The Masquerade

by Brenda Joyce

Lizzie shrugged vehemently free of her mother. “Ned needs me,” she cried in desperate outrage. “I am not giving him up. I can raise him—I shall!”

  The earl was staring at her as if she had grown a second head.

  And at that precise moment, the words barely out of her mouth, Tyrell stepped through both massive doors. Lizzie froze, Ned still in her arms. Tyrell had already skewered her with his dark regard. “You are looking for me?” he asked politely. The question seemed to be directed at his parents, but Lizzie could not be sure as his gaze did not waver from hers.

  Her heart now surged against her breast like the wings of a frantic bird, trapped in an iron cage. Oh, she was ready to faint! But at least he was there, to deny being Ned’s father, so they might escape!

  “I believe you know Mr. and Mrs. Fitzgerald,” the earl said grimly. “And their daughter, Miss Elizabeth Anne.”

  Tyrell did not bow. He merely inclined his head and Lizzie swore she could feel the tension emanating from him. Lizzie steeled herself for his scorn. She was so ashamed now of the lie that was hers, never mind her intent to protect Anna and keep Ned.

  “But I believe you have not met your son,” the earl said.

  Tyrell jerked, his gaze flying from Lizzie to the child in her arms. “My what?”

  The countess touched his arm. “I know this is a shock. We are all shocked, and rightly so,” she said softly.

  Tyrell stared at Ned, stunned, and then his gaze clashed with Lizzie’s again.

  Lizzie bit her lip, quaking.

  “You claim that is my child?” he demanded, now in disbelief.

  Lizzie could not answer.

  “I believe he was conceived on All Hallow’s Eve, was he not, Miss Fitzgerald?”

  Tyrell stiffened, glancing once at his father and then turning back to Lizzie. She could see the scorn beginning. She shrank. He said, his tone cold and dangerous, “On All Hallow’s Eve?”

  This was not going the way she had planned, Lizzie somehow managed to think.

  “Ned is my son,” she whispered, but no one seemed to hear her.

  Papa stepped forward and pointed at Tyrell, his face crimson with rage. “I do not care what cockamamy story my daughter has invented to protect you, sir! You got her with child! You have destroyed her life! Your father refuses to condone a marriage between you both! What kind of man are you, to so abuse my innocent daughter and then to walk away?”

  Tyrell stiffened at Papa’s final fighting words. He had the oddest appearance now—as if some comprehension had begun, mingling with his now absolute disbelief. He turned toward her. “I got you with child,” he repeated incredulously.

  Lizzie closed her eyes and felt a tear slip out. At least, she thought in utter mortification, he would denounce Ned as his son now. He would forever consider her the worst liar—and that was what she had become. She could only pray that one day Ned could still claim his birthright.

  “We will raise the child here,” the earl interrupted flatly. “I will take care of Miss Fitzgerald. Otherwise, nothing changes. Marriage to Miss Fitzgerald is out of the question.”

  “Marriage to Miss Fitzgerald,” Tyrell echoed.

  Lizzie’s eyes flew open and he was looking at her, laughing now, but she saw no mirth on his face. There was only anger.

  Papa shouted, “This is no laughing matter, sir!”

  Tyrell raised his hand and Papa fell silent. “Enough,” he said. “I wish a word alone with Miss Fitzgerald.”

  Lizzie somehow kept from gasping. She shook her head, backing away. Being alone with him now was impossible—she would not do it.

  “I wish a word alone with the mother of my child,” Tyrell amended. And he smiled at her, a cold, hard smile that did not reach his eyes.

  12

  A Plan Gone Awry

  Still stunned and very, very angry, Tyrell decided that he enjoyed watching her squirm. She held his so-called son to her bosom, her cheeks horribly flushed. There was, he knew now, nothing innocent about her except for her physical appearance. “Mother,” he ordered with a calm that belied his tension, “take the child, please.”

  Lizzie backed up, pale in spite of her too-bright cheeks. “No,” she cried, her terrified gaze upon him.

