The Masquerade (29 page)

Lizzie praised him, somehow, and slowly rose and looked up at Harrington. “My lord,” she said. “What brings you to the nursery?”

“I should like to speak with you,” Harrington said in such a manner no one would ever think of denying him.

Lizzie did not want to speak with him, but, on the other hand, she had to know what he really wanted. “Of course.”

Harrington continued to study her. “The child takes after his father, I see. You must be very proud of him.” He spoke in a factual manner.

“I am,” she said as nonsensically.

His gaze held hers. “I confess, you are not what I expected.”

Lizzie could not respond, as his words were somewhat rude.

“I expected an older woman, a woman of vast experience. How old are you?”

“I have just turned eighteen,” Lizzie managed to say.

“And your family?”

“The Fitzgeralds of Raven Hall,” Lizzie said. She added, “We are impoverished country gentry. Once, centuries ago, my ancestor was the earl of all of southern Ireland.”

His brows lifted. “I see, but hardly understand. You flaunt society—as does Tyrell—on the eve of his marriage to my daughter.”

“I am sorry,” Lizzie said, meaning it. “I am so sorry!”

He started in surprise.

“I have loved him my entire life. Since I was a small child—when he rescued me from a certain death. I am not here for any other reason than that my heart has ruled my intellect.”

Harrington remained as rigid as a soldier. “Is Tyrell in love with you, too?”

She hesitated. “I’m not certain. Sometimes I think so—I hope so—I don’t know.”

He studied her before speaking. “Sit down, Miss Fitzgerald. I would like to tell you a story,” he said.

Lizzie tensed in surprise, wondering what tactic this was. But she took a chair, folding her hands in her lap.

Harrington did not sit. He paced to look out of the nursery window. The mountains, green and wooded,
framed the blue summer sky. “Blanche has always known that I would allow her to marry for love.” He turned and looked at Lizzie, who was very surprised. “Indeed, I had asked her to choose her groom, some years ago.”

Lizzie felt her eyes widen. What was this about?

“We do not need funds and I am terribly well connected. My daughter is a great heiress, her title a minor one but her holdings so vast that I need not think of adding to the estate in any way.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Lizzie asked.

He raised his hand. “Blanche is nineteen years old, and for several years now I have waited for her to come to me aglow and in joy, telling me whom she has chosen to wed.”

Lizzie wondered if she had misheard Blanche at the engagement ball. Was she in love with Tyrell after all?

His next words relieved her. “But that day never came. I have rued it ever coming.”

He had her absolute interest now.

Suddenly Harrington pulled an ottoman over and sat down. His face seemed ravaged, resigned. “My daughter is not like other women, Miss Fitzgerald. But, dear God, it is not her fault.”

Lizzie was perplexed.

“Do you know that no one has seen her cry, not once in thirteen years? My daughter does not cry because she does not despair. She never loses her temper, her calm, nor does she exult, not in anything or anyone. Just as she cannot seem to anguish, she cannot seem to find joy.”

“Why?” Lizzie whispered, stunned.

“When she was six years old, she watched her mother being brutally murdered by a rioting mob. I was there, but I could not get through the mob to rescue them. Blanche tried to protect her mother but it was too late.
My wife was already dead. Some thug tossed Blanche aside and she lost consciousness. When she awoke, many hours later, she did not recall her mother or the murder.”

Lizzie was aghast. “I am so sorry.”

“Her memory loss was most fortunate, but that was the day my daughter forgot how to laugh and how to cry.” He stood. “You are not what I expected. I expected a flamboyant harlot. And I have shared this very private matter for a reason.”

Lizzie somehow knew what he would say next.

He looked right at her. “I chose Tyrell for her with the utmost care. He is a great man, honorable and kind, and as important, he is well versed in a genuine family. He is everything I want for my daughter, Miss Fitzgerald. And I fully expect my daughter to come to love him, one day—even if she must learn to do so.”

