The Masquerade (33 page)

“You must have a death wish, standing outside on such a night,” Devlin remarked calmly. Tyrell knew that Elizabeth was distantly related to him and he wondered if those pale gray eyes ran in the Fitzgerald family. “If you wish to freeze yourself, I think I shall protest. Here.” He handed Tyrell the drink.

Tyrell accepted it.

Devlin looked at the broken glass, a few shards of which remained on the wide balustrade. Tyrell drank and hoped his stepbrother would mind his own affairs. To circumvent him, he said, “Virginia has never been lovelier, and I have never seen her happier. Motherhood suits her, clearly, as does marriage to you.”

Devlin smiled. “She is with child again, Ty,” he said in a soft tone, the kind of tone Tyrell was simply unaccustomed to hearing from him.

“Good God! Congratulations are in order, I think.” And for the first time since Elizabeth left, a glimmer of pleasure touched him. He was genuinely happy for them both.

“And I have not yet congratulated you on your engagement,” Devlin said, staring far too closely.

Tyrell’s smile vanished and he nodded. “Our paths have not crossed since you returned home. Thank you.”

Devlin’s gray eyes were piercing. “Your bride-to-be is a beautiful woman,” he finally said.

“Yes, she is.” Tyrell turned away.

“And you do not care. She does not interest you in the least.”

“Do not start!” Tyrell whirled furiously.

Devlin was completely taken aback. “What the hell is this?”

Tyrell recovered his temper to the best of his ability, wishing he had not revealed his extreme state of mind.

“I have seen you lose your temper no more than two or three times in all the years I have known you,” Devlin said quietly. “You are one of the most mild-mannered men I know. It is almost impossible to get a rise from you, Tyrell.”

“Do not interfere,” Tyrell said tersely.

Devlin’s brows lifted. “Interfere in what? I thought you appeared oddly put out when I arrived here today. What the hell is wrong?”

Tyrell smiled grimly. “What could be wrong? I am marrying a woman who is beautiful, gracious and genteel. Indeed, I am marrying a great fortune. The lady Blanche is perfection, is she not?”

“The lady Blanche,” Devlin slowly repeated.

Tyrell gripped the balustrade and stared out into the night.

Devlin moved to stand beside him. A long moment passed before he spoke, and then his tone was quiet and careful. “You have been a great brother to me. When your father married my mother, you could have refused to accept Sean and myself. Not only did you welcome us into your family, you did so with the utmost loyalty. I remember a time shortly after their wedding. There was so much gossip about the earl and my mother in those days. People wanted to think that she had been unfaithful to my father. I tried to blacken the eye and break the nose of some farmer for his insults, a man twice my age and size. You didn’t think twice about joining in the fight, Ty. That day you truly became my brother.”

Tyrell recalled the incident well. They had both been eleven years old, and he had never seen such reckless behavior or such courage as he had in Devlin. Now he had to smile. “Father was furious. He took a lash to us both.”

“My father would have taken his fist to my head,” Devlin said without bitterness. He was also smiling. “I preferred the lash.”

Tyrell laughed.

Devlin clasped his shoulder. “And when I behaved so terribly to Virginia, to obtain revenge on her uncle, you interfered, not once, but time and again. Then, I was furious with you. Now, I have only gratitude. Tell me. What is wrong?”

No one knew better how to disarm an adversary than Devlin O’Neill, and now, even though Tyrell was determined to keep his anger and misery to himself, a part of him wished for a confidant.

“You have always known that the earl would one day find you an advantageous union,” Devlin said. “The stepbrother I am so fond of would eagerly fulfill his obligations. The stepbrother I have known my entire life would be very pleased with the lady Blanche and all she brings to this family.”

Tyrell gave him an exasperated look. “She is very pleasing,” he said firmly. “I am very pleased.”

“And I am to believe you?” He studied him for a moment. “Is it a woman?” he finally asked.

Tyrell made a sound of disgust.

Devlin’s brows lifted. “Until Virginia came into my life, turning it—and myself—upside down, I would have never asked such a question. But only a woman could cause such a foul and ungracious mood in a man.”