  He would still want to protect her, he thought, if she were not such a calculating liar. Even now, he could barely believe that she was so different from what he had thought. His anger knew no bounds and it replaced all of his disappointment in her.

  She knew damn well that child was not his! What kind of poor scheme was this? He did not think he had ever been more furious.

  “Please,” Lizzie was whispering to his stepmother. “Don’t take my child from me.”

  The countess’s face filled with pity. “It is only so you and Tyrell may have a quiet word,” she said with a small smile. “I promise.”

  She was crying, he saw with annoyance. Most women looked pitiful when they cried, and she was hardly an exception—but amazingly, he felt the urge to sweep her into his arms and kiss her until the tears stopped. Making love should be the last thing on his mind, when she was trying to force his hand this way. To think he had been prepared to give her anything she wanted as his mistress. Clearly, her plans were far grander than that!

  He watched as she handed over the boy, so reluctantly it was as if she never expected to see him again. Some small pity stirred within him, but he steeled himself against such softness—she deserved no compassion from him, not ever again.

  He took a good long look at the boy and all kinds of new suspicions were stirred. The baby was dark, just as he was, and could easily be mistaken for his own son. Of course, there were hundreds of Black Irish children in Ireland. Was this coincidence, then, that her lover had also been dark? The child’s swarthy complexion must come from his father, for Elizabeth was very fair.

  Another, more unimaginable thought occurred—was the child even hers?

  He instantly decided that she would not go so far as to pass off a strange child as her own—not even to gain marriage to him. She was clearly afraid to lose the boy. The child had to be hers—unless she was a great actress.

  Tyrell was furious. He did not like being in the maelstrom of so much confusion. His entire life had been one of givens, of certainty, of rules and regulations. His universe was fixed: he was the heir, his duty was to Adare, he must protect his family and the earldom at all costs. Suddenly there was this woman, no longer sweet and genteel but an unwed mother, and there was this child, who could or could not be hers, and there was this terrific scheme.

  When everyone left the room, he went to ascertain that the double doors were solidly closed. His heart was pounding with the adrenaline of the battle to come. Facing her, he folded his arms across his chest, almost enjoying her obvious distress. She deserved it—and far more. Unfortunately, he was too angry to enjoy anything. Very, very softly, he said, “What kind of fool do you take me for?”

  She shook her head.

  “So you do not think me a fool?” The anger erupted yet again, and with it, more disbelief.

  “No, my lord, I do not,” she whispered as if ashamed.

  But that was merely another ruse. He could not stand it. He paced to her and seized her small shoulders. She felt tiny and fragile in his hands. “Cease pretending you are some innocent maid! We both know that there is nothing innocent about you! We both know that is not my child,” he said harshly. “But you dare to come here in some frivolous attempt to force me into marriage?” He had never met a more calculating player and yet when he looked into her eyes, he saw hurt and vulnerability.

  She was shaking. “I am the fool. I am sorry.”

  “You are sorry?” For one moment he increased his grasp upon her. It crossed his mind that he should crush her in his embrace and punish her with his kisses, until she begged for forgiveness and confessed all. “I have never been confronted with such a monstrous and bold plan!” He released her, stepping back and putting what he hoped was a safe distance between the
m. And now he was confused, for he was in jeopardy of not having any self-control.

  She was breathing shallowly. “You will not believe the extent of my folly.”

  “I am sure I will not,” he said harshly. “Did you really think to come here with that child and convince everyone I am the father? Did you really think to convince me I am the father—when we have never shared a bed?”

  She bit her full lip again. “No,” she said, the single word almost inaudible.

  “No?”

  “I wanted my parents to let me and my son be! But they harassed me to no end, demanding to know the identity of Ned’s father. I could not tell them the truth. I thought if I told them it was you—a man so impossibly far above me—they would let it be. Instead, they dragged me here very much against my will, asking for marriage. I only came because I knew you would deny my claim.” Her gaze sought his, suddenly filled with some small hope. “You see, my lord, I never planned to trap you into marriage.”

  He remained highly suspicious of her. “Why not reveal the boy’s father?” he asked. “What do you hide?”

