by Brenda Joyce
Lizzie studied Rory as he watched her sister. His body remained languid, but not his eyes. They were darkly intent. Suddenly realizing that she was staring, he turned his gaze on her and smiled. “Does she need to be rescued?” he asked.
Lizzie smiled back. “You, of all people, should now know that she can defend herself if she so wishes.”
He chuckled. “Yes, I do.”
“Do you wish to smoke in the game room, then? We could turn it into a smoking room—”
“I am fine,” Rory said, standing and seeming to stretch his long frame as he did so. His gaze wandered casually about the salon for the hundredth time. He leaned close. “And how are you, Lizzie? How are you, really?” His gaze became searching.
Lizzie tensed. “I am better,” she said, and was surprised that it was the truth. “Your visit has lifted my spirits considerably.”
He touched her cheek briefly. “You seemed sad when I first walked in and I feel certain that I know why.”
Lizzie wet her lips, filled with tension, aware of the sadness that lurked behind her, waiting to overtake her. “It has been hard,” she said finally. “Very hard.”
He hesitated. “May I speak freely?”
Lizzie was afraid of what he might say.
“I am as fond of you as I would be of my own sister, if I had one. I am glad, fiercely so, that you left Wicklowe.”
Lizzie looked away. “There was no choice,” she said unsteadily.
“I am sorry, I hadn’t realized that this subject would remain so painful for you.” He took her hand.
Lizzie dared to be as truthful. “I still love Tyrell deeply.”
Rory grimaced. “He does not deserve your loyalty! Not after the way he treated you. His behavior was disgraceful.”
Lizzie did not want to hear any more. She quickly changed the subject. “Will you be in London long?”
“Yes. I cannot draw my cartoons if I do not attend the political fray in this town.”
“Then you must visit us frequently,” Lizzie said. “Oh, please, Rory. We have no amusing callers. Aunt Eleanor’s friends are old and gray and hard of hearing.”
He chuckled. “Then I shall be a bothersome pest.”
“Good,” Lizzie said, and they smiled at each other.
Then Rory’s gaze wandered. Lizzie turned to glance over her shoulder and saw that Georgie had removed herself to the far end of the room, where she stood by the windows. But she was not looking outside. She was watching Lizzie and Rory with rapt attention.
Rory bowed and excused himself. Lizzie realized that he was heading directly toward her sister. Clever fellow that he was, he paused to chat briefly with Eleanor and Mama before approaching her.
“Lizzie?”
Lizzie faced her father. “Mama seems so happy,” she said somewhat anxiously. They had not been face-to-face and alone like this since that awful day at Wicklowe.
“She is very happy,” he agreed. “She is rather infamous now, but her company is much sought after.”
Lizzie bit her lip. Mama was infamous because of her. “I am so sorry, Papa,” she cried. “Have you forgiven me?”
He took both of her hands in his. “Yes, my dear, I have forgiven you. But can you ever forgive me? God, Lizzie, you are my heart, my very heart, and I still do not know how I could have said what I did that day.”
“Papa, there is nothing to forgive,” Lizzie said, tears rising. “I know how terribly I disappointed you. I wasn’t thinking clearly. The choice I made was the wrong one. I never thought to cause you and Mama so much pain and unhappiness.”
“We know that. I love you so,” Papa said. He pulled her close. “We will never speak of this again, Lizzie.”
“And how do you like London,” Rory asked quietly. Rather uncharacteristically, he had nothing else to say. He was feeling as uncertain as a schoolboy and he wanted to tug on his cravat to loosen it, but he had already done that. Georgina was one of the most beautiful women he had ever beheld, yet she seemed to be oblivious to his charm, and his wit, as well. And now he had learned how intelligent she was. They had the gulf of their disparate political views to bridge; however, he admired her immensely for having profound political views.
She was standing at the terrace doors, stargazing, but she gave him a sidelong glance. Compared to the coquettes he was accustomed to, she seemed terribly remote. “I adore London,” she said. She did not smile. He thought she might be nervous, but he could not be sure.
