The Masquerade

by Brenda Joyce

  “It doesn’t matter,” Harrington said. “Surprisingly, she is a well-bred young lady and she felt some remorse for her sins. But to make certain the affair was over, I had to destroy the farewell letter she left for Tyrell. She was certainly in love with him,” he added darkly.

  “You destroyed her letter? Father!” Her curiosity increased—it had been a love affair?

  “I did it for you, my dear. I did not want Tyrell chasing after her.”

  If her father had gone to such lengths, did it mean that Tyrell had been in love with Miss Fitzgerald? He was so aloof, she could hardly imagine him being passionately inclined toward any woman. “Father, I don’t think you should have destroyed that letter.”

  “It was a love letter and I did not want Tyrell to see it.” He was grim. “I am telling you all of this for a reason, my dear. Miss Fitzgerald is residing with her aunt at Belgrave Square. Now Tyrell is in London, too. It bothers me. I want him dancing attendance on you, Blanche. I do not want him running into her in the park one day! And that is why I am insisting you return to Harmon House.”

  Blanche could not go back. She shook her head, filled with determination. “Father, I don’t want to leave you. Please, don’t make me go.”

  Harrington stared for a long moment and then his face collapsed. “You know I have never been able to deny you, not when you plead with me like that.”

  Blanche was filled with relief. “Thank you.”

  “But you must not give up on Tyrell,” he added swiftly. “This is your future, Blanche! I will not be here forever.”

  She swallowed hard, refusing to think about the day when God would take her father from her. She could not bear to contemplate it.

  “I shall ask him to join us for supper tomorrow,” her father was adding. He put his arm around her. “How does that sound?”

  “Fine,” Blanche murmured, but she had hardly heard him. She was thinking about Tyrell’s mistress now. Apparently Miss Fitzgerald was but a short carriage ride away.

  22

  A Shocking Call

  Lizzie was alone in the salon, trying to read a novel, but it was simply impossible to concentrate. It was the day after Christmas and she felt oddly lost and alone, although her sister and her aunt were in the house. She kept thinking about Tyrell and Ned, wondering at the Christmas they had shared. The letters on the page in front of her continued to dance and blur. She had just snapped the novel shut, giving up, when Leclerc walked in. He was holding a bouquet of flowers. “Miss Fitzgerald?” He smiled at her. “This just came.”

  Lizzie had not a clue as to who would be sending her flowers. “How lovely,” she said, glad of a distraction. The fact that the day was so gray and sunless did not help her somber mood. “Let’s put them in a vase on that table over there.”

  When he had left, she took the small card from its envelope and realized the flowers were not for her. They were for Georgie—and Rory had signed the card with a handsome flourish that seemed so typical of him.

  It was too late—she had already read the card. “My dearest Miss Fitzgerald,” he had written, “I thought you might enjoy these flowers, a small sign of my admission of defeat and a greater sign of my admiration for you. Your devoted servant, Rory T. McBane.”

  Lizzie was thrilled. Rory was clearly courting her sister and she was determined to help him succeed. Never mind that her sister should marry for some financial security, for they were a perfect match.

  Leclerc returned to the threshold of the salon, his expression odd. “Miss Fitzgerald? You have a caller.” He handed her the silver tray with the calling card.

  Lizzie lifted it and stilled with shock.

  Blanche Harrington had called. Blanche Harrington was even now in her front hall.

  Leclerc must have known everything, because he said, “Shall I tell her you are out, Miss Fitzgerald?” His tone was kind.

  Lizzie faced him, reeling. What could she want? How could this be? “No,” she gasped breathlessly. “No. Just give me a moment, Leclerc. Then send her in—and bring tea.”

  He nodded gravely, bowed and left.

  Lizzie realized she remained rooted to the floor and ran to the room’s single mirror. She pinched her pale cheeks and tucked stray tendrils of hair into her coiffure. She smoothed down the bodice of her pale green gown, suddenly relieved that Eleanor had insisted upon ordering an appropriate town wardrobe for both herself and her sister. She no longer appeared to be an impoverished country mouse—she seemed fashionable and elegant, although she would have preferred emeralds to the jade earrings she wore. Lizzie took a deep breath, for courage more than calm, and pinched her cheeks one last time. Then, smiling, she faced the door.

