The Masquerade

by Brenda Joyce

  “Cliff?” Edward breathed in astonishment, as stunned as his wife.

  One of his brothers laughed, Tyrell or Rex, and then they were all embracing Cliff, hard.

  With the festive supper meal now over, the men had adjourned to their brandies and cigars, the ladies back to the salon to gossip and converse. Tyrell stood alone on the terrace outside. It was a very cold, damp night, the weather uncertain, divided between rain, sleet or maybe even snow. He sipped a whiskey, incapable of feeling the cold. He had been so cold inside for so long that frigid temperatures had actually become welcome.

  Gray eyes met his, hugely vulnerable and oddly accusing and filled with hurt.

  He cursed, furious with the invasion. Would he never forget that miserable affair? Or would it always haunt him? He drained the glass and slammed it on the balustrade, breaking it.

  He had given Elizabeth Fitzgerald his heart, wholly and completely, and he would never forgive her for her betrayal. The initial wound had healed, but he wore a scar, one that continued to ache and burn and disturb him. Sometime ago he had learned that anger could be a refuge, as it was far more tolerable than grief. He no longer grieved. Instead, inside of himself, he raged.

  Now he shook the blood from his hand, disgusted with him, with her, with the world.

  What would it take, he wondered, to never think of her again? To forget her face, her name, her very existence?

  You will not leave me. Nothing changes!

  Everything changes, my lord.

  He cursed. He had asked her not to leave him, he had begged her not to leave, but not only had she left, caring so little for him, she had left without a goddamned word. Not a word.

  He was such a fool. He had actually believed her declarations of love, all uttered in the heat of the moment.

  “Are you ill, my lord?” his fiancée asked with concern from somewhere behind him.

  Instantly, he found an impassive expression, shoving every feeling he had far away. He turned and bowed ever so slightly. “My lady, I am fine. I hope you are enjoying your first Christmas with my family?” he asked, deftly changing the subject.

  She came forward, her strides so graceful she seemed to float, smiling a little at him, an expression she perpetually wore. “How could I not? You have such a pleasing family.”

  He recalled now that she was an only child. “It must be very different for you, a holiday like this, with so many ruffians in the house.”

  She merely lifted her brows. “Your brothers are all gentlemen, Tyrell, your sister is kind, your sister-in-law sweet. I have no complaints.”

  It was almost impossible to believe that he would soon marry Blanche. When he looked at her, as he was now, he could barely comprehend it. She was beautiful—his clinical eye told him that—and thus far, amenable to his wishes. She had the most agreeable of natures. His friends, family and neighbors liked her well enough. He was the one who could not summon up any real feeling.

  He had never, in his entire life, met a woman with more composure. Her manner was always the same. He doubted any crisis would ever distress her. He told himself that he did not mind. He was relieved.

  Gray eyes, dazed with desire, came to mind, as did her wild, uninhibited cries.

  Unfortunately, as much as he now despised her, his body stirred.

  Thank God, he thought fiercely, that Blanche was nothing like Elizabeth. She did not laugh very much, and when she did, the sound was quiet and low. He had never seen her eyes spark with joy or fill with tears; he had never seen her cry out in either joy or dismay. And while he had kissed her twice out of sheer duty, he could not decide if she enjoyed his attentions or not. In truth, his fiancée remained a stranger to him.

  “Have you hurt yourself?” Blanche asked, having noticed his hand.

  He glanced down. “Not really.”

  “Should I send for a bandage? I should hate for you to suffer an infection.”

  “I will hardly suffer an infection from a few scratches,” Tyrell said. He did not want her nursing him. “But I appreciate your concern.”

  “I shall always be concerned for your welfare, my lord.”

  He looked away from her. He knew, with his mind, that she was a very good match for him. He felt certain that she would never shirk her duty, never disobey him in any way, and she clearly had no expectations from him personally.

  She was as different from Elizabeth as night from day.

  Why did he have to think about her still?