Lizzie felt a tear falling. If Harrington had thought to move her to great sympathy, he had succeeded.

“I know he will take great care of her. And I pray every single day that she will find love with him, no matter how long it might take. Does my daughter not deserve love, Miss Fitzgerald? After all she has been through?”

Lizzie nodded in misery. “Yes,” she said, feeling real anguish for her rival. “Yes, she does.”

“Mama?” Ned asked with worry in his tone, clearly aware of her distress.

Lizzie reached for his hand and held it. “Mama is fine,” she whispered, the greatest lie of her life.

Harrington waited.

Lizzie slowly stood. “You have nothing to fear from me,” she said unsteadily. “I have already decided to leave Tyrell. I am not a harlot, and my decision to reside here with him openly, with him about to be wed, was a terrible
one. Now my resolve has been strengthened. I will not stand in the way of your daughter, Lord Harrington.”

Real respect filled his eyes. “Thank you,” he said.

Lizzie closed her eyes against the renewed stabbing of pain. Then she opened them and managed to say, “I have one request.”

He stiffened. “Of course you do.”

“It is hardly what you are thinking,” she cried bitterly. “Ned belongs with his father. I want your word—your word as a gentleman of honor—that your daughter will be a good, kind mother to him and that he will not lack for anything.”

“You have it,” he said quietly.

Lizzie wiped the tears that fell freely down her face.

Harrington bowed deeply, and without a backward look, he left.

She had no tears left.

Lizzie stared up at the ceiling, watching as dawn crept over the plaster, absolutely numb with the extent of her grief. It even hurt to breathe. Once, within her breast, her heart had beat with so much joy, hope and love. Now every beat was dull and cold, hopeless. Now she understood the word heartache. There did not seem to be any way to soothe her pain.

Tyrell was leaving as usual for Dublin that morning. How perfect, she thought, as her departure was planned for directly after his.

She had not seen him since their argument yesterday. Last evening he had dined with Lord Harrington and she knew he was too respectful of him to ever try to creep into her bed after the evening was concluded. So he would depart for Dublin within an hour—and by midmorning, she would also be gone.

She had decided to go to Glen Barry, where she knew Eleanor was in residence. And then she would never see Tyrell again—or, if she did, he would be a married man, which was as it should be. Blanche’s past was a tragic one and Lizzie knew that she was doing the right thing. Even though it was wrong to love Tyrell, she would never stop doing so from afar. But would she ever see Ned again?

Lizzie could not bear to contemplate that question now. She had no doubt that Ned belonged with his father. If she dared to think of a future without her child, she might change her mind and take him with her.

And then she heard Tyrell entering the sitting room, outside her bedroom door. She was overwhelmed with surprise, sudden, foolish hope and crushing dismay. His determined footsteps sounded as he crossed the salon, approaching her door, and relief flooded her. She would see him this one last time.

Her door creaked as he opened it. Lizzie closed her eyes, knowing she must pretend to be asleep. If he saw her expression, gazed into her eyes, if they even tried to converse, he would instantly know her scheme.

He crossed the bedroom.

Lizzie forgot to breathe.

The bed dipped as he sat down beside her. His hand caressed her shoulder, her cheek. He removed some tendrils of hair from her face.

She wanted to rush into his arms and hold him; she did not dare.

He sighed, stood, and began to leave.

“Tyrell!” She leapt up, dashing across the room.

He whirled and she went into his arms, holding him hard, as hard as he held her. She buried her face against his chest, trying to memorize the feel of him, the power that he cloaked her in, the strength that would always be
the safest harbor she had ever known. He could not know, but this was goodbye.

“I thought you were asleep. I didn’t want to wake you. Elizabeth, I know how difficult this is for you.” He stroked her long, thick braid of hair.

Lizzie could not speak. All she could think to say was
I love you,
and that would not do.

His tone was rough. “Elizabeth, this is difficult for me, too.”