  Not a moment too soon, as Leclerc appeared there with Blanche. “Lady Harrington,” he intoned.

  Lizzie swallowed hard and curtsied, as Blanche was of a far superior rank. Blanche dipped slightly and then the two women stared at each other.

  She appeared exactly the same as she had early last summer when Lizzie had spied upon her at the engagement ball. She was terribly fair, and her stunning but simple pastel blue gown and matching sapphire jewelry made Lizzie feel hopelessly gauche. She studied Lizzie, just as Lizzie was studying her.

  Unsure of just how much time had passed while they took each other in, Lizzie rushed forward. “Do come in, my lady. This is quite a surprise.” She told herself to slow her words and breathe. She took a deep breath but found no composure indeed. “I do not believe we have met.”

  “No, we have not been properly introduced, and I am at fault here,” Blanche said.

  Lizzie could find no hint of a double meaning in her words. Her manner was clear—Blanche bore her no ill will, and if anything, Lizzie thought she saw compassion in her eyes. “You are hardly at fault,” Lizzie said, gesturing for Blanche to come forward and blushing over her knowledge of her past affair with this woman’s betrothed. Blanche took a chair, and Lizzie sat in another armchair, facing her. Both women arranged their skirts, fussing to fill the silence. Lizzie finally looked up, and their gazes met.

  Lizzie still could not imagine what she must want or why she had called. But unfortunately, she had to know of Lizzie’s relationship with Tyrell.

  “I have just learned that you are Ned’s mother,” Blanche said softly, confirming Lizzie’s worst fears. Her cheeks turned pink. “I thought we should meet—that we would meet sooner or later, and why not now?”

  Lizzie did not see any censure in Blanche’s eyes or hear any in her tone, but her heart lurched. Blanche had to despise her in some small way, at least. “Yes,” she managed to say. What else should she say? She smiled too brightly. “Congratulations on your engagement to Ty—to Lord de Warenne.”

  Blanche glanced away. Lizzie thought it odd. “I am very fortunate,” she murmured.

  An awkward silence fell. Blanche had not spoken with any emotion or passion, and Lizzie had to wonder why she was not openly thrilled to be marrying Tyrell. She still did not know what to say. “I think the match a splendid one,” she added, “and I hear the wedding will be in May.”

  “Yes,” Blanche said, meeting her gaze. “You are very generous, Miss Fitzgerald.”

  Lizzie’s heart began racing with alarming speed. “Hardly.”

  Blanche hesitated. “May I ask you how you met Tyrell?”

  What was this? What did she want? And how could Lizzie possibly answer?

  “I do not wish to pry, of course, and if my question is an obnoxious one—”

  “No!” Lizzie bit her lip. She could not fathom what Blanche wanted but she seemed kind and even concerned, not jealous at all. “I grew up just a few miles from Adare. I have known his lordship most of my life. Not that he knew me, of course!” She blushed. “But when I was a little girl he saved me from drowning,” she said, and suddenly her gaze grew moist. She still remembered that day as clearly as if it were yesterday. Are you a prince? No, little one, I am not.

  Lizzie wet her lips, which seemed terribly dry. �
��That is not something a gentlewoman of my class could ever forget. I have been grateful ever since.”

  “That is very romantic,” Blanche said.

  Lizzie leapt to her feet, dismayed. “It isn’t romantic, not at all!” she cried, feeling like a fool. After all, she could not deny having been romantically involved.

  Blanche also stood. “I am sorry. But it is the kind of tale romance novels are made of.” She smiled now. “I can see how a little girl would be so grateful for such a heroic act—and I can see how those feelings of gratitude might escalate. And you are Ned’s mother. I understand.”

  Lizzie knew this woman did not deserve to be offended by her past with Tyrell. “I am very happy for you both!” she said nervously. “I have always known that one day he would make a great match, and I am so pleased that Tyrell will marry a great lady like you! He deserves a life of happiness, my lady, and I am certain he will find it with you!”

