The Masquerade (28 page)

Lizzie studied him. Did he morally condemn their affair as she did, when she dared to really think about it? She knew him well enough now to think that he did not really approve of adultery, and that he would not be pleased with himself for violating his own moral code. “And we are like everyone else.”

Tyrell had looked away. “Yes.”

Lizzie had not added, “But that does not make it right.” She had snuggled against him, suddenly unhappy and worried. There were so many moments when it was so easy to keep the future at bay, but always, eventually, it intruded.

Suddenly Tyrell had caught her face in his hands. “Have you been happy, Elizabeth, here at Wicklowe?”

Lizzie had stilled, her heart leaping uncontrollably, wanting to tell him how much she loved him and how she always would, no matter what might happen. She had nodded, thinking only of him. “Yes. You make me more than happy, Tyrell.”

He had smiled, moving over her, and in time, inside
her, but when she had looked up, there had been a shadow in his eyes.

It hadn’t been the first time she had seen that shadow there—nor had it been the last. Lizzie knew with a lover’s intuition that something was disturbing Tyrell. She was worried about their future, but surely his worries were of a different nature. She told herself he had grave matters of state on his mind.

And reality was now intruding yet again, in the form of another caller. She had so been looking forward to spending the afternoon alone with Tyrell. She watched the coach as it passed the lake and fountain; it was very grand, a six-in-hand. Some alarm began.

This was no run-of-the-mill social call, she realized. Worse, that team of perfectly matched bays was terribly familiar. As the coach door was opened by a liveried footman, she knew.

Lord Harrington had left Adare in just such a conveyance.

It was impossible. He was not expected; he was either in London or his summer home in the Lake country. This had to be a messenger, didn’t it?

But a messenger would never travel in such a conveyance and she knew it.

And Lizzie recognized the slim gentleman alighting from the coach, his confident bearing unmistakable. Lizzie cried out and stepped back behind the draperies, instinctively afraid to be seen.

Lord Harrington was here.

Lizzie was numb with dread, and the huge clock that had been ticking off every second of every minute of every day, there in her mind, suddenly ceased.

As if it were a genuine thing, Lizzie wanted to hear that clock. She wanted to shake it, rattle, it, wind it back up.
Instead, in growing panic, she pushed open the balcony doors and rushed outside. At the stone railing she paused. Gripping it, she leaned forward.

Tyrell stood on her side of the lake with the gardener, just a few steps from the driveway, staring at the coach. Lizzie could not make out his expression as he was too far away.

Harrington had seen him; he waved and reversed direction.

Tyrell raised his hand in return.

Unable to breathe, Lizzie saw Harrington striding purposefully toward Tyrell. Tyrell began to walk toward him. A moment later the men had shaken hands. Harrington clapped Tyrell on the back, the gesture familial and affectionate.

Lizzie choked, clasping a hand over her mouth to hide the sound. What should she do now?

“Lizzie!”

Lizzie whirled at the sound of her sister’s distraught voice. Georgie stood on the threshold of the salon. “Lord Harrington has just arrived!”

Lizzie somehow nodded. “I know.”

“What are we going to do? What are
you
going to do?” And for once in her life, Georgie sounded panicked.

Her instinct was to run, hide. “I don’t know.”

“You can’t stand there!”

Her mind began to function. She was not the mistress of this house, never mind that Tyrell had pretended it was so, never mind the deference shown her by the staff and all of their neighbors. She was Tyrell’s mistress and nothing more, and the man who would soon be his father-in-law was outside.

She ran across the terrace and back into the house, Georgie at her side. They fled headlong through the east
wing, but Georgie seized her wrist, halting them both. “Your rooms are in the west wing,” she cried.

Lizzie looked at her, feeling bloodless. “Georgie, I am not going to the master suite!”

Georgie nodded. “You are right. You had better share my suite. Oh, why didn’t he send word!”

“I will tell you why,” Lizzie said harshly. “Lord Harrington did not send word because the rumors reached him in London. He wanted to catch Tyrell and I living together openly like this.” And suddenly she was ready to weep. “He is here for one reason and one reason only.”

The future she had refused to think about had become the present.

