by Brenda Joyce
“Not for very long, I think. My understanding is that he is on his way back to Dublin. Maybe he is already gone?”
“That would be fortunate, indeed.” Lizzie stared across the back lawns at the rolling hills. “I am going to have to convince him to remain silent,” she said.
“He adores you,” Georgie said, her tone suddenly terse. “Perhaps you should have told him from the first.”
Lizzie stood. “Georgie? I know you have come to visit, but I am so tired. This duplicity is really too much to bear. I must lie down.”
Georgie also stood. “That’s fine. I merely wished to find out if you were all right, and learn why Tyrell has acted as he did. I still cannot believe he is forcing you to be his mistress. I do not think I admire him very much anymore.”
Lizzie’s immediate instinct was to defend Tyrell. “I seem to bring out the worst in him, but do not misjudge him now. Can you blame him for thinking so poorly of me?”
“Can you really do this, Lizzie? Knowing he is officially plighted to someone else? Are you sure that you should do this?”
Lizzie closed her eyes. “I don’t know,” she finally whispered. “Oh, Georgie, I feel very much like a small vessel lost at sea, swept this way and that by currents I cannot control! I think I am just going with the highest tide.”
Georgie hugged her, hard.
Lizzie was having a wonderful dream. She lay on her side, an extra pillow in her arms, as Tyrell lifted the heavy braid that was her hair. She smiled just a little, somehow knowing what would come next. This was the kind of dream she always hoped for. He touched the side of her jaw, a caress so exquisite that instantly the heat gathered in her loins. Her blood raced. He stroked down the side of her neck and her shoulder, which was exposed, the neckline of her bodice gaping. His careful silken stroke moved down her side, to her waist and then her hip. Lizzie sighed, shifting restlessly in the bed, her skin prickling with desire.
He seemed to breathe her name. “Elizabeth.”
It was Tyrell, she thought, and he was going to make love to her.
He smoothed his palm over the firm mound of one buttock, pausing there. Lizzie whimpered, somehow hearing her own sound, the flesh beneath his hand gloriously alive.
He stroked down to the back of her thigh, caressing there, until Lizzie was pulsing hard between her legs.
“Are you awake?” she thought he asked.
But she did not want to wake up, not now, when her body had so quickly become explosive. His hand was under her cotton nightgown, and his touch on her bare flesh was too much to bear. Lizzie spun away.
In her dream, she could see the pieces of herself flying high, like a million stars, spangling the night sky.
“I need you to wake up,” he said urgently.
Lizzie realized then that she had not been having a dream, and she was instantly wide-awake.
She lay on her belly, clutching her pillow, while Tyrell sat beside her hip. Lizzie whipped to sit up, facing him.
He had shed his jacket. He wore his shirt unbuttoned and hanging loose. Lizzie took one look at his hot eyes and then she stared at the expanse of his muscular chest. Her heart slammed, choking her.
“I was trying to wake you up,” he said roughly.
She felt more heat gathering, but not just between her thighs, in her cheeks. His eyes had dropped to the hem of her nightgown, which sat precariously high on her thighs. She did not know whether to be thrilled or dismayed, but his intention now was unmistakable.
His hand covered her bare, pale thigh. Lizzie inhaled, staring at it. His knuckles turned white.
“I need to take you to bed, Elizabeth,” he said thickly, and he slid his hand up against her sex. “I don’t want to wait.”
She cried out, falling back against the pillows. Her brain was trying to tell her something, but in that moment, she could not really think.
He had ripped off his shirt and she heard his boots hitting the floor, thud after thud. “I don’t want to be rough,” he said, leaning over her, pinning her shoulders to the bed, “but I do not think I have any control left.” And then he smiled at her.
Her heart turned over hard, expanding with her love. She smiled back, wanting to tell him that anything he did would be all right.
A dimple etched in his cheek, he released her and tugged on the drawstring at the neckline of her nightgown. It opened; he slid the neckline wide, over both shoulders and down her breasts to her waist.