  Blanche’s expression was intense now. “You have spoken so freely,” she finally said. “May I do the same?”

  Lizzie wrung her hands. “My lady, I could never tell you what to do—”

  “Good,” Blanche interrupted. She smiled reassuringly. “My father told me about you, Miss Fitzgerald. I had to come see you for myself. You seem like a very proper lady. I had expected someone older, worldlier, someone far more sophisticated.”

  Lizzie did not know what to say. Helplessly, she shrugged.

  “You must have loved him very much,” Blanche said.

  Lizzie looked away. “Yes. But it is over now. I fully support your marriage, my lady. Fully,” she stressed.

  Blanche finally lost some of her composure and she hugged herself. “That is so generous of you, and so brave. Because I think you love Tyrell still.”

  Suddenly Lizzie was breathless and near tears. She had to deny it, yet she could no longer speak.

  “As we are both being so candid, surely you know this marriage has been arranged. It is hardly a love match.”

  Slowly Lizzie turned. She was shocked to see tears in Blanche’s blue eyes, her mouth quivering. “My lady! Are you all right? Do sit down.” She rushed to her side, taking her arm.

  “No, I am not all right,” Blanche whispered, refusing to sit. “You see, Miss Fitzgerald, I have realized I do not want to marry, not Tyrell, not anyone.”

  Lizzie gaped. There was so much hope surging in her breast that it threatened to tear her chest apart.

  As quickly, she refused to hope, as there was nothing to hope for. Blanche’s words did not change the fact that Tyrell did not care for Lizzie at all. “Why are you telling me this?”

  Blanche hesitated. “Last night my father made a shocking confession. He deliberately interfered to keep the two of you apart,” she said.

  Lizzie stiffened. She would never forget that horrible day when Harrington had confronted her at Wicklowe, but he had hardly forced her to leave. “My lady, I left Wicklowe because it was morally correct.”

  Blanche smiled at her. “I think you are a very good woman, Miss Fitzgerald, and I think I understand why Tyrell became fond of you. I should go. My father isn’t well and I really want to make sure he is resting.”

  Lizzie had never been more confused. How odd this call had been! She had to ask. “Why? Why did you come, my lady?”

  Blanche met her gaze. “I had to see something for myself,” she said.

  “Where is he?” Georgie asked, her heart racing. She could hardly believe that Rory had come to call upon her. She had done her very best to forget about what had happened just three days ago. She had refused to think about the kiss they had shared—she had refused to think about him at all.

  After all, she was no silly, coy, marriage-mad debutante. She was a sensible, intelligent, rather genteel and very unfashionable Irishwoman, and she truly enjoyed spinsterhood. Besides, Rory McBane was not marriage material—he had not a penny to his name, not that it mattered. And she was not like Lizzie. She would not fall head over heels in love, so much so that she would throw away her good name and her entire life for an illicit affair that could only lead to heartbreak.

  “He is waiting in the library,” Leclerc said. “Your sister has a caller in the salon and I did not think she wished to be disturbed.”

  Georgie could not think of a reply. Instead, she kept recalling Rory’s stunning kiss and the feeling of his body against hers. She followed Leclerc downstairs, trying to draw a normal breath and finding it impossible. She wished he had never kissed her; she wished he had not called. What could he possibly want?

  It crossed her mind that he wished to apologize.

  Relief flooded her. She would gladly accept an apology for his randy behavior. As he was such a dear friend of Lizzie’s, that was surely what he thought to do, so they could avoid having any awkwardness between them.

  He was pacing in the library. Unfortunately, he remained rakishly handsome, causing her heart to pick up its racing beat. As unfortunately, he was very intelligent, and Georgie admired wit and erudition more than any other trait in any man or woman. Leclerc left and Georgie just stood there, watching him.

  He turned to face her and his cheeks turned red. “How are you?” He bowed.

  Georgie inclined her head and lied through her teeth. “Very well.” She smiled at him, hoping he had not a clue as to the fact that she was not well at all. Her skin tingled, and an ache she recognized had begun to spread its heat between her thighs.