  “My lord? You seem unhappy tonight. I hope that is not so.”

  He flinched but stood still, a great effort. He was unhappy, damn it, when he had no reason to be. “You will catch an ague, my lady, on a night like this. I think we should go inside.”

  Her gaze found his and she hesitated. “My lord? I actually came outside because we must speak.”

  “Please,” he said, not having a clue as to what she wished to discuss at such an hour.

  “Recently my father has been feeling somewhat poorly.”

  He hadn’t known. “Is he ill?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, and he could see that she was worried. “He has complained of some fatigue. While that might be natural for another man his age, you know how hardy Father is.”

  Suddenly he could guess what she wanted from him. “You wish to go home,” he said, and it was not a question. Even as he spoke, there was so much relief.

  She appeared flustered, as if caught in a place she did not wish to be. “I know we planned to spend the holidays at Harmon House together. Your mother has gone to great lengths to provide for my stay.”

  “It’s all right. If your father is not feeling well, you should go home to tend him. The countess will certainly understand.” He smiled at her and it was genuine. It felt good to smile that way again. “I will summon your coach,” he said.

  She blushed and avoided his gaze. “I have already called for the coach, as I felt certain you would understand. I really must attend Father. But I still have to bid your family good-night. I will take my leave in a few more moments.”

  “Let me know when you are ready to leave, so I may walk you to the door,” he said. She curtsied, and he watched her return to the house. His relief was short-lived, though, for his stepbrother stood in the doorway she had just passed through. He tensed as Devlin approached, carrying two snifters.

  “You must have a death wish, standing outside on such a night,” Devlin remarked calmly. Tyrell knew that Elizabeth was distantly related to him and he wondered if those pale gray eyes ran in the Fitzgerald family. “If you wish to freeze yourself, I think I shall protest. Here.” He handed Tyrell the drink.

  Tyrell accepted it.

  Devlin looked at the broken glass, a few shards of which remained on the wide balustrade. Tyrell drank and hoped his stepbrother would mind his own affairs. To circumvent him, he said, “Virginia has never been lovelier, and I have never seen her happier. Motherhood suits her, clearly, as does marriage to you.”

  Devlin smiled. “She is with child again, Ty,” he said in a soft tone, the kind of tone Tyrell was simply unaccustomed to hearing from him.

  “Good God! Congratulations are in order, I think.” And for the first time since Elizabeth left, a glimmer of pleasure touched him. He was genuinely happy for them both.

  “And I have not yet congratulated you on your engagement,” Devlin said, staring far too closely.

  Tyrell’s smile vanished and he nodded. “Our paths have not crossed since you returned home. Thank you.”

  Devlin’s gray eyes were piercing. “Your bride-to-be is a beautiful woman,” he finally said.

  “Yes, she is.” Tyrell turned away.

  “And you do not care. She does not interest you in the least.”

  “Do not start!” Tyrell whirled furiously.

  Devlin was completely taken aback. “What the hell is this?”

  Tyrell recovered his temper to the best of his ability, wishing he had not revealed his extreme state of mind.


  “I have seen you lose your temper no more than two or three times in all the years I have known you,” Devlin said quietly. “You are one of the most mild-mannered men I know. It is almost impossible to get a rise from you, Tyrell.”

  “Do not interfere,” Tyrell said tersely.

  Devlin’s brows lifted. “Interfere in what? I thought you appeared oddly put out when I arrived here today. What the hell is wrong?”

  Tyrell smiled grimly. “What could be wrong? I am marrying a woman who is beautiful, gracious and genteel. Indeed, I am marrying a great fortune. The lady Blanche is perfection, is she not?”

  “The lady Blanche,” Devlin slowly repeated.

  Tyrell gripped the balustrade and stared out into the night.