Tyrell laughed bitterly. “Very well. I shall confess all. I have been duped by a clever little trickster. Fool that I am, I truly harbored affection for her. And now, damn it, even knowing that my feelings were hardly returned, as she rejected me in no uncertain manner, I cannot get her out of my mind.”

Devlin appeared genuinely surprised. “Do I know the…er, lady in question?”

“No, you do not—although it is coincidence that you share an ancestor with her.”

Devlin was intrigued. “Who the hell is she?”

“Elizabeth Anne Fitzgerald,” Tyrell said.

Blanche paused as three servants placed her trunks in the center of her bedroom. Long ago, she had moved out
of her childish room into a huge and opulent suite in the east wing of Harrington Hall. Her father’s suite was in the west wing and just across the courtyard. She surveyed the pale pink-and-white upholstered walls, the numerous works of art hanging there, the bed, with its white-and-gold hangings and covers, the matching furniture, and she smiled, terribly relieved.

It was so good to be home. She had only been gone for three days, but it had felt like an eternity—it had felt like prison.

“Blanche!”

At the sound of her father’s surprised tone, she slowly turned to see him staring at her from the adjacent salon. She knew him so well—better than anyone—and she could see that he was as dismayed as he was surprised to see her. “Hello, Father.”

“What is this?” he asked. He nodded curtly at the servants, indicating a dismissal, which they all understood. They fled.

She paused before him. “I explained to Tyrell that you have been feeling poorly and that I really must come home,” she said somewhat anxiously.

“I am fine! I don’t know where you got this notion in your head that I am not well. I have never felt better!” Harrington said sharply. “Blanche, what is this? Did you not enjoy your stay at Harmon House?”

He was so vehement that she was dismayed. “Father? I know you have not been feeling all that well. And surely you have missed me? This is a huge house. No one could wish to live here alone.”

His gaze was searching. “Of course I have missed you! But you have made up this nonsense about my health, Blanche, and we both know why.” He softened. “You are my life, Blanche, but you belong with Tyrell,
your fiancé. Has something happened? Surely he has been a perfect gentleman.”

Blanche closed her eyes. She was certain her father was feeling a bit poorly just as she was certain he needed her to take care of him. A wave of comprehension swept over her then.
She could not do this.
Her place was in her father’s home, at his side, attending him, as it had always been. She had tried to do as he wished, but she did not want to marry Tyrell or anyone.

“Blanche?”

She managed to smile at him. “He is very kind, just as you said he would be. He is good and noble, and he will make a perfect husband, really.”

Harrington stared closely at her. “Then why are you here?”

“I miss you,” she said truthfully. Nothing had changed. Her father remained the single anchor of her life.

Why couldn’t she be like other women, Blanche wondered as she so often did. Other women would be thrilled to have Tyrell de Warenne for a husband, to share his heated kisses. She touched her breast and felt her heart beating, slow and steady, so she knew it was still there.

“And after the past four months, you still have no affection for Tyrell?”

She faced him. “Father, I feel nothing for him. My heart remains as defective as ever. I am so sorry! You know I would be pleased to fall in love. I have tried! But perhaps we must face the ugly truth. I am never going to fall in love with anyone—I am incapable of that kind of passion.”

“We don’t know that,” he finally said. The memory that filled him was intense, terrible and far too familiar; usually he kept it deeply buried, but there were times when even he was not powerful enough to shove it away.

His precious daughter, surrounded by a raging, angry crowd. Every window on the street was being hastily boarded up, every front door bolted, barred and locked. The Harrington coach was in the midst of the mob, the horses cut loose, the carriage about to be overturned; both his daughter and his wife had been seized and dragged from it moments ago, and then separated. Blanche continued to scream for her mother in terror. He could just glimpse her white-blond hair.

He had chosen to ride astride that day as they went from their London home to the country. He should have known better than to move his family on an election day, as it was an excuse for the mob to attack just about anyone and everything in its path, but especially the wealthy. Now he and his mount had been forced far from the carriage by the dozens of bloodthirsty farmers, most of whom carried pikes and torches. Fire had begun to rage in some of the shops. The windows that weren’t boarded were being broken.

