The Masquerade (27 page)

“What is going on here?” he asked in the leaden silence.

Lizzie laid her utensils down. “I have a migraine, my lord,” she whispered in a pathetic lie.

Suddenly Georgie jumped to her feet. “My lord, Lizzie needs to lie down! Please excuse us!” She smiled brightly at him while rushing around the table to help Lizzie up. Tyrell stared and Lizzie restrained Georgie for a moment. Somehow she met his eyes. “I am merely ill,” she whispered. “Would you mind terribly if I lie down and my sister attended me?”

Staring far too closely at her, he shook his head. “Of course not. Should I send for a physician?”

Lizzie shrugged, no longer capable of speech. Georgie led her from the room. They did not speak until they had reached the master suite. “Shall I send for wine?” Georgie asked.

Lizzie sank onto the sofa before the fireplace. “Georgie, what have I done?”

Georgie sat beside her. “I don’t know. But you have been so happy, Lizzie.”

“Mama has no friends! No one calls—there are no invitations! She will surely die!”

“It is a myth,” Georgie said firmly. “No one dies of a broken heart.”

Lizzie looked at her. “What should I do?” she asked in anguish. “I have destroyed my family’s name. I have destroyed my family! Is that not selfish? Is that not reprehensible? Is that not despicable?”

Georgie spoke in a whisper. “Lizzie, you cannot be thinking of leaving him!”

Lizzie started to cry. How could she leave Tyrell when she loved him so? How could she stay and put more nails in the coffin of her family’s ruin? And what about his marriage to Lady Blanche? Before she had left Adare, she had heard rumors of an autumn
wedding. And there was Ned, who deserved his father in his life.

Nothing was right—except for the genuine love she felt for a man she should not be with.

Then Lizzie decided that was wrong, too. She should not yearn for a man who belonged to someone else.

Tyrell walked into the room. “Miss Fitzgerald, I should like to speak with Elizabeth alone,” he said to Georgie. It was not a request.

But Georgie stood, facing him, her shoulders squared. “My lord, my sister is not well. Can this not wait until the morrow?”

“No, it cannot,” he said flatly.

Georgie did not move.

Lizzie looked up, wiping her eyes with her fingertips. “Georgie, it’s all right.”

Georgie hesitated. “Liz, if you need me, send for me.”

“I promise,” Lizzie said with the barest of smiles.

Georgie managed to give Tyrell a warning look, which he ignored, and she left the room.

Tyrell faced her, staring down at her. “You appear as if someone has died.”

Lizzie shook her head.

“Your father was here today,” Tyrell said. “What did he say to so greatly upset you?”

Lizzie was shocked that he knew about Papa’s visit.

“Elizabeth, I only had to ask if something had happened. You had but one visitor—Smythe instantly informed me of the fact.
What did he say to so upset you?
”

Lizzie looked at her lap. “I love Papa so,” she whispered.

He waited.

“He knows. He knows I am your mistress. They are in disgrace. Ostracized. Heartbroken. I am shameless, Tyrell,” she cried. “And so terribly selfish!”

He knelt before her, taking her hands in his. “No! I forced you into this. If anyone is to blame, it is I!”

“I have ruined them,” she whispered, trying not to cry. She wanted to lean into him and have him pull her into his arms; she wanted to pull away and run from him now, while she still could—
if
she still could.

He cupped her cheek. “I will make amends. I will have them invited to every function at Adare. I will extend the protection that I have given to you to them. Darling, don’t cry!”

“You could do that?” And there was, finally, the smallest glimmering of hope.

He kissed her gently. “Elizabeth, of course I can. I would move heaven and earth to stop your pain. I will see to it that they are accepted in the highest society, but you cannot leave me,” he said, and his eyes flashed in dangerous warning.

She was numb. He had somehow sensed that she was on the verge of leaving him. It would be wonderful if he could help Mama and Papa return to good society, but it would not fix everything.

