The Masquerade (17 page)

Lizzie paused on the threshold of the room she had been shown to. Rosie stood behind her, Ned in hand. The countess was instructing a maid to light a fire and open the windows, the green satin draperies already pulled aside. “I hope you will be pleased here,” she said with a smile.

Lizzie already knew how wealthy the earl was. She had seen some of the public rooms at Adare, and all were dazzling in the display of art, in the plasterwork,
in the gilded and upholstered furnishings. But she was not prepared for the vast suite that faced her now. Surely this was a mistake! She had only hastily explained to her parents that she would stay at Adare with Ned but five minutes ago, and she remained in a state of dazed, amazed confusion.

She had expected a small maid’s room, or, if she were very fortunate, a modest bedroom similar to her own room at Raven Hall. Instead, Lizzie was faced with a room so large an entire cottage could be placed inside it. There was a huge fireplace with a tawny marble mantel over it, in front of which was an entire sitting area. A portrait of some long-ago de Warenne was over the mantel, the nobleman smiling with the ease and arrogance that only the rich and powerful had. The sofa was the same soft moss-green as the plastered walls and the facing armchairs were pink and gold, like the starburst on the ceiling. The floors underfoot were oak and half a dozen well-kept red-and-gold Persian rugs covered them. A gleaming oak table, set with linen and crystal and a fresh floral centerpiece, along with four dining chairs upholstered in soft tan leather, indicated a dining area. Finally, at the other end of the salon, a number of windows looked out over Adare’s famous gardens.

“Your bedroom is in here,” the countess said, gesturing at the open doorway to another room.

Lizzie glanced her way and saw a gold room dominated by a huge, equally golden, canopied bed.

She trembled, still overcome with confusion and disbelief.
Tyrell was installing her at Adare as his mistress.
She had expected to be ridiculed and thrown out. She had expected to go home with Ned, Tyrell hating her for being such a liar. But Tyrell did not hate her, oh, no. That bed was the proof that he did not hate her at all—far from
it. He wanted her enough that he would corroborate her lie, claiming Ned as his own. And she saw herself rising from the bed as Tyrell stood in the doorway, his eyes smoldering with passion and promise.

Was she in the midst of a fantastic dream? If she pinched herself, would she wake up?

She did not want to ever wake up if this was truly a dream!

Would Tyrell visit her tonight?

Was she really about to become his mistress?

She, Lizzie Fitzgerald, had always been the shy one, the plain one, the wallflower at every party. Was it possible that he wanted her enough to give her all of this—and to even claim Ned as his own?

“Are you all right, Miss Fitzgerald?” the countess asked quietly.

Lizzie had not even heard her approach. She somehow focused and the image of Tyrell, about to make love to her, vanished. Instead, she saw an elegant, handsome older woman standing before her, some concern in her eyes.

“Are you certain these rooms are for me?” she heard herself ask.

The countess smiled. “Of course I am. This is one of the guest wings, and it is where Tyrell suggested you stay.” Her gaze had become searching.

Lizzie hesitated, now fully aware of the lady she was with. “I cannot thank you enough for your kindness,” she said quietly. “I am so sorry we made such a scene.”

“I am sorry you had to endure the discomfort that you did,” the countess returned. “But if you did not wish a scene, why did you even tell your parents that Tyrell is Ned’s father?”

“I didn’t,” Lizzie said, no longer angry with her aunt.
“Only my aunt Eleanor knew and she had promised utter secrecy. But she broke that promise yesterday.”

The countess reached for her hand. “We do not know each other well, I am afraid, although I suspect that will change. But I am glad your aunt spoke up. Ned has every right to the life that we can give him. And I, for one, am thrilled to have a grandson.” She smiled widely then.

Lizzie smiled back. “He is so clever, so handsome and so noble! He is so much like his father.…” She stopped and felt her cheeks flush.

The countess studied her for a moment. “The other bedroom is for Ned and Rosie. Is there anything else that you need?”

Lizzie glanced around the huge living room and then into her bedroom, and she felt her heart beat with growing excitement. “I think we are fine.”

“Good.” The countess hesitated. “Could I take Ned into the gardens for a walk? I am so eager to become acquainted with him. He seems awake enough.”

