. They had met for the second time last night when she had arrived with her father, but they had not had any time to speak privately. He had studied her, though, during supper, and he had found that her pleasant manner never seemed to waver. “Thank you. I am pleased that you might come to care for my home. Would you care to join me later for a carriage ride? I can show you some of the countryside.” A ride about the county was the last thing on his mind, but he would do his duty by his future bride. Perhaps they might even get to know each other a bit more before the wedding.

“I would be honored, sir,” she said with another slight smile. “May I introduce my best friends, Lady Bess Harcliffe and Lady Felicia Greene? They arrived this morning.”

The ladies curtsied, both of them blushing and refusing to meet his eyes. He bowed, murmuring some appropriate greeting. He then took Blanche’s hand and raised it to his lips, pressing a slight kiss there. When he
looked up, she met his gaze and he realized she was hardly flustered by him. A simpering virgin would annoy him—her friends annoyed him—and he admired her composure. He wondered if anything would unbalance her. “Until this afternoon, then,” he said politely.

“I look forward to it.” She curtsied with inherent grace, as did her friends, and the trio left.

Tyrell watched them walking away, her bearing straight but relaxed, while her friends were already whispering with excitement in her ear. He had no doubt that they gossiped about him. If Blanche was excited, she never faltered, and if she was amused, she never laughed.

Elizabeth stared at him, still breathless from his kisses. Her cheeks were red with embarrassment, or was it anger? Tears filled her eyes and she closed them, but he saw. “I cannot accept your proposal.”

“Tyrell?” Rex tugged on his arm. “I have never seen you so distracted,” he said bluntly. There was some disapproval in his tone.

“She is leading me on a merry chase,” Tyrell returned.

Rex paused but then spoke with care. “It is not like you to have another woman on your mind at such a crucial time. Most men would be instantly besotted with Blanche Harrington. Since when have you ever chased this kind of woman to the point of distraction? I am worried. You are the most diplomatic of men, as you should be, considering you will follow in Father’s footsteps. You are not the kind of man to lose control and chance insulting Harrington or your bride.”

Rex was right. Tyrell was as political in nature as his father, and chasing another woman now was a severe lapse of etiquette.

“She must be very beautiful—and very clever,” Rex added.

“She is very clever. She is a trickster, actually, never mind how innocent she appears. But I intend to end this game once and for all.” Tyrell meant his every word. “This chase began almost two years ago,” he explained. “And now she dares to reappear in Limerick with another man’s bastard child, and she refuses
me!
”

Rex gaped. “Are you smitten?”

He jerked. “Of course not!”

Rex was thoughtful now. “You are a de Warenne. We all know that the de Warenne men, once smitten, love deeply and faithfully, to no end.”

“That is family legend and I am hardly smitten,” Tyrell retorted, but he was disturbed. Like his entire family, he had accepted the legend as fact for most of his life. That had been easy to do, as he had only to look at his father and his stepmother to see how deeply and completely they loved each other, and as much could be said for his stepbrother, Devlin O’Neill, and his wife, Virginia. “Had she not vanished at that costume ball, this would be over by now.” But with every word, he began to have some serious doubts. There had been many women in his life whom he had coveted, but he’d never had to chase any one for very long and the desire had always quickly faded. His desire for Elizabeth continued to rage, hotter than ever, brighter than before.

Rex was silent.

Surely she would not dare reject him a second time. He was the heir to the earldom of Adare, for God’s sake. Women of every type, class and rank pursued him without shame. Invitations, both coy and bold, were issued every day. He had never had any trouble seducing a woman. Elizabeth Fitzgerald was the first to deny him. But it was a game, wasn’t it? He had to have her. And surely that was her game, to madden him with her rejections, to the point
where he could not think clearly or behave reasonably. He did not know why she should bother. He was already prepared to give her a small fortune for her body. What else could she want? And she must realize that she needed his protection, considering her unfortunate circumstances.

Rex clasped his shoulder. “Who is she? Who are you brooding about?”

“A gray-eyed vixen with a body God intended to drive a man wild,” Tyrell said tersely.

Carefully, Rex said, “Ty, I hope this is a passing fancy. Do I know her?”

“Perhaps. You certainly know her family. She is Miss Elizabeth Fitzgerald, the daughter of Gerald Fitzgerald—I do believe he is a distant relation of Devlin’s,” he said.

“Are you telling me you are chasing a
gentlewoman?
” Rex was disbelieving.

Tyrell felt his mood turn black. “She is hardly the lady you suggest. I told you, she is an unwed mother and she is ripe for the plucking, you may trust me on that.”

“I think you should forget this woman. You need to start thinking about your future and the future of this family.” Rex’s stare was dark and penetrating. “Blanche Harrington is very beautiful. You will certainly have a pleasant married life. You do not need a mistress now.”

Tyrell shook his head to clear it. Rex was right—but only on one point. “Don’t worry. I have no intention of insulting the lady Blanche. But I do not intend to be denied,” Tyrell told his brother, “or made a fool of.”

“Really? Then why is she here?”

“I have no clue as to what you speak of,” he said.

“I am speaking of the lady that preoccupies your
heart,
” Rex said wryly.

“What?” he exclaimed, stunned.

“I was in the front hall when they arrived. Apparently, she is with her family.”

His first thought was that Elizabeth had come to tell him she would accept his proposition, but if she had come with her family, that was not the case. “You must be mistaken. It cannot be her.”

“No, I was passing the front hall when they arrived. Mr. Gerald Fitzgerald, his wife and daughter. There was a child and a nursemaid with them,” he added. “Mr. Fitzgerald wished to speak with Father.”

And in that moment, Tyrell knew her games were hardly over. But he could not imagine what new trick this was.

The countess returned to the salon with her husband, the earl of Adare. Lizzie sat on the edge of her chair, praying she had convinced the countess to let her and Ned go. Her cheeks were already feverish and she was ill with anxiety. The moment the earl’s hard, incredulous regard fixed upon her, she knew she was doomed.

He was angry, quietly so, but the emotion was visible enough.

The moment his piercing gaze met hers, she sank into a deep curtsy, her heart racing helplessly. She prayed that this interview would end very, very soon and that Ned would not be lost to her forever.