by Brenda Joyce
Lizzie’s mind began to work. Surely this could not be! The gentleman’s voice was remarkably familiar, the timbre deep and strong yet oddly soft and reassuring. Lizzie had eavesdropped on Tyrell de Warenne at every single St. Patrick’s Day lawn party, not to mention that she had heard him speak to the town on several political occasions. He had a voice she would never forget.
Trembling in absolute disbelief, she began to sit. He quickly helped her, and she looked up.
Blue eyes, so dark they were almost black, met hers. Her heart leapt in disbelief, and then it thudded in wild excitement.
Tyrell de Warenne was kneeling on the street with her—Tyrell de Warenne had saved her life yet again!
His eyes were wide and his expression grim. “Are you hurt?” he asked, his arm remaining firmly around her.
Lizzie lost any ability to speak as she gazed into his eyes. How could this be happening? She had dreamed of one day meeting him, but in her imaginings, she had been as beautiful as Anna and at a ball in a stunning gown, not sitting on a muddy street, speechless as a mute.
“Are you hurt? Can you speak?”
Lizzie closed her eyes, hard. She began to tremble, but not with fear. His arm was around her shoulders. She was pressed against his side.
Entirely new feelings began, shooting fiercely through her, warm and wonderful, illicit and shameful, the kind of feelings that afflicted her in the privacy of her bedroom in the moonlit hours of the night. His touch had set her afire.
Lizzie knew she must, somehow, converse. She noticed his fine doeskin breeches, encasing his strong legs, and the fire spread. She dared to look at his fine wool jacket, which was the same dark navy blue as his eyes. It was open, and he wore a dove-gray brocade waistcoat beneath it, a white shirt below that. Abruptly Lizzie looked away, then, as abruptly, up at him. “Y-yes. I can speak…somewhat.”
Their gazes locked. He was so close that she could see each and every one of the splendid features she had memorized long ago. Tyrell de Warenne could only be called an extremely handsome man. His eyes were a deep shade of blue, his lashes long enough to please any courtesan. His cheekbones were high and his nose was as straight as an arrow. He had a mobile mouth, usually full, now firmly pressed together with either anger or displeasure. He had the aura of a king.
“You are in shock. Can you stand up? Are you hurt?”
She had to find her senses. Lizzie swallowed, unable to look away. “I don’t think so.” She hesitated. “I’m not certain.”
His gaze was on her body now, moving past her chest and down her hips and skirts. “If something was broken, you would know it.” His gaze returned to hers and his expression seemed even darker. “Let me help you up.”
Lizzie could not move. She could feel her cheeks burning. She had almost been run over, but her heart was pounding madly with feelings no nice young lady should ever have. Suddenly, she saw him in an entirely different place, an entirely different situation—she saw flashes of his white steed and a dark, woody glen where two lovers were passionately entwined. Lizzie saw herself in Tyrell’s arms there and she inhaled, hard.
“What is it?” he asked sharply.
Lizzie wet her lips, trying to ignore the image of herself in his arms, being kissed intensely. “No-nothing.”
His gaze locked with hers and it was searching. Lizzie had the frightening feeling that he guessed her shameful attraction and, worse, her daring thoughts. He put his arms around her to lift her up and she thought she might expire from the desire consuming her. Lizzie did not know what to do. She could no longer breathe, even if she wished to.
She could smell the pine, the earth, the musk that was him. His mouth probed gently, his strong hands as gentle on her waist. Their bodies were touching everywhere, they were thigh to thigh, her bosom against his ribs.
“Miss?” he murmured. “Perhaps you might release me.”
Lizzie came back to reality with stunning force, realizing he had lifted her to her feet. They were standing on the sidewalk—and she was clinging to him. “My lord,” she gasped, horrified. She leapt away, and from the corner of her eye, she saw him smile.
The heat in her cheeks increased. Had she just thrown herself at Tyrell de Warenne? How could she have done such a thing? In that moment, she had been in the woods with him, not standing on High Street in town, and she had actually felt his mouth on hers! And now, now he was laughing at her.