Lizzie glanced at Ned, who was in Rosie’s arms. He was yawning, but his eyes remained bright. “Of course,” she said.

“I promise not to be long,” the countess said, taking Ned from Rosie’s arms. “Hello, my handsome little grandson. I am your grandmother. You may call me Grandmama.”

Ned yawned again, appearing distinctly arrogant and bored. He said, “Ned!”

Lizzie bit back a smile. “Rosie, could you accompany Lady Adare?” Lizzie asked.

Rosie nodded and the trio left.

Left to her own devices now, her excitement rose. But there was also so much trepidation.

She had dreamed of being in Tyrell’s arms for her
entire life, but she had never expected her dreams to come even partly true. Less than a half an hour ago, he had kissed her and she had almost fainted from the sheer pleasure, the sensual delight. She held her burning cheeks with both hands. There was no denying now that she was an extremely passionate woman, as she ached to be in his arms again. But dear God, could she really be his mistress?
How could this be happening to her?

Lizzie sat down hard, trying to sort through her confusion. Even though she was already considered ruined, she knew the difference between right and wrong. A carnal affair was wrong. Wedlock was right. But did it matter, considering that the world thought her little more than a harlot? Did it matter, when Tyrell was extending his name to his son?

Lizzie inhaled. In a way, he was blackmailing her, but this arrangement was best for Ned. It would be hurtful to her family, she knew that, but she had only to clasp her hands to her heated cheeks to know that there was no going back. Tyrell had made himself and his intentions clear. Even if she could somehow manage to decide that she should take Ned and leave, he wasn’t going to allow it.

Lizzie admitted to herself that she didn’t want to leave. Soon, very soon, she would be Tyrell de Warenne’s mistress.

One issue loomed. Would he comprehend that she was a virgin when he took her to bed? She knew enough about lovemaking to think that a man like Tyrell would certainly know the difference between a courtesan and a virgin. Somehow, she must conceal the extent of her innocence from him.

Her heart continued to pound, enough so that she was becoming light-headed. She glanced into the bedroom at the huge bed. She hugged herself. She could hardly wait until he came to her—she had never ached like this, had
never felt so hollow. How much time did she have to devise a plan to fool him, so he would never guess she was not Ned’s mother?

She had heard that there was some pain and some blood the first time. The pain she would ignore, the blood could be washed away. Could she possibly ply him with enough wine so that he never suspected it was her first time? Could she somehow attain a mild sleeping potion? If he were groggy and intoxicated, surely he would never notice her innocence.

She would ask for some wine, she thought in excitement, and she would spike it with a herb, valerian. Every medicinal closet had some, as did most kitchens.

Still hugging herself, her entire body as warm as her cheeks, Lizzie glanced at the canopied bed. The hangings were gold brocade, the underside a soft, pale blue. Large, gold, tassled pillows were piled up against the head-board. The embroidery was fantastic, and the bed coverings were the same gold brocade as the bed curtains. Unable to help herself, Lizzie walked into the bedroom and pulled back the coverlet. As she had suspected, the sheets were silk. She caressed them and her entire body tingled.

“I cannot wait until the moon rises,” Tyrell de Warenne said softly, “and apparently, neither can you.”

Lizzie whirled.

He stood in the bedroom doorway, one shoulder against the jamb. His smile was indolent, but there was nothing casual about the gleam in his dark blue eyes.

His intention was so clear, Lizzie swayed in a rush of excitement, but she managed to think about the fact that she had neither wine nor valerian and she needed both, for she must deceive him now.

“My lord,” she whispered. “I never expected any of
this.” Without looking away from him, she gestured at the suite of rooms.

“As I said, as my mistress you will not lack for anything. So I take it you are pleased with my choice of rooms?”

She somehow nodded. He stood twenty feet away from her, but his presence was hot and hard and she could feel it surrounding her, indomitable in its strength, its will.

“Then I am pleased,” he murmured, approaching with long, slow strides.

Every part of her body was tense with anticipation. Fire roared in her veins, even though he had yet to touch her. “The countess will return shortly,” she said.

He paused before her and took her into his arms. “The door is closed.”

