The Masquerade (25 page)

The coach halted. Lizzie faced Georgie. “I entered Adare as a houseguest,” she said. “This feels awkward, Georgie. I am now his mistress! And to be terribly honest with you, I had decided to forget that Lady Blanche is his fiancée and that she even exists, as it is the only way I can be happy.”

“Maybe it is best that you avoid thinking of her and the future right now,” Georgie said uncertainly. “It won’t help anything, will it? And Lizzie? I am certain he will refer to you as a guest now, too,” Georgie said firmly.

Lizzie knew Tyrell would never introduce her as his mistress, but that was exactly what she was. Everyone
would soon know the truth—if they didn’t already. Lizzie was well aware of how quickly gossip spread. The moment Tyrell’s arrival had been remarked, callers would descend upon them. She might pretend to herself that Blanche did not exist, but they would not live here in utter seclusion and soon some kind of reality would intrude. For the past day and a half, she had been so immersed in her rather fantastic dreams that she had not considered what her life was really going to be like. Suddenly she was uncertain and afraid.

But there was no choice. Overcome by a sinking sensation, she suddenly realized how much had changed in the past day since Tyrell had taken her to bed. She now loved Tyrell too much to ever walk away.

“They are waiting for us to get out,” Georgie said, patting her hand. “Have courage, Lizzie.”

Lizzie somehow smiled at her sister and alighted from the coach with the help of a footman. Tyrell was shaking hands with a gentleman whom she assumed to be his steward. She turned and took Ned’s hand. “Mama?” he asked, clearly curious as to where they were.

“We shall live here for a while,” she said softly, her heart racing.

Tyrell turned abruptly, as if reading her thoughts. Instantly he smiled, striding to her. He hesitated, their gazes holding, then he lifted Ned into his arms. “Come,” he said to Lizzie.

She was dazed. The fact that he would carry Ned as if he were his father was a statement no one could miss. Tyrell strode back to face the line of waiting servants, Ned still in his arms. “It is a pleasure to be back,” he said. “The grounds appear in fine condition, and I am sure that when I enter the house, I will find the condition within to be as well maintained. Thank you.”

Lizzie began to really look at the servants in the line. They must have numbered close to fifty. She saw small, barely formed smiles of pleasure, and she realized that their master was well liked and that they were eager for his praise.

“I should like to introduce Miss Elizabeth Fitzgerald,” he said, Ned still in his arms. “Miss Fitzgerald will be staying here indefinitely as my guest. Her every wish is to be met.”

Murmurs of understanding sounded and fifty pairs of eyes trained upon her.

Lizzie told herself not to attach too much meaning to his use of the word
indefinitely.
But had he meant what he had just said? Was she to have anything she asked for?

Georgie seemed to think so, for she poked her in the ribs, her eyes wide.

“Her sister, Miss Georgina Fitzgerald, is also visiting us.” Tyrell was smiling at the staff. “And now I should like to introduce my son,” he said. “Edward Fitzgerald de Warenne.”

Lizzie gasped. Georgie gripped her arm to keep her standing upright. There was not a single surprised murmur, but all eyes had turned to Ned. No declaration could have been made with more purpose, she thought, stunned. Tyrell had finally, definitively and publicly, claimed his son. He had just proclaimed her the mother of his child. In doing so, he had done more than proclaim her his mistress. He had given her tremendous stature and tremendous rights.

“Elizabeth?” He turned to her, indicating that she come forward.

Lizzie felt all eyes turn to her again. She could not imagine what he would say or do next. Somehow, she came forward. He smiled and slipped Ned into her arms.
“You may decide which rooms best suit our son,” he said, lowering his voice. “But I prefer for you to reside with me in the west wing, where the master suite is.” It was not a command; she saw the question in his eyes.

She gazed at him, incapable of looking away, and tears of happiness formed in her eyes. How could she refuse when she was so in love? It was what her heart wanted, more than anything—as long as she kept up some pretense and avoided all thoughts of the future.

“I cannot object, my lord,” she whispered unsteadily.

He touched her cheek, catching one of her tears. “I wish to make you happy. If I am the cause of your tears—”

She seized his hand, holding it against her cheek. “You are making me very happy,” she managed to say.

