Chapter 17 The Mistress of Wicklowe
The Mistress of Wicklowe
Tyrell stared out of the French doors, watching Elizabeth walking hand in hand with Ned toward the house, her sister with them.
His heart was racing and he could not tear his gaze away.
She let Ned go and the toddler began to run, teetering on his chubby legs, Elizabeth quickening her pace to follow.
Ned tumbled face first onto the lawn and Tyrell stiffened, about to fly outside to rush to the little boy’s side.
But Elizabeth was at Ned’s side in almost the same instant, helping him to his feet.
He tugged free of her and began to run again.
Elizabeth, he saw, was smiling as she hurried after him.
His heart did the oddest set of somersaults.
Rex had come to stand behind him. He said, “I heard she emptied the contents of her purse the other day, giving every coin she had to a beggar woman. And yet, my understanding is that Elizabeth’s family is rather impoverished,” he added.
Tyrell did not look away. Elizabeth was now walking more slowly across the lawn, in conversation with her sister, Ned teetering ahead of them. The little boy stopped, still standing, although somewhat precariously, and cried triumphantly, “Mama!”
He could hear Elizabeth laugh and clap her hands. He said to his brother, never removing his gaze from the object of his avid interest, “And where did you hear that bit of gossip?” He heard how light his tone was.
Rex smiled. “From the countess. They went to the orphanage together. Apparently Miss Fitzgerald has volunteered her time there for many years.”
Finally Tyrell turned to his brother. “Really.”
“Yes, really,” Rex murmured.
He should be surprised by her charity but he wasn’t.
He already knew about her past involvement with the orphans of St. Mary’s, as he had made it his business to know everything about her some time ago.
He knew her reputation: she was a wallflower, a bookworm and universally held in high regard.
Until, that is, she had come home, the mother of a bastard child, the county pariah.
In fact, it had been entirely out of character, but he had been too angry to consider that.
All he had been able to think about was being duped by her sweet appearances yet again.
But he had not been duped.
There had not been another man.
She was not an unwed mother after all. He had been her first. He was thrilled; there was triumph.
Tyrell realized he had turned his gaze on her again, incapable of looking away, his heart pounding with both desire and some far greater emotion, one he did not wish to identify.
She knelt in the grass with her son, the two of them exploring some flower, perhaps, or a bug.
He could hear her laughter, soft and sweet, and he found himself incapable of drawing a normal breath.
Appearances were not that deceiving after all, he thought with both satisfaction and relief. She was sweet, good and kind.
Last night he had known she was a virgin instantly.
He had known it the moment he had begun to make love to her, and had he been a better man, a more noble man, he would have stopped himself from taking her innocence.
But that knowledge had sent him over the edge of any remnants of self-control—there had only been the vast, consuming need to possess her once and for all.
His elation was almost savage and it knew no bounds.
He watched her with Ned and saw instead Elizabeth beneath him in his bed, the most passionate woman he had ever met, the most desirable woman he had ever beheld.
He smiled, recalling her foolish attempts to hide the evidence of her virginity, her nervous anxiety when he had first come to her room, the way she had spilled wine all over the bed.
What woman would deny her innocence, pose as a courtesan and claim a child that was not hers as her own, ruining her reputation and her future?
There was only one possible answer. Elizabeth loved Ned—anyone could see that—and she was desperate to remain his mother. It had been an act of utter bravery and self-sacrifice.
He watched as Elizabeth lifted Ned into her arms, smiling with happiness, and with the toddler snuggling against her, she and Georgie disappeared through a different entrance into the house.
Was Ned his son?
Tyrell turned away from the terrace and his brother, walking slowly and reflectively across the room, his pulse pounding thick and hard.
He was hardly a fool. And as it was now clear that Elizabeth was not Ned’s mother, it was also clear that Ned could very well be his son.
After all, he had noted the remarkable resemblance as well as anyone.
His son. He felt oddly certain of it.
Elizabeth could have claimed any other man as the father of the child that was not hers.
She need not have put herself in such a humiliating and precarious position.
