The Masquerade (35 page)

What would he do if he saw her again?

“Ty.” Rory’s tone was firm as he came to stand beside him. “I should like very much for you to be at the wedding. However, considering what happened last summer, I do not think that the best idea.”

Tyrell whirled. “Is Georgina in town?”

Rory tensed visibly. “Yes. She is residing at Eleanor’s Belgravia home.”

His heart leapt. Belgravia was but a carriage ride away. He folded his arms and asked, trying to sound indifferent, “Is Elizabeth there?”

Rory hesitated, and it was answer enough.

Tyrell began to pace away from the other man, unable to deny the hot, hard rush of adrenaline in his blood. He felt like a hunter with its prey in sight.
She was twenty minutes away.

Rory said, “How is your son? He must have grown a foot by now.” Clearly he wished to change the subject.

Tyrell faced him from the other side of the room. “How is she?”

Rory’s eyes flashed. “Don’t do this,” he warned.

“Don’t do what?” Tyrell smiled and it felt terribly unpleasant. “I wish to know how she is. The question is simple enough. I have every right to know.”

“You have no rights, none at all!” Rory exclaimed. “You only have rights where your fiancée is concerned.” He added with heat, “You broke her heart. How do you think she is?”

Tyrell felt a dangerous anger descend upon him. “I beg to differ with you. She left me. I have hardly broken her heart.”

Rory approached, appearing as angry. “She is my cousin and my friend. I never approved of your affair—it was disgraceful! Lizzie always deserved more. She deserved a husband and a home—not shame and ruin.”

He did not move. “She came to me already ruined,” he said, but he knew it was a lie. Rory was right. Elizabeth had deserved more than a tawdry affair.

“I did not come here to discuss Lizzie, with you of all people! I want you to leave her alone,” Rory warned.

“What makes you think I would not?”

“You begin to ask me all of these questions about Lizzie and you wonder why I suspect you intend to pursue her again?” He was incredulous.

His heart and mind raced in tandem now. But he only said, far too quietly, “I am hardly interested in a renewed affair.”

“Then what are you intending, Tyrell?” Rory demanded.

And in that moment, finally, he knew what he had to do.

E
leanor held a small supper party with a dozen guests, the occasion being the official engagement of Georgie and Rory. Papa had sent a messenger to town, giving his stamp of approval to the union, and Mama had slipped in a brief note mentioning how thrilled she was, managing to allude to Rory’s status as Eleanor’s favorite relation in the single paragraph she wrote. Georgie was walking on clouds, almost literally, and Lizzie was deeply satisfied. The couple had decided to wait until the spring to marry.

They had yet to go into supper. Their guests were a mixed group, and Lizzie noted that a gentleman her age was present, the youngest son from a good family. She was so happy for Georgie that if Eleanor really thought to try to make a match for her now, she would not brood about it. “Miss Fitzgerald?” The blond gentleman, who could not be a year older than herself, smiled engagingly at her. “I should like to be so bold as to ask you to join me later in the week for a day at the races.”

Lizzie smiled firmly at Charles Davidson. It was time to take a stand. She had no intention of going anywhere with any gentleman, and she questioned his motives, anyway, as her reputation had to be well-known. Even if
he thought to actually court her, she was just not interested. “I am flattered by your invitation,” she said, “but I am afraid I must decline. Unfortunately, I have a very busy schedule this week at St. Anne’s.”

His face fell and he bowed. “I am heartbroken,” he said gallantly.

Lizzie heard the doorbell. “If you will excuse me? I think I will answer that.” She smiled and slipped away, but before she could step into the hall, Rory paused before her.

“Davidson is a good friend, Lizzie. Did you just give him the brush-off?”

She met his serious regard. “So
you
are the one who invited him.” She shook her head. “Rory, please, I am not interested.”

His gaze was searching. “May I give you some advice?”

Lizzie held up her hand, not wanting to hear him tell her to let go and move on. But before she could speak, she felt eyes upon her. She glanced past Rory into the hall—and saw Tyrell de Warenne.

Lizzie cried out in shock.

It had been so long.

He stood a short distance away from them, staring at her, his gaze brilliant and intense. And Lizzie could not tear her eyes from his.
What was he doing there? What did he want?

And just seeing him, with so much between them, reopened every one of her wounds. Lizzie hurt as if she had left him yesterday—and as if it were only yesterday, she desperately needed to be in his arms. Then Lizzie saw the flowers.

She stiffened, staring at the gorgeous bouquet of flowers in his hand.

I do not want to marry Tyrell, or anyone.
Oddly, Blanche’s shocking words came to mind.

But what Blanche wanted meant nothing in the scheme of things, Lizzie reminded herself almost frantically. Blanche would obey her father, just as Tyrell would do his duty to Adare. But why, dear God, had he come?