He smiled. “Smythe, you may show Miss Fitzgerald to the master wing. Her sister will take up residence in the east wing. Please make sure that Miss Fitzgerald and her sister lack for nothing.”

The butler, a tall, dapper man, bowed. “Of course, sir.”

“Oh,” Tyrell said on an afterthought. “You should know that Miss Fitzgerald likes to bake. She is to have full access to the kitchens. Make sure she has every ingredient she needs.”

The butler looked startled and quickly recovered his composure. He bowed. “Of course, my lord.”

Lizzie was the one to gape. How did Tyrell know she loved to cook?

He smiled at her. “I am still waiting for you to bake me something,” he murmured. “I do enjoy chocolate.”

“You had to only ask,” she somehow replied. A dozen chocolate treats came to mind—as did images of her feeding them to him, one by one, on a moonlit night, unclothed and in their bed.

He bowed. “I am retiring to the library, Elizabeth. I have many, many files to review in order to prepare to return to the Exchequer next week.”

Lizzie nodded. “Of course.” Her heart was racing uncontrollably.

“Feel free to explore your new home as you wish,” he said, warmth in his eyes. He nodded and strode off, summoning the steward to join him as he did so.

Lizzie blinked in the bright sunlight, sliding Ned to his feet. The butler was dismissing the servants. Georgie breathed, “This is your new home, Lizzie.”

Lizzie faced her. “Can this really be happening?”

“Do you even realize what he just did? He has just made you the mistress of Wicklowe.”

Supper was a late affair and there was only Georgie for company. Lizzie sat at the end of a table that could seat forty with Georgie across from her. They had finished an amazing meal of wild salmon, roasted cod and grilled guinea hens, with garden salads, peas, string beans and roasted potatoes. There had been champagne and wine, both white and red, and servants had served rhubarb pie for their dessert. Lizzie could think of nothing but Tyrell, locked up in the library where he was apparently engrossed in his work, his supper having been brought there for him.

Lizzie did not take more than a single bite of the pie. It was almost chilling to be alone with her sister in such a vast room at such an endless table. Not for the first time, Lizzie glanced down the table’s long length. While there were no extra place settings, a dozen floral arrangements had been spaced out along the table’s entire length. Very easily, Lizzie could imagine the entire table set with crystal and gilded dinnerware.

“They must have entertained here frequently when Dublin remained the center of Irish government,” Georgie said in a whisper. They had been whispering all night, and not because of the manservant who stood at attention against the wall behind Lizzie. Her hushed tone echoed. “Before the Act of Union sent everyone to London.”

“I can almost feel this room filled with Irish lords and ladies,” Lizzie whispered back. “The men in powdered wigs, breeches and stockings and tailcoats, the ladies in those high, towering hairstyles and satin evening gowns. The earl would have been a little boy in those days, not much older than Ned.” She wondered if Tyrell was ready to retire for the evening yet. Her heart lurched at the thought. She could barely wait to be back in his arms again.

“How amazing it would have been, to participate in such an evening, with such intellectual conversation and political debate,” Georgie said. “In those days, Dublin was the height of fashion. I wonder at the discussion that has taken place in this room. Did they debate the merits of the Union here? The first Jacobin uprisings, the fall of France? The loss of the colonies, the Boston Tea Party? Lizzie, is it possible we are really here?”

Lizzie shook her head. “I do wonder if I pinch myself if I will wake up and find that I have been dreaming.” She tried to reach across the table for her sister’s hand but it was impossible. “I am tired.” She wasn’t tired at all and as she spoke she flushed. “I think I shall check on Tyrell and then go to my rooms. Do you mind?”

Georgie did not even try to hide her knowing smile. “You are so fortunate! I know you are not a proper wife, but you have everything you have ever dreamed of—and Lizzie, I think he is in love with you.”

Lizzie gripped the edge of the table, desperately hoping that Georgie was right. “I do doubt that.”

Georgie merely compressed her lips together. “I am so happy for you,” she finally said.

Lizzie turned to face the liveried servant. “Bernard?” She had learned his name the moment she had sat down. “Would you bring me a bowl of the chocolate crème brûlée I made earlier?”

“Yes, madam.” He bowed and hurried from the room.

Georgie looked at her.