“Blanche!” he screamed, trying to spur his frightened horse through the fray. “Margaret!”

Blanche’s bloodcurdling screams filled the air, and then, somehow, through the crowd, he saw her struggling with a man who held her. Near her, another man held up Margaret’s bloody, battered body. The crowd roared its approval and his wife disappeared from sight. Hours later he found her; she had been beaten and stabbed to death.

Mama!

Harrington inhaled, his eyes filling with tears. He intended to fight as hard as he ever had for his daughter’s chance at a future. He desperately wanted her to have a life like other women, but a part of him felt certain that she never would. A part of him somehow knew that her
heart had been so terribly scarred it could only beat, but not feel.

“Father?” Blanche whispered, clasping his shoulder from behind.

He turned. “There is still time. Your wedding isn’t until May. By then, you may very well fall in love with Tyrell.”

Blanche was certain that would never happen. “I so want to please you,” she said, “but I don’t know if I can do this.”

“No,” he said harshly, confronting her. “I have gone to great lengths to provide for your future, to secure your happiness. This was hardly a simple negotiation! I want you to return to Harmon House immediately.”

Blanche was dismayed. “I want to spend the holidays here, with you,” she said.

And as he was wont to do, he lost his temper. “You need to be with your fiancé. Or would it please you if he went back to his mistress?”

Blanche gasped. “He has a mistress?” She was as intrigued as she was aghast.

Harrington flushed. “He was very involved with Miss Elizabeth Fitzgerald last summer. In fact, they were living together at Wicklowe. She is the mother of his bastard.”

Blanche was disbelieving. “And this is the first I have heard of this?”

“I confronted Miss Fitzgerald there and made sure she saw the error of her ways. I made certain that she left him,” Harrington said. “I did not want her in the way.”

Blanche began to recover from the shock. “It must have been quite serious! If she bore his child and was living with him—”

“It doesn’t matter,” Harrington said. “Surprisingly, she is a well-bred young lady and she felt some remorse for her sins. But to make certain the affair was over, I had
to destroy the farewell letter she left for Tyrell. She was certainly in love with him,” he added darkly.

“You destroyed her letter? Father!” Her curiosity increased—it had been a love affair?

“I did it for you, my dear. I did not want Tyrell chasing after her.”

If her father had gone to such lengths, did it mean that Tyrell had been in love with Miss Fitzgerald? He was so aloof, she could hardly imagine him being passionately inclined toward any woman. “Father, I don’t think you should have destroyed that letter.”

“It was a love letter and I did not want Tyrell to see it.” He was grim. “I am telling you all of this for a reason, my dear. Miss Fitzgerald is residing with her aunt at Belgrave Square. Now Tyrell is in London, too. It bothers me. I want him dancing attendance on you, Blanche. I do not want him running into her in the park one day! And that is why I am insisting you return to Harmon House.”

Blanche could not go back. She shook her head, filled with determination. “Father, I don’t want to leave you. Please, don’t make me go.”

Harrington stared for a long moment and then his face collapsed. “You know I have never been able to deny you, not when you plead with me like that.”

Blanche was filled with relief. “Thank you.”

“But you must not give up on Tyrell,” he added swiftly. “This is your future, Blanche! I will not be here forever.”

She swallowed hard, refusing to think about the day when God would take her father from her. She could not bear to contemplate it.

“I shall ask him to join us for supper tomorrow,” her father was adding. He put his arm around her. “How does that sound?”

“Fine,” Blanche murmured, but she had hardly heard him. She was thinking about Tyrell’s mistress now. Apparently Miss Fitzgerald was but a short carriage ride away.

L
izzie was alone in the salon, trying to read a novel, but it was simply impossible to concentrate. It was the day after Christmas and she felt oddly lost and alone, although her sister and her aunt were in the house. She kept thinking about Tyrell and Ned, wondering at the Christmas they had shared. The letters on the page in front of her continued to dance and blur. She had just snapped the novel shut, giving up, when Leclerc walked in. He was holding a bouquet of flowers. “Miss Fitzgerald?” He smiled at her. “This just came.”

