The Masquerade (5 page)

Papa now squeezed her hand. “My little girl has become a beautiful woman,” he said proudly. But his eyes were red and teary.

Lizzie decided not to refute him, not tonight, not when they were going up the steps of Adare.

“Mama, I think the fact that Lizzie has embraced high fashion is a single step in the right direction,” Georgie said. “But she is only sixteen. You should not have too high hopes from her very first entrance into society.”

Lizzie silently agreed.

But excitedly, Mama continued, “Did I mention that all of the earl’s sons are in residence, including one of his stepsons, the younger one, Sean O’Neill, although I have no idea where his brother, Captain O’Neill, might
be.” Mama grinned slyly. “Lizzie, he is young—not too much older than yourself.”

“I believe you mentioned it several times,” Papa said. “Now, Mama, Georgie is right. Leave Lizzie alone before you give her an apoplexy.” Papa was firm, Mama’s hand tucked under his arm. Then he smiled at her as they entered the huge front hall with its stone floors and high ceilings. This part of the mansion, Lizzie knew, dated back centuries, and the floor remained the original one. “Have I told you how handsome you are tonight?” he asked in a quieter tone.

Mama smiled at him. “And you, sir, are an enviable escort. I do like you in a wig, I confess.” Papa was also dressed from the early Georgian period in a frock coat, stockings and a long, curly wig.

Lizzie realized she had halted near the door. Her family was now moving through the entry and toward a reception room that was quite the size of their entire house. She touched the white mask she wore, one that covered her eyes but revealed the lower half of her face. She was queasy with her excitement now.

Lizzie saw that Anna had just stepped into the reception room, her grace such that she almost floated as she walked. Of course, two British soldiers instantly looked her way. They were officers and suddenly they were at her side, bowing; Lizzie knew that Anna would be blushing and demurely giving her name.

Georgie looked back at her. She held her eye mask and now she moved it aside, both brows lifted as she strode back to her. “Come, Lizzie.” Then she smiled and added, “I promise you will be fine.”

Lizzie hesitated, suddenly overcome. It felt as if she had waited her entire life for this night, but was she truly being a fool? Tyrell was always chased by many beauti
ful women, heir to the earldom that he was, and he would be occupied tonight. As Anna had suggested, surely he was courting some lady. What made her dream, even for a moment, that he might notice her?

Two gentlemen were striding past her, one obviously dressed as a musketeer, the other as a colorful macaroni. They both glanced at her and Georgie as they passed, only to join the group now surrounding Anna. The tension in Lizzie rose, becoming quite unbearable. Why was she doing this? She was actually, in a desperate and hopeless way, thinking to compete for Tyrell’s attention! She strained to glimpse him but did not see him anywhere in the front hall.

“Lizzie,” Georgie said with warning, “do not back out now!”

It was as if her sister had read her mind, for she was almost ready to do just that. But her desperation won. She wanted a glimpse of Tyrell de Warenne, and she wanted a chance to undo their previous encounter. She prayed for courage when her knees felt oddly weak.

Georgie took Lizzie by her hand rather decisively, pulling her forward. She hurried through the hall with her sister, past Anna’s group of eager suitors. The macaroni seemed to turn as she passed. In the reception room, huge columns held up the high ceiling, from which numerous, magnificent crystal chandeliers hung. The floor was a streaked marble, and a hundred guests mingled as they made their way into the ballroom.

Mama appeared beside her and Georgie. “That macaroni tried to speak with you and you cut him, Lizzie!”

Lizzie blinked. Had that really happened?

Georgie squeezed her hand. “Look, Anna is already surrounded with beaux. Isn’t that nice, Mama?”

Mama turned and suddenly she put aside her eye
mask, her gaze widening. “Ooh! Isn’t that Cliff de Warenne?”

Lizzie turned. Four men, including the two officers, surrounded Anna, all trying to talk to her at once. But just outside their group stood a man who was not in costume, looking partly bored and partly amused—no easy task. With his wildly streaked tawny hair and remarkable blue eyes, he was clearly the youngest of the earl’s sons. Rumor had it that he was an unconscionable rake, but Lizzie refused to form her opinion on rumor alone. He was also an adventurer—Lizzie knew he had been in the West Indies this past year or so. Like all the de Warennes, he was good-looking to a fault. Now he turned his back on the group and sauntered away. Lizzie decided that he was very bored, indeed.