The future remained. She could not longer pretend that it did not, and that it did not include her, not in any way.

“Elizabeth,” he said as if he knew her exact thoughts. “Please, look at me now.”

She clutched his hands and did as he had asked. “I have been so happy,” she murmured.

“I know,” he said, smiling just a little. “I want you to be happy. Let me make you happy!” he said, his eyes darkening. “Let me take you to bed.”

Making love was the last thing on her mind, and it would solve nothing. “Will you really introduce Mama and Papa into high society? Is it even possible?” she asked, trembling and knowing she must not cave in to such a small crumb.

But he did not answer at first. He kissed her urgently, and Lizzie opened for him, allowing him great liberties. He finally pulled away, when she was aching with a raging fire that only he could put out. “If I give my word, it is done, and I am giving you my word. You need not worry about your parents.” And he kissed her again, this time sliding his hand into her bodice and over her breast.

Desire warred with the moral dilemma she had thought to avoid. If her parents were accepted into society, would Papa not forgive her? Would Mama not be happy? Even if she remained at Wicklowe with Tyrell, as his mistress, just for a while?

“Elizabeth!” he cried. And it was a demand, for clearly he felt that she was only giving him her aching body and not her real attention. He held her face and she was forced to meet his hot, hard gaze. “You are not leaving me,” he said tersely. “Not now, not ever. We will manage this together.”

She felt his power and it was more than she could bear, when she did not want to leave him, anyway. She surrendered. “I won’t leave,” she whispered as he kissed her tears away, fumbling with the buttons on the back of her dress.

But her unspoken words echoed.
Not yet.

He tore his mouth from hers and their gazes met, as if he had heard her speaking her terrible thoughts aloud.

Lizzie tried to smile at him but it was impossible.

He lifted her into his arms and carried her into the bedroom. And now, as he lay her down in his bed, Lizzie welcomed him. Their mouths melded, their clothes disappeared, his big body pushed hard and frantically into hers.

It was as if a clock was ticking, and they both knew it.

Tyrell realized that the sun was rising. Its rosy glow crept into the shadowy room. He sat with his head in his
hands on the sofa before the fireplace, an empty glass by his feet on the floor, clad only in a pair of breeches. The fire had dulled to a few mere sparks, but hours ago, when he had left Elizabeth asleep and softly smiling in their bed, it had been aflame. With his fingers, he rubbed his throbbing temples. The pain merely increased.

“I will not bring this up again. She deserves more than you can ever give her and I know you know that.”

Rex’s words had been haunting him all night. But even last week at Adare, he had known that Rex was right. Elizabeth deserved a home of her own. She deserved a husband, not a lover, happiness, not shame, and knowing her now as well as he did, knowing how kind and genuine she was, he was acutely aware of what he had done.

I have ruined them. They are in disgrace. I am shameless, Tyrell, and so terribly selfish!

She was not the selfish one! Tyrell laughed, but the sound was bitter and his eyes burned, although he told himself it was from the fire’s smoke. He was the selfish one, to blackmail her into being his mistress, and then to take her innocence instead of walking honorably away. He had ruined her. He had ruined her without a single thought for her welfare or her future, behaving like a beast, not a man.

He knew that any amends he might think to now make were far too late, but if he were half as honorable as he had always thought himself to be, he would still make those amends. He could so easily buy her a husband, a title and estate and all the legitimacy she would ever need.

You could never hurt me, my lord. I love you too much!

Tyrell covered his face with his hands. He knew better than to believe any declaration uttered in the heat of the
moment, but a part of him wanted to believe her words. She was so innocent and so naive, and every moment they spent together was hurting her more than she was even aware of. But how could he let her go?

How could he let her stay?

She deserved more than a place in his bed. She deserved more than shame. She deserved his name, but he was plighted to another, and as long as he was his father’s heir, that would never change. In a few months he would marry Blanche Harrington, securing the future of his family. His duty was a boon, not a burden, he reminded himself. He had always wanted this, and there was no reason to have doubt, no reason to feel caged. Suddenly he envisioned a long, bleak and bleary road, the skies above dull and gray, a future without Elizabeth, and his heart shrieked in warning and protest.

