Chapter 12 #2
Alarm was evident in her eyes. She tried to pull free. “I meant…I meant almost anything—”
He laughed. He had never been more pleased. “You meant you would give me what I want, did you not, Miss Fitzgerald?”
She began to shake her head, looking ready to flee. He had no intention of releasing her now. Instead, he tightened his hold on her. “Yesterday I asked you to be my mistress.”
She tried to back away. “You are about to become engaged,” she gasped, and he saw she understood his intent.
He pushed her slowly backward and trapped her against the wall. He liked the fact that her head only reached his chest. “I am afraid that is the case. However, it really has nothing to do with you and me,” he said softly.
“What are you going to do?” she asked in fear, finally pushing against his chest. Her hands remained there, on his racing heart.
“What am I going to do?” He thought about making love to her that night, about enjoying every possible inch of her voluptuous body, and he smiled, closing her small fists in his larger hands and keeping them against his chest. “I am going to claim your boy as my son,” he said.
“What?”
He slid his hands to her waist and she gasped when he pulled her completely against him.
“I shall provide for you both. Is this not a fortunate day? You have only to warm my bed. In return, your son has my name.” He was agonizingly aware of her soft body crushed against his, of her full breasts pressed into his ribs.
With one hand, he tilted up her face. His other arm held her still, where he wished her to be.
Her eyes were huge, at once horrified and mesmerized.
He could not understand her horror. Softly, he said, “After tonight, you will no longer be so reluctant. You have nothing to fear, Elizabeth. As I said yesterday, you will lack nothing, and now, neither will your son.”
She made a small sound, but it was only partly a protest. He heard the breathy excitement in it.
His lust exploded and all thought ceased.
Framing her face with both hands, he slowly lowered his mouth.
He knew he could not wait to touch her lips with his, to stroke them with his tongue.
He could not wait to taste her throat, her breasts.
He could not wait to sheath himself inside her, and his manhood fought the constraints of his breeches.
He pushed against her and touched her lips with his own.
She gasped, but in desire, not distress.
He crushed her in his arms and seized the moment, pushing inside with his tongue.
He wasn’t sure he could control himself and wait for the evening to come.
He had never wanted any woman the way he wanted her.
It made no sense—but all sense was lost to him now.
And she pressed against him, kissing him back, as hungry and frantic as he.
This was so right. It was his only coherent thought, and as he kissed her, his lust expanding dangerously, the thought rang in his stupefied mind, time after time.
“Tyrell.” The earl, his father, spoke.
Tyrell somehow heard. He had been kissing Elizabeth for an eternity—or was it a brief moment?
He closed his eyes, still holding her tightly, his body impossibly inflamed.
She was as feverish in return. He fought for his senses.
So much was at stake. And even though he could not understand his thoughts, he slowly recovered his composure and released her.
Tyrell turned to face his father.
The earl stood not far from the doorway; his expression was filled with disapproval.
Tyrell faced his father, agonizingly aware of Elizabeth standing behind him. Oddly, he wanted to shield her now from further shame. He turned and smiled slightly at her. “Go and join your son. We will speak in a few more moments,” he said.
She was flushed, her hair a bit askew, her lips plump and swollen, but gratitude filled her eyes and she nodded. Then she ducked past him and, not daring to look at the earl, raced from the room.
Tyrell watched her go. Then he walked across the room, past the earl and he closed the door. He turned and said, “I have decided that they will both stay here at Adare. I shall provide for Miss Fitzgerald, as well as my son.”
“You think to keep Miss Fitzgerald?” The earl was incredulous.
“I will not have her separated from her—from my child,” he said firmly. “I am afraid that I must insist. It is what is best for my son. She can take rooms not far from the nursery. But she stays at Adare.”
The earl stared, speechless.
Tyrell inclined his head. He had never before given an order to the earl. In that moment, their roles had changed and they both knew it. The son had stepped up to the throne, and it was time.
Lizzie paused on the threshold of the room she had been shown to. Rosie stood behind her, Ned in hand. The countess was instructing a maid to light a fire and open the windows, the green satin draperies already pulled aside. “I hope you will be pleased here,” she said with a smile.
Lizzie already knew how wealthy the earl was.
