The Masquerade (3 page)

“Mama might have an apoplexy when she sees you in that costume.” Georgie snickered with some glee, then grasped Lizzie’s hand. “You look lovely in it.”

Lizzie hoped Georgie was being truthful. She reminded herself that Tyrell would never glance her way, not even once. But if he did, she did not want to look like a cow. She prayed he would not notice her and think her a sorry sight indeed.

“Well? Are you going to tell me why you are blushing?” Georgie demanded, laughing.

“I am hot,” Lizzie said abruptly, standing. “I am not blushing.”

Georgie leapt up. “If you think I have been fooled for one moment, then you are wrong! I know you are on pins and needles because you are going to your first ball at Adare.” She was smiling.

“I am
not
infatuated, not anymore,” Lizzie insisted.

“Of course not. I mean, last St. Paddy’s Day you did not ogle Tyrell de Warenne for hours on end. Oh, no. You do not prick your ears and redden every time his name comes up in social conversation. You do not gaze out of the carriage window when we pass Adare as if you are attached to it! Of course that silly schoolgirl crush is
over.
”

Lizzie hugged herself, silently admitting the truth of Georgie’s words.

Georgie put her arm around her. “If you think to claim that you are not in love with Tyrell de Warenne, then think again. Mama and Papa may believe your childish infatuation over, but Anna and I know better. We are your
sisters,
dear.”

Lizzie gave up. “I am so nervous!” She wrung her hands. “What should I do? Will I look like a fool in that costume? Is there any chance he will notice me? And if he does, what will he think?” she cried.

“Lizzie, I have no idea if he will notice you in the crush of a hundred guests, but if he does, he will think you the prettiest sixteen-year-old debutante there,” Georgie said with a smile and a firm tone.

Lizzie didn’t believe her, but Mama chose that moment to enter the room. She glared at them both. “Well? Has your sister talked some sense into you, Georgina May?”

Georgie looked contrite as she stood. “I am sorry, Mama. Of course I will attend the ball.”

Mama cried out in delight. “I knew I could count on Lizzie to save the day!” She beamed at Lizzie, then went to Georgie and embraced her. “You are the most loyal and deserving of daughters, my dear Georgina! Now, I do want a word with you about your costume—and Lizzie needs to get ready to go to town, anyway.”

Lizzie gasped, realizing that time had fled and it was almost ten o’clock. She devoted five or six hours every week to the sisters at St. Mary’s, never mind that the Fitzgeralds had not been Catholic in two generations. Her work was with the orphans there, and as Lizzie loved children, she looked forward to it. “I must be off,” she cried, racing out of the room.

“Ask Papa if he can drive you,” Mama called after her. “It will save you the walk!”

Lizzie was on her way home. It had rained for several days and the streets were ankle-deep in mud. She did not give a fig for her appearance, but it was a five-mile walk back to the house and the journey would take her twice as long as usual. The family could only afford a single horse and had but one two-wheeled curricle. While Papa had driven her to town, he was not able to pick her up, as Anna had some calls to make that afternoon. Instead of fighting for her turn or spending a precious shilling on a hired coach, Lizzie preferred to walk home.

Now the gray skies were brightening and Lizzie felt certain that tomorrow would be a remarkably pleasant day—perfect for the masked ball. She was about to step into the mud to cross the street when she felt a tug on the hem of her gown.

Lizzie knew it was a beggar before she looked down at
the old woman, damp and wet and shivering from the cold.

“Miss? Spare a penny?” The woman pleaded.

Lizzie’s heart broke. “Here.” She emptied her purse, giving the woman all of her coins, never mind that Mama would be distressed to no end. “God bless you,” Lizzie whispered.

The woman gaped. “God bless
you,
my lady!” she cried, hugging the coins to her chest. “God will bless you, for you are an angel of mercy!”

Lizzie smiled at her. “The good sisters of St. Mary’s will find you a bed and a meal if you go to their door,” she said. “Why don’t you do that?”

“Yes, I will,” the woman nodded. “Thank you, my lady, thank you!”

Hoping the woman would do just that, and not go to the closest inn for a pint, Lizzie stepped into the street. The moment she did, a horse-drawn coach careened around the corner. Lizzie heard it first, then quickly looked that way.

