by Brenda Joyce
“You could—and should—do so much better,” Rory said roughly.
What if he was sincere? “I don’t want to do better,” Georgie heard herself whisper. And it was the truth—a truth she could no longer avoid.
He took one of her hands, lifted it to his mouth and kissed it, hard. Then he looked at her, his eyes smoldering, and Georgie felt faint with desire. “I am impoverished,” he whispered. “I work for my living. I may or may not inherit some small fortune from Eleanor. I have no right doing this, not now, not in these circumstances.”
“Doing what?” she cried, but she somehow knew that her wildest, most secret dream was coming true.
He bent and feathered her mouth with his, and Georgie thought she might die from the potent combination of desire and love. “I wish to take you as my wife, Georgina, but I will understand if you have the good sense to refuse me.”
Georgie gasped.
Rory claimed her mouth with his own.
After Blanche had left, Lizzie stood in the hall, unable to comprehend what had just happened. She was stunned at Blanche’s confession that she did not want to marry. Still, she now realized, that did not mean that Blanche and Tyrell were not marrying. Only one fact was clear—Blanche was a very gracious, kind and dignified woman. Lizzie shook her head, hugging herself. She would never make any sense of the encounter, she decided. Some of her composure was returning, and now, in hindsight, she wished she had asked Blanche how Tyrell and Ned were faring.
Passing the library, Lizzie heard some noise from within. She gave it no thought, assuming a maid was preparing that room. The door was closed, which was somewhat odd, but she did not dwell on it. Then Lizzie heard voices.
There was no mistaking the male voice she had just heard—it belonged to Rory. Suddenly Lizzie recalled how Rory had stared at Georgie so intently a few nights before. Instinct overcame her then and she did not hesitate. She opened the door, certain that Rory and her sister should not be closeted alone.
Georgie was on the sofa in Rory’s arms, in the throes of a frenzied kiss.
And Lizzie was afraid. Her own life passed before her eyes—her love for Tyrell, their brief, intense and illicit affair, her downfall and ruin, the grief and heartbreak.
In that instant, Lizzie knew she would never let Georgie suffer as she had. She knew she would protect her sister at all costs. Although the door was open, she knocked on it, loudly, four or five times.
Rory leapt to his feet, turning toward her. He became red.
Lizzie turned an incredulous stare on her sister, who sat up, so dazed she could only blink.
Lizzie’s temper began. She tried to control it. “I do beg your pardon for interrupting,” she said caustically. Then she gave up. “What are you doing, Georgie?” she cried. “Have you lost your wits?”
Georgie shook her head, wide-eyed and clearly not able to speak.
Lizzie whirled to confront Rory. “I do not know what your intentions are,” she said stiffly, “but I will not allow you to ruin my sister, sir. One fallen woman in this house is quite enough.”
Rory remained flushed, but he spoke to Lizzie, very quietly. “I have just asked your sister to marry me.”
Georgie stood up, beginning to smile, continuing to appear stunned.
And Lizzie began to understand. A smile grew when what she wanted to do was jump up and down and shout with glee. “Georgie?”
Georgie only had eyes for Rory. “Yes,” she whispered, tears coming to her eyes. “Yes. Yes!”
And Lizzie leapt up and down. “You are getting married!”
Rory rushed to Georgie, taking her hands. “Was that an acceptance?” he cried.
Georgie wet her lips. “Yes. But only if you really mean it.”
“Of course I mean it. I have never asked anyone to marry me until now.” He swallowed, pulling her close. “I have never felt this way before, Georgina.”
Georgie nodded, clearly unable to speak, tears tracking down her cheeks.
Rory reached into his pocket and Lizzie saw him produce a beautiful diamond ring. It was about a carat and she wondered how he had been able to afford it.
Georgie saw it and gasped.
“It was my mother’s,” he said hoarsely. He took her left hand and slid the ring on her finger.
Tears filled Georgie’s eyes another time. She batted at them furiously, and Lizzie knew she did not want Rory to see, but he reached up to wipe them away. “You have led me on a merry chase,” he said unsteadily.
