by Brenda Joyce
He watched the woman who would be his wife approaching.
“So she does not have black teeth,” his brother remarked.
Tyrell turned as Rex hauled himself to his feet, no simple task as he had but one leg, the other lost in Spain in the Peninsular War in the spring of ’13. He had been given a knighthood and an estate in Cornwall for his heroism. He had spent most of the past year in utter seclusion there. Rex was a touch shorter than Tyrell and far more muscular. Their features, however, were similar; both had dark complexions, high cheekbones, straight noses and strong jaws. Unlike Tyrell, Rex had dark brown eyes, a throwback to a famous ancestor, Stephen de Warenne. Now Rex’s dark face had a sardonic twist to it. Or was his expression formed from pain? Tyrell knew that the stump that was left of his right leg bothered him tremendously; Rex lived with pain.
“I did not expect her to resemble her portrait,” Tyrell commented calmly, still watching her closely. In fact, usually the likeness sent upon a prospective match was hardly a likeness at all. He had expected pimples, obesity or a hooked nose. Instead he had been surprised to be confronted with a genuinely attractive woman with small, classic features, pale blond hair, blue eyes and porcelain skin. Many men would find her terribly beautiful. He supposed that he did, too, in a clinical way.
“She is very beautiful, and more so than her portrait.” Using a crutch, Rex limped over to Tyrell’s side. “But you do not seem all that pleased. You seemed at odds last night, too. In fact, you were scowling at the fireplace. Is something amiss? I would have expected you to be satisfied—she will be amusing enough in bed and she will give you handsome sons and pretty daughters.”
Last night, he had been well into a bottle of brandy. Instantly, he recalled the reason for his brooding. She had gray eyes and wild titian hair. “I am pleased. Why wouldn’t I be pleased with my marriage?” His manner remained composed. “I have waited long enough for this day. Lady Blanche is beautiful, and her father is Lord Harrington. Of course I am pleased.”
Rex was eying him. Tyrell suddenly realized that he felt very little emotion at all, other than some mild surprise that his marriage would finally come to be. Pleasure seemed to be escaping him now.
He was terribly distracted by his pursuit of Elizabeth Fitzgerald and he knew it. And maybe that was why pleasure and satisfaction were failing him now. But he would not let anything or anyone jeopardize his future, including himself—and certainly not a gray-eyed woman whom he simply could not comprehend.
Tyrell turned away from his approaching fiancée. Elizabeth Fitzgerald appeared sweet and innocent, well-bred and proper, but it was a stupendous lie. How could he not face the facts? She had returned to the county with another man’s child, born out of wedlock.
And why was she refusing him now? She had no reputation to lose. He knew women well enough to know that she wanted him, too. What did she think to gain by refusing him again? Or was this another one of her clever games? For she had certainly played him like a fool that All Hallow’s Eve.
“You do not look pleased. You do not even sound pleased. You sound thoroughly disinterested,” Rex said, cutting into his thoughts.
Tyrell acknowledged the truth—he could not summon up any real interest in his soon-to-be bride, but his interest in a very fallen woman knew no bounds.
Tyrell focused on his brother, a disturbing topic but a safer one. “Is your leg bothering you?” He hoped that was why his brother was drinking at noon, but he did not think so.
“My leg is fine, but you are not,” Rex replied, but belying his words, he rubbed his left hand over the stump that was his right thigh.
Tyrell saw and instantly berated himself. He was preoccupied with a slip of a woman who was not his bride, while his brother had lost a leg, lived in constant pain, and seemed intent on inflicting some kind of self-imposed exile on himself. “I am not bothered by the impending union, Rex.” He hesitated. “I happen to have another woman on my mind.” The remark was an impulsive one and he instantly regretted his candor.
“Really? Then I suggest you take your fill so you can turn your attention where it belongs.” Rex seemed surprised. They both watched Blanche approaching with her two friends.