Lizzie fought hard for composure. She was so distressed she could not think clearly. Did he know she was madly in love with him? She looked away, wanting to die of embarrassment.
“I should like to catch those rowdies and shove each one on his face in the mud,” Tyrell said suddenly. He reached into his pocket and produced a shockingly white linen handkerchief, offering it to her.
“Do you…know them?”
He faced her. “Yes, I have had the misfortune of having made the acquaintance of each and every one of them. They are Lords Perry and O’Donnell, Sir Redmond, Paul Kerry and Jack Ormond. A bunch of ne’er-do-wells of the premier order.”
“You do not have to chase them down on my account,” she somehow said. The change of topic relieved her. “I am sure it was an accident.” She finally realized the extent of her dishevelment. There was mud everywhere—on her skirts, her bodice, her gloved hands and face. Her dismay welled.
“You would defend them? They almost killed you!”
She looked up, mortified by her state of untidiness, the linen forgotten. “It was reprehensible, of course, for them to drive at such a speed through town, but it was an accident.” Now she had the urge to cry. Why had this moment ever happened? Why couldn’t he have met her tomorrow, at the ball, when she was in her pretty Maid Marian costume?
“You are far too forgiving,” he said. “I am afraid they must be made to see the error of their ways. But my first concern is getting you home.” He smiled, just slightly, at her. “May I see you home?”
His words undid her. Had they been spoken in a different circumstance, it would be as if he was courting her. Her mind raced. A part of her wanted nothing more than to prolong the encounter, but another part of her wanted desperately to flee. Once alone, she would dream about this encounter, embellishing it as she wished. But just then, she had to think clearly. If he saw her to Raven Hall, Mama would come out and make a fuss and embarrass her to no end. She would probably insist that Tyrell come inside for tea, and gentleman that he was, he would not be able to refuse. It would be awkward and humiliating, especially once Mama began hinting about her three daughters all being eligible for marriage.
This was not a fairy tale. She was not at a ball, as beautiful as Anna, being daringly waltzed about. She was a plump, muddy, bedraggled mess, standing on the street with a man who so outranked her that she might as well have been a dairymaid and he a real prince.
“I beg your pardon,” he said swiftly, apparently misinterpreting her silence. He bowed. “Lord de Warenne, at your service, mademoiselle.” He was exceedingly serious as he spoke.
“My lord, I can find my own way home, thank you. Thank you for everything. You are so gallant, so kind!” She knew she must not continue, as his brows had lifted in some astonishment, but she could not stop herself. “But your reputation precedes you, of course! Everyone knows how noble you are. You have rescued my life. I am deeply in your debt. I should so love to repay you, but how can I? Thank you so much!”
He was clearly amused now. “You have no need to repay me, mademoiselle. And I will see you safely to your destination,” he said in such a firm manner there was no doubt he was an aristocrat of the highest order and used to being instantly obeyed.
She wet her lips, oddly wishing she could allow him to see her home. “I am on my way to St. Mary’s,” she fibbed. “It is just down the street.”
“I see. I shall see you safely indoors, nevertheless, and there will be no argument about it.”
She hesitated, but his look told her that there was no choice, so she took his
arm. A new thrill began, fighting its way past her fears and insecurities. She knew she should cast her eyes demurely down, but all she could do was gaze raptly at his face. He was so handsome—she had never seen a more handsome, more alluring man. It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him so—and so much more.
He spoke very softly and almost seductively. “You are staring.”
She jerked her gaze away as they strolled back toward the nunnery. “I am sorry. It’s just, you are too hand—you are too kind,” she heard herself whisper, barely catching herself before blurting out her real feelings.
He seemed surprised. “Kindness has little to do with rescuing a lady in distress. Any gentleman would behave as I have.”
“I don’t think so,” she said, daring to glance at him. “Few gentlemen would bother to leap into the mud, risking their own life, to rescue a strange woman on the street.”
