Chapter 8 #3
Ever since learning of Anna’s betrayal, she had refused to think of him in any way except as Ned’s father. She had refused to dream about him in any way, but especially as a lover. And any shameful dreams she’d had while asleep she’d refused to consider or recall.
Now, staring at him, she was so overcome that all she could think about was him leaning seductively close, as he had at the All Hallow’s Eve ball.
Tyrell took a single step forward and he bowed. “But we have met, have we not, my lady?” His tone was soft, dangerously so.
Lizzie’s alarm knew no bounds. How could he recognize her? She must remain anonymous. In fact, she should stay as far away from him as possible! “Sir, I am afraid you are mistaken,” she finally managed to say.
“Ah, but my memory rarely fails me, especially not when faced with such beauty,” he purred, giving her a frank look.
Lizzie was speechless. Could he, amazingly, still think her attractive? She found her tongue. “Sir, I am afraid this conversation is not appropriate. Such flattery belongs in the ballroom.” When she realized what she had said, she winced.
He laughed, yet the sound was without mirth. “I will flatter where I choose,” he said flatly.
She inhaled. “Your eyes do fail you, sir.”
A beat of silence passed in which he assessed her. “Have you never heard that beauty is in the eye of the beholder?”
Lizzie swallowed. Did he think her beautiful? “So it is said. But that is neither here nor there—my sister and I are late.” She curtsied, about to flee. She was not given the chance.
His hand seized hers. “Why do you pretend that we are strangers?” he demanded.
His grasp inflamed her as nothing had in almost two years. “Had we ever been introduced, I would remember it.”
“So I am unforgettable, then?”
She tensed, debating a range of answers.
He smiled. “I must take your silence as a yes. You play a merry game, my lady,” he said. “And you lead a merry chase.”
He was flirting with her, just as he had done that All Hallow’s Eve, and it remained as incomprehensible now as it had been then.
She could not look away and neither could she admit to their having any acquaintance at all.
“You clearly mistake me for another,” she said at last. “I am hardly a fox to be pursued through the wood.”
“I might beg to differ,” he said smoothly. “And I do recognize a game when it is played.”
“Then you play by yourself, sir,” Lizzie said firmly.
“And who mocks whom?” he demanded. “I never play alone.”
Her heart thundered. This flirtation was going too far too quickly. Worse, she was almost enjoying herself. “I beg your apology, my lord.”
But he was through with banter. “We did make our acquaintance, madam. In the Shire Wood.”
Lizzie backed up. What should she do now?
“Do not deny it,” he warned.
Lizzie’s dismay remained, but a part of her grew elated.
He knew she had been Maid Marian. It had been a good year and a half since the masquerade, but he not only remembered their heated encounter, he remembered her well enough to know her now without her disguise.
A part of her mind, no longer repressed, opened like a dam gate, and a hundred lurid fantasies spewed forth.
Illicit images flashed in her mind, and in each and every one she was in Tyrell de Warenne’s embrace.
“The two of you met in the Shire Wood?” Rory asked, and for the first time in minutes, Lizzie realized she and Tyrell were not alone.
In fact, they stood on High Street between a pair of vendors hawking corn cakes and meat pasties, some carts and cotters passing by, churning up mud.
Rory’s regard was keen. “Do you mean Sherwood Forest?” he asked.
Tyrell said, “We met at an All Hallow’s Eve ball. Miss Fitzgerald was costumed as Maid Marian.”
Lizzie opened her mouth to deny it, and her words died. He would never believe anything she said now, not when he was so convinced of her identity.
Rory’s brows lifted as he glanced back and forth between them. “Ah. That does explain everything,” he said wryly.
Lizzie inhaled, shaken in every possible way and still consumed with desire for a man she must never have.
Hearing a stranger’s baby crying in the street, she was painfully reminded of Ned.
Tyrell was a threat to her—the greatest threat she had ever faced.
She wet her lips. This must end now, forever.
“I am afraid you have mistaken me for someone else.”
“I am afraid you dissemble, Miss Fitzgerald. I do not mistake you, oh, no. And that begs the single question—why?”
Lizzie bit her lip. Now, how to proceed? She knew instinctively, that to toy with him thus was to play with fire.
Georgie rushed to her side, looping her arm firmly in hers. “My lord, you have made a mistake, I am afraid. You see, Lizzie did not attend your family ball costumed that way. She went as a widow. But she resembles our sister Anna a bit. Anna went as Maid Marian,” she said.
Lizzie almost moaned. She seized Georgie’s hand in warning, not that Georgie would understand why she must not speak of Anna in that costume. But Tyrell ignored Georgie. Staring only at her, he said, “Then I do concede defeat. You are the victor, madam. My sincere apologies, Miss Fitzgerald.”
Lizzie knew his words were but a mockery. This man knew she had been at the ball in that costume and he was not ever going to be convinced otherwise. “How gracious you are,” she murmured.
He gave her a warning look. Tyrell turned abruptly to Rory. “How is it that you know Miss Fitzgerald?” he asked tersely.
“Lizzie’s father is the brother of my aunt, Eleanor Fitzgerald de Barry,” Rory said. “We are cousins through marriage and we met well over a year ago.”
Tyrell folded his arms across his chest, turning his hard gaze on Lizzie. “So you are Rory’s cousin,” he said reflectively. “How interesting.”
Lizzie hesitated. Where was he leading now? She did not like his new tone. She looked at her sister for aid.
Georgie said decisively, “It has been a pleasure, sirs. But we are late for an appointment.”
Rory glanced at her and bowed. “Then I do apologize. Please, do not allow us to keep you from your schedule. And the pleasure has been mine.” He smiled.
But Tyrell was quite clearly not ready to depart. He looked at Lizzie. “Where is your home?”
Her heart lurched. “What?”
“Rory said you are from the county. There are a half-dozen Fitzgeralds here. Where do you live? Who is your father?” He spoke rapidly, clearly impatient for her answers.
Lizzie blinked. Her cheeks went hot. As she tried to think of a way out of telling him where she could be found—where she and his son could be found—Rory spoke. “They reside at Raven Hall.”
Lizzie gave Rory a beseeching look, much to his confusion.
“You are from Raven Hall,” Tyrell said slowly, and she knew his mind was racing, although she could not fathom why. His gaze narrowed. “So you are the daughter of Gerald Fitzgerald.” It was not a question.
He was prying and she was, finally, afraid. “Yes.” She could hardly deny it, but now he knew her name, her family and where she and Ned lived.
He folded his arms across his chest, appearing oddly satisfied.
“May I call?” Rory asked her, and she saw that he was perplexed by their exchange.
Lizzie was aghast. Matters could not get worse. As fond as she was of Rory, he must never come to Raven Hall.
Georgie stepped forward to save the day. Unsmiling, she said, “I am afraid our mother is very ill. She has not been out of her rooms in days. Now would be a terribly inconvenient time.”
Rory was taken aback, but Tyrell merely seemed amused. “We will call later in the week, then,” he said, his lashes lowering to conceal his eyes. He bowed. “Good day.”
Lizzie could not reply.
Rory also bowed, and without a backward glance, the two men strode off.
Lizzie faced Georgie in wide-eyed disbelief. “He intends to call?”
At first Georgie did not seem to hear her. She stared after them both, and it was a moment before she responded. “Yes. He intends to call, and if I do not mistake it, there will be no stopping him,” she said grimly.