The Masquerade (24 page)

“Lizzie is not feeling well and she is returning to her rooms.”

Rory’s flashing gaze slammed over Georgie. “Are you a part of this conspiracy, too?”

“I have no idea of what you speak of,” Georgie said, “but I must warn you, sir, to stay away from my sister.”

“Georgie,” Lizzie tried, stepping forward.

Georgie ignored her, and now Rory did not seem to see her at all. “I do not think you should interfere in our relationship,” he said in such a soft, dangerous tone that Lizzie shuddered.

Georgie cried, “I did not realize that you had a relationship with my sister!”

Their gazes locked. “You would be bothered by such a friendship?” he finally asked.

Georgie was red. “It bothers me that you think to meddle in my sister’s life,” she trembled. “She does not need you chasing after her, sir.”

He gave her another head-to-toe look and said, “I have no wish to argue with you, Miss Fitzgerald, as you have made your feelings for me clear. It is obvious that you can barely tolerate my presence. I am sorry I am not as gallant and as charming as your beloved fiancé. But then, some women are able to ignore certain physical attributes, and will sacrifice anything for a future of financial security. I hope you are very happy, Miss Fitzgerald, with your wine merchant.”

Lizzie cried out. “Rory, how can you speak that way!”

He jerked as if he had forgotten her existence.

Georgie was pale. “Some women have no choice when it comes to the future, Mr. McBane,” she said, looking quite shaken. “I don’t believe there is anything else to say. Good day.”

But Rory did not move. “I apologize,” he said grimly, his cheeks as pink as hers. “That was a most ungentlemanly thing to say.” He hesitated. “I did not mean to imply that you are marrying for a fortune.”

Georgie was hurt and Lizzie knew it, but she held her
head high. “As you said, it was not a gentlemanly thing to say.” She shrugged, her meaning clear: he was a poseur and not a real gentleman, not in any way.

Georgie turned away, but Lizzie was shocked to see her eyes suddenly filling with tears.

Because Georgie never cried—she was so rational, so sensible and so coolheaded in all matters—Lizzie rushed forward, determined to salvage her pride.

“Rory,” Lizzie said.

He tore his regard from Georgie’s back. When their gazes met, his face turned hard and grim. Lizzie stared back at him. A terrible, interminable moment passed.

“I thought we were friends,” he said harshly.

“We are friends. You are so dear to me!” Lizzie cried.

His gaze veered to Georgie and then to Ned, whom she had lifted into her arms. Then, regarding only Lizzie, he said, “Tyrell is also my friend.”

Lizzie inhaled. She touched his sleeve. “What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know. But first you must explain to me what you are doing, and why. I cannot believe the Lizzie Fitzgerald I have known for almost two years would play such a masquerade!”

Lizzie winced. “I had no choice.”

“We both know you have never carried any child. And I know you well, Lizzie. You are no desperate fortune hunter, thinking to trick Tyrell with some confidence game. I have come to one inevitable conclusion. Anna was the one who swooned upon arriving at Merrion Square. Anna was the one who was always indisposed and never able to socialize with anyone. He must be Anna’s son.”

Lizzie closed her eyes, her heart pounding. She did not know what to do. “Please,” she finally said. “Anna is happily married. Please.”

His eyes were wide. “So you claim your sister’s child as your own?”

Lizzie nodded.

“And Tyrell? He has agreed to let you sacrifice yourself this way? I find that very hard to believe!”

Lizzie prayed Rory and Tyrell would never speak about Ned. “Rory, stop! Ned is Tyrell’s son. We have an agreement—an arrangement, if you will. We are both doing what we think is best for Ned. Can that not be enough for you?” Even as she spoke, she was ashamed of herself. Tyrell had every right to know the entire truth. And loving him impossibly now, she realized that she could not go on much longer this way. “And I have to stay…I have come to love Ned as if he is my own.”

Rory continued to stare at her in disbelief. He finally said, “You lied to me. We are cousins. And I truly thought we had become genuine friends. You kept this secret from me.” He shook his head. “And now—now you are his mistress, aren’t you?”

Lizzie started.

“I am hardly blind! I thought I knew you. But I didn’t. I don’t,” he corrected. Not even bowing, he turned and strode angrily off.