“Lizzie? I see that you are in shock. Stay here,” Rory said tersely. “I will take care of this.”

Lizzie barely heard him. Tyrell continued to stare at her, his gaze dark and intent. And in spite of all common sense and all past experience, hope began.

“What are you doing here?” Rory exclaimed in apparent disbelief, clearly dismayed.

Tyrell ignored him. Elizabeth stood on the hall’s threshold, transfixed by his appearance, as pale as if confronted with a ghost. Seeing her again, after the eternity of their separation, all his anger fell away, layer after layer, until he had no defenses left. She was so beautiful, hauntingly so, and all he wanted to do was hold her, protect her, make love to her. He could not recall why they were not together now. He could not think of a single reason for them to be apart. The urge to go to her and beg her for forgiveness overcame him then. He no longer remembered that he was the victim, that she had left him.

Rory was livid. “You must leave, Tyrell. Being here will only distress her, and everyone else in this family. Or have you forgotten? You are affianced to someone else.” He was caustic.

He flinched.
He was engaged to Blanche and he should not be there.
But damn it, he could not leave until they had spoken. Finally he looked at Rory. “Who the hell is that blond gentleman who was fawning all over her?”

“A friend of mine. I had hoped they might like each other,” he shot back.

Tyrell was aware of the slow, deep burn of jealousy
then. He had no right to be so possessive now. And he gave up. If he could control the fate of Adare, he certainly would not allow another man into her life. But where did that leave Elizabeth—and where did it leave them?

“You need to go home to Blanche,” Rory insisted.

His fiancée’s pale image came to mind and he knew, in that single, stunning moment, that a marriage between them would never succeed. Suddenly, he was afraid of what he must do. As suddenly, there was no doubt.

And he met Elizabeth’s gray eyes again, eyes that were huge with hurt. She did not have to speak for him to hear her plea:
why?
The single potent question echoed there between them in the hall. He was damned if he knew the answer.

“Damn it, Ty, it is obvious you still have feelings for her. It is my duty as her future brother-in-law to make certain that you do not hurt her again—and jeopardize her chance of a real future with someone else.”

He did not hear. Georgina had come to stand with her sister, as pale with distress, and she put her arm around her. Elizabeth did not seem to notice. “She isn’t going to be with someone else,” he said, glancing dismissively at Rory.

“What?”
Rory gasped.

“I must give her the flowers,” he added, his gaze only on Elizabeth now. “I wish to speak with her. Then I will go.”

“Tyrell!” Rory shouted.

But it was too late. Tyrell was walking away, toward Elizabeth.

Lizzie could not move and she could not breathe. She no longer heard the voices in the salon behind her and was not aware of her sister standing beside her. Tyrell was approaching and he was fiercely intent.

He paused before her and bowed. Lizzie had forgotten how mesmerizing he was. She could feel his power, his strength, his resolve; she could feel his heat, his virility; she could feel
him.
Absolutely overcome, she forgot to curtsy in return. Somehow she managed to say, “Ty—my…my…my lord.”

His dark gaze moved slowly over her face, as if recalling every feature—or memorizing every one. He did not speak. She felt sweat trickling between her breasts and down her belly. His gaze veered to her mouth and then lower, to the swells of her bosom. Instantly, painfully, desire filled her in that terrible way only he could relieve.

Nothing had changed.
She could almost feel his hands closing on her arms and she could almost feel his hard body against hers. She could almost feel him deeply inside of her, their bodies joined. In that moment, she wanted him desperately, and not just physically. She had never missed him more.

“Elizabeth,” Tyrell said stiffly. And then to Georgina, “Miss Fitzgerald. May I offer you congratulations on your engagement?”

Lizzie looked at Georgie, who appeared ready to explode. But she said, “Thank you.” And then she looked at Lizzie for her cue.

Lizzie swallowed hard. “Would you leave us?” she asked.

Georgie looked back and forth between them before she nodded, clearly displeased. She left.

Tyrell thrust the flowers toward her. “I heard you were in town.”

She blinked at the bouquet of scarlet roses. Why had he brought her flowers? What did the bouquet mean? Somehow she accepted them, aware of the heat flooding her cheeks. “Thank you.” She clutched the flowers to her chest.

“You look well, Elizabeth,” he said seriously, and his gaze slipped over her royal-blue evening gown again before lifting to her eyes.

She dared to meet his probing gaze. Oh, she was not well, not at all. She had not been well since she had left him and their son, but she could not discuss that. “You also seem well,” she said, a tremor in her tone. But now she saw shadows in his eyes that she had never seen before, and she knew something was not right. Something was bothering him—or hurting him—greatly.

His expression appeared briefly mocking. “I am well enough.”

Lizzie dared. “This is a great surprise.”

“Yes, I realize that,” he said, not offering up any explanation for his sudden call.