“You do not hold men, then, in a very high regard? But I cannot say that I blame you, not after this day.”
She was thrilled to be conversing with him now. “I have never been so well treated, sir, by your gender before.” Lizzie hesitated and then decided to be truthful. “Frankly, most men fail to even notice my presence. I doubt anyone would have rescued me if you had not been here.”
He regarded her far too closely. “Then I am deeply sorry that you have been so ill treated in the past. It seems inexplicable to me, indeed.”
He could not sincerely mean that he would never fail to remark her presence! He was merely being chivalrous. “You are as gallant as you are kind and heroic—and handsome,” she heard herself cry eagerly. And then she realized what she had said and she was dismayed.
He chuckled.
Lizzie felt her cheeks burning and she looked at the ground.
They continued toward the nunnery’s front door, a brief lapse of silence falling. Lizzie wanted to kick herself for acting like a besotted child.
He broke the silence, as gallant as ever. “And you are indeed a courageous woman. Most ladies would be reduced to tears and hysterics by such an adventure,” he said, kindly pretending he hadn’t heard her overly abundant flattery.
“Crying hardly seemed the suitable response.” Lizzie swallowed. She would not mind crying now, she thought. But they had paused before the front door and she felt him staring down at her. She slowly raised her eyes.
“We have arrived,” he said quietly, his gaze holding hers.
“Yes,” Lizzie agreed, suddenly desperate to prolong the encounter. She wet her lips and said breathlessly, “Thank you for such a gallant rescue, my lord. You have saved my life. Somehow, one day, I truly wish to repay you.”
His smile faded. “No repayment is necessary. It was my duty—and my pleasure,” he said far too softly.
The fire, contained but not extinguished, flared hungrily. He stood facing her but mere inches away. The stucco-and-wood buildings lining both sides of the street faded. Lizzie shut her eyes; his hands grasped her arms as he pulled her close, taking her into his arms. She waited, all breathing suspended, as he leaned down to claim her lips in a kiss.
Above her head, the chapel bell began to chime the afternoon hour. Lizzie was jerked back to reality by its vibrant sound. She realized that she stood on the sidewalk with Tyrell, quite properly, and that once again he was regarding her very closely, as if he knew her secret thoughts.
She prayed that he knew nothing. “I must go! Thank you!” she cried, whirling and flinging open the huge courtyard door.
“Mistress! One moment,” he began.
But Lizzie was already fleeing into the safety of the cloister, almost but not quite regretting the encounter.
2
The Masquerade
Anna was already dressed for the ball when Lizzie walked into the bedroom they shared. Lizzie was in a state of extreme anxiety. She had not recovered from her encounter with Tyrell de Warenne the day before, and could barely believe what had happened. After replaying the afternoon a hundred times in her mind, at least, she was convinced that she had behaved like a besotted fool and a witless child and that he knew just how infatuated she was. She wasn’t certain she dared go to the ball now. However, she could never let Mama down.
Lizzie had come home yesterday pleading a headache and had retired to her room without telling a soul about the encounter. She paused, holding on to the door, her intention to ask Anna for advice and reassurance. But Anna was so shockingly lovely that she forgot her own worries momentarily.
Anna stood in front of the mirror, critically eyeing herself in a low-cut red velvet gown in the Elizabethan style, a white ruff and a garnet pendant around her throat. She had never been lovelier. It had been hard to have such a stunning sister while growing up. Even as a child, everyone flattered Anna to no end, and Lizzie had always been ignored or simply patted on the head. Mama, of course, had been so proud to have such a beautiful child, and she had praised Anna to anyone who would listen. Lizzie hadn’t been jealous—she loved her sister and was as proud of her—but she had always felt plain and, more importantly, left out.
It had been just as difficult to be Anna’s sister as a young woman, for when they strolled in town, it was quite the same. British soldiers would chase after Anna, eagerly trying to learn her name, but Lizzie was always invisible—unless one of the men wished to solicit her to gain Anna’s attention. Lizzie had played matchmaker for her sister more times than she could remember or count.