Lizzie cried out after him. “Rory, wait!”

But he did not stop. Instead of entering the back of the house from the terrace, he veered to the side and went around it, disappearing finally from sight.

Georgie had come to stand beside her, Ned in her arms. “He is in love with you,” she said quietly. “That is why he is so upset.”

Lizzie turned in surprise. “No, you are wrong!”

Georgie just looked at her.

T
yrell stared out of the French doors, watching Elizabeth walking hand in hand with Ned toward the house, her sister with them. His heart was racing and he could not tear his gaze away. She let Ned go and the toddler began to run, teetering on his chubby legs, Elizabeth quickening her pace to follow. Ned tumbled face-first onto the lawn and Tyrell stiffened, about to fly outside to rush to the little boy’s side. But Elizabeth was at Ned’s side in almost the same instant, helping him to his feet. He tugged free of her and began to run again. Elizabeth, he saw, was smiling as she hurried after him.

His heart did the oddest set of somersaults.

Rex had come to stand behind him. He said, “I heard she emptied the contents of her purse the other day, giving every coin she had to a beggar woman. And yet, my understanding is that Elizabeth’s family is rather impoverished,” he added.

Tyrell did not look away. Elizabeth was now walking more slowly across the lawn, in conversation with her sister, Ned teetering ahead of them. The little boy stopped, still standing, although somewhat precariously, and cried triumphantly, “Mama!”

He could hear Elizabeth laugh and clap her hands. He
said to his brother, never removing his gaze from the object of his avid interest, “And where did you hear that bit of gossip?” He heard how light his tone was.

Rex smiled. “From the countess. They went to the orphanage together. Apparently Miss Fitzgerald has volunteered her time there for many years.”

Finally Tyrell turned to his brother. “Really.”

“Yes, really,” Rex murmured.

He should be surprised by her charity but he wasn’t. He already knew about her past involvement with the orphans of St. Mary’s, as he had made it his business to know everything about her some time ago. He knew her reputation: she was a wallflower, a bookworm and universally held in high regard. Until, that is, she had come home, the mother of a bastard child, the county pariah. In fact, it had been entirely out of character, but he had been too angry to consider that. All he had been able to think about was being duped by her sweet appearances yet again.

But he had not been duped.

There had not been another man.

She was not an unwed mother after all.
He had been her first.
He was thrilled; there was triumph.

Tyrell realized he had turned his gaze on her again, incapable of looking away, his heart pounding with both desire and some far greater emotion, one he did not wish to identify. She knelt in the grass with her son, the two of them exploring some flower, perhaps, or a bug. He could hear her laughter, soft and sweet, and he found himself incapable of drawing a normal breath. Appearances were not that deceiving after all, he thought with both satisfaction and relief. She was sweet, good and kind.

Last night he had known she was a virgin instantly. He had known it the moment he had begun to make love to
her, and had he been a better man, a more noble man, he would have stopped himself from taking her innocence. But that knowledge had sent him over the edge of any remnants of self-control—there had only been the vast, consuming need to possess her once and for all.

His elation was almost savage and it knew no bounds. He watched her with Ned and saw instead Elizabeth beneath him in his bed, the most passionate woman he had ever met, the most desirable woman he had ever beheld. He smiled, recalling her foolish attempts to hide the evidence of her virginity, her nervous anxiety when he had first come to her room, the way she had spilled wine all over the bed.

What woman would deny her innocence, pose as a courtesan and claim a child that was not hers as her own, ruining her reputation and her future?

There was only one possible answer. Elizabeth loved Ned—anyone could see that—and she was desperate to remain his mother. It had been an act of utter bravery and self-sacrifice.

He watched as Elizabeth lifted Ned into her arms, smiling with happiness, and with the toddler snuggling against her, she and Georgie disappeared through a different entrance into the house.

Was Ned his son?

Tyrell turned away from the terrace and his brother, walking slowly and reflectively across the room, his pulse pounding thick and hard. He was hardly a fool. And as it was now clear that Elizabeth was not Ned’s mother, it was also clear that Ned could very well be his son. After all, he had noted the remarkable resemblance as well as anyone.

His son.
He felt oddly certain of it.

