The Masquerade

by Brenda Joyce

  Lizzie realized he was speaking to her just as Georgie jabbed her in the ribs with her elbow. Suddenly dismayed, Lizzie realized that she did not want to dance, especially with the macaroni, who was clearly unable to keep his masked eyes from her cleavage. “I am sorry, this dance is taken,” Lizzie said politely.

  He understood and with profuse apologies, turned away.

  “Lizzie!” Georgie seemed angry now.

  “I am not dancing,” Lizzie said stubbornly.

  “You are not the shy one,” Georgie snapped, clearly in a temper, “You are the impossibly foolish one!” And she stalked off.

  Lizzie was left alone. Instantly she regretted turning her suitor down, but only because of her sister’s reaction. Sighing, she turned to watch the dancers on the dance floor. The moment she ascertained that Tyrell de Warenne was not among them, she started to scan the surrounding crowd. If he was not in the ballroom, he might be outside in the gardens, as it was a pleasant night.

  She felt eyes boring into her then.

  Lizzie stiffened as if shot. Instantly she turned.

  Tyrell de Warenne stood a short distance away, dressed as a pirate in thigh-high boots, tight black breeches, a black shirt, black eye patch and a wig on his head, with several narrow beaded braids around his face. He had his hand on his hip, where he wore a very genuine-looking sword, and he seemed to be staring directly at her.

  Lizzie lost the ability to breathe. He could not be staring at her that way, so intently, as if he were a lion about to pounce on his prey. She turned to see what lovely lady stood behind her, but no one was there. She was by herself, quite alone.

  Almost disbelieving, she faced him. Dear Lord, he was now striding toward her!

  Lizzie panicked. What had she been thinking? He was the heir to an earldom, as wealthy as she was poor, and eight years older than she. She couldn’t imagine what he wanted. Her heart was beating its way out of her chest—and she knew she would behave like a fool again.

  Lizzie turned and fled out of the ballroom, suddenly terrified. She was no seductress and no courtesan. She was Elizabeth Anne Fitzgerald, a sixteen-year-old girl prone to daydreams, and it was absurd to try to tempt Tyrell de Warenne. She found herself in a gaming room filled with lords and ladies at various card and dice tables. There, she paused against the wall, panting and uncertain as to what she should now do. Had he really been approaching her? And if so, why?

  And he suddenly strode into the room.

  His presence was like the sunrise on a cold gray dawn. Instantly his gaze pinned her. He halted before her, leaving Lizzie stunned, her back to the wall.

  She could only stare, her heart racing as wildly as it ever had.

  “Do you really think to run from me?” he murmured. And he smiled.

  She had stiffened impossibly. She could not move but she began to breathe, not normally but shallowly and rapidly. She tried to shake her head no, and failed. What could he possibly want? Had he confused her with someone else?

  He was so close, as close—no, closer—than he had been the other day in Limerick. She knew she must reply, somehow. But how could she? She had never seen him thus clad. The thigh-high boots drew her gaze the way a magnet did a coin, and from the top of the boots, her eyes drifted to his groin. There, a suggestive and very masculine swell was far too evident. She jerked her gaze up to his disreputably unbuttoned shirt, and saw a gold-and-ruby cross lying amid the dark hairs of his chest. Moisture gathered in her mouth, and elsewhere, too. A most persistent aching began, that longing she spent days and nights trying to ignore.

  “You need not run from me,” he said, his tone remaining unbearably soft. “All pirates are not the same.”

  Was he flirting with her? Dear God, this was her second chance! She felt certain she could not speak—she still could not draw a normal breath—but she had to respond! She had to make some witty comment about pirates. “I do believe all pirates have a reputation for mayhem and murder, my lord,” she somehow whispered. “So of course I should think to run.”

  He grinned then, sweeping a courtly bow that no pirate would ever use. The braids, beaded with coral and gold, swung about his face and against his full lips, which she stared helplessly at. How good he must taste. He straightened abruptly, his single eye locking with hers. “And if I swear I am not like other pirates? If I swear no intent to harm?”