“I have never seen such rude and unforgivable behavior!” Mama cried, looking outraged.

“Mama, Cliff de Warenne is not for our Anna,” Lizzie said quietly, quickly scanning the room.

Mama faced her with more outrage. “And why not, missy?”

Lizzie sighed. “We are not in their circle,” she tried gently.

“He is the youngest. He will hardly marry from the first ranks!”

“He is a de Warenne. He will inherit a fortune and will marry, I think, exactly as he chooses,” Lizzie said.

Mama huffed.

“I have heard he is a ne’er-do-well, and I would not want my Anna associated with such a man,” Papa stated.

“If he calls—and I know he will, I saw the way he was regarding our Anna—you will most certainly be pleased with such an association,” Mama declared.

Georgie and Lizzie exchanged glances and slipped
away from their parents, now in the throes of a good argument. “He is handsome,” Lizzie admitted with a smile.

“But not for any of us,” Georgie agreed, also smiling. Then her smile receded. “Sometimes I worry about Mama, Lizzie. She is under so much strain, with three daughters of marriageable age and no real funds to speak of. If only Anna would marry, I think some of the pressure would be instantly lifted.”

“Mama might suffer from boredom if she did not have us to launch into society,” Lizzie said seriously. “What would she do then?”

Georgie frowned. “She was in the dining salon the other day, sitting in a chair, looking quite pale and fanning herself as if she could not breathe.”

Lizzie halted in her tracks. “Do you think she is ill?”

“She claimed a mere shortness of breath and some dizziness. But I am worried. I wish she would rest a bit more.”

Lizzie was alarmed. “We will make her rest,” she decided.

Georgie suddenly seized her hand and, her tone teasing, said, “Isn’t that Sean O’Neill, the earl’s stepson whom Mama wishes you to meet?”

Lizzie followed her gaze and recognized the tall, dark-haired young man instantly. He was conversing with another gentleman very seriously, costumed as a knight. “I am certainly not marching over there and introducing myself to him!”

“Why ever not? He is quite the catch, I should think—and more in our league, as he isn’t titled.”

Lizzie scowled, wondering why Georgie was provoking her. “I wonder where Tyrell is.” She scanned the crowd a second time, quite certain he was not present. Even speaking his name caused her heart to skip wildly
in a combination of excitement and anxiety. “Let’s go into the ballroom,” she said.

But Georgie suddenly tugged her hand, forcing her to halt. “I also worry about you.”

Lizzie froze. “Georgie,” she began.

“No. It is amusing to dress up tonight in the hopes of trying to impress him after what transpired in town, but the truth is, this infatuation has gone on for far too long. How will you ever give another man a chance when you feel as you claim to?”

Lizzie folded her arms defensively over her chest. “I do not claim anything. I cannot help my feelings. Besides, I meant what I said the other day—my fate is spinsterhood.”

“I doubt that! Is it at all possible that you think you love him so you will never have to find the courage to face a real suitor?”

Lizzie gasped. “No,” she said, “I really love him, Georgie. I always have and I always will. I am not interested in finding someone else.”

“But he is not for you.”

“Which is why I shall grow old alone, taking care of Mama and Papa. Let’s go into the ballroom.” She did not want to discuss this any further.

But Georgie was determined. “I am afraid that you hide behind your love for him, just as you hide in your novels. There is a real world out there, Lizzie, and I so wish you would be a part of it.”

“I
am
a part of it,” Lizzie said, shaken. “As much as you are.”

“I don’t read a dozen romance novels every month. I do not claim to be in love with a man I can never have.”

“No, you bury yourself in political essays and articles! You are the one who almost refused to come to this ball,” Lizzie accused.

“I only refused because I knew that there is no one here for me,” Georgie snapped, as flushed as Lizzie now. “I know that one day I will have to accept one of Mama’s suitors, as I have no means of supporting myself in the future otherwise. Sometimes I pretend to myself that is not so, but we both know it is—just as one day you will have to wed, as well, and it won’t be Tyrell de Warenne.”

“I cannot believe you are talking like this,” Lizzie cried. A part of her ached for Georgie and was afraid for her, but she was also dismayed and even angry.