Elizabeth could have claimed any other man as the father of the child that was not hers. She need not have
put herself in such a humiliating and precarious position. But not once had she denied that Ned was his. In fact, she spoke of Ned as his son more than she spoke of him as
her
son. Those telling actions, coupled with the insistent urgings of his heart, told him it was the truth.

It was remarkable, unbelievable, an incredible gift. He knew he should take some care and exercise some caution now, as he had no real confirmation, just the gut feeling and his suspicions, but he could not.

It was obvious now as to what had happened. The courtesan who had worn Elizabeth’s Maid Marian costume on All Hallow’s Eve had obviously become pregnant. Tyrell no longer thought that Elizabeth had decided to play some cruel game with him—it was out of character for her, just as her becoming pregnant with some stranger’s child was. He could not begin to imagine what had caused the switch. One day he might ask her what, precisely, had happened that night. He was no longer sure it mattered.

He could not guess why that imposter had not come to him when she had learned she was with child. She had approached Elizabeth instead, indicating some kind of relationship with her. And he wished that Elizabeth had come to him then. But neither woman had thought to attach herself to the de Warenne name or fortune. Instead, Elizabeth had taken the child in and claimed it as her own.

She might not have given birth to his son, but she was the mother of his child in every other way, and it was a blessing and a miracle, at once. She wasn’t a scheming fraud after all. She wasn’t a cold, clever liar or a trickster of the first degree. She was the shy one, the pretty one, the kind one, the wallflower without suitors, and only an odd twist of fate had put her in such a compromising position.

He respected her courage and admired her self-sacrifice to no end.

“Finally, you are looking at your son as if you believe he is really yours,” Rex remarked.

Tyrell did not hesitate. “I never said I did not believe he was my own flesh and blood.”

Rex gave him a disbelieving look. “I heard you are leaving for the Pale today.”

Tyrell turned. “Yes, I am. And I know what you wish to ask, so I will tell you. They are coming with me.”

“By
‘they,’
I assume you mean both Miss Fitzgerald and your son?”

“Yes, I do. Now, if you will excuse me?”

Before he could turn, Rex grabbed his arm. “I won’t bring this up again. But Miss Fitzgerald is a very kind young lady and she deserves more than the shame you have brought down on her.”

Abruptly he pulled away, guilt blooming. He hurried into the hall, knowing damn well that his brother was right. Before he had taken Elizabeth’s innocence, when he had assumed her a very fallen woman of few morals, he had not thought twice about making her a mistress. Now it gave him pause.

But what could he do? He had already ruined her. If he were not the heir, if he were a younger son, he would have been able to marry her, which was what she deserved. Now his head began to pound and he had that feeling of being trapped. He was the next earl of Adare and there was no question as to where his duty lay. His marriage had been arranged and he would not question it—even though a part of him wanted to. A part of him could even see Elizabeth as the next countess. She would be gracious, kind, beloved by all—he knew it with all of his being.

Tyrell leaned against the wall, his chest aching, his head hurting. His thoughts were sheer treachery and he
knew it. Now, more than ever, his course was set. Ned was his child and, in every way but the biological one, Elizabeth was his mother. He would take care of them both. It was hardly ideal, having a wife and a mistress, but most men would not think twice about it. After last night, there was no choice. He needed Elizabeth and he was acutely aware of it. Ned needed her, too. His life had become a tightrope. He could feel the pressure of taking one false step. For now, he must be careful and discreet. Elizabeth deserved all of his respect and protection, but so did Lady Blanche. And in the future? His insides tightened at the mere thought. Once he was married, somehow he would manage to juggle both families. If other men could do so, certainly he could, as well.

Tyrell stiffened. Elizabeth, Ned and Georgie had entered the opposite end of the hall. She must have sensed him because she faltered, glancing over her shoulder. She saw him and went still.

He strode to her and paused before them, bowing, all turmoil vanishing. “Have you enjoyed your picnic?” he asked politely, when his heart was hammering uncontrollably in his chest. Now all he could think of was taking her into his arms and his bed.

Elizabeth was blushing. “Yes, my lord, very much, thank you.”