  She swallowed hard. “Then I should rethink my position, my lord,” she managed.

  One dimple danced. “I am pleased to hear that,” he stated. “I believe we have made each other’s acquaintance, have we not, my lady?”

  For one moment she stared, enthralled by his appeal.

  “My lady? We have met?” he insisted.

  She did not want to confess to being the foolish muddy child he had rescued on the high street. “Only if you run with my lord Robin Hood, sir.”

  He studied her, still smiling. “The truth is, I am rather familiar with Sherwood Forest, my lady, although I have yet to meet the outlaw you speak of.”

  And she found herself finally smiling back. “Perhaps there shall arise an occasion in which I may make that introduction, if you truly seek it.” Lizzie realized she was actually flirting with him.

  His single uncovered eye glittered in the most shocking manner. “There is only one introduction that I wish to make,” he said very precisely.

  Lizzie had never received such a look from any man in her life. There was simply no mistaking his meaning. “Maid Marian,” she whispered hoarsely. “It is simply Maid Marian.”

  He hesitated and she sensed he had wanted her real name, but then he bowed again, this time briefly. “And I am Black Jack Brody, at your every command.”

  They stood on the deck of his ship, buffeted by the wind and rocked by the sea. His braids swinging by his jaw, he leaned down over her, his hands closing on her waist. Lizzie closed her eyes and waited for his kiss….

  “My lady? Surely you wish to command…me.”

  He cut into her fantasy abruptly and she jerked to reality, finding herself face-to-face with the prince of all her dreams. He was staring at her as if he knew exactly what she had been thinking—and exactly what she had been yearning for.

  “I doubt that you would obey my every command,” she whispered, trembling.

  His expression seemed dangerous. “Ah, but you will never know, now will you, unless you ask me.”

  She stared in real shock. Did he mean what she thought he did? Or was this how men and women flirted—wildly and without any thought for literal interpretation?

  He placed his hand on the wall, truly entrapping her, and leaned terribly close. “So command, my lady, as your heart desires, and we shall see if this pirate speaks true.”

  It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him to kiss her. She would die for his kiss.

  A slow, sensual smile began. “What is wrong?” he whispered softly.

  She swallowed.

  “Do you not know where to begin?” The dimple flashed, as did the light in his uncovered eye.

  They were not in Sherwood Forest, Lizzie managed to think. They were in a public room, one filled with a crowd, and she could not dare do what she was on the verge of doing. Could she?

  “Perhaps the lady needs aid,” he breathed. “Perhaps a pirate’s suggestion would do.”

  And it seemed to Lizzie that he had moved closer, as their lips were almost touching now. Somehow, as her body quivered and throbbed, the feeling of being drugged overcame her, and she felt her eyes grow heavy, so heavy they began to close. His mouth brushed her jaw. Her sex tightened. And as he spoke, his lips caressed her skin, his hard thighs pressing into her own softer body.

  “Midnight. In the west gardens. There, your every wish shall be my command,” he said, soft, guttural and low.

  And for one more moment, his lips remained pressed against her cheek. Worse, she felt his strong, hard chest on her bosom—and then he was gone.

  Lizzie did not move, trembling. When she dared
to open her eyes, she was afraid the entire room would be staring at her as she tried to control the terrible fire consuming her body. She remained against the wall, fighting for composure, fighting to drive the raging desire aside.

  What had just happened?

  She began to breathe a bit more normally and she straightened, hugging herself. Had Tyrell de Warenne just asked her to meet him in the gardens at midnight?

  Was this a jest? Or did he think to entice her to a lover’s tryst?

  Lizzie could not know.

  She left the game room slowly, feeling as if she had drunk far too much wine. But he had asked her to meet him in the gardens and his lips had been on her skin. Did she dare go?

  Lizzie was certain he had realized that she was the woman he had rescued yesterday in Limerick, but he had not been dismayed or put off. Lizzie did not know what to do.