Lizzie had not a clue as to who would be sending her flowers. “How lovely,” she said, glad of a distraction. The fact that the day was so gray and sunless did not help her somber mood. “Let’s put them in a vase on that table over there.”

When he had left, she took the small card from its envelope and realized the flowers were not for her. They were for Georgie—and Rory had signed the card with a handsome flourish that seemed so typical of him.

It was too late—she had already read the card. “My dearest Miss Fitzgerald,” he had written, “I thought you might enjoy these flowers, a small sign of my admission
of defeat and a greater sign of my admiration for you. Your devoted servant, Rory T. McBane.”

Lizzie was thrilled. Rory was clearly courting her sister and she was determined to help him succeed. Never mind that her sister should marry for some financial security, for they were a perfect match.

Leclerc returned to the threshold of the salon, his expression odd. “Miss Fitzgerald? You have a caller.” He handed her the silver tray with the calling card.

Lizzie lifted it and stilled with shock.

Blanche Harrington had called. Blanche Harrington was even now in her front hall.

Leclerc must have known everything, because he said, “Shall I tell her you are out, Miss Fitzgerald?” His tone was kind.

Lizzie faced him, reeling. What could she want? How could this be? “No,” she gasped breathlessly. “No. Just give me a moment, Leclerc. Then send her in—and bring tea.”

He nodded gravely, bowed and left.

Lizzie realized she remained rooted to the floor and ran to the room’s single mirror. She pinched her pale cheeks and tucked stray tendrils of hair into her coiffure. She smoothed down the bodice of her pale green gown, suddenly relieved that Eleanor had insisted upon ordering an appropriate town wardrobe for both herself and her sister. She no longer appeared to be an impoverished country mouse—she seemed fashionable and elegant, although she would have preferred emeralds to the jade earrings she wore. Lizzie took a deep breath, for courage more than calm, and pinched her cheeks one last time. Then, smiling, she faced the door.

Not a moment too soon, as Leclerc appeared there with Blanche. “Lady Harrington,” he intoned.

Lizzie swallowed hard and curtsied, as Blanche was
of a far superior rank. Blanche dipped slightly and then the two women stared at each other.

She appeared exactly the same as she had early last summer when Lizzie had spied upon her at the engagement ball. She was terribly fair, and her stunning but simple pastel blue gown and matching sapphire jewelry made Lizzie feel hopelessly gauche. She studied Lizzie, just as Lizzie was studying her.

Unsure of just how much time had passed while they took each other in, Lizzie rushed forward. “Do come in, my lady. This is quite a surprise.” She told herself to slow her words and breathe. She took a deep breath but found no composure indeed. “I do not believe we have met.”

“No, we have not been properly introduced, and I am at fault here,” Blanche said.

Lizzie could find no hint of a double meaning in her words. Her manner was clear—Blanche bore her no ill will, and if anything, Lizzie thought she saw compassion in her eyes. “You are hardly at fault,” Lizzie said, gesturing for Blanche to come forward and blushing over her knowledge of her past affair with this woman’s betrothed. Blanche took a chair, and Lizzie sat in another armchair, facing her. Both women arranged their skirts, fussing to fill the silence. Lizzie finally looked up, and their gazes met.

Lizzie still could not imagine what she must want or why she had called. But unfortunately, she had to know of Lizzie’s relationship with Tyrell.

“I have just learned that you are Ned’s mother,” Blanche said softly, confirming Lizzie’s worst fears. Her cheeks turned pink. “I thought we should meet—that we would meet sooner or later, and why not now?”

Lizzie did not see any censure in Blanche’s eyes or hear any in her tone, but her heart lurched. Blanche had
to despise her in some small way, at least. “Yes,” she managed to say. What else should she say? She smiled too brightly. “Congratulations on your engagement to Ty—to Lord de Warenne.”

Blanche glanced away. Lizzie thought it odd. “I am very fortunate,” she murmured.