He had noticed her classic profile before—in another lifetime, she could have been a fair-haired Egyptian queen. In spite of her family’s lack of means and position, she had always carried herself with regal bearing. He knew he must lighten the moment, but for once, his charm and wit failed him. So he said, “And why are you so taken with this town?”
She folded her arms beneath her chest. She was a tall, slender woman, and the gesture elevated her modest bosom. As her gown was hardly daring, he should not be intrigued, but he was. “There is never a dull moment,” she said, finally looking at him.
He stared back. It was a moment before he regained any wit at all, and he did not immediately recognize the possibility that she referred to their debate. He was thinking about the probability that her legs were very long, and that was causing distinctly ungentlemanly images to invade his mind. “Because of seditious lackwits like myself?”
She flushed. “That was truly terrible of me to say! I am sorry. I got carried away, Mr. McBane. Sedition is a high crime and the war is hardly over, even if Napoléon is on the run. Men may still be hanged for their seditious opinions.”
“And would you care?” he heard himself ask, oh so casually.
She stared at the night. “I hardly wish for your demise, Mr. McBane.”
“I am utterly relieved.” His pulse was racing.
She actually smiled, then quickly hid it.
He had caused her to smile! Now he truly felt like a schoolboy, because he was inordinately pleased. “So what is it about London that enthralls you?” He expected her to reply as any young lady would—that she liked the balls and supper parties, that there were so many fine young ladies and gentlemen in town, and that everything was so very exciting.
“The very best part of London?” Eagerness had crept into her tone.
He nodded, really wanting to know.
“The bookstores,” she said, and two pink spots marred her cheeks.
“The bookstores,” he repeated. Oddly, he was almost elated—he should have known that such an intelligent and opinionated woman would prefer books to fashion, and bookstores to ballrooms.
“Yes, I am intrigued with the bookstores.” Her chin lifted. “I can see that you are shocked. So now you know the truth—I am a very unfashionable woman. I have strong political views, I dislike supper parties and I can think of no better pastime than reading Plato or Socrates.”
He stared. And he couldn’t help wondering if this woman had ever been kissed. But of course she had, by that odious man she had once been engaged to. He still could not understand that. “Why does your every word feel like a challenge?”
Her eyes widened. “I am hardly challenging you!” she said in some alarm. “You are staring at me. I see that I have shocked you.”
And he felt certain that was what she wanted from him. He could not help but begin to smile. “Oh, I am truly shocked. A young lady who enjoys philosophy and politics—how very shocking you are.”
She flushed, turning away abruptly and starting to go. “Now you laugh at me? You asked me a question and I answered truthfully! I am sorry I am not a coquette like the other ladies of the ton. Oh! There is Lizzie! Surely you have not forgotten her?”
He took one long stride, somewhat angry now. She was the most exasperating woman he had ever met. Seizing her from behind, he whirled her back around. “What does that mean?” he demanded, aware that his temper must be retrieved before he behaved in the most dastardly manner. And from the corner of his eye, he realized that they w
ere standing beneath the mistletoe.
His anger evaporated. He started to smile, very, very pleased.
But her eyes flashed and he started, for he saw moisture there. “It means that your charm is lost on me,” she cried. “I know your kind! Now, unhand me, sir!”
He barely heard her. Instead, he saw her flashing topaz eyes, her full, pursed lips, her small, intriguing bosom. Instead, he succumbed to lust. In that instant, he moved. She might not like him all that much, but he wanted her and he had for some time. And he knew when a woman wanted him. He could see it in her eyes—he could feel it.
He pulled her into his arms and against his chest. She cried out in protest and instinctively he tightened his hold. He refused to give her a single opportunity to speak, and he saw that she was stunned by what he intended.
He covered her mouth with his.
And something overwhelmed him then—shock, followed by recognition. He had never met a woman like this before.
Her hands pressed against him to push him away. He didn’t notice. Stunned by a vast comprehension, he consumed her mouth until she gave and opened. He entered there, at first with real caution, and then with driving need. She was beautiful, brilliant and damnably opinionated. She was perfect, perfect, for him.