She inhaled, trembling. “Why? Why have you come, Tyrell?”

His smile was grim. “I hadn’t realized you were in town until I spoke with Rory this morning,” he said, as if that explained it all.

But it explained nothing. Lizzie wet her lips. “I see,” she said.

“We are old friends,” he added, watching her closely now.

“Friends,” she echoed. The word hardly did justice to their prior relationship and surely he must know it. Or was that how he thought of her now, as an old friend? She knew her cheeks were hot. “Of course we remain friends,” she said as calmly as possible. “You will always be my friend, Tyrell.”

He searched her expression for she knew not what. “So you remain loyal to me, after all this time?”

Dear God, what did
that
mean? He was increasing her discomfort. “Of course. Friends are loyal to each other.
It is the nature of friendship.” She did not want to speak this way, being indirect and worrying about innuendos. “Surely you know me well enough to know that I am always sincere. You will always be my friend,” she heard herself say with passion. And she meant it.

He stared, then spoke abruptly. “You have changed,” he said roughly. “You are more beautiful and alluring than before, and now you have a confidence and poise that only a mature woman gains.”

Lizzie was stunned by such frank flattery, and in spite of herself, she was thrilled. She did not want to care about his praise. “We all change, Tyrell. I believe it is called growing up.” She hesitated. “I think you have changed, as well.”

He flinched, meeting her gaze. He finally said, softly, “Life is full of surprises, Elizabeth. Not all of them are pleasant.”

Lizzie wondered what he meant. She was afraid to ask. “How is your family?” Now she thought about Ned.

“They are very well,” he said.

Lizzie bit her lip, desperate to ask about her son and knowing she must never bring the subject up. If she did, she would die of grief all over again. A terribly awkward moment descended. She thought of Blanche and his impending wedding. “And the lady Blanche?”

He avoided her eyes. “She is well.” And his next words were shockingly direct. “We remain utter strangers.”

She froze. First there had been Blanche’s odd visit, and now this sudden call. First there had been her strange confession, now there was his. Hope leapt in her breast. Lizzie reminded herself that he had to marry an equal rank and fortune and she was too poor and too insignificant to ever be his wife.

She closed her eyes. Since last summer, it had
become her secret dream—one that only came to her in the darkest hours of the night. Her heart yearned for her to be his wife, no matter what her mind rebutted, and the rebuttal remained clear. Even if a chasm was there between him and Blanche—and that was a huge “if”—it did not change a thing.

“Elizabeth,” he said softly.

She looked up.

“I do not wish to overstay my welcome, and I see that you have supper guests.”

She felt herself nod and panic began. He was about to leave! How could she calmly let him go? She had managed to survive these past few months without him, but his presence made one fact clear—she never wanted to be without him again. If she must settle for a friendship, then so be it. As dangerous as this was, she reached out and touched his arm. “Tyrell.”

Her touch caused him to flinch and he looked at her, heat gathering in his eyes.

Lizzie understood. The sudden storm of desire was all too clear. He still wanted her in bed. Somehow they must fight the attraction that still raged between them, she realized. She swallowed. “I am glad you called. Can we…can we somehow remain friends? I mean…genuine friends. I should wish for you to call again sometime, at your convenience, of course.”

“Thank you,” he said, relief evident in his tone. “Elizabeth…I should like to call again, very much.”

Her heart lurched and sped. It was like being swept back in time, to all the romance and passion they had shared at Wicklowe. He remained so impossibly seductive, so terribly handsome, so strong and safe. Lizzie fought the urge to move into his arms. She wanted nothing more than to lay her head on the broad, hard plane of his chest.

She walked with him to the front door. He paused. “Elizabeth. You have not asked about Ned,” he said, staring closely at her.

She flinched as if struck. She quickly turned away so he could not see the depth of her anguish and how close she was to becoming completely undone. She could not speak and therefore she could not explain that she could not ask about his son.

“He is very well,” Tyrell said softly. “He is a brilliant child, and as arrogant as ever. He is also very happy. I adore him,” he added.

She nodded, finally looking up. Tears had gathered in her eyes.

“I see this remains difficult for you.”

“I…miss him.”

He was silent.

Lizzie wiped her eyes, fought for composure and faced him with a painful smile. “Thank you for calling, my lord,” she said, retreating into the utmost formality.

“Elizabeth.”

She tensed, their gazes holding.

“You may visit him. I will gladly arrange it.”

Hope flared, consuming her, and she found her senses. “That is not a good idea!” she cried. If she saw Ned, it would hurt more than she could possibly bear. It would be as if she was still his mother. She knew she could never walk away from him another time. “No, I cannot!”

Tyrell waited a moment. “If you change your mind, I will arrange a visit.”

She held her head high. “I will not change my mind. Good night, my lord.” She curtsied.