“Only because you are too charming for your own good,” she whispered.
Lizzie came forward. “This is wonderful! I have prayed for this day. Oh, we must tell Eleanor immediately—and we must write Mama and Papa! Oh! If only they had not just left town to visit Anna!”
Rory became very serious. “I have yet to speak with Mr. Fitzgerald,” he said, looking rather grave at the prospect.
“Papa won’t mind,” Georgie said with a smile. “It is Mama who must be won over, but she can easily be charmed.”
Lizzie knew Papa would be happy for Georgie and that Mama would easily fall prey to Rory’s powers of persuasion. In fact, as he was Eleanor’s favorite, she would anticipate an inheritance. Now Lizzie started to think about the wedding and the future. “When do you both think to do the deed? And where?”
Georgie and Rory were now holding hands. “I should love to have the wedding at home, in Ireland,” Georgie cried. She faced Rory. “Wouldn’t you like that, too? Raven Hall is very small, but perhaps we could get married at Glen Barry.”
“I should like to do anything that pleases you,” he said very seriously.
She blushed. Then she looked at Lizzie. “There is so much to think about—to decide—to do! Oh, my! I am getting married!”
Tyrell had just left the nursery where he had shared a private luncheon with his son. Ned had become the great and blinding light in his life. He was his only source of joy and a great source of pride. However, he could not spend a single moment with his son without thinking of Elizabeth. As he went downstairs, he wondered if he would ever forget the summer they had spent at Wicklowe, posing as a genuine family, so foolishly oblivious of what the future held.
Images of Elizabeth Fitzgerald flooded him—on the lawns with Ned, in his arms in bed, laughing with him at the supper table. The memories were unwelcome and he became irritable and angry. Would this never end?
The butler met him at the bottom of the wide, winding stairs. “My lord, you have a caller.”
He handed Tyrell a card he instantly recognized. It was well used and dog-eared and could only belong to Rory McBane. As pleased as he was that his friend was present, he tensed. Once, McBane and Elizabeth had been friends. He hadn’t seen Rory since the summer, and he wondered if he remained Elizabeth’s friend now. He wondered what Rory knew about her. He did not like himself for such weakness. “Where is he?”
“In the Green Room, sir,” the butler said.
“Bring us a bottle of wine—burgundy, if you please,” Tyrell said, turning away. He strode into a large salon with surprisingly dark emerald walls and a pale gold ceiling. Rory stood with one hip against the white marble mantel of the hearth, oblivious to the heat there, appearing lost in thought.
Rory straightened, turning to face him. “Are you scowling at me, Tyrell?” He seemed amused. “Am I not a sight for sore eyes? Have you not missed me, even a little? You have no other friend as radical as I. Without my presence, surely you are dying from political conservatism?”
Tyrell had to smile. He had forgotten how witty and amusing McBane could be. “I am hardly scowling, McBane. It was a trick of the light, and while you are the most outrageous rebel that I know, I am not surrounded by reactionaries, as you so like to think.”
Rory grinned and studied him. “If you are passing time here, you are indeed surrounded by dangerously conservative views. How have you been?”
“Quite well,” Tyrell lied. “And you?”
Rory’s smiled wide
ned. “Very well.”
Tyrell’s brows lifted, but Rory continued. “But that is personally speaking. This talk of a merger of finances between our countries has provoked me to no end!” And he gave Tyrell a look, as if he were responsible for the impending union of the Irish Exchequer with the national one.
“If you are hoping for a debate, look somewhere else.” Tyrell laughed. “I refuse to discuss the merits of the union.”
Rory smiled oddly, casting his gaze at the flagstone floor. “If I wish a rousing debate, I need look no further than my own fiancée.” He looked up and grinned. “I am getting married, Tyrell.”
Tyrell clasped his shoulder, truly surprised. While Rory was hardly celibate, he wasn’t exactly a rake, either. His passion was politics, not women. He was too impoverished to afford a mistress and Tyrell was well aware of how fleeting his affairs were, more often than not lasting a single night. “This must be le coup de foudre,” he said with genuine amusement. He was well pleased for his friend. “Congratulations.”