She had seen some of the public rooms at Adare, and all were dazzling in the display of art, in the plasterwork, in the gilded and upholstered furnishings.
But she was not prepared for the vast suite that faced her now.
Surely this was a mistake! She had only hastily explained to her parents that she would stay at Adare with Ned but five minutes ago, and she remained in a state of dazed, amazed confusion.
She had expected a small maid’s room, or, if she were very fortunate, a modest bedroom similar to her own room at Raven Hall.
Instead, Lizzie was faced with a room so large an entire cottage could be placed inside it.
There was a huge fireplace with a tawny marble mantel over it, in front of which was an entire sitting area.
A portrait of some long-ago de Warenne was over the mantle, the nobleman smiling with the ease and arrogance that only the rich and powerful had.
The sofa was the same soft moss-green as the plastered walls and the facing armchairs were pink and gold, like the starburst on the ceiling.
The floors underfoot were oak and half a dozen well-kept red-and-gold Persian rugs covered them.
A gleaming oak table, set with linen and crystal and a fresh floral centerpiece, along with four dining chairs upholstered in soft tan leather, indicated a dining area.
Finally, at the other end of the salon, a number of windows looked out over Adare’s famous gardens.
“Your bedroom is in here,” the countess said, gesturing at the open doorway to another room.
Lizzie glanced her way and saw a gold room dominated by a huge, equally golden, canopied bed.
She trembled, still overcome with confusion and disbelief.
Tyrell was installing her at Adare as his mistress.
She had expected to be ridiculed and thrown out.
She had expected to go home with Ned, Tyrell hating her for being such a liar.
But Tyrell did not hate her, oh no. That bed was the proof that he did not hate her at all—far from it.
He wanted her enough that he would corroborate her lie, claiming Ned as his own.
And she saw herself rising from the bed as Tyrell stood in the doorway, his eyes smoldering with passion and promise.
Was she in the midst of a fantastic dream? If she pinched herself, would she wake up?
She did not want to ever wake up if this was truly a dream!
Would Tyrell visit her tonight?
Was she really about to become his mistress?
She, Lizzie Fitzgerald, had always been the shy one, the plain one, the wallflower at every party. Was it possible that he wanted her enough to give her all of this—and to even claim Ned as his own?
“Are you all right, Miss Fitzgerald?” the countess asked quietly.
Lizzie had not even heard her approach. She somehow focused and the image of Tyrell, about to make love to her, vanished. Instead, she saw an elegant, handsome older woman standing before her, some concern in her eyes.
“Are you certain these rooms are for me?” she heard herself ask.
The countess smiled. “Of course I am. This is one of the guest wings, and it is where Tyrell suggested you stay.” Her gaze had become searching.
Lizzie hesitated, now fully aware of the lady she was with. “I cannot thank you enough for your kindness,” she said quietly. “I am so sorry we made such a scene.”
“I am sorry you had to endure the discomfort that you did,” the countess returned. “But if you did not wish a scene, why did you even tell your parents that Tyrell is Ned’s father?”
“I didn’t,” Lizzie said, no longer angry with her aunt. “Only my aunt Eleanor knew and she had promised utter secrecy. But she broke that promise yesterday.”
The countess reached for her hand. “We do not know each other well, I am afraid, although I suspect that will change. But I am glad your aunt spoke up. Ned has every right to the life that we can give him. And I, for one, am thrilled to have a grandson.” She smiled widely then.
Lizzie smiled back. “He is so clever, so handsome and so noble! He is so much like his father.…” She stopped and felt her cheeks flush.
The countess studied her for a moment. “The other bedroom is for Ned and Rosie. Is there anything else that you need?”
Lizzie glanced around the huge living room and then into her bedroom, and she felt her heart beat with growing excitement. “I think we are fine.”
“Good.” The countess hesitated. “Could I take Ned into the gardens for a walk? I am so eager to become acquainted with him. He seems awake enough.”
Lizzie glanced at Ned, who was in Rosie’s arms. He was yawning, but his eyes remained bright. “Of course,” she said.
“I promise not to be long,” the countess said, taking Ned from Rosie’s arms. “Hello, my handsome little grandson. I am your grandmother. You may call me Grandmama.”
Ned yawned again, appearing distinctly arrogant and bored. He said, “Ned!”