It was hard to be alarmed when his hard thighs were pressing into her own softer body and she wanted nothing more than his kiss. Lizzie could no longer speak or move and her heart felt as if it might break free from her chest. Tyrell smiled slowly and touched her face with one hand.

“I find you very beautiful,” he said roughly.

Lizzie somehow knew that he meant it, even though she was as plain as a post. “And you are the most handsome man I have ever laid my eyes upon,” she said fervently.

He started in surprise, then some laughter lit his eyes. “Shall we trade in praise and flattery, then?” he asked softly, running a fingertip down her cheek to her jaw and over her mouth, where he paused.

He had set a fire in her loins with such a simple touch and she could not breathe.

He knew, because he smiled and moved his finger lower, down her throat. “Your pulse races with the speed of a hummingbird’s wings, Elizabeth,” he said softly.
And he slid the hard tip of his finger down her bare upper chest.

Lizzie heard herself moan.

His gaze had lowered to the lace edge of the bodice he toyed with; now it jerked to her face. She stared into his smoking eyes and heard him say, “I want you to disrobe.”

Lizzie somehow realized what he had said and was stunned by the request, yet oddly, she was elated and not afraid. He smiled and whispered, tugging the edge of her bodice lower, “I want to admire every inch of you. Somehow I knew you would not mind.”

Her dress was tearing and he clearly did not care. The rip revealed her sheer white chemise and the dark outline of her aureole. His hand froze.

Then, very deliberately, he fisted his hand. Lizzie could not look away. He rubbed his knuckles over the heavy side of her breast, twice, and then the knuckles moved to the edge of the dark fleshy ring he had exposed. Inhaling harshly, his hard knuckles slid inside the chemise and against the tight, hot tip of her nipple.

Lizzie bit her lip to keep from moaning and failed nevertheless.

He rubbed the nipple, again and again, breathing hard and harshly, and then he arched her backward over his arm and claimed that tip with his mouth.

Lizzie clung to his shoulders, felt the curls of his hair, as he sucked and nipped and then licked her. His teeth both hurt her and brought the most extreme pleasure, and before she knew it, she began to pant harshly, uncontrollably, while the delta between her legs swelled to impossible proportions. “Don’t stop,” she heard herself beg.

“I will never stop,” he said. He lifted her into his arms and laid her quickly on the bed. Lizzie glanced at his
ravaged face, very close to a climax, and unable to help herself, she gripped his head and strained upward, finding his lips with her own. A harsh, ragged sound of surprise came from him at her aggression. Lizzie did not care—she wanted to taste him fully, and not just on his lips but everywhere. Frustrated with his hesitation, she bit him and kissed him again.

“Oh, ho!” he said in rough surprise. He tore his mouth free of hers, threw one huge thigh over her belly, a movement that caused her to glimpse the very large and rigid line of his arousal, clearly delineated by his doeskin breeches. He ripped her gown in two and smiled at her.

She went still, stunned.

His eyes were black. Slowly he reached down and crushed her breasts. A line of sweat trickled from his brow. He began to fondle her with no apparent hurry, even though his jaw was flexed and his temples throbbed. “You remind me of Botticelli’s Venus,” he whispered, “and soon I will bury myself in you.”

Their gazes met. And with both of his hands on her, Lizzie begged as she had never begged before. “Hurry, my lord, hurry, hurry now before it is too late!”

He leaned down to kiss her, thrusting deeply with his tongue.

Lizzie arched up against him. Her heated sex felt explosive and she vainly tried to make contact with any part of his anatomy. She wept in her distress and need. He whispered, “My poor, sweet dear,” and whipped her skirts up.

She barely knew what he was doing, but she sobbed, “Yes, hurry, yes.”

He palmed her hard.

Lizzie’s eyes flew open and their gazes met.

He looked at her in real astonishment. His expression became one of savage satisfaction, but Lizzie no longer
saw him. He had spread her sex, he was stroking her, and the frenzy in her blood spiraled uncontrollably. Finally, all containment gone, Lizzie exploded, crying out as she was hurled far, far away.

And when she returned to earth, she lay panting in a huge canopied bed that was not her own, her gown torn in two, her skirts about her waist, with Tyrell de Warenne striping off his jacket and unbuttoning his shirt, his expression strained with intention and lust. But even as he did so, he stared at her, his gaze unwavering.