Ned cried out in his sleep.
Ned. Her plan…the wine.
Lizzie leapt up as if shot from a cannon, frantically grasping at her nightgown and trying to pull it up. He stood, clad only in his breechess. Lizzie took one look at his arousal and more desire than any one woman had any right to stabbed through her.
“The child is fine, Elizabeth. Rosie will attend him. I spoke to her a moment ago before I came in.”
“Wine,” she gasped.
She staggered to the small bedside table where the wine bottle sat, opened, with two glasses.
“What are you doing, Elizabeth?” he asked calmly, but his eyes glittered as he watched her. “Why are you suddenly so nervous? I am going to pleasure you as no one ever has before. I promise.”
She could not move, standing there holding up her nightgown so her bosom was covered. Her body throbbed. One touch and she would climax, she thought. Excitement, combined now with fear of discovery, made her faint.
“We’ll save the wine for later,” he said softly, as if he knew the precarious state of her body.
She turned, seizing the wine bottle and somehow pouring it into one glass. Her hand was shaking.
He took her wrist, stilling her, standing behind her so closely she felt him throbbing against her buttocks. “Are you afraid?” he asked incredulously.
“No.” She had found her voice. She refused to release the glass of wine. “Just nervous, my lord,” she said thickly.
“Don’t be. I am not going to hurt you. After all, you are hardly a virgin,” he soothed in her ear.
Lizzie felt her knees begin to collapse. He slipped his arms around her, taking her breasts in his hands. “Put the wine down, Elizabeth,” he ordered.
She was trying to hold her nightgown up and the glass of wine, as well. She somehow wrenched free of him, and as she did so, wine splashed over his beautiful breeches. Backing away, she hit the bed, saw opportunity when it presented itself, and with a cry, flung the glass over the pale blue sheets.
There was silence.
Lizzie closed her eyes, prayed for help and turned to look at him. She forgot her nightgown, and it fell in a pool to the floor.
He was staring; now, slowly, he smiled.
Lizzie suddenly stilled. She had accomplished what she had intended—there was a huge red stain on the bed. Now she could forget everything except the man who was poised to make love to her.
She should have acted modestly; bent to retrieve her gown. Instead she did not move. Suddenly she was proud of her full breasts and ample hips, her soft, lush thighs, for there was simply no mistaking the admiration in his eyes.
His regard lingered and she saw his jaw flex repeatedly. He suddenly half turned away and, to her surprise, he poured a glass of wine. “You are very apprehensive. Is it because I am a big man? I will go slowly. I do not want to ever hurt you, Elizabeth.” He faced her, handing her the glass. “Take a sip. It will calm you.”
He was kind, after all. Lizzie shook her head, not taking the glass and never looking away from his eyes. His gaze turned to smoke. He put the glass aside, took her hand and reeled her into his arms. His big body trembling against hers; he stroked her shoulders, her arms, her breasts. “You are so lovely!”
Lizzie grasped his huge, bare shoulders. She stared at his hard chest, two distinctly formed slabs, lightly covered with dark hair, and the small, erect nipples there. “Not as lovely as you, my lord,” she heard herself say as thickly.
He went still. “Do you want me?” he asked roughly.
He made a sound, seizing her mouth with his. Lizzie was in his arms, in her bed, on her back, Tyrell on top of her. Lizzie strained for him as he kissed her in a frenzy of passion.
He jerked up, tearing at his breeches.
Lizzie pushed up to her elbows and his ravaged face made her completely hollow. Only he could fill her now. She bit her lip so hard she drew blood when she finally saw him, refusing to cry out. Standing now, breeches in hand, he looked at her.
No man could be more glorious, more virile or more powerful, Lizzie thought.
As if sensing her thoughts, he smiled very slightly at her, with terribly frank promise.
Tyrell tossed the breeches aside and climbed over her, instantly spreading her thighs, the tip of him hot and huge, nestling against her. “You’re so ready,” he said harshly.
This was the moment she had dreamed of, the moment when she would become a part of him.