G
eorgie’s suite of rooms was across from the nursery. Lizzie and Georgie rushed into her suite and Lizzie whirled, confronting her. “Why are you so quiet? I know what you are thinking!”

Georgie inhaled. “I am thinking that this is so awkward.”

Lizzie started. “I am thinking that this is so shameful.”

Georgie went to her and spoke with the utmost calm, clearly trying to reassure her. “You love each other. That is hardly shameful. What is shameful, truly, is that Tyrell does not wake up, break off his engagement and take you to the altar!”

Lizzie bit her lip, shaken. When she was in his arms in the darkest hours of the night, she knew beyond any doubt that he loved her, too. In the light of day she was not so sure. “The first sons of earls do not marry impoverished country gentry and you know it.”

“Sometimes they do!” Georgie cried. “He could marry for love—he is wealthy enough to do as he pleases.”

Was Georgie right?
Confused, Lizzie quickly changed the subject to the pressing matter confronting them. “What am I to do? Do I stay here in your suite and hide until Harrington leaves? We cannot go down to dine
tonight, can we? And what about Ned? Does he hide in the nursery now, too?”

Georgie touched her. “You must speak with Tyrell when the opportunity arises. I am certain he will have no doubts as to the proper course of action.”

Lizzie knew the proper course of action—she had
always
known the proper course to take. She hugged herself. “I never told you this. I spied on her. I spied on Lady Blanche.”

“You did what?”

“I stole into the engagement ball.”

Georgie stared in astonishment. “And?” she finally asked.

Lizzie inhaled. “She is terribly beautiful, Georgie. I could not find a single fault with her. She is elegant, gracious and she seemed to possess a very pleasant nature, indeed.”

“I suppose it would be rude to hope she was ugly, fat and mean.”

“She is such a good match for him,” Lizzie said miserably. “I am sure she will eventually fall in love with Tyrell, if she hasn’t already. And he, of course, will be thrilled to have such an elegant and proper English wife. He will undoubtedly come to love her, as well.”

He could marry for love—he is wealthy enough to do as he pleases.
Lizzie wished Georgie had never said that. She was wrong, anyway. Tyrell deserved a wealthy, titled wife. Blanche would be a great countess one day, Lizzie had no doubt. And she was so beautiful that surely Tyrell would fall in love with her, sooner or later.

“I want him to be happy, Georgie. I see no reason why he would not be happy with Blanche Harrington.”

Georgie seized her hand. “And what about you? You have been in love with Tyrell since you were a small child.
You never asked for this—he insisted you become his mistress. You have been so happy and you deserve all that you have had. But I see where you now go, Lizzie, I do!”

“I beg your pardon?” Tyrell asked from the open doorway.

Lizzie whirled, wondering how long he had been standing there and wishing they had not left the door so widely ajar. And she felt her world, already tilting precariously, begin to crumble into dust. He was so terribly grim, but then, so was she. Georgie was right, she knew what she must do. “My lord,” she whispered.

“I hope I am not interrupting,” he said, looking only at Lizzie, “but I must have a word with you, Elizabeth.”

Georgie took her cue. She nodded at Tyrell and hurried from the room, having the good sense to firmly shut the door behind her as she did so.

Lizzie hugged herself, not daring to meet his searching eyes.

“Lord Harrington has arrived unexpectedly,” he said, his voice hard.

“I know. I saw.” She managed to look up. His expression was stark.

He strode to her, pulling her hands away from her body and gripping them. “I am so sorry!”

Helplessly she shook her head. “He must have heard of our affair. There can be no other reason for his calling like this, so unexpectedly, without sending word.”

“He claims he spent a weekend with Lord Montague in the south and decided to call rather spontaneously.” He had not released her hands.

“Do you believe him?”

“No, I do not.”

Lizzie told herself, very firmly, not to cry. Tears would solve nothing now. “Perhaps he wishes to discuss your
marriage,” she said, and she was horrified at how distraught she sounded.

His face tightened and he did not speak.

From Tyrell’s set expression, Lizzie realized that Harrington must have said just that. “So he does wish to discuss your marriage?” she cried, and her tone was terribly shrill.