The irony was that Lizzie did resemble her older sister, just a bit, but every perfect feature Anna had been given was somehow dulled on Lizzie. Anna’s hair was honey-blond and naturally wavy, unlike Lizzie’s frizzy copper-blond tresses; her eyes were a striking blue, whereas Lizzie’s were a startling gray; her cheekbones were higher, her nose straighter and more classic, her lips fuller. And she had a perfect figure, slim yet curved. Anna caused gentlemen to turn and take a second or third look; no rake or rogue had ever looked at Lizzie even once, but then, she seemed to have the amazing ability to disappear in any crowd.
Now, with the high white ruff framing her face, her waist impossibly narrow, Anna was breathtaking. She was adjusting her bodice when Lizzie walked into the room.
Some women their age accused Anna of being vain. Lizzie knew that was untrue, but Anna could give that impression, especially when other women were already jealous of all the attention she received. Some of Mama’s friends even whispered rudely about her behind her back, calling her “the wild one.” But they were jealous, too, because Anna could attract any suitor she wished, when their own daughters could not. That was because she was so carefree and so merry, not wild or improper.
Now Anna was frowning, clearly displeased with some feature of her costume. Lizzie could not imagine what flaw she had found. “It’s perfect, Anna,” she said.
“Do you really think so?” Anna turned and instantly her interest in her costume vanished. “Lizzie? You haven’t begun your hair! Oh, we will be so late!” she cried in dismay. Then she hesitated. “Are you upset?”
Lizzie bit her lip and somehow smiled. When she appeared at the ball, Tyrell was going to notice her. After all, they were now acquaintances. Would he laugh at her again? What did he think of her? “I’m fine.” She inhaled, shaking. “That costume is perfect and you are so beautiful in it, Anna. Maybe tonight Mama will get her wish and you will find a beau.” But while she wanted her sister to marry for love, not just rank and wealth, she could barely think about that now.
Anna turned back to the mirror. “Does this color make me look sallow? I think it is too dark!”
“Not at all,” Lizzie said. “You have never been more fetching.”
Anna looked at herself a moment longer, then faced Lizzie again. “I do hope you are right. Lizzie? You are very pale.”
Lizzie sighed heavily. “I don’t know if I can go to the ball—I am not that well.”
Anna stared in disbelief. “Not go? You would miss your very first ball? Lizzie! I am going to get Georgie.” Stricken
, she hurried from the room.
Anna was only a year and a half older than Lizzie and the two sisters were close, but not simply because of their ages. Lizzie admired her sister because she was everything that Lizzie was not. She could not imagine what it must be like to be so beautiful and so generally admired. And of the three sisters, Anna was the one who had been kissed, not once, but several times. They had stayed up many nights discussing her sister’s shocking and very bold experiences; Anna in some rapture, Georgie rather disapproving, and Lizzie wondering if she would ever be kissed, even once, before she became an old maid.
Lizzie looked at the emerald-green velvet gown on her bed that was her costume. It was a beautiful but simple dress, with long bell sleeves and a square, modest neckline. Still, it clung to her figure rather provocatively. Lizzie sat down beside it. She pulled a freshly laundered linen handkerchief from her bodice and stared at the boldly embroidered initials on it: TDW. Gripping the kerchief, she closed her eyes, wishing she could redo their encounter of the day before. But no amount of wishing would change anything, she thought dismally. She had been given a single chance to impress Tyrell de Warenne and she did not need any experience at all to know she had not succeeded.
Anna returned to the bedroom with Georgie. Dressed as a woman from Norman times, Georgie wore a long purple tunic with a gold sash, her hair in a single braid. She faced Lizzie, her stare direct and searching. “Anna says you are behaving oddly. But then, you have been acting strangely since you came back from St. Mary’s yesterday. What is it? I do not believe you are ill!”
Lizzie slipped the kerchief back into her bodice. “He rescued me yesterday outside of St. Mary’s,” she whispered.
“Who rescued you?” Georgie demanded. “And from what?”