And Georgina melted. He knew the moment she surrendered, and with real triumph, he deepened the kiss. She began to kiss him back with a hunger that rivaled his own.
Realizing that this was leading to a place far more significant than his bed, Rory pulled away, releasing her.
Georgie stared at him, her eyes huge.
He fought for composure, grasped at shreds and wondered what to do next. Somehow he smiled. “I could not resist,” he said, glancing casually up at the mistletoe, never mind his pounding heart.
Her hand moved to her mouth while her gaze found the offending wreath. He could not tell if she was wiping her lips with disgust or touching them with reverence. She backed away, flushing. “Th-that,” she stammered, “that was…. was uncalled for…Mr. McBane.”
He did not know what to say—a very rare event—so he bowed. “I think I should take my leave. Thank you for a pleasant evening,” he said as politely as possible. He continued to reel from their kiss. “I look forward to our next encounter.”
21
Forthright Conversation
Mary de Warenne wanted the holiday to be perfect—a time of peace, love and joy. Family tradition held that they spend the holiday at Adare, but because of Tyrell’s engagement, they were at Harmon House in London. She sat in a large chair in the family’s private salon, her grandson Ned, now a year and five months old, and her granddaughter Elysse, who had turned one a few months ago, both playing together happily at her feet. So much warmth filled her at the sight, but it did not change the fact that she was very worried about Tyrell.
Concern filled her as she gazed across the room. Tyrell stood at the hearth with Rex, who had come up from Cornwall for the holidays, Edward, and her firstborn son, Devlin O’Neill. The men were discussing the war—the subject hardly ever changed—and as always in her family, there were as many opinions as there were voices to express them. A heated argument was in progress, but Tyrell was barely listening. Instead, he stared at the dancing flames in the fireplace, unsmiling and obviously detached from the conversation and the gathering.
Mary continued to watch him, loving him as much as if he were her own son. Yet she dared not pry into the cause of his recent dark humor, and Edward refused to do so. She felt certain she knew why his smiles were so rare now, why he buried himself in his obligations at the Exchequer. His heart was broken and she wished that she could be the one to heal it.
How fortunate she was—she had married for love not once, but twice, and Edward was the love of her life. Unlike other ladies of her rank and consequence, she did not believe that an heir must sacrifice himself for his family, all in the name of duty, for she had seen firsthand where such self-sacrifice led.
Suddenly Devlin moved away from the group of men. Tall, striking and bronzed, he smiled as he strode over to the ladies, his gaze locking with his wife’s. Virginia sat beside Blanche, who had joined them for the holidays, and sixteen-year-old Eleanor was on the sofa not far from Mary. They exchanged the look of lovers and Mary was so glad. Once, not so long ago, vengeance had ruled Devlin’s life, but Virginia had somehow changed that.
“Mother?” He smiled at her. “Why are you so pensive?”
Her gaze moved back to Tyrell. “I am merely tired,” she murmured to her son.
Devlin followed her eyes. “Would you care to tell me why he is so moody?”
Mary stood and they walked away from the women. “I have my inklings, Devlin, but perhaps you could speak with him and see for yourself. Once, before you married Virginia, he was very helpful to you. Maybe now you can be helpful to him.”
Devlin’s tawny brows rose and he glanced at Blanche, who was chatting with her sisters-in-law-to-be. “I think I begin to see,” he said slowly. “You are right. He was far more than a brother. Revenge almost cost me Virginia. He was a great friend. I hope to return the favor.” He turned to go.
Mary took his arm. “Will Sean join us?” she asked, referring to her younger son.
Devlin smiled reassuringly. “I have not heard from him since he left Askeaton in June. I believe he is still in the Midlands. Whatever quest he has undertaken, I am sure we will learn of it soon.”
Mary nodded, hoping he would return home. When Sean had abruptly left his ancestral home in June, he’d not said a word as to where he was going or what he intended, and it was odd. He had only been gone a few months and Mary was not really worried, but she did miss him. Of course, Cliff was also absent, but then, he had always been an adventurer by nature.