And he knew. “Dear God,” he said, and suddenly he lowered his face to hers.
Lizzie went still.
Tenderly, he kissed her.
Lizzie started to cry. He did not love her, of course, but there was affection. He could not kiss her this way if she were simply a whore.
He raised his head and their gazes met and Lizzie saw something in his eyes she could not comprehend—raw, amazed emotion.
Then he wrapped his arms around her and pressed inside her body.
Lizzie had forgotten that there would be some pain. Her plan had been to ignore it, but taken by surprise, she cried out. He stopped, not sheathing himself fully.
He could not know! Frantic, she lay still, acutely aware of his huge invasion and uncertain of how to let him continue.
He lifted his head and, with incredulity, looked into her eyes.
And Lizzie saw comprehension there. Horrified, she averted her eyes. “Hurry, my lord,” she managed to say, wriggling as if in desire. “Hurry.”
He did not move, and for one moment there was no reply. Very quietly he asked, “Am I hurting you?”
She had to be an actress now. She dared to meet his gaze. “Of course not,” she lied, grasping his shoulders more firmly, and then tears of pain filled her eyes. Oh, she had not expected this!
He stared at her. If he knew she was a virgin, her life would soon be over, she thought in misery.
Then he laid his cheek against hers. “You have not been with a man in a long time,” he said softly. “Relax, darling. Just relax, and we will go as slowly as you wish.”
She was in disbelief, and then relief came. She clung. “Yes, it has been a very long time—”
“Shh,” he said, kissing her cheek, her eyes, her ear. And he pushed gently into her.
But Lizzie could not relax. He paused, kissing her neck repeatedly, stroking her arm. Lizzie realized he was not going forward with his invasion and she sighed, allowing herself to enjoy his kisses. He reached between them to touch her breasts, still kissing her face.
“I am sorry,” she thought he whispered, and he surged deeply into her.
The pain was like a knife. Lizzie cried out, too late, as he was now buried completely inside her, but he had paused, kissing her deeply.
“Open, darling,” he murmured.
Her heart jumped, the endearment thrilling her. She obeyed, allowing her frozen lips to part, and his tongue stole inside her mouth. He kissed her deeply but slowly and Lizzie’s heart began to pick up a heavy, hammering beat.
Still kissing her, he reached between their bodies and stroked close to where his shaft was buried.
Lizzie felt herself throb around him.
And suddenly there was pleasure sparking inside of her. She remained sore, but it no longer seemed quite so important. Testing out this new desire, she held on to him and shifted her hips. A fire flamed, flesh tingled.
The pain was gone; instead, a raging desire had replaced it.
“Oh, Tyrell,” she cried, reaching for his hips and urging hers hard against him.
He inhaled harshly. “I am about to become undone,” he said.
Lizzie did not care. He was buried deeply in her—they were finally joined as one—and waves of pleasure were radiating from him to her and from her to him. She gasped, the pleasure becoming blinding. “Tyrell!”
He thrust again and again, with some restraint and even more urgency, and Lizzie exploded, sobbing his name. She heard him cry out, felt him climax even as she continued to do so.
She had never loved him more. Her body was filled with its joyous warmth, and she thought that she could feel his hot seed inside of her. She would give anything to have his child.
Lizzie realized he lay on top of her, a huge weight, still inside of her and hardly diminished in size. Full comprehension returned. They had made love.
He started to move away from her.
Lizzie flung her arms around him and held him tight. “Don’t,” she said.
He tensed. His tone odd, he said, “Are you all right?”
She burst into a smile and kissed his cheek. “Yes, my lord, I am wonderful!”
He did not smile in return. “Have I hurt you?”
She thought that he might have, just a bit, but she did not care, because he was stiffening inside her and she was throbbing in greed and anticipation. “No.”
“I don’t think that I believe you,” he said softly. He lifted his head and looked down at her.
Lizzie grinned at him. “Oh, Tyrell,” she said. “Please.”