He tore his gaze to Ned, who stood beside Elizabeth, gazing sternly up at him. Tyrell could feel the child’s emotions—he was suspicious and protective, all at once. So much joy filled his heart that he had but one coherent thought. “He needs to learn to ride,” he said.

Elizabeth started. “He is only a year old—”

Tyrell smiled at her, meeting her wide, amazing gray eyes and recalling them as they turned to smoke, just before she climaxed. “I was on the back of a horse at his
age. With my father, of course. With your permission, I should like to do the same when we get to Wicklowe.”

Elizabeth seemed incredulous. “Of course you have my permission, my lord.”

“And you may join us, of course,” he added.

She smiled shyly at him. “I think not, my lord.”

He was surprised she would refuse him, and even hurt. “You would refuse me?” he asked, almost adding, after last night?

“No,” she cried, a small gasp that reminded him of her passionate cries the night before. “I do not know how to ride. Should I try, I would undoubtedly fall off.”

He laughed and impulsively took her hand, lifting it to his lips and kissing it. The moment he held her palm and felt her flesh with his mouth, all thought of horseback riding vanished. He had become, so easily and instantly, utterly aroused. “I will teach you,” he murmured, thinking of all that he wished to teach her, none of it having anything to do with horses. “I will teach you everything you need to know, if you will allow me to do so.”

She stared at him breathlessly, her cheeks pink. “You may teach me anything, my lord,” she whispered, and then she lowered her lashes so that they fanned out over her cheeks.

He was slammed with more desire than he had ever felt before. He released her hand, no simple task, and bowed. “Until this afternoon,” he said harshly.

She did not reply.

Realizing he had not even acknowledged her sister, he finally nodded at her. Then he reached out and touched Ned’s cheek. He had never touched him before and he faltered, overcome.

This was his child, his son. He knew it with every fiber of his being, every pulse of his heart.

Ned smiled at him, all suspicion clearly gone.

Tyrell smiled back. Then he straightened, aware of warmth stealing into his cheeks, and he met Elizabeth’s steady, surprised regard. For one instant, their gazes locked anew and all he saw was his son and his wife.

It wasn’t until he had turned and left them that he realized what he had been thinking, and was horrified.

Tyrell had chosen to ride by horseback to Wicklowe, traveling alongside the coach on a handsome black steed. He remained astride and few words were exchanged, but Lizzie did not mind; she had Georgie for company, as well as Ned and Rosie, and she was simply too excited. Having spent the first night at a wayside inn, they traveled for most of the next day. It was late in the afternoon when their carriage passed through a pair of high, wrought-iron gates.

Lizzie hung out of her window, straining to see. The Pale was famous for its many palatial homes, all built in the past century, when the Irish and Anglo aristocracy chose to live within mere hours of Dublin, where society and government had then reigned. The coach had turned onto a long, tree-lined drive made of white crushed shells. Lizzie saw the estate ahead and she gasped.

Lush green lawns and magnificent gardens swept from the road to the mansion. Dazzling white, four or five stories tall and rather square, it was set back from a large, man-made lake in the center of the drive. Two wings, half as high as the central part of the house, fanned out from it on either side. In the midst of the lake was a large limestone water fountain. Framing the perfect scene were the Wicklow Mountains and the brilliantly blue skies.

“This is far grander than Adare,” Georgie said in awe. “It is not even fifty years old. I was told the current earl’s grandfather built it.”

“It is like a palace,” Lizzie added, stunned. This was where they would live? Was it possible? It was a residence befitting the earl and the countess and no one of any lesser rank.

Georgie smiled at Lizzie. “Can you believe it? This is your new home!”

“It is
our
new home,” Lizzie returned. They had finished circling the lake, which was bordered by perfectly clipped hedges, mostly in tall, fantastical shapes. The drive straightened and about a hundred yards ahead lay the house, the front of which was designed like a Roman temple. Now she could see servants pouring from it. The entire staff was lining up to greet their master’s son—the man who would one day be their lord and master, the next earl of Adare.

Lizzie sat back in the coach against the velvet squabs. What was she doing? She was not Tyrell’s wife, she was his mistress, and suddenly she was acutely aware of it. She should not care what these servants thought, but somehow, she did. She reminded herself that everyone had been more than kind to her at Adare. But she had been so insidiously introduced there; this was vastly different.