But not once had she denied that Ned was his.
In fact, she spoke of Ned as his son more than she spoke of him as her son.
Those telling actions, coupled with the insistent urgings of his heart, told him it was the truth.
It was remarkable, unbelievable, an incredible gift. He knew he should take some care and exercise some caution now, as he had no real confirmation, just the gut feeling and his suspicions, but he could not.
It was obvious now as to what had happened.
The courtesan who had worn Elizabeth’s Maid Marian costume on All Hallow’s Eve had obviously become pregnant.
Tyrell no longer thought that Elizabeth had decided to play some cruel game with him—it was out of character for her, just as her becoming pregnant with some stranger’s child was.
He could not begin to imagine what had caused the switch.
One day he might ask her what, precisely, had happened that night. He was no longer sure it mattered.
He could not guess why that imposter had not come to him when she had learned she was with child.
She had approached Elizabeth instead, indicating some kind of relationship with her.
And he wished that Elizabeth had come to him then.
But neither woman had thought to attach herself to the de Warenne name or fortune.
Instead, Elizabeth had taken the child in and claimed it as her own.
She might not have given birth to his son, but she was the mother of his child in every other way, and it was a blessing and a miracle, at once.
She wasn’t a scheming fraud after all. She wasn’t a cold, clever liar or a trickster of the first degree.
She was the shy one, the pretty one, the kind one, the wallflower without suitors, and only an odd twist of fate had put her in such a compromising position.
He respected her courage and admired her self-sacrifice to no end.
“Finally, you are looking at your son as if you believe he is really yours,” Rex remarked.
Tyrell did not hesitate. “I never said I did not believe he was my own flesh and blood.”
Rex gave him a disbelieving look. “I heard you are leaving for the Pale today.”
Tyrell turned. “Yes, I am. And I know what you wish to ask, so I will tell you. They are coming with me.”
“By ‘they,’ I assume you mean both Miss Fitzgerald and your son?”
“Yes, I do. Now, if you will excuse me?”
Before he could turn, Rex grabbed his arm. “I won’t bring this up again. But Miss Fitzgerald is a very kind young lady and she deserves more than the shame you have brought down on her.”
Abruptly he pulled away, guilt blooming. He hurried into the hall, knowing damn well that his brother was right. Before he had taken Elizabeth’s innocence, when he had assumed her a very fallen woman of few morals, he had not thought twice about making her a mistress. Now it gave him pause.
But what could he do? He had already ruined her.
If he were not the heir, if he were a younger son, he would have been able to marry her, which was what she deserved.
Now his head began to pound and he had that feeling of being trapped.
He was the next earl of Adare and there was no question as to where his duty lay.
His marriage had been arranged and he would not question it—even though a part of him wanted to.
Apart of him could even see Elizabeth as the next countess.
She would be gracious, kind, beloved by all—he knew it with all of his being.
Tyrell leaned against the wall, his chest aching, his head hurting.
His thoughts were sheer treachery and he knew it.
Now, more than ever, his course was set.
Ned was his child and, in every way but the biological one, Elizabeth was his mother.
He would take care of them both. It was hardly ideal, having a wife and a mistress, but most men would not think twice about it.
After last night, there was no choice. He needed Elizabeth and he was acutely aware of it.
Ned needed her, too. His life had become a tightrope.
He could feel the pressure of taking one false step.
For now, he must be careful and discreet.
Elizabeth deserved all of his respect and protection, but so did Lady Blanche.
And in the future? His insides tightened at the mere thought.
Once he was married, somehow he would manage to juggle both families.
If other men could do so, certainly he could, as well.
Tyrell stiffened. Elizabeth, Ned and Georgie had entered the opposite end of the hall. She must have sensed him because she faltered, glancing over her shoulder. She saw him and went still.
He strode to her and paused before them, bowing, all turmoil vanishing. “Have you enjoyed your picnic?” he asked politely, when his heart was hammering uncontrollably in his chest. Now all he could think of was taking her into his arms and his bed.
Elizabeth was blushing. “Yes, my lord, very much, thank you.”