Two black horses pulled a very fancy carriage at high speed. Three gentlemen were in the back, which was open, and another two were in the driver’s high seat, whipping the horses on. All were laughing and shouting and waving a wine bottle. The coach was coming directly toward her. Lizzie froze in disbelief.

“Watch out!” a buck shouted.

But the driver whooped, as if he had not heard or did not see her, and whipped the horses. Their pace increased.

Lizzie realized what was happening. In sheer terror, she leapt back toward the sidewalk to get out of the way.

“Turn away!” one of the gentlemen suddenly shouted. “Ormond, turn away!”

But the carriage kept coming. Terrified, Lizzie saw the
whites of the horses’ eyes, the pink of their flared nostrils. She turned to run—only to trip instead.

Lizzie fell on her hands and knees in the muddy street.

The wheels sounded, a harsh grating noise; hooves pounded. Mud and rocks sprayed over her back. On her belly, Lizzie somehow looked and saw iron-shod hooves and iron-rimmed wheels, dangerously close. Her chest exploded in fear and she knew she was about to die even as she desperately tried to crawl away from the oncoming coach. Suddenly, strong hands seized her.

Lizzie was hauled to the safety of the sidewalk just as the coach passed by.

Lizzie could not move. Her heart was pounding with such force and speed that she thought her lungs might burst. She briefly closed her eyes, dazed with shock.

Hard, powerful hands still gripped her beneath her arms. Lizzie blinked. She lay on the sidewalk now, her cheek scraping stone, her face level with a man’s knees as he knelt on the sidewalk with her. Utter comprehension sank in.
She had just escaped a certain death. This stranger had saved her!

“Do not move.”

Lizzie barely heard the man who had saved her life. She still found it hard to breathe, as her heart refused to slow. She was also in some real pain, her arms felt as if they had been pulled out of their sockets. Otherwise, she thought she was in one piece. Then an arm went around her shoulders. “Miss? Can you speak?”

Lizzie’s mind began to work. Surely this could not be! The gentleman’s voice was remarkably familiar, the timbre deep and strong yet oddly soft and reassuring. Lizzie had eavesdropped on Tyrell de Warenne at every single St. Patrick’s Day lawn party, not to mention that she had heard him speak to the town on
several political occasions. He had a voice she would never forget.

Trembling in absolute disbelief, she began to sit. He quickly helped her, and she looked up.

Blue eyes, so dark they were almost black, met hers. Her heart leapt in disbelief, and then it thudded in wild excitement.

Tyrell de Warenne was kneeling on the street with her—Tyrell de Warenne had saved her life yet again!

His eyes were wide and his expression grim. “Are you hurt?” he asked, his arm remaining firmly around her.

Lizzie lost any ability to speak as she gazed into his eyes.
How could this be happening?
She had dreamed of one day meeting him, but in her imaginings, she had been as beautiful as Anna and at a ball in a stunning gown, not sitting on a muddy street, speechless as a mute.

“Are you hurt? Can you speak?”

Lizzie closed her eyes, hard. She began to tremble, but not with fear.
His arm was around her shoulders. She was pressed against his side.

Entirely new feelings began, shooting fiercely through her, warm and wonderful, illicit and shameful, the kind of feelings that afflicted her in the privacy of her bedroom in the moonlit hours of the night. His touch had set her afire.

Lizzie knew she must, somehow, converse. She noticed his fine doeskin breeches, encasing his strong legs, and the fire spread. She dared to look at his fine wool jacket, which was the same dark navy blue as his eyes. It was open, and he wore a dove-gray brocade waistcoat beneath it, a white shirt below that. Abruptly Lizzie looked away, then, as abruptly, up at him. “Y-yes. I can speak…somewhat.”

Their gazes locked. He was so close that she could see each and every one of the splendid features she had mem
orized long ago. Tyrell de Warenne could only be called an extremely handsome man. His eyes were a deep shade of blue, his lashes long enough to please any courtesan. His cheekbones were high and his nose was as straight as an arrow. He had a mobile mouth, usually full, now firmly pressed together with either anger or displeasure. He had the aura of a king.

“You are in shock. Can you stand up? Are you hurt?”

She had to find her senses. Lizzie swallowed, unable to look away. “I don’t think so.” She hesitated. “I’m not certain.”