He wanted nothing more than to have his fill of Elizabeth Fitzgerald. Tyrell was unpleasantly stabbed by a surge of desire at the thought, just as he realized that Lady Blanche was waiting expectantly before him, a pleasing smile on her face, her two lady friends standing just behind her. He smiled as pleasantly in return, bowing as she curtsied. “I hope you are enjoying this fine Irish day,” he said, continuing to smile.
“How could I not?” she asked simply. “It is a very pleasant day and your home is beautiful, my lord.”
Tyrell searched her blue-green gaze for any pretense on her part, but could find none. Many Englishmen and women looked down upon his country and he was well aware of it. Blanche did not seem at all condescending. They had met for the second time last night when she had arrived with her father, but they had not had any time to speak privately. He had studied her, though, during supper, and he had found that her pleasant manner never seemed to waver. “Thank you. I am pleased that you might come to care for my home. Would you care to join me later for a carriage ride? I can show you some of the countryside.” A ride about the county was the last thing on his mind, but he would do his duty by his future bride. Perhaps they might even get to know each other a bit more before the wedding.
“I would be honored, sir,” she said with another slight smile. “May I introduce my best friends, Lady Bess Harcliffe and Lady Felicia Greene? They arrived this morning.”
The ladies curtsied, both of them blushing and refusing to meet his eyes. He bowed, murmuring some appropriate greeting. He then took Blanche’s hand and raised it to his lips, pressing a slight kiss there. When he looked up, she met his gaze and he realized she was hardly flustered by him. A simpering virgin would annoy him—her friends annoyed him—and he admired her composure. He wondered if anything would unbalance her. “Until this afternoon, then,” he said politely.
“I look forward to it.” She curtsied with inherent grace, as did her friends, and the trio left.
Tyrell watched them walking away, her bearing straight but relaxed, while her friends were already whispering with excitement in her ear. He had no doubt that they gossiped about him. If Blanche was excited, she never faltered, and if she was amused, she never laughed.
Elizabeth stared at him, still breathless from his kisses. Her cheeks were red with embarrassment, or was it anger? Tears filled her eyes and she closed them, but he saw. “I cannot accept your proposal.”
“Tyrell?” Rex tugged on his arm. “I have never seen you so distracted,” he said bluntly. There was some disapproval in his tone.
“She is leading me on a merry chase,” Tyrell returned.
Rex paused but then spoke with care. “It is not like you to have another woman on your mind at such a crucial time. Most men would be instantly besotted with Blanche Harrington. Since when have you ever chased this kind of woman to the point of distraction? I am worried. You are the most diplomatic of men, as you should be, considering you will follow in Father’s footsteps. You are not the kind of man to lose control and chance insulting Harrington or your bride.”
Rex was right. Tyrell was as political in nature as his father, and chasing another woman now was a severe lapse of etiquette.
“She must be very beautiful—and very clever,” Rex added.
“She is very clever. She is a trickster, actually, never mind how innocent she appears. But I intend to end this game once and for all.” Tyrell meant his every word. “This chase began almost two years ago,” he explained. “And now she dares to reappear in Limerick with another man’s bastard child, and she refuses me!”
Rex gaped. “Are you smitten?”
He jerked. “Of course not!”
Rex was thoughtful now. “You are a de Warenne. We all know that the de Warenne men, once smitten, love deeply and
faithfully, to no end.”
“That is family legend and I am hardly smitten,” Tyrell retorted, but he was disturbed. Like his entire family, he had accepted the legend as fact for most of his life. That had been easy to do, as he had only to look at his father and his stepmother to see how deeply and completely they loved each other, and as much could be said for his stepbrother, Devlin O’Neill, and his wife, Virginia. “Had she not vanished at that costume ball, this would be over by now.” But with every word, he began to have some serious doubts. There had been many women in his life whom he had coveted, but he’d never had to chase any one for very long and the desire had always quickly faded. His desire for Elizabeth continued to rage, hotter than ever, brighter than before.