  Devlin moved to stand beside him. A long moment passed before he spoke, and then his tone was quiet and careful. “You have been a great brother to me. When your father married my mother, you could have refused to accept Sean and myself. Not only did you welcome us into your family, you did so with the utmost loyalty. I remember a time shortly after their wedding. There was so much gossip about the earl and my mother in those days. People wanted to think that she had been unfaithful to my father. I tried to blacken the eye and break the nose of some farmer for his insults, a man twice my age and size. You didn’t think twice about joining in the fight, Ty. That day you truly became my brother.”

  Tyrell recalled the incident well. They had both been eleven years old, and he had never seen such reckless behavior or such courage as he had in Devlin. Now he had to smile. “Father was furious. He took a lash to us both.”

  “My father would have taken his fist to my head,” Devlin said without bitterness. He was also smiling. “I preferred the lash.”

  Tyrell laughed.

  Devlin clasped his shoulder. “And when I behaved so terribly to Virginia, to obtain revenge on her uncle, you interfered, not once, but time and again. Then, I was furious with you. Now, I have only gratitude. Tell me. What is wrong?”

  No one knew better how to disarm an adversary than Devlin O’Neill, and now, even though Tyrell was determined to keep his anger and misery to himself, a part of him wished for a confidant.

  “You have always known that the earl would one day find you an advantageous union,” Devlin said. “The stepbrother I am so fond of would eagerly fulfill his obligations. The stepbrother I have known my entire life would be very pleased with the lady Blanche and all she brings to this family.”

  Tyrell gave him an exasperated look. “She is very pleasing,” he said firmly. “I am very pleased.”

  “And I am to believe you?” He studied him for a moment. “Is it a woman?” he finally asked.

  Tyrell made a sound of disgust.

  Devlin’s brows lifted. “Until Virginia came into my life, turning it—and myself—upside down, I would have never asked such a question. But only a woman could cause such a foul and ungracious mood in a man.”

  Tyrell laughed bitterly. “Very well. I shall confess all. I have been duped by a clever little trickster. Fool that I am, I truly harbored affection for her. And now, damn it, even knowing that my feelings were hardly returned, as she rejected me in no uncertain manner, I cannot get her out of my mind.”

  Devlin appeared genuinely surprised. “Do I know the…er, lady in question?”

  “No, you do not—although it is coincidence that you share an ancestor with her.”

  Devlin was intrigued. “Who the hell is she?”

  “Elizabeth Anne Fitzgerald,” Tyrell said.

  Blanche paused as three servants placed her trunks in the center of her bedroom. Long ago, she had moved out of her childish room into a huge and opulent suite in the east wing of Harrington Hall. Her father’s suite was in the west wing and just across the courtyard. She surveyed the pale pink-and-white upholstered walls, the numerous works of art hanging there, the bed, with its white-and-gold hangings and covers, the matching furniture, and she smiled, terribly relieved.

  It was so good to be home. She had only been gone for three days, but it had felt like an eternity—it had felt like prison.

  “Blanche!”

  At the sound of her father’s surprised tone, she slowly turned to see him staring at her from the adjacent salon. She knew him so well—better than anyone—and she could see that he was as dismayed as he was surprised to see her. “Hello, Father.”

  “What is this?” he asked. He nodded curtly at the servants, indicating a dismissal, which they all understood. They fled.

  She paused before him. “I explained to Tyrell that you have been feeling poorly and that I really must come home,” she said somewhat anxiously.

  “I am fine! I don’t know where you got this notion in your head that I am not well. I have never felt better!” Harrington said sharply. “Blanche, what is this? Did you not enjoy your stay at Harmon House?”

  He was so vehement that she was dismayed. “Father? I know you have not been feeling all that well. And surely you have missed me? This is a huge house. No one could wish to live here alone.”

  His gaze was searching. “Of course I have missed you! But you have made up this nonsense about my health, Blanche, and we both know why.” He softened. “You are my life, Blanche, but you belong with Tyrell, your fiancé. Has something happened? Surely he has been a perfect gentleman.”

