Chapter 12
A Plan Gone Awry
Still stunned and very, very angry, Tyrell decided that he enjoyed watching her squirm.
She held his so-called son to her bosom, her cheeks horribly flushed.
There was, he knew now, nothing innocent about her except for her physical appearance.
“Mother,” he ordered with a calm that belied his tension, “take the child, please.”
Lizzie backed up, pale in spite of her too-bright cheeks. “No,” she cried, her terrified gaze upon him.
He would still want to protect her, he thought, if she were not such a calculating liar. Even now, he could barely believe that she was so different from what he had thought. His anger knew no bounds and it replaced all of his disappointment in her.
She knew damn well that child was not his! What kind of poor scheme was this? He did not think he had ever been more furious.
“Please,” Lizzie was whispering to his stepmother. “Don’t take my child from me.”
The countess’s face filled with pity. “It is only so you and Tyrell may have a quiet word,” she said with a small smile. “I promise.”
She was crying, he saw with annoyance. Most women looked pitiful when they cried, and she was hardly an exception—but amazingly, he felt the urge to sweep her into his arms and kiss her until the tears stopped.
Making love should be the last thing on his mind, when she was trying to force his hand this way.
To think he had been prepared to give her anything she wanted as his mistress.
Clearly, her plans were far grander than that!
He watched as she handed over the boy, so reluctantly it was as if she never expected to see him again. Some small pity stirred within him, but he steeled himself against such softness—she deserved no compassion from him, not ever again.
He took a good long look at the boy and all kinds of new suspicions were stirred.
The baby was dark, just as he was, and could easily be mistaken for his own son.
Of course, there were hundreds of Black Irish children in Ireland.
Was this coincidence, then, that her lover had also been dark?
The child’s swarthy complexion must come from his father, for Elizabeth was very fair.
Another, more unimaginable thought occurred—was the child even hers?
He instantly decided that she would not go so far as to pass off a strange child as her own—not even to gain marriage to him. She was clearly afraid to lose the boy. The child had to be hers—unless she was a great actress.
Tyrell was furious. He did not like being in the maelstrom of so much confusion.
His entire life had been one of givens, of certainty, of rules and regulations.
His universe was fixed: he was the heir, his duty was to Adare, he must protect his family and the earldom at all costs.
Suddenly there was this woman, no longer sweet and genteel but an unwed mother, and there was this child, who could or could not be hers, and there was this terrific scheme.
When everyone left the room, he went to ascertain that the double doors were solidly closed.
His heart was pounding with the adrenaline of the battle to come.
Facing her, he folded his arms across his chest, almost enjoying her obvious distress.
She deserved it—and far more. Unfortunately, he was too angry to enjoy anything.
Very, very softly, he said, “What kind of fool do you take me for?”
She shook her head.
“So you do not think me a fool?” The anger erupted yet again, and with it, more disbelief.
“No, my lord, I do not,” she whispered as if ashamed.
But that was merely another ruse. He could not stand it.
He paced to her and seized her small shoulders.
She felt tiny and fragile in his hands. “Cease pretending you are some innocent maid! We both know that there is nothing innocent about you! We both know that is not my child,” he said harshly.
“But you dare to come here in some frivolous attempt to force me into marriage?” He had never met a more calculating player and yet when he looked into her eyes, he saw hurt and vulnerability.
She was shaking. “I am the fool. I am sorry.”
“You are sorry?” For one moment he increased his grasp upon her.
It crossed his mind that he should crush her in his embrace and punish her with his kisses, until she begged for forgiveness and confessed all.
“I have never been confronted with such a monstrous and bold plan!” He released her, stepping back and putting what he hoped was a safe distance between them.
And now he was confused, for he was in jeopardy of not having any self-control.
She was breathing shallowly. “You will not believe the extent of my folly.”
“I am sure I will not,” he said harshly. “Did you really think to come here with that child and convince everyone I am the father? Did you really think to convince me I am the father—when we have never shared a bed?”
She bit her full lip again. “No,” she said, the single word almost inaudible.
“No?”