  His gaze was searching. “Did you receive the flowers?”

  She blinked. “Flowers?”

  “I sent you flowers, Georgina. I assumed you would have received them by now.”

  “You sent me flowers?” she repeated like a lackwit.

  A twinkle appeared in his astonishing green eyes. “Yes, roses. Red roses, in fact.” He started toward her.

  She could not move. “But…why?” Was this a dream? Or was it some kind of ploy? After all, she was no coquette and he knew it. There was simply no reason for him to send her flowers.

  “Why does any gentleman send flowers to a lady?” he asked simply.

  She backed up. “I don’t know,” she breathed, beginning to tremble. This could not mean what he was implying…surely he was not here to court her!

  The light in his eyes was impossibly tender. “You don’t know?” he said with amusement.

  She decided she must leave—in fact, she must flee! Georgie turned and started for the door in a panic, but he caught her from behind. He turned her abruptly around and Georgina found herself in his arms. Her heart overcame her then. She was terribly in love. Now that she dared to admit it, she had admired him and desired him from the first moment she had ever laid eyes upon him.

  But no good could come of it. He was not for her—she was just too eccentric. She had known that from the very first, as well.

  “I sent you roses, Georgina, as a token of my affection and admiration for you,” he murmured, his gaze on her face.

  He must be in jest. She pulled away and found herself with her back against the wall. “Rory, please!” She held up a shaking hand. “We both know I am not the kind of woman to stir up affection or admiration in a man.”

  He blinked.

  “I thought you had come to apologize for the other night,” she cried, and she felt her cheeks heat at the mere mention of that evening.

  “To apologize?” he echoed, surprised.

  She nodded. “Yes, to apologize for taking such liberties with me.”

  “Liberties?”

  “Your apology is accepted,” Georgie said in a huge rush. “I know you are a dear friend of Lizzie’s and Eleanor’s favorite relation, so our paths will continue to cross. But it is best if we never speak of this again!”

  He shook his head and seized her hand. “I am not apologizing for kissing you, Georgina May,” he growled.

  And she knew what he intended. He pulled her into his arms and she tensed, desperately wanting to avoid his kiss but even more desperately wanting to a
ccept it. He ignored her and quickly covered her mouth with his.

  Georgie gave up. His mouth was very firm and uncompromising, and as he kissed her, desire exploded there in the juncture of her thighs, shameless and insistent. She clung, opening, trying to let more of him in. He pulled away, panting, his eyes hot and hard.

  Georgie could not speak. Her lips throbbed—her entire body throbbed. She pressed her hand to her mouth. “Why?” she managed to say, as she could not breathe, not after such an astounding kiss. “Why are you doing this to me?” Surely he was not being sincere.

  He caught her arm. “Because I am through pretending that this does not exist between us! From the moment we first met, I have tried my hardest not to see you for what you are—the most amazing woman I have ever had the good fortune to meet.”

  Georgie cried out, afraid, yet also daring to hope. “You can’t mean that! Please, do not flatter me if you do not mean it!”

  “I am not the womanizer you seem to think me,” he said. “When will you trust me?”

  Georgie stared. It was a long moment before she could assemble her flustered thoughts. “I am afraid.”

  He softened. “Why? I have never admired any woman more—or desired any woman more, either.”

  She felt her knees give way, felt the almost painful stabbing of desire again. He put his arms around her. “Don’t be afraid,” he whispered, “not of me.”

  Georgie had the good sense to plant her hands on his chest, although it did no good, as most of his body was pressed against hers. Did she dare believe him, trust him, now?

  “I have done nothing but think about you these past three days,” Rory said, meeting her eyes, his gaze intense. “I have done nothing but think about us.”

  Georgie went still, except for her heart, which pounded with explosive force. “I don’t understand.”

  “I am a poor man, Georgina,” he whispered, “and by many standards, not even a gentleman.”

  Georgie shook her head, disbelieving. “I would never judge any man’s character by the state of his finances,” she said firmly.