  Blanche closed her eyes. She was certain her father was feeling a bit poorly just as she was certain he needed her to take care of him. A wave of comprehension swept over her then. She could not do this. Her place was in her father’s home, at his side, attending him, as it had always been. She had tried to do as he wished, but she did not want to marry Tyrell or anyone.

  “Blanche?”

  She managed to smile at him. “He is very kind, just as you said he would be. He is good and noble, and he will make a perfect husband, really.”

  Harrington stared closely at her. “Then why are you here?”

  “I miss you,” she said truthfully. Nothing had changed. Her father remained the single anchor of her life.

  Why couldn’t she be like other women, Blanche wondered as she so often did. Other women would be thrilled to have Tyrell de Warenne for a husband, to share his heated kisses. She touched her breast and felt her heart beating, slow and steady, so she knew it was still there.

  “And after the past four months, you still have no affection for Tyrell?”

  She faced him. “Father, I feel nothing for him. My heart remains as defective as ever. I am so sorry! You know I would be pleased to fall in love. I have tried! But perhaps we must face the ugly truth. I am never going to fall in love with anyone—I am incapable of that kind of passion.”

  “We don’t know that,” he finally said. The memory that filled him was intense, terrible and far too familiar; usually he kept it deeply buried, but there were times when even he was not powerful enough to shove it away.

  His precious daughter, surrounded by a raging, angry crowd. Every window on the street was being hastily boarded up, every front door bolted, barred and locked. The Harrington coach was in the midst of the mob, the horses cut loose, the carriage about to be overturned; both his daughter and his wife had been seized and dragged from it moments ago, and then separated. Blanche continued to scream for her mother in terror. He could just glimpse her white-blond hair.

  He had chosen to ride astride that day as they went from their London home to the country. He should have known better than to move his family on an election day, as it was an excuse for the mob to attack just about anyone and everything in its path, but especially the wealthy. Now he and his mount had been forced far from the carriage by the dozens of bloodthirsty farmers, most of whom carried pikes and torches. Fire had begun to rage in some of the shops. The windows that weren’t boarded were being broken.

  “Blanche!” he screamed, trying to spur his frightened horse through the fray. “Margaret!”

  Blanche’s bloodcurdling screams filled the air, and then, somehow, th
rough the crowd, he saw her struggling with a man who held her. Near her, another man held up Margaret’s bloody, battered body. The crowd roared its approval and his wife disappeared from sight. Hours later he found her; she had been beaten and stabbed to death.

  Mama!

  Harrington inhaled, his eyes filling with tears. He intended to fight as hard as he ever had for his daughter’s chance at a future. He desperately wanted her to have a life like other women, but a part of him felt certain that she never would. A part of him somehow knew that her heart had been so terribly scarred it could only beat, but not feel.

  “Father?” Blanche whispered, clasping his shoulder from behind.

  He turned. “There is still time. Your wedding isn’t until May. By then, you may very well fall in love with Tyrell.”

  Blanche was certain that would never happen. “I so want to please you,” she said, “but I don’t know if I can do this.”

  “No,” he said harshly, confronting her. “I have gone to great lengths to provide for your future, to secure your happiness. This was hardly a simple negotiation! I want you to return to Harmon House immediately.”

  Blanche was dismayed. “I want to spend the holidays here, with you,” she said.

  And as he was wont to do, he lost his temper. “You need to be with your fiancé. Or would it please you if he went back to his mistress?”

  Blanche gasped. “He has a mistress?” She was as intrigued as she was aghast.

  Harrington flushed. “He was very involved with Miss Elizabeth Fitzgerald last summer. In fact, they were living together at Wicklowe. She is the mother of his bastard.”

  Blanche was disbelieving. “And this is the first I have heard of this?”

  “I confronted Miss Fitzgerald there and made sure she saw the error of her ways. I made certain that she left him,” Harrington said. “I did not want her in the way.”

  Blanche began to recover from the shock. “It must have been quite serious! If she bore his child and was living with him—”