“I wanted my parents to let me and my son be! But they harassed me to no end, demanding to know the identity of Ned’s father.
I could not tell them the truth. I thought if I told them it was you—a man so impossibly far above me—they would let it be.
Instead, they dragged me here very much against my will, asking for marriage.
I only came because I knew you would deny my claim.
” Her gaze sought his, suddenly filled with some small hope.
“You see, my lord, I never planned to trap you into marriage.”
He remained highly suspicious of her. “Why not reveal the boy’s father?” he asked. “What do you hide?”
She tensed visibly. “I do not want to marry him,” she said after a hesitation.
He continued to stare, for this did not sound right. “Who is the boy’s father?” He was going to learn the truth.
She simply shook her head, refusing to speak.
Tyrell forgot about keeping a safe distance between them. He strode to her and she cringed, making him feel monstrous. Towering over her, he said, “I want to know. Who is the father?”
A tear fell as she shook her head helplessly.
He hated himself. He leaned close. “Are you not afraid of me?”
She nodded, still crying. “But I know you would never hurt me, my lord,” she whispered.
He froze, his hands almost reaching for her.
This woman could somehow undo his resolve with a mere look, a mere word.
He would let it go, he decided, but only for now.
In the end, he would learn the truth. He walked away from her, aware that even with his huge anger, there was also so much lust. “Do you often sleep with men you do not wish to wed?” he asked coldly.
“It was a mistake.” He turned to face her, but she seemed unable to look at him now. “One night, the moon and the stars, I am sure you understand,” she muttered, so low he could barely hear. Her cheeks were scarlet again.
He thought of her with some faceless lover, naked and lovely, moaning in passion beneath a very full moon.
Her lover had undoubtedly enjoyed her soft, warm body to no end, burying himself in her again and again.
He wondered when the affair had begun; he wondered when it had ended.
His loins had never felt so heavy, so full.
He felt his mouth curve. “Oh, I understand,” he said, wanting to hurt her now. “I understand that you continue to lie, right to my face. I do not think your intention was to hide the truth about the child’s father, oh no. I think you somehow thought to scheme your way into marriage with me.”
She shook her head. “I do not know why you would say such a thing! I do not want marriage. I do not want to marry you. I want to go home with my son!” she cried, and she was clearly pleading with him now.
He loomed over her. “I insist that you speak truthfully,” he said. “Tell me the real reason you are here claiming to be the mother of my child. If it is not marriage, then it is a fortune. Admit the truth.”
She simply looked at him, appearing so distraught and so vulnerable now that he had the insane urge to comfort her. And she whispered, “You are right, my lord. I wanted to force your hand into marriage, but clearly I am not clever enough to do so. The Fitzgeralds are a miserable lot.”
This was the confession he had wanted, yet he was oddly disturbed and dismayed by it. Worse, her words did not even ring true. He stared at her, wishing he could get inside her thoughts like a gypsy mind reader.
Her gray eyes searched his in return. He felt the tension within him grow.
Tyrell had always been a good judge of character.
It had always been easy for him to perceive another man’s ambition, ploy or ruse.
He himself was straightforward in his dealings—he had inherited that nature from his father.
Now he was perplexed. Elizabeth Fitzgerald had confessed to the most conniving ambition, yet suddenly he knew her confession was as much a lie as everything else.
“I know my parents will think you unconscionable, and I am sorry for that, but it hardly matters,” she said as softly.
“I swear to never approach you again. Ned and I will go home to Raven Hall. You will return to Dublin and you will marry Lord Harrington’s daughter.
This one unpleasant episode will soon be forgotten by everyone. ”
He wondered why her eyes remained moist with tears. He would almost swear on the Bible that she wished only to leave with the child and did not seek to blackmail him into marriage. Was it at all possible that she was telling the truth?
He hesitated, aware of having grave doubts. And she knew, because she stepped forward and touched him. “I will do anything, my lord, if you tell the earl you are not Ned’s father and you let us go home.”
He knew an offer when it was being made. He closed his hand on hers, forcefully.
“Anything?” he whispered, triumph beginning.