An awkward silence fell. Blanche had not spoken with any emotion or passion, and Lizzie had to wonder why she was not openly thrilled to be marrying Tyrell. She still did not know what to say. “I think the match a splendid one,” she added, “and I hear the wedding will be in May.”

“Yes,” Blanche said, meeting her gaze. “You are very generous, Miss Fitzgerald.”

Lizzie’s heart began racing with alarming speed. “Hardly.”

Blanche hesitated. “May I ask you how you met Tyrell?”

What was this? What did she want? And how could Lizzie possibly answer?

“I do not wish to pry, of course, and if my question is an obnoxious one—”

“No!” Lizzie bit her lip. She could not fathom what Blanche wanted but she seemed kind and even concerned, not jealous at all. “I grew up just a few miles from Adare. I have known his lordship most of my life. Not that he knew me, of course!” She blushed. “But when I was a little girl he saved me from drowning,” she said, and suddenly her gaze grew moist. She still remembered that day as clearly as if it were yesterday.
Are you a prince? No, little one, I am not.

Lizzie wet her lips, which seemed terribly dry. “That is not something a gentlewoman of my class could ever forget. I have been grateful ever since.”

“That is very romantic,” Blanche said.

Lizzie leapt to her feet, dismayed. “It isn’t romantic,
not at all!” she cried, feeling like a fool. After all, she could not deny having been romantically involved.

Blanche also stood. “I am sorry. But it is the kind of tale romance novels are made of.” She smiled now. “I can see how a little girl would be so grateful for such a heroic act—and I can see how those feelings of gratitude might escalate. And you are Ned’s mother. I understand.”

Lizzie knew this woman did not deserve to be offended by her past with Tyrell. “I am very happy for you both!” she said nervously. “I have always known that one day he would make a great match, and I am so pleased that Tyrell will marry a great lady like you! He deserves a life of happiness, my lady, and I am certain he will find it with you!”

Blanche’s expression was intense now. “You have spoken so freely,” she finally said. “May I do the same?”

Lizzie wrung her hands. “My lady, I could never tell you what to do—”

“Good,” Blanche interrupted. She smiled reassuringly. “My father told me about you, Miss Fitzgerald. I had to come see you for myself. You seem like a very proper lady. I had expected someone older, worldlier, someone far more sophisticated.”

Lizzie did not know what to say. Helplessly, she shrugged.

“You must have loved him very much,” Blanche said.

Lizzie looked away. “Yes. But it is over now. I fully support your marriage, my lady.
Fully,
” she stressed.

Blanche finally lost some of her composure and she hugged herself. “That is so generous of you, and so brave. Because I think you love Tyrell still.”

Suddenly Lizzie was breathless and near tears. She had to deny it, yet she could no longer speak.

“As we are both being so candid, surely you know this marriage has been arranged. It is hardly a love match.”

Slowly Lizzie turned. She was shocked to see tears in Blanche’s blue eyes, her mouth quivering. “My lady! Are you all right? Do sit down.” She rushed to her side, taking her arm.

“No, I am not all right,” Blanche whispered, refusing to sit. “You see, Miss Fitzgerald, I have realized I do not want to marry, not Tyrell, not anyone.”

Lizzie gaped. There was so much hope surging in her breast that it threatened to tear her chest apart.

As quickly, she refused to hope, as there was nothing to hope for. Blanche’s words did not change the fact that Tyrell did not care for Lizzie at all. “Why are you telling me this?”

Blanche hesitated. “Last night my father made a shocking confession. He deliberately interfered to keep the two of you apart,” she said.

Lizzie stiffened. She would never forget that horrible day when Harrington had confronted her at Wicklowe, but he had hardly forced her to leave. “My lady, I left Wicklowe because it was morally correct.”

Blanche smiled at her. “I think you are a very good woman, Miss Fitzgerald, and I think I understand why Tyrell became fond of you. I should go. My father isn’t well and I really want to make sure he is resting.”

Lizzie had never been more confused. How odd this call had been! She had to ask. “Why? Why did you come, my lady?”

Blanche met her gaze. “I had to see something for myself,” she said.