  She wanted to meet him, but she was afraid. If she went, what would happen? Would he kiss her? The thought was enough to make her run to the gardens at once, never mind that it was only ten o’clock. But to even be entertaining the thought of such a kiss and such a tryst was terribly improper, considering his intentions could not be honorable ones. He certainly had no intention of courting her and asking her to marry him. He merely wished for a kiss. She wasn’t worried about any other advances—Tyrell de Warenne was not that type of man.

  Lizzie touched her mask. If he removed the mask, he would see her face and be disappointed. She was almost certain. Yes, she was lovely in the costume, but that would not change the truth. She was the plain one, as plain as a crust of pie, and once he removed the mask he would know that—and if he did not see it in the dark of that night, he would see it in the light of another day.

  But tonight was magical. Tonight he thought her lovely. Tonight he saw her as a woman—she knew it.

  And dear God, tonight she wanted to be in his arms. Just this one single time. She had dreamed of Tyrell de Warenne a thousand times, but never had she dreamed of a night like this.

  If anyone ever found out—if Mama ever found out—she would be ruined. But no one need know. After all, Anna had been kissed more than once and only she and Georgie knew about it.

  And suddenly Lizzie’s mind was made up. She had loved him for most of her life, and as improper as a kiss was, the memory would last her a lifetime. Lizzie sank onto a bench, shaking. In two hours it would be midnight. Two hours felt like an eternity.

  “Lizzie!”

  Lizzie jerked at the sound of Anna’s distressed cry. She jumped up from the bench and found Anna hurrying toward her, in tears. Instantly she was alarmed. “Dear? What is wrong?” she cried.

  “Thank God I have found you! Some lout has spilled rum punch all over my bodice,” Anna said, blinking back tears. “I stink like a drunkard and Mama insists that I go home.” She wiped at her tears. “But then I had an idea, a grand idea. You have always hated social events. Please, Lizzie, switch costumes with me. I so wish to stay, I have been so enjoying myself. There are several interesting officers here…surely you are ready to go home?”

  Lizzie gaped in dismay. Anna gripped her hand. “Surely you are not enjoying yourself? Surely you do not want to stay? Besides, you are barely sixteen, Lizzie. I should be the one to stay,” Anna said more firmly.

  And Lizzie felt the magic vanishing from the night. Of course Anna must stay—Anna needed a husband and she, Lizzie, did not. Besides, when had she ever refused her sister anything?

  Lizzie bit her lip, closed her eyes and fought her heart. A part of her was screaming inwardly in protest, refusing. She reminded herself that a tryst was only that, that Tyrell was merely the lover of her dreams, and that tomorrow she would be filled with hurt if she dared to go forward tonight.

  “Lizzie? I must stay! I truly must! I am taken with one of the soldiers here and he is leaving for Cork tomorrow!” Anna cried.

  The evening had indeed been a magical one, but it was over now.

  “Of course I am ready to go. I have been nothing but a wallflower. Nothing has changed,” she said briskly. “You know how I hate parties and fêtes.”

  Anna smiled, hugging her. “Oh, thank you, Lizzie, thank you! You will not regret it!”

  But oddly, Lizzie was already regretting it. She did not need a crystal ball to know that she had been given the gift of an opportunity that night, the kind that came once in a lifetime. She thought she might be crying. But she was not a beauty like Maid Marian and she never would be. Tyrell de Warenne would have realized that when he unmasked her.

  And as Georgie had said earlier, the de Warennes were out of their class and economy.

  Let Tyrell remember her this way, from this one singular spectacular night, if he even would.

  And Lizzie somehow thought that he might.

  3

  A Crisis of Severe Proportions

  Lizzie lay in her bed, unable to get up. Through the parted curtain, she could see that the sun was shining, promising yet another pleasant day. But after the extraordinary night that had just passed, the day could be nothing but ordinary and disappointing. Lizzie stared at the ceiling, recalling her amazing encounter with Tyrell last night. Beside her, Anna lay sleeping soundly.