Georgie had calmed. “If Mama is ill from the burden she bears in caring for us, I may accept Mr. Harold. He seems the most interested in me, and I do not think his demands will be too harsh.”

Lizzie felt herself pale. “But he is old—he is fat—he is bald—he sells wine!”

“I hardly expect a dashing buck like Cliff de Warenne,” she said with a rueful smile.

“Oh, please, do not even think of marrying that…that toad!” Lizzie wanted to cry. “Let’s try to find you a better prospect—right now! There are so many handsome young men present.”

Georgie rolled her eyes. “And no one is going to look twice at me.”

“You are wrong,” Lizzie flashed. “You are very elegant tonight.”

Georgie shrugged. The ballroom was adjacent the reception hall and could be entered directly from it through various sets of double doors. It was very crowded inside and they bumped into the macaroni and his musketeer friend. Both men bowed. “My lady,” the macaroni said, and Lizzie thought he was speaking to Georgie, “would you do me the honor of joining me in this dance?’

Lizzie realized he was speaking to her just as Georgie
jabbed her in the ribs with her elbow. Suddenly dismayed, Lizzie realized that she did not want to dance, especially with the macaroni, who was clearly unable to keep his masked eyes from her cleavage. “I am sorry, this dance is taken,” Lizzie said politely.

He understood and with profuse apologies, turned away.

“Lizzie!” Georgie seemed angry now.

“I am not dancing,” Lizzie said stubbornly.

“You are not the shy one,” Georgie snapped, clearly in a temper, “You are the impossibly foolish one!” And she stalked off.

Lizzie was left alone. Instantly she regretted turning her suitor down, but only because of her sister’s reaction. Sighing, she turned to watch the dancers on the dance floor. The moment she ascertained that Tyrell de Warenne was not among them, she started to scan the surrounding crowd. If he was not in the ballroom, he might be outside in the gardens, as it was a pleasant night.

She felt eyes boring into her then.

Lizzie stiffened as if shot. Instantly she turned.

Tyrell de Warenne stood a short distance away, dressed as a pirate in thigh-high boots, tight black breeches, a black shirt, black eye patch and a wig on his head, with several narrow beaded braids around his face. He had his hand on his hip, where he wore a very genuine-looking sword, and he seemed to be staring directly at her.

Lizzie lost the ability to breathe. He could not be staring at
her
that way, so intently, as if he were a lion about to pounce on his prey. She turned to see what lovely lady stood behind her, but no one was there. She was by herself, quite alone.

Almost disbelieving, she faced him. Dear Lord, he was now striding toward her!

Lizzie panicked.
What
had she been thinking? He was
the heir to an earldom, as wealthy as she was poor, and eight years older than she. She couldn’t imagine what he wanted. Her heart was beating its way out of her chest—and she knew she would behave like a fool again.

Lizzie turned and fled out of the ballroom, suddenly terrified. She was no seductress and no courtesan. She was Elizabeth Anne Fitzgerald, a sixteen-year-old girl prone to daydreams, and it was absurd to try to tempt Tyrell de Warenne. She found herself in a gaming room filled with lords and ladies at various card and dice tables. There, she paused against the wall, panting and uncertain as to what she should now do. Had he really been approaching her? And if so, why?

And he suddenly strode into the room.

His presence was like the sunrise on a cold gray dawn. Instantly his gaze pinned her. He halted before her, leaving Lizzie stunned, her back to the wall.

She could only stare, her heart racing as wildly as it ever had.

“Do you really think to run from me?” he murmured. And he smiled.

She had stiffened impossibly. She could not move but she began to breathe, not normally but shallowly and rapidly. She tried to shake her head no, and failed.
What could he possibly want? Had he confused her with someone else?

He was so close, as close—no, closer—than he had been the other day in Limerick. She knew she must reply, somehow. But how could she? She had never seen him thus clad. The thigh-high boots drew her gaze the way a magnet did a coin, and from the top of the boots, her eyes drifted to his groin. There, a suggestive and very masculine swell was far too evident. She jerked her gaze up to his disreputably unbuttoned shirt, and saw a gold-and-
ruby cross lying amid the dark hairs of his chest. Moisture gathered in her mouth, and elsewhere, too. A most persistent aching began, that longing she spent days and nights trying to ignore.