“Where is he?” Georgie asked, her heart racing. She could hardly believe that Rory had come to call upon her. She had done her very best to forget about what had happened just three days ago. She had refused to think
about the kiss they had shared—she had refused to think about him at all.

After all, she was no silly, coy, marriage-mad debutante. She was a sensible, intelligent, rather genteel and very unfashionable Irishwoman, and she truly enjoyed spinsterhood. Besides, Rory McBane was not marriage material—he had not a penny to his name, not that it mattered. And she was not like Lizzie. She would not fall head over heels in love, so much so that she would throw away her good name and her entire life for an illicit affair that could only lead to heartbreak.

“He is waiting in the library,” Leclerc said. “Your sister has a caller in the salon and I did not think she wished to be disturbed.”

Georgie could not think of a reply. Instead, she kept recalling Rory’s stunning kiss and the feeling of his body against hers. She followed Leclerc downstairs, trying to draw a normal breath and finding it impossible. She wished he had never kissed her; she wished he had not called. What could he possibly want?

It crossed her mind that he wished to apologize.

Relief flooded her. She would gladly accept an apology for his randy behavior. As he was such a dear friend of Lizzie’s, that was surely what he thought to do, so they could avoid having any awkwardness between them.

He was pacing in the library. Unfortunately, he remained rakishly handsome, causing her heart to pick up its racing beat. As unfortunately, he was very intelligent, and Georgie admired wit and erudition more than any other trait in any man or woman. Leclerc left and Georgie just stood there, watching him.

He turned to face her and his cheeks turned red. “How are you?” He bowed.

Georgie inclined her head and lied through her teeth. “Very well.” She smiled at him, hoping he had not a clue as to the fact that she was not well at all. Her skin tingled, and an ache she recognized had begun to spread its heat between her thighs.

His gaze was searching. “Did you receive the flowers?”

She blinked. “Flowers?”

“I sent you flowers, Georgina. I assumed you would have received them by now.”

“You sent me flowers?” she repeated like a lackwit.

A twinkle appeared in his astonishing green eyes. “Yes, roses. Red roses, in fact.” He started toward her.

She could not move. “But…why?” Was this a dream? Or was it some kind of ploy? After all, she was no coquette and he knew it. There was simply no reason for him to send her flowers.

“Why does any gentleman send flowers to a lady?” he asked simply.

She backed up. “I don’t know,” she breathed, beginning to tremble. This could not mean what he was implying…surely he was not here to court her!

The light in his eyes was impossibly tender. “You don’t know?” he said with amusement.

She decided she must leave—in fact, she must flee! Georgie turned and started for the door in a panic, but he caught her from behind. He turned her abruptly around and Georgina found herself in his arms. Her heart overcame her then. She was terribly in love. Now that she dared to admit it, she had admired him and desired him from the first moment she had ever laid eyes upon him.

But no good could come of it. He was not for her—she was just too eccentric. She had known that from the very first, as well.

“I sent you roses, Georgina, as a token of my affection
and admiration for you,” he murmured, his gaze on her face.

He must be in jest. She pulled away and found herself with her back against the wall. “Rory, please!” She held up a shaking hand. “We both know I am not the kind of woman to stir up affection or admiration in a man.”

He blinked.

“I thought you had come to apologize for the other night,” she cried, and she felt her cheeks heat at the mere mention of that evening.

“To
apologize?
” he echoed, surprised.

She nodded. “Yes, to apologize for taking such liberties with me.”

“Liberties?”

“Your apology is accepted,” Georgie said in a huge rush. “I know you are a dear friend of Lizzie’s and Eleanor’s favorite relation, so our paths will continue to cross. But it is best if we never speak of this again!”

He shook his head and seized her hand. “I am not apologizing for kissing you, Georgina May,” he growled.

And she knew what he intended. He pulled her into his arms and she tensed, desperately wanting to avoid his kiss but even more desperately wanting to accept it. He ignored her and quickly covered her mouth with his.

Georgie gave up. His mouth was very firm and uncompromising, and as he kissed her, desire exploded there in the juncture of her thighs, shameless and insistent. She clung, opening, trying to let more of him in. He pulled away, panting, his eyes hot and hard.