He turned away. “It should hardly come as a surprise. We both know I am affianced. We have both known it from the start.”

Lizzie’s temples throbbed; it was hard to think. “What would you have me do, my lord? Should I pack my things and flee the house in the middle of the night while everyone sleeps?” Too late, she realized how bitterly she spoke.

His grasp tightened. “No! His arrival here changes nothing, Elizabeth—it changes
nothing.
”

“It changes everything, my lord,” she whispered unevenly in return.

He pulled her close, crushing her to his chest, seeking her mouth. Lizzie began to cry as he kissed her, again and again. She could not respond, not when her life was over. He stopped, holding her tightly. “Don’t cry. This changes nothing, Elizabeth. I still want you in my arms every night.” He tilted up her chin so their gazes met. “I will have your belongings moved into the adjoining room here with your sister. It’s only for a few days.” His tone was firm but kind with whatever sympathy he now felt for her.

But she hardly wanted his sympathy now. She tried to push away from him, but he would not let her go. She gave up, her hands pressed against his hard chest, which heaved with his own distress. She breathed deeply, finally finding some small shred of composure. “She must be in London even as we speak, in the midst of preparations for
the wedding,” she said hoarsely. She had to ask about the future now.

He stared before finally responding. “I imagine so.”

She wet her lips, closed her eyes briefly. “Will the wedding be at Adare?”

“It will be in London,” he said tightly, his face impossible to read. He hesitated. “You have every right to know the details. We will be wed at St. Paul’s on September 15.”

“I see,” she said, finding her pride now and clinging to it, as it was all she seemed to have. She seemed to have moved outside of herself and it felt very much as if she were watching a drama on some theatre stage. She had managed to achieve an utter detachment from her heart. How long, she wondered, could she sustain that? If she were lucky, it would be for the rest of her life. “That is but a month away. When do you leave for London?”

He spoke as formally now, but his gaze was filled with caution, as if she were an adversary that he must fear, or a prey he must prevent from an escape. “In two weeks.”

He would leave Ireland in two weeks. He would leave her in two weeks. And the stage collapsed; the players she was watching vanished into thin air. There was only herself and Tyrell and her own consuming grief.

She had been living in a dreamworld of her own making. Since coming to Wicklowe, she had refused to think of the future, refused to think of the woman he would one day marry, even after Papa’s frightening visit. With the entire household treating her as a wife, not a mistress, with Tyrell treating her that way, she had spent her days dreaming about him and the time they had already spent together, the memories they had already created. Her nights had been spent in a passionate frenzy. Since Papa’s visit, that clock had been ticking, or had it been ticking
since her parents had first marched her up to Adare with Ned? It no longer mattered. The clock had stopped when Lord Harrington had arrived, and now those few memories would have to last her a lifetime.

It was over.

A huge weight, the weight of grief and loss, began to bear down on her.

Not moving, he said, slowly and carefully, “I will spend two weeks in London and return to Wicklowe. I still have to attend my post in Dublin,” he said.

Lizzie had never imagined suffering so much heartache. She heard him, but vaguely. And what about Ned?

Tyrell was talking to her. He wet his lips and said with the utmost care, “I have given the matter a great deal of thought. I will buy you a house in Dublin. Any house you wish, as grand as you prefer. You will live there with Ned and your sister and I can visit you every day.”

Lizzie held her chest, but the pain was intensifying, anyway. She gazed up at him, the man she had always loved when she had no right to do so.
He thought to visit her every day—and go home to his wife every night.

“You are not leaving me,” he said, a vast and terrible warning.

Lizzie tore her gaze from his. If she tried to speak, her grief would rush from her body, heart and soul in a tidal wave, and he would know.

Suddenly he knelt before her, clasping both of her hands. “Please don’t do this. Please don’t cry.” He hesitated. “I am terribly fond of you. You know that, don’t you?”

She couldn’t even nod.

He tried to smile and failed utterly. “What would you have me do? It is my duty to marry Blanche. It is my duty to the earl, my duty to Adare.” He spoke in an odd rush. “I have never failed in my duty before, Elizabeth. Since
the day I first breathed air, I have been raised to put the de Warenne name and family and the earldom first and last. Adare is who I am. I must think of the next generation!”