She watched Devlin help Virginia to her feet, kissing her cheek briefly. He then chucked his stepsister on the chin as if she were still a child before turning his attention to Blanche. “Have you been enjoying your first holiday with the rather unwieldy de Warenne family?”
“Very much so,” Blanche said, smiling. “I am a single child, and it is stunning to be a part of so much warmth and good cheer,” she said.
Mary watched Devlin as he proceeded to chat with Tyrell’s fiancée. In the few months that Mary had known Blanche, she had never seen her act in any manner except the most exemplary—she never raised her voice, never lost her temper, was generous and helpful. Mary genuinely liked her—there was simply nothing not to like. But Tyrell seemed indifferent to her. And Blanche did not seem to even notice.
She had so hoped that they would fall in love, or at least become very affectionate toward each other. She felt certain that was not going to happen—not anytime soon.
The earl paused by her chair. “Darling, what can I do to ease your worries?” he asked softly.
The countess looked up, reaching for his hand, his mere presence warming her considerably. “I am so happy Devlin and Virginia came home,” she said. Devlin and Virginia had spent well over a year at the plantation where she had been raised in America.
“I am thrilled he has come home, and that he and Virginia have solved their problems. Devlin is a changed man because of her. The love of a good woman,” he quipped.
“Edward, has Tyrell even smiled once this evening?”
He took her hand, his own smile fading. “Whatever he is brooding about, I am sure it will pass.”
Mary thought that he was wrong. And she gazed across the room at Tyrell, who had turned to observe Devlin and Blanche with no indication of interest and not a flicker of jealousy. Even though he and Devlin were stepbrothers, the de Warenne men were infamous for their possessiveness and jealousy. “I think it is obvious that he is pining for Miss Fitzgerald,” Mary said carefully.
Edward’s eyes darkened, an indication of a rising temper. “I suspect you are right. But he is a man and my heir and he will certainly get over the affair.”
Mary had never been afraid to oppose her husband, not
in any way. Gently, she said, “I was hoping he would fall in love with Blanche and I know that you were, too. But I think he is deeply in love with Miss Fitzgerald.”
“The match is a great one and Tyrell knows it!” he exclaimed. “Love is not a prerequisite for marriage. However, if he can cease his brooding, I have little doubt he will become quite fond of Blanche. He needs some time,” he added.
Mary knew him so well. She knew he blamed himself for Tyrell’s changed nature and that he was angry with himself. “I believe you are wrong, Edward,” she said very calmly. “I don’t believe time will change anything.”
Edward flushed like a boy who was guilty of some small crime. “What would you have me do? You know what this match means to me. And I believe that Blanche suits him. She may not be as passionate as Miss Fitzgerald, but she will be a great countess, Mary. And now we can sleep at night and not worry about the future of our grandchildren,” he added in a harsh, chastising tone.
“Darling, you know what you should do, before it is too late. And I know you will do what is right for Tyrell, because you love him so and you want him to enjoy a lifetime of peace and happiness, just as we have.”
Edward was dismayed. “I have to think of the future, Mary, this one time, before I think of my son!”
Mary stood on tiptoe, grasping his shoulders. “You are one of the smartest men I know, and you will find a way to achieve all of your ends. I feel certain of it.”
He smiled then, grasping her waist. “I remain a puppet on your chain.”
“Really?” she teased, and he kissed her.
Spurs sounded, as did hard, purposeful strides in the hall outside.
Mary turned, wondering which of their two remaining rascal sons had finally decided to join them for Christmas. For one full moment she did not recognize the stranger who stood in the doorway. He was a tall, bronzed man with a red scarf on his head, tied over most of his sun-streaked hair, a very large dagger in his belt, a pair of pistols at his waist and a bejeweled sword on his hip. He wore a clean but faded shirt, the sleeves full and billowing, and over it, a Moor’s colorful, embroidered, gold-braided vest. The long, dangerous gold spurs on his boots also seemed Eastern, as well. And then she realized who he was.