  In the light of a new day, Lizzie was filled with so much confusion and so much regret. Maybe she should have stayed at the masque and made a rendezvous with Tyrell. But how could she have disappointed Anna? As she lay there, she kept recalling the way he had leaned against the wall, almost pinning her there, so dangerously seductive in his pirate’s costume. Her body was vibrantly alive, and in that moment, it felt as if nothing could alleviate the feverish desire she was afflicted with.

  In her sleep, Anna sighed.

  Lizzie also sighed, her gaze still on the plain, whitewashed ceiling above, although she did not really see it. She had not been able to sleep at all last night, tossing and turning, thinking of him and his body and what his kisses might be like. Anna had returned with the rest of the family several hours after midnight, and Lizzie had heard her moving about the bedroom they shared. She had finally asked her how the rest of the ball had been.

  “Oh, just wonderful,” Anna had said, her tone odd.

  Lizzie had sat up. “Anna, are you all right?”

  Anna had chosen not to light an oil lamp and she held a single candle. She did not turn, facing the mirror over the dresser. “Of course I am all right. Why do you ask?” She set the candle down and began to disrobe.

  Lizzie did not lie back down. The three sisters were very close. She knew something was amiss; she could feel some kind of strain. “Didn’t you enjoy the evening?”

  “Yes, I had a wonderful time,” Anna said. “Why are you questioning me?”

  Lizzie was taken aback. She apologized and that was the end of that.

  Now she thought not about her sister, but about Tyrell’s strange interest in her. She reminded herself that if she had dared to rendezvous with him, he would have asked her to unmask herself and he would have quickly lost interest in her. How many times, year after year, had she seen him at the St. Patrick’s Day lawn party, surrounded by beautiful women? His reputation was well known—he was no outlandish rake, but it was obvious to her that he preferred beauty to brains, as almost every man did. And even if, somehow, he had not been disappointed with her after unmasking her, nothing could have come of their tryst. He would never court her. A man like that would never marry so far beneath him—and Lizzie did not think herself capable of an affair. Still, she could imagine what it would be like. And suddenly he was with her in her bed, running his hands up and down her legs, her waist and then her breasts. Lizzie turned to him for his kiss….

  But he was not there and her lips brushed her pillow, instead. She flopped onto her back, trembling. There was not going to be an affair, even if she was amoral enough to want one! He was too much of a gentleman to toy with a young, well-bred lady like herself. The most she could have hoped for were a few heated kisses at the masque.

  Suddenly
Anna whimpered in her sleep.

  Lizzie sat up with some concern. “Anna? Are you dreaming?”

  She thrashed and murmured to herself, and it almost sounded as if she were speaking to someone. It was the custom in the Fitzgerald household to sleep in after the de Warenne ball. Still, Lizzie reached over and tugged on her arm. “Anna? You are having a bad dream,” she said.

  Anna’s eyes flew open and for one moment, she did not seem to see her sister. Even disheveled from sleep, her hair in a simple braid, Anna was gloriously lovely.

  “Anna? It is only a dream,” Lizzie soothed.

  Anna blinked and finally saw her sister, attempting a slight smile. “Oh, dear. Thank you, Lizzie. I was having a nightmare.”

  Lizzie decided to get up. “What were you dreaming about?” She walked over to the bureau, beginning to unbraid her hair.

  “I don’t recall.” Anna pulled the covers up to her chin. “I danced all night—I am exhausted,” she said. And she closed her eyes, effectively ending the conversation.

  Lizzie gave up and slipped from the bedroom. After using the privy, she bumped into Georgie in the hall, who was fully dressed, her hair pulled severely back. “Good morning,” she smiled.

  Georgie smiled back at her. She was wearing a plain, pale blue gown with no adornment whatsoever, not even a cameo pin. “You left before we had a chance to discuss the evening,” she exclaimed.

  And suddenly Lizzie had to tell all. “Let me dress, then meet me downstairs!”

  She had never dressed with more speed. As she raced downstairs, her hair still unbound, she tried to imagine Georgie’s reaction to the events of the previous night. Georgie was already sipping tea and nibbling on toast at the dining table when Lizzie raced breathlessly in. “You will simply not believe it—and I fear I have missed the opportunity of a lifetime!”