She looked up and saw the despair and regret in his eyes.

“We will get through this crisis.”

And Lizzie realized that he was suffering over their affair every bit as much as she was. She reached up to touch his face. “Do not blame yourself,” she whispered.

“But I wanted to make you happy. Instead, you have been crying.”

“I have been happy, Tyrell—”

“Many men have two families, two lives,” he said harshly. “I have thought long and hard about it. But I can see the doubt in your eyes, even now as I speak. Elizabeth! You must trust me.” He hesitated. “You must trust this.”

Some treacherous part of her wanted to stay then, for she trusted no one more. But that would change nothing. Lizzie closed her eyes. “I will always trust you, Tyrell.”

He took her face in his hands and suddenly kissed her with urgency and heat. Her body responded immediately, quivering against his, but she knew that if she took him to bed, even briefly, she would never keep her resolve. Somehow, she broke the kiss, shaken and shaking.

He gripped her hands and glanced back at the bed, clearly an instant from lifting her into his arms and carrying her there.

“No,” she whispered, her hands still on his chest. “No, Tyrell, you must go.” She pulled free. “Godspeed.”

Harrington stood at the window in the music room, which was just to the left of the entry hall. He watched Elizabeth Fitzgerald and her sister, standing in the driveway as their trunks were loaded into a carriage. He was grim.

He had truly expected a real whore, not a compassionate and pleasant young woman of good breeding. He was well aware that she was deeply in love with Tyrell, but she would have to get over her lover. He was sorry that she had to suffer now. He could see why Tyrell had been taken with her and he hoped, very much, that Tyrell did not love her too greatly.

But it did not matter even if he did.

For he must give his daughter a chance at living. If there was one thing he would achieve before he died, it was to see his daughter capable of real tears and real joy. And his own heart ached as it always did when he thought about his only child. Blanche was a beautiful woman now, and society praised her as perfection, for that was what it saw. No one knew the truth except for him, and now, Miss Fitzgerald. Blanche’s scars were invisible, but they made her a prisoner of a frightening dispassion.

Harrington watched the sisters climb into the carriage. He sighed with a regret he could not avoid, glimpsing Miss Fitzgerald’s tears. He hoped Tyrell would take care of her generously, as she had admitted that her family was impoverished. He made a mental note to investigate her family’s entire situation. If Tyrell did not compensate her, perhaps he would do so.

He was about to leave the window when a movement outside caught his eye. Harrington turned back and saw Elizabeth leaning out of the window, handing an envelope to the butler. She had written Tyrell a letter. Harrington knew at once that he must intercept the missive. He was
a very good judge of character and he felt certain that Miss Fitzgerald’s letter was some kind of emotional declaration. If so, its contents might encourage Tyrell to go after her. And that he could not allow, never mind his vast regret for Miss Fitzgerald’s heartbreak.

Harrington left the music room. The front door was ajar and he could see the carriage finally departing. The butler entered the house, letter in hand, closing the large door solidly behind him.

“Smythe.” Harrington came forward, extending his hand. “I shall take care of that.”

Smythe’s expression was instantly impassive yet deferential. “My lord, this letter is for his lordship.”

“I shall see that he gets it,” he said coolly, giving him such a look that any further defiance was impossible.

Flushing, the butler quickly handed him the envelope. It was, he saw, sealed. “That is all,” he said.

Smythe bowed and hurried away.

Harrington went to the library and found a letter opener in the desk there.

Harrington felt the oddest prickling of guilt. Miss Fitzgerald was so deeply in love. She was truly a noble woman, to sacrifice her own interests now and even encourage her lover to move on with Blanche. But he could not afford to be too compassionate toward her.

Harrington almost regretted what he had to do. Letter and envelope in hand, he crossed the room. A small fire danced behind the grate in the fireplace. He dropped the letter and its envelope into the fire and watched the flames consume it, silently hoping that one day, Miss Fitzgerald might forgive him.