How odd it was, she thought, he spoke as if in a panic. “I do not want you to fail in your duty and I never have.”

He pulled her to her feet and brushed his mouth over hers urgently—or was it frantically? “Elizabeth!” he cried, as if reading her thoughts exactly. “Nothing changes!”

But everything
had
changed, she thought. She turned away from him and gazed out the window where the lovely mountains were, seeing nothing but blackness. Leaving Tyrell now, after all they had shared, would be the hardest thing she had ever done. She longed to give in, break down and wail in sorrow. But not in front of Tyrell. If he knew what she intended, he would never let her go.

Lizzie found a strength and resolve she had never realized she had. Squaring her shoulders, she spoke without turning to face him. “I am fond of you, too, Tyrell.”

His response was a stunned silence.

She slowly, carefully, faced him. “Tyrell, I need to be alone.”

His expression was alarmed. “I do not care for your tone!”

“Then I apologize.” She wanted to smile but knew she could not, not even if her life depended on it. But her life no longer mattered, did it? What mattered was Tyrell’s life and Ned’s future.

He suddenly took a step that brought him to her and he clasped her face in his hands. “Darling! Nothing will really change. I will buy you a home as grand as this—I will be with you every day and we will have more children!”

There would be no more children, not for her. “Don’t,” she said, closing her eyes tightly. The tears fell, anyway.

He crushed her in his embrace. “You are not leaving me,” he said, and it was a command.

Lizzie did not answer him.

It was only when she was alone in her room that she realized the ultimate consequence of her decision.

Ned was a de Warenne. Ned belonged with his father.

Leaving Tyrell now also meant that she must leave Ned. Lizzie loved Ned far too deeply to deny him either his birthright or his father, just as she loved Tyrell far too much to ever consider separating him from his son. Fortunately Tyrell had become very fond of Ned, behaving as if he really believed Ned were his own. Lizzie would have to tell him the truth now, before she left. Having no more courage, she would do it in a letter.

Lizzie wept until she had no tears left. Georgie had briefly tried to comfort her and, sensing what she intended to do, to change her mind. Lizzie would not speak with her sister now. Her strength remained far too precarious and she must cling to her resolve. It was time to face the future and do what was right.

She only left her bed because she wanted to spend the small time she had left with Ned. She did not want him to witness her grief and become distressed by it, so she changed her gown and washed her face with care. She was ready to go down the hall to the nursery when a series of rapid knocks sounded on her bedroom door. “Mum! Miss Fitzgerald!” It was Rosie and she sounded frightened.

Lizzie’s misery vanished. Thinking that something had happened to Ned, she rushed to the door. “Is Ned all right?”

“Mum, he is fine. But I dunno what to do! It is his lordship, mum. He is in the nursery. He is in the nursery with Ned!”

Lizzie did not understand and she had no wish to see Tyrell just then.

“It is his lordship the viscount,” Rosie said.

She ran from her bedroom, shocked that Harrington would visit her son and overcome with a terrible fear. Lizzie paused before the nursery’s open door, Rosie behind her, uncertain of what she might find.

Harrington was a slim man of medium height with iron-gray hair. He was very elegant and handsome, and undoubtedly his daughter took after him. He sat on the sofa with Ned, who was holding a stuffed animal and regarding the older man with a wary and aloof regard.

Lizzie’s instinct was to rush into the room and demand that Harrington get away from her son. Instead, she stared, breathless with worry.

Ned finally offered the stuffed animal to Lord Harrington. He took it and, rather gravely, said, “Thank you.”

Harrington had seen her and he now rose swiftly to his feet. He inclined his head. “Miss Fitzgerald, I presume?”

Lizzie managed a curtsy, and she simply watched the man who watched her as carefully in return. An awkward silence fell.

“Mama!” Ned cried in delight. He scrambled from the sofa and raced to her, falling when he reached her side. Lizzie knelt and hugged him, but he protested, pushing her away. “Ned up!” he declared, and he used her skirts to quickly stand up and beam with pride at her.