  She tensed visibly. “I do not want to marry him,” she said after a hesitation.

  He continued to stare, for this did not sound right. “Who is the boy’s father?” He was going to learn the truth.

  She simply shook her head, refusing to speak.

  Tyrell forgot about keeping a safe distance between them. He strode to her and she cringed, making him feel monstrous. Towering over her, he said, “I want to know. Who is the father?”

  A tear fell as she shook her head helplessly.

  He hated himself. He leaned close. “Are you not afraid of me?”

  She nodded, still crying. “But I know you would never hurt me, my lord,” she whispered.

  He froze, his hands almost reaching for her. This woman could somehow undo his resolve with a mere look, a mere word. He would let it go, he decided, but only for now. In the end, he would learn the truth. He walked away from her, aware that even with his huge anger, there was also so much lust. “Do you often sleep with men you do not wish to wed?” he asked coldly.

  “It was a mistake.” He turned to face her, but she seemed unable to look at him now. “One night, the moon and the stars, I am sure you understand,” she muttered, so low he could barely hear. Her cheeks were scarlet again.

  He thought of her with some faceless lover, naked and lovely, moaning in passion beneath a very full moon. Her lover had undoubtedly enjoyed her soft, warm body to no end, burying himself in her again and again. He wondered when the affair had begun; he wondered when it had ended. His loins had never felt so heavy, so full.

  He felt his mouth curve. “Oh, I understand,” he said, wanting to hurt her now. “I understand that you continue to lie, right to my face. I do not think your intention was to hide the truth about the child’s father, oh, no. I think you somehow thought to scheme your way into marriage with me.”

  She shook her head. “I do not know why you would say such a thing! I do not want marriage. I do not want to marry you. I want to go home with my son!” she cried, and she was clearly pleading with him now.

  He loomed over her. “I insist that you speak truthfully,” he said. “Tell me the real reason you are here claiming to be the mother of my child. If it is not marriage, then it is a fortune. Admit the truth.”

  She simply looked at him, appearing so distraught and so vulnerable now that he had the insane urge to comfort her. And she whispered, “You are right, my lord. I wanted to force your hand into marriage, but clearly I am not clever enough to do so. The Fitzgeralds are a miserable lot.”

  This was the confession he had wanted, yet he was oddly disturbed and dismayed by it. Worse, her words did not even ring true. He stared at her, wishing he could get inside her thoughts like a gypsy mind reader.

  Her gray eyes searched his in return. He felt the tension within him grow.

  Tyrell had always been a good judge of character. It had always been easy for him to perceive another man’s ambition, ploy or ruse. He himself was straightforward in his dealings—he had inherited that nature from his father. Now he was perplexed. Elizabeth Fitzgerald had confessed to the most conniving ambition, yet suddenly he knew her confession was as much a lie as everything else.

  “I know my parents will think you unconscionable, and I am sorry for that, but it hardly matters,” she said as softly. “I swear to never approach you again. Ned and I will go home to Raven Hall. You will return to Dublin and you will marry Lord Harrington’s daughter. This one unpleasant episode will soon be forgotten by everyone.”

  He wondered why her eyes remained moist with tears. He would almost swear on the Bible that she wished only to leave with the child and did not seek to blackmail him into marriage. Was it at all possible that she was telling the truth?

  He hesitated, aware of having grave doubts. And she knew, because she stepped forward and touched him. “I will do anything, my lord, if you tell the earl you are not Ned’s father and you let us go home.”

  He knew an offer when it was being made. He closed his hand on hers, forcefully.

  “Anything?” he whispered, triumph beginning.

  Alarm was evident in her eyes. She tried to pull free. “I meant…I meant almost anything—”

  He laughed. He had never been more pleased. “You meant you would give me what I want, did you not, Miss Fitzgerald?”

  She began to shake her head, looking ready to flee. He had no intention of releasing her now. Instead, he tightened his hold on her. “Yesterday I asked you to be my mistress.”

  She tried to back away. “You are about to become engaged,” she gasped, and he saw she understood his intent.