Rory grinned broadly. “I confess to being smitten. Now I begin to understand what it means to fall in love.” He rubbed his temples. “I do not sleep well these days.”
A servant appeared with their wine. “How perfect the timing,” Tyrell said as he and Rory each accepted a glass. They touched the rims. “And who is this paragon of virtue and, I assume, intellect, who has so captivated you?”
Rory’s smile vanished. He hesitated. “Georgina May Fitzgerald.”
Had he been drinking, he would have choked. Tyrell froze, incapable of a response. He stared at Rory, but saw Elizabeth with her sister instead, as he had last seen them, taking tea in the gardens at Wicklowe. What the hell was this?
“Tyrell.” Rory set his glass aside and touched his sleeve. “I am in love with Lizzie’s sister. We think to wed this spring.”
Tyrell’s mind began to work. His dear friend was marrying Elizabeth’s sister. Rory had been courting Elizabeth’s sister. Were they in town? He somehow felt certain that Lizzie was residing with Georgina. And if that was so, then Rory must know everything about her.
For once in his life, he was at a loss.
There was hurt and there was anger and too many questions, none of which he should ask.
To cover up his lack of composure, he said, “I do not know her all that well, but I think I can see why you have fallen for her.” His heart was pounding, he realized. There was anxiety and excitement, dismay and dread.
“I have never met a more brilliant woman!” Rory exclaimed. “And have you noticed how elegant and beautiful she is?”
Was Georgina in town? And was Elizabeth with her? He turned away, drinking his wine, debating whether or not to find out. If he learned Elizabeth was in London, what would he do? To give himself more time, he tried to focus on Rory’s marriage. “She is very tall,” he said. Although he was obsessed with Elizabeth, he said, “You are the only friend I have who reuses his calling cards.” In control now, he slowly turned. “Rory, how will you support her and yourself? She is as impoverished as you are.” This was a serious issue, indeed, and as Rory’s good friend, it was his responsibility to raise it.
Rory made a sound. “We will somehow make ends meet. As my cartoons do not pay that much, I am looking for better employment.”
He was astonished, as he knew how impassioned Rory was about his political satire. “You would give up your witty drawings?”
“Not entirely, but I would cease drawing for the Times on a regular basis. Believe me, Tyrell, before I asked her to marry me, I had a long debate with myself. I am hardly a fool. Obviously, I should have fallen for an heiress. But I didn’t.” His gaze darkened. “And she could do better! But she doesn’t care about my circumstances. She told me she never thought to marry or fall in love.” Suddenly he smiled. “She loves me,” he said as if astonished. “She even told me so.”
Tyrell recognized a besotted man when he saw one. He decided his wedding present would be a considerable sum, but that would not solve their problems, only tide them over for some time. “I will try to help you find a lucrative position,” he said. “Let me think on it.”
Rory started. “That is not why I came, but thank you. Has anyone ever told you that you are an ideal friend? Thank you, Tyrell.”
“Think nothing of it,” he said. “It would be my pleasure to help you both.” Gray eyes filled his mind, unavoidable now. He paced slowly across the room, sipping his wine.
What would he do if he saw her again?
“Ty.” Rory’s tone was firm as he came to stand beside him. “I should like very much for you to be at the wedding. However, considering what happened last summer, I do not think that the best idea.”
Tyrell whirled. “Is Georgina in town?”
Rory tensed visibly. “Yes. She is residing at Eleanor’s Belgravia home.”
His heart leapt. Belgravia was but a carriage ride away. He folded his arms and asked, trying to sound indifferent, “Is Elizabeth there?”
Rory hesitated, and it was answer enough.
Tyrell began to pace away from the other man, unable to deny the hot, hard rush of adrenaline in his blood. He felt like a hunter with its prey in sight. She was twenty minutes away.
Rory said, “How is your son? He must have grown a foot by now.” Clearly he wished to change the subject.
Tyrell faced him from the other side of the room. “How is she?”