Rex was silent.
Surely she would not dare reject him a second time. He was the heir to the earldom of Adare, for God’s sake. Women of every type, class and rank pursued him without shame. Invitations, both coy and bold, were issued every day. He had never had any trouble seducing a woman. Elizabeth Fitzgerald was the first to deny him. But it was a game, wasn’t it? He had to have her. And surely that was her game, to madden him with her rejections, to the point where he could not think clearly or behave reasonably. He did not know why she should bother. He was already prepared to give her a small fortune for her body. What else could she want? And she must realize that she needed his protection, considering her unfortunate circumstances.
Rex clasped his shoulder. “Who is she? Who are you brooding about?”
“A gray-eyed vixen with a body God intended to drive a man wild,” Tyrell said tersely.
Carefully, Rex said, “Ty, I hope this is a passing fancy. Do I know her?”
“Perhaps. You certainly know her family. She is Miss Elizabeth Fitzgerald, the daughter of Gerald Fitzgerald—I do believe he is a distant relation of Devlin’s,” he said.
“Are you telling me you are chasing a gentlewoman?” Rex was disbelieving.
Tyrell felt his mood turn black. “She is hardly the lady you suggest. I told you, she is an unwed mother and she is ripe for the plucking, you may trust me on that.”
“I think you should forget this woman. You need to start thinking about your future and the future of this family.” Rex’s stare was dark and penetrating. “Blanche Harrington is very beautiful. You will certainly have a pleasant married life. You do not need a mistress now.”
Tyrell shook his head to clear it. Rex was right—but only on one point. “Don’t worry. I have no intention of insulting the lady Blanche. But I do not intend to be denied,” Tyrell told his brother, “or made a fool of.”
“Really? Then why is she here?”
“I have no clue as to what you speak of,” he said.
“I am speaking of the lady that preoccupies your heart,” Rex said wryly.
“What?” he exclaimed, stunned.
“I was in the front hall when they arrived. Apparently, she is with her family.”
His first thought was that Elizabeth had come to tell him she would accept his proposition, but if she had come with her family, that was not the case. “You must be mistaken. It cannot be her.”
“No, I was passing the front hall when they arrived. Mr. Gerald Fitzgerald, his wife and daughter. There was a child and a nursemaid with them,” he added. “Mr. Fitzgerald wished to speak with Father.”
And in that moment, Tyrell knew her games were hardly over. But he could not imagine what new trick this was.
The countess returned to the salon with her husband, the earl of Adare. Lizzie sat on the edge of her chair, praying she had convinced the countess to let her and Ned go. Her cheeks were already feverish and she was ill with anxiety. The moment the earl’s hard, incredulous regard fixed upon her, she knew she was doomed.
He was angry, quietly so, but the emotion was visible enough.
The moment his piercing gaze met hers, she sank into a deep curtsy, her heart racing helplessly. She prayed that this interview would end very, very soon and that Ned would not be lost to her forever.
“Miss Fitzgerald,” the earl said, taking her elbow and helping her to her feet.
Lizzie was forced to meet his brilliant blue gaze. Like Tyrell, he had dark, curling hair, but otherwise, his complexion was quite fair. He was a very handsome man with an air of authority that was inescapable. Lizzie realized that the countess had closed the salon doors.
Her fear escalated.
“You are the mother of my son’s child?” the earl was asking. His tone was brusque.
Lizzie was aware of her parents behind her, impatient for her correct replies. There could not be any denial, not now, not on this point. Lizzie clung to her hope that she would be allowed to leave with Ned. “Yes, my lord,” she managed to say.
His face hardened. His gaze moved over her slowly. There was nothing insulting about his regard, but Lizzie flushed again. “You claim my son seduced you,” he said flatly.
Lizzie truly wished to die. “No, my lord,” she said, ignoring Papa, who jerked on her arm. “I am entirely to blame. I seduced him.”