  He pushed her slowly backward and trapped her against the wall. He liked the fact that her head only reached his chest. “I am afraid that is the case. However, it really has nothing to do with you and me,” he said softly.

  “What are you going to do?” she asked in fear, finally pushing against his chest. Her hands remained there, on his racing heart.

  “What am I going to do?” He thought about making love to her that night, about enjoying every possible inch of her voluptuous body, and he smiled, closing her small fists in his larger hands and keeping them against his chest. “I am going to claim your boy as my son,” he said.

  “What?”

  He slid his hands to her waist and she gasped when he pulled her completely against him. “I shall provide for you both. Is this not a fortunate day? You have only to warm my bed. In return, your son has my name.” He was agonizingly aware of her soft body crushed against his, of her full breasts pressed into his ribs. With one hand, he tilted up her face. His other arm held her still, where he wished her to be. Her eyes were huge, at once horrified and mesmerized.

  He could not understand her horror. Softly, he said, “After tonight, you will no longer be so reluctant. You have nothing to fear, Elizabeth. As I said yesterday, you will lack nothing, and now, neither will your son.”

  She made a small sound, but it was only partly a protest. He heard the breathy excitement in it.

  His lust exploded and all thought ceased. Framing her face with both hands, he slowly lowered his mouth. He knew he could not wait to touch her lips with his, to stroke them with his tongue. He could not wait to taste her throat, her breasts. He could not wait to sheath himself inside her, and his manhood fought the constraints of his breeches. He pushed against her and touched her lips with his own.

  She gasped, but in desire, not distress. He crushed her in his arms and seized the moment, pushing inside with his tongue. He wasn’t sure he could control himself and wait for the evening to come. He had never wanted any woman the way he wanted her. It made no sense—but all sense was lost to him now.

  And she pressed against him, kissing him back, as hungry and frantic as he.

  This was so right. It was his only coherent thought, and as he kissed her, his lust expanding dangerously, the thought rang in his stupefie
d mind, time after time.

  “Tyrell.” The earl, his father, spoke.

  Tyrell somehow heard. He had been kissing Elizabeth for an eternity—or was it a brief moment? He closed his eyes, still holding her tightly, his body impossibly inflamed. She was as feverish in return. He fought for his senses. So much was at stake. And even though he could not understand his thoughts, he slowly recovered his composure and released her.

  Tyrell turned to face his father.

  The earl stood not far from the doorway; his expression was filled with disapproval.

  Tyrell faced his father, agonizingly aware of Elizabeth standing behind him. Oddly, he wanted to shield her now from further shame. He turned and smiled slightly at her. “Go and join your son. We will speak in a few more moments,” he said.

  She was flushed, her hair a bit askew, her lips plump and swollen, but gratitude filled her eyes and she nodded. Then she ducked past him and, not daring to look at the earl, raced from the room.

  Tyrell watched her go. Then he walked across the room, past the earl and he closed the door. He turned and said, “I have decided that they will both stay here at Adare. I shall provide for Miss Fitzgerald, as well as my son.”

  “You think to keep Miss Fitzgerald?” The earl was incredulous.

  “I will not have her separated from her—from my child,” he said firmly. “I am afraid that I must insist. It is what is best for my son. She can take rooms not far from the nursery. But she stays at Adare.”

  The earl stared, speechless.

  Tyrell inclined his head. He had never before given an order to the earl. In that moment, their roles had changed and they both knew it. The son had stepped up to the throne, and it was time.

  Lizzie paused on the threshold of the room she had been shown to. Rosie stood behind her, Ned in hand. The countess was instructing a maid to light a fire and open the windows, the green satin draperies already pulled aside. “I hope you will be pleased here,” she said with a smile.

  Lizzie already knew how wealthy the earl was. She had seen some of the public rooms at Adare, and all were dazzling in the display of art, in the plasterwork, in the gilded and upholstered furnishings. But she was not prepared for the vast suite that faced her now. Surely this was a mistake! She had only hastily explained to her parents that she would stay at Adare with Ned but five minutes ago, and she remained in a state of dazed, amazed confusion.