God, he had thought that he would be able to manage a future with both a wife and a mistress, but already the guilt was consuming, already she was paying a terrible price for his lust and selfish depravity. He dared not even consider what Blanche might be thinking or feeling now. Neither woman deserved to be entangled with the other—neither woman deserved such a life.

Tyrell trembled. He had never intended this. He had intended to protect Elizabeth and make her happy, not hurt her and make her miserable and ashamed. There was right and there was wrong, and he had been raised to know the difference. Elizabeth deserved more than he could ever give her. He had to be noble now. He had to let her go.

Tyrell lurched to his feet, shaken.

He simply could not do it.

The summer was waning. Three weeks had passed and Lizzie sat at a small Louis XIV desk in a pleasant salon
she and Georgie often used, as it was not too grand, a quill in hand. She was attempting a letter to her parents. They had been to Adare twice for supper parties, and had recently received an invitation to Askeaton, where Captain O’Neill, Tyrell’s stepbrother, was now in residence with his American wife and daughter. Soon, Lizzie thought, Mama’s old circle would be eagerly inviting her back into their homes. Wouldn’t they?

And surely Papa was not so angry or disappointed in her.

Lizzie wanted to beg them to forgive her and to try to understand how she had come to choose a life with Tyrell, as illegitimate as it was. She wanted to explain that she had not been thinking clearly, for she would never do anything that would hurt those she loved the most. She wanted to explain that this was her single chance to be with Tyrell and that it would not last forever. So far, all she had written was “Dear Mama and Papa.”

Then she finally began to write.

Lizzie did not care for her letter at all but was afraid to beg for forgiveness. And she could never explain her
choice, much less in a letter. Perhaps the recent storm was now over. Perhaps, with these new invitations and a new social life, her parents had already forgiven her for the disgrace she had brought upon the Fitzgerald name. Lizzie prayed for a timely reply.

She stood, stretching. It was a Sunday afternoon, so Tyrell was not in Dublin, and she knew he was busy with his head gardener, involved in inspecting some of the recent additions to the grounds. He had said that today he wished to take her for a picnic, just the two of them, not even with Ned. And he wanted to teach her to ride. Smiling, she walked over to the huge windows that looked out toward the front of the house, wondering if she might catch a glimpse of him. From where she stood, she could see a part of the driveway, the lake and the towering limestone fountain in its midst. She was surprised to see a coach approaching.

There had been callers in these past few weeks. There had also been a number of supper parties. Tyrell had social responsibilities that he would not shirk and to Lizzie’s surprise, no one had batted an eye at her. While she was introduced as a houseguest, everyone knew she was Ned’s mother and that she was living openly with Tyrell. But there was no condescension and Lizzie had been invited to call on their neighbors in return for her hospitality. Tyrell had encouraged her to do so.

“In Limerick, I am a disgrace. But here, no one cares about my status,” she had said to Tyrell one night while in his arms. She slept in his bed every night.

“Just about everyone who has called or dined at Wicklowe has a mistress or a lover. We are not an exception but the rule.”

Lizzie knew the stereotype—that infidelity ran rampant among the highest classes of society—but she hadn’t
really believed it before. “But I am living with you, in your house.”

“And you are under my protection.” Tyrell had studied her, stroking her cheek. “Lord Robieson has three bastards, all of whom live under his roof with his two legitimate daughters. Yes, I know, he doesn’t keep his mistress there, as well. She has her own house.”

Lizzie had called on Lady Robieson, a plump, pretty, vivacious woman whom she had liked. “And Lady Robieson doesn’t seem to mind,” she murmured, wondering at that.

“She is notorious for taking her own lovers.”

Lizzie stared at him and he stared back.

Tyrell finally spoke. “It may not be right. But it is the reality of our times.”