The earl made a sound, clearly not believing her. “You hardly strike me as a seductress. And my son is no rake.”
She wet her lips. “We were in costume. He had no comprehension of my identity. It was my fault entirely.”
“Are you defending him now?”
She swallowed, feeling as if she were on trial in the King’s Bench. She was not going to accuse Tyrell of seduction. “It was a flirtation that got out of hand,” she whispered.
He turned toward Ned; his cheeks colored as he did.
The countess, who had come to stand behind her husband, said softly, “There is no question that is Ty’s son.”
The earl choked. “I can see that.”
Lizzie felt faint. They were so certain—as they should be. Surely they would change their mind when Tyrell mocked her claims. Surely she and her entire family were going to be thrown out of Adare.
The countess laid her palm on his arm, clearly offering him emotional support.
The earl said, “You do not strike me as a seductress, Miss Fitzgerald. Before I speak with Tyrell, I wish to understand exactly how this happened.”
Lizzie was mortified. She wanted to ask him why it mattered at all, but she did not dare. She knew she would never convince the earl that she was a seductress, for he was scowling at her, clearly not having believed a word she had said—except for her claim that Ned was Tyrell’s son.
She heard herself say, “I have been in love with Tyrell my entire life.” And the moment the words were out, tears rose. She covered her mouth with her hand.
“It’s true,” Mama cried, stepping forward. “My Lizzie has been in love with your son ever since she was a child. We used to laugh about it. We would tease her and thought she’d outgrow such foolishness, but she never did,” Mama exclaimed.
The earl stared at Lizzie. She felt her knees shake. “So you thought to entrap my son?”
“No,” Lizzie cried, aghast.
“But you are here with his child, demanding marriage. I still fail to understand. You may have been in costume, but Tyrell would never allow such an episode to be forgotten. I know my son. Once he realized his mistake, he would have sought to make amends, in one manner or another.”
Lizzie did not know what to say. “I concealed my identity from him,” she said. “And then I ran away.”
The earl finally turned away, looking closely at Ned. The toddler was quietly playing with a toy soldier on the floor. But he paused at once, looking up at the man who was his grandfather.
The countess cleared her voice. “The portrait in the dining room of Ty and his mother. This child could have sat for it.”
The earl turned away from Ned, facing Lizzie and her parents. “This is a most unfortunate circumstance, as far as your daughter is concerned,” he said flatly.
“You are a just man,” Papa returned as flatly. “I thought you would see it that way.”
“You
mistake my intent,” the earl said. “I regret your daughter’s ruin, but I cannot regret having any grandson, not even an illegitimate one.”
Lizzie’s fear knew no bounds. This is not what she had expected. She hurried to Ned, tripping in her haste. He beamed at her, saying “Mama” as she lifted him into her arms.
“What’s your meaning, my lord?” Papa asked tersely.
“My son is about to become engaged to Lord Harrington’s daughter, and I will brook no interference in the match.”
Lizzie squeezed her eyes tightly closed. Now, surely, they would be sent home. Her heart beat madly, her legs felt weak. She could not get enough air.
“We will gladly raise my grandson here,” the earl said. “In fact, there is no other possibility.”
Lizzie shook her head. “No.”
He turned a cold gaze upon her. “I will settle a pension upon you. Again, I am very sorry for this unfortunate circumstance. And you may be certain, my son will behave honorably in the future. I know that is a small consolation, but it is all that I can offer you. You will lack for nothing, Miss Fitzgerald.”
Lizzie cried out. “I will lack my son! I will not be separated from him!”
The earl looked at her in real surprise. The countess came forward, appearing somewhat moved by Lizzie’s plight—or Lizzie hoped desperately that was the case. “My lady,” she cried. “I cannot leave my son!”
“Lizzie,” Mama said, tugging on her hand. “Maybe this is for the best.”
“Our Lizzie is ruined,” Papa said, his nose turning red.