His gaze was on her body now, moving past her chest and down her hips and skirts. “If something was broken, you would know it.” His gaze returned to hers and his expression seemed even darker. “Let me help you up.”

Lizzie could not move. She could feel her cheeks burning. She had almost been run over, but her heart was pounding madly with feelings no nice young lady should ever have. Suddenly, she saw him in an entirely different place, an entirely different situation—she saw flashes of his white steed and a dark, woody glen where two lovers were passionately entwined. Lizzie saw herself in Tyrell’s arms there and she inhaled, hard.

“What is it?” he asked sharply.

Lizzie wet her lips, trying to ignore the image of herself in his arms, being kissed intensely. “No-nothing.”

His gaze locked with hers and it was searching. Lizzie had the frightening feeling that he guessed her shameful attraction and, worse, her daring thoughts. He put his arms around her to lift her up and she thought she might expire from the desire consuming her. Lizzie did not know what to do. She could no longer breathe, even if she wished to.

She could smell the pine, the earth, the musk that was him. His mouth probed gently, his strong hands as gentle
on her waist. Their bodies were touching everywhere, they were thigh to thigh, her bosom against his ribs.

“Miss?” he murmured. “Perhaps you might release me.”

Lizzie came back to reality with stunning force, realizing he had lifted her to her feet. They were standing on the sidewalk—and she was clinging to him. “My lord,” she gasped, horrified. She leapt away, and from the corner of her eye, she saw him smile.

The heat in her cheeks increased. Had she just thrown herself at Tyrell de Warenne? How could she have done such a thing? In that moment, she had been in the woods with him, not standing on High Street in town, and she had actually felt his mouth on hers! And now, now he was laughing at her.

Lizzie fought hard for composure. She was so distressed she could not think clearly. Did he know she was madly in love with him? She looked away, wanting to die of embarrassment.

“I should like to catch those rowdies and shove each one on his face in the mud,” Tyrell said suddenly. He reached into his pocket and produced a shockingly white linen handkerchief, offering it to her.

“Do you…know them?”

He faced her. “Yes, I have had the misfortune of having made the acquaintance of each and every one of them. They are Lords Perry and O’Donnell, Sir Redmond, Paul Kerry and Jack Ormond. A bunch of ne’er-do-wells of the premier order.”

“You do not have to chase them down on my account,” she somehow said. The change of topic relieved her. “I am sure it was an accident.” She finally realized the extent of her dishevelment. There was mud everywhere—on her skirts, her bodice, her gloved hands and face. Her dismay welled.

“You would defend them? They almost killed you!”

She looked up, mortified by her state of untidiness, the linen forgotten. “It was reprehensible, of course, for them to drive at such a speed through town, but it was an accident.” Now she had the urge to cry. Why had this moment ever happened? Why couldn’t he have met her tomorrow, at the ball, when she was in her pretty Maid Marian costume?

“You are far too forgiving,” he said. “I am afraid they must be made to see the error of their ways. But my first concern is getting you home.” He smiled, just slightly, at her. “May I see you home?”

His words undid her. Had they been spoken in a different circumstance, it would be as if he was courting her. Her mind raced. A part of her wanted nothing more than to prolong the encounter, but another part of her wanted desperately to flee. Once alone, she would dream about this encounter, embellishing it as she wished. But just then, she had to think clearly. If he saw her to Raven Hall, Mama would come out and make a fuss and embarrass her to no end. She would probably insist that Tyrell come inside for tea, and gentleman that he was, he would not be able to refuse. It would be awkward and humiliating, especially once Mama began hinting about her three daughters all being eligible for marriage.

This was not a fairy tale. She was not at a ball, as beautiful as Anna, being daringly waltzed about. She was a plump, muddy, bedraggled mess, standing on the street with a man who so outranked her that she might as well have been a dairymaid and he a real prince.

“I beg your pardon,” he said swiftly, apparently misinterpreting her silence. He bowed. “Lord de Warenne, at your service, mademoiselle.” He was exceedingly serious as he spoke.

“My lord, I can find my own way home, thank you. Thank you for everything. You are so gallant, so kind!” She knew she must not continue, as his brows had lifted in some astonishment, but she could not stop herself. “But your reputation precedes you, of course! Everyone knows how noble you are. You have rescued my life. I am deeply in your debt. I should so love to repay you, but how can I? Thank you so much!”