His eyes darkened. “You have me at a disadvantage, madam,” he said, but he moved inside her, just twice, and she whimpered, clutching him tightly.
His lashes lowered. “I don’t want to restrain myself,” he whispered thickly, moving now very slow and deep.
“Then don’t,” she gasped, barely able to wait for where he would lead.
“I think I must, for now.” Suddenly he moaned, surging as deeply as possible into her.
“Hurry,” Lizzie instructed.
His eyes opened and he smiled. “Are you always in such a rush?”
Very boldly, smiling in return, she said, “Do you really mind?”
He began to move, never taking his gaze from her.
Closing her eyes, Lizzie held on to the love of her life, and together, they found paradise.
16
A Small Conspiracy
Lizzie awoke, aware of the sunlight pouring into her bedroom. She wondered how she had overslept, and when she turned sleepily onto her side, her entire body ached, especially the muscles in her thighs. She felt as if she had marched mile after mile, like a soldier. In that instant, Lizzie recalled every moment of the night before and she was wide-awake.
She was Tyrell’s mistress now.
Tyrell had made love to her. Once it had been the dream of her life. Now, with the elation, there was some shame. Lizzie wished she could forget about Blanche, but it was impossible.
Blanche did not love Tyrell and she did. However, that rationalization felt absurd.
Still, Tyrell had backed her into a corner, and unless she left Ned, there was no way to deny him. But now her secret was safe. She was Tyrell’s mistress, and he would never take Ned away from her. Finally, relief began. Lizzie thought about all of their lovemaking. At times his kisses had been incredibly tender, at other times dark, demanding and hard. Lizzie was almost certain that he harbored some affection for her.
She finally realized that she was alone and she jerked to sit up, staring at the empty place where he had been, dismayed that he was gone. Then she felt eyes upon her.
Lizzie tensed, looking past the foot of the bed. Tyrell was seated in a chair not far from the hearth, fully dressed. His legs were crossed and he was staring at her very intently, his gaze beyond steady, beyond unwavering. He did not move.
She was mildly alarmed. His expression was so dispassionate and he was so still that he coul
d have been a wax impression of himself. What did that mean? “Good morning,” she said, sending him a small, uncertain smile. Realizing her state of undress, she pulled the sheets up to her neck.
His gaze flickered. “Good morning. You do not need to cover yourself or behave modestly with me. I enjoy looking at you.”
Lizzie flushed with pleasure, absolutely thrilled with his praise and barely able to believe he meant it. Then her elation dulled. He still refused to smile, yet he was not angry, either, so what was this? Had she disappointed him in some way? “It is the broad light of day.”
“Yes, it is,” he agreed.
She hesitated. “Are you displeased with me, my lord?”
Finally, his mouth seemed to move, although he did not smile yet. “No. No, I am hardly displeased.” His face seemed to tense, his jaw flexed. “How are you this morning?”
She started in surprise. Was he worried about her? “Quite well, my lord, and I do think you must know why.” She felt herself blush and she glanced at her toes. How could she be so bold?
He slowly got to his feet. She sat very still as he approached the bed. “Are you not well, my lord?” she asked carefully. Hadn’t he enjoyed their passion, too?
His face tightened. “If you are asking me if I have enjoyed being in your bed, I think the answer is obvious.”
She had not a clue as to what he meant.
He softened and touched her cheek briefly. “You are the most passionate woman I have ever met. I meant it when I said we were well matched, you and I.”
She tried to breathe. “And that means?”
“It means I enjoyed myself immensely—perhaps too much.” His stare was dark. “Did I hurt you?” he asked bluntly.
She was surprised. “Of course not.”
“I am asking for the truth, Elizabeth.” He hesitated. “As I noticed, you had not been with a man in a very long time. Your body did not easily accept mine.”
“Last night was wonderful, my lord! I have no regrets!” She could have amended that last statement, of course. Blanche loomed between them again.
“I am afraid that I do,” he said flatly.
She was in disbelief. “You regret last night?”