Rory’s eyes flashed. “Don’t do this,” he warned.
“Don’t do what?” Tyrell smiled and it felt terribly unpleasant. “I wish to know how she is. The question is simple enough. I have every right to know.”
“You have no rights, none at all!” Rory exclaimed. “You only have rights where your fiancée is concerned.” He added with heat, “You broke her heart. How do you think she is?”
Tyrell felt a dangerous anger descend upon him. “I beg to differ with you. She left me. I have hardly broken her heart.”
Rory approached, appearing as angry. “She is my cousin and my friend. I never approved of your affair—it was disgraceful! Lizzie always deserved more. She deserved a husband and a home—not shame and ruin.”
He did not move. “She came to me already ruined,” he said, but he knew it was a lie. Rory was right. Elizabeth had deserved more than a tawdry affair.
“I did not come here to discuss Lizzie, with you of all people! I want you to leave her alone,” Rory warned.
“What makes you think I would not?”
“You begin to ask me all of these questions about Lizzie and you wonder why I suspect you intend to pursue her again?” He was incredulous.
His heart and mind raced in tandem now. But he only said, far too quietly, “I am hardly interested in a renewed affair.”
“Then what are you intending, Tyrell?” Rory demanded.
And in that moment, finally, he knew what he had to do.
23
A Remarkable Turn of Events
Eleanor held a small supper party with a dozen guests, the occasion being the official engagement of Georgie and Rory. Papa had sent a messenger to town, giving his stamp of approval to the union, and Mama had slipped in a brief note mentioning how thrilled she was, managing to allude to Rory’s status as Eleanor’s favorite relation in the single paragraph she wrote. Georgie was walking on clouds, almost literally, and Lizzie was deeply satisfied. The couple had decided to wait until the spring to marry.
They had yet to go into supper. Their guests were a mixed group, and Lizzie noted that a gentleman her age was present, the youngest son from a good family. She was so happy for Georgie that if Eleanor really thought to try to make a match for her now, she would not brood about it. “Miss Fitzgerald?” The blond gentleman, who could not be a year older than herself, smiled engagingly at her. “I should like to be so bold as to ask you to join me later in the week for a day at the races.”
Lizzie smiled firmly at Charles Davidson. It was time to take a stand. She had no intention of go
ing anywhere with any gentleman, and she questioned his motives, anyway, as her reputation had to be well-known. Even if he thought to actually court her, she was just not interested. “I am flattered by your invitation,” she said, “but I am afraid I must decline. Unfortunately, I have a very busy schedule this week at St. Anne’s.”
His face fell and he bowed. “I am heartbroken,” he said gallantly.
Lizzie heard the doorbell. “If you will excuse me? I think I will answer that.” She smiled and slipped away, but before she could step into the hall, Rory paused before her.
“Davidson is a good friend, Lizzie. Did you just give him the brush-off?”
She met his serious regard. “So you are the one who invited him.” She shook her head. “Rory, please, I am not interested.”
His gaze was searching. “May I give you some advice?”
Lizzie held up her hand, not wanting to hear him tell her to let go and move on. But before she could speak, she felt eyes upon her. She glanced past Rory into the hall—and saw Tyrell de Warenne.
Lizzie cried out in shock.
It had been so long.
He stood a short distance away from them, staring at her, his gaze brilliant and intense. And Lizzie could not tear her eyes from his. What was he doing there? What did he want?
And just seeing him, with so much between them, reopened every one of her wounds. Lizzie hurt as if she had left him yesterday—and as if it were only yesterday, she desperately needed to be in his arms. Then Lizzie saw the flowers.
She stiffened, staring at the gorgeous bouquet of flowers in his hand.
I do not want to marry Tyrell, or anyone. Oddly, Blanche’s shocking words came to mind.
But what Blanche wanted meant nothing in the scheme of things, Lizzie reminded herself almost frantically. Blanche would obey her father, just as Tyrell would do his duty to Adare. But why, dear God, had he come?
“Lizzie? I see that you are in shock. Stay here,” Rory said tersely. “I will take care of this.”