Lizzie smiled back. “If Tyrell wants chocolate that I have made, then his wish is my command.”

Georgie came around the table and kissed Lizzie’s cheek. “Have a pleasant evening,” she said.

“Sleep well,” Lizzie returned fondly. Georgie left and she was alone in the vast room.

But it didn’t exactly feel as if she was alone, she thought, looking carefully around. The house was not an old one, but it had certainly witnessed its share of history, and somehow, the room felt anything but vacant now. Lizzie wondered if she sat there with the ghosts of Tyrell’s ancestors. If so, she was not afraid, for in spite of the vast size of the room, it felt oddly warm and almost familiar. She stood, glancing at the various portraits on the wood-paneled walls. She assumed they were all de Warenne ancestors, and one portrait in particular drew her attention. Lizzie walked over to it.

The portrait was very old. Lizzie dated it by the period dress and the stylized method of painting—the man in it appeared two-dimensional. Still, even as flat as he appeared, he looked so much like Tyrell that it took her breath away.

He was also wearing chain mail. Lizzie wasn’t a huge fan of history, but she guessed that this man had lived well over six or seven centuries ago. She leaned close and rubbed dust off of the narrow nameplate on the bottom
of the frame. She finally managed to read the inscription there. “Stephen de Warenne, 1070-1117.”

Lizzie was stunned by the portrait’s antiquity. He must surely be the founding father of the family.

Bernard had returned to the room, carrying a small silver tray upon which was the chocolate cream she had made for Tyrell. “Thank you,” Lizzie said, surprising the servant by taking the tray from his hands. “I shall take this to his lordship,” she told him.

“Madam, if I may?”

Lizzie had no intention of allowing him to take back the tray. “You need only point me in the direction of the library, as I am afraid I am quite lost in this house.” She had yet to find her way around and she hadn’t a clue as to where Tyrell actually was.

A moment later, Lizzie was standing alone outside of a large closed door, the tray in her hands. Her heart was racing madly, a sure sign of her illicit intent. She had become shameless, she thought, after a single night of passion. But shouldn’t a mistress be shameless? All she could think of now was being in Tyrell’s arms and having their bodies joined as one.

She was not bold enough to enter without knocking. Balancing the small tray carefully, she rapped lightly upon the door. Tyrell’s answer was distinct enough and she was told to enter.

Lizzie slipped inside the room and gazed wide-eyed about her. The library was almost entirely brick red and had the same high ceilings as the dining room, almost thirty feet above her. Numerous towering bookcases covered two walls, half as high as the ceilings, which were painted a more fiery red, but trimmed with ivory and gold. Lizzie counted four very opulent seating areas, all dominated by sofas and chairs upholstered in various
red shades. The smaller pieces of furniture were in accent colors of gold and beige. There was one large fireplace, beneath a white marble mantel, a huge gilded mirror above. In spite of the fire raging there, most of the rest of the room was cast in shadow. It took Lizzie a moment to locate Tyrell at his desk.

He sat at the farthest end of the room, fifty or sixty feet from her, a single oil lamp burning at his elbow. He appeared engrossed in the notes and calculations he was making.

Lizzie had never seen him taking care of government matters before and now the importance of his position struck her. Tyrell was only twenty-six years old, but he was the assistant to the Commissioner of Revenue in Ireland, perhaps the most lucrative and powerful office in the land. In that moment, she sensed his absolute dedication to his post and she had never admired him more. She also knew that he was kind. And he was hers.

He suddenly looked up.

Lizzie tried to smile. “I have brought you a treat, my lord,” she said huskily, daring to venture forward. “I do pray I am not interrupting.”

He no longer seemed interested in the pages before him. His body impossibly still, he said nothing, staring.

But he didn’t have to speak. Lizzie felt the instant in which she became his complete and whole interest. She had become a woman and she understood.

He slowly stood. “You could never interrupt, Elizabeth.”

She thrilled at the sound of her name coming from his lips. She wanted to smile but she could not, as there was simply too much tension between them. She crossed the vast expanse separating them as he watched her, his gaze unblinking.

And she trembled with excitement. Somehow his
regard had the ability to arouse her body effortlessly to a fever pitch. Lizzie paused before the desk. “A chocolate crème brûlée,” she whispered.