Chapter 17 The Mistress of Wicklowe #2
He tore his gaze to Ned, who stood beside Elizabeth, gazing sternly up at him. Tyrell could feel the child’s emotions—he was suspicious and protective, all at once. So much joy filled his heart that he had but one coherent thought. “He needs to learn to ride,” he said.
Elizabeth started. “He is only a year old—”
Tyrell smiled at her, meeting her wide, amazing gray eyes and recalling them as they turned to smoke, just before she climaxed. “I was on the back of a horse at his age. With my father, of course. With your permission, I should like to do the same when we get to Wicklowe.”
Elizabeth seemed incredulous. “Of course you have my permission, my lord.”
“And you may join us, of course,” he added.
She smiled shyly at him. “I think not, my lord.”
He was surprised she would refuse him, and even hurt. “You would refuse me?” he asked, almost adding, after last night?
“No,” she cried, a small gasp that reminded him of her passionate cries the night before. “I do not know how to ride. Should I try, I would undoubtedly fall off.”
He laughed and impulsively took her hand, lifting it to his lips and kissing it.
The moment he held her palm and felt her flesh with his mouth, all thought of horseback riding vanished.
He had become, so easily and instantly, utterly aroused.
“I will teach you,” he murmured, thinking of all that he wished to teach her, none of it having anything to do with horses, “I will teach you everything you need to know, if you will allow me to do so.”
She stared at him breathlessly, her cheeks pink. “You may teach me anything, my lord,” she whispered, and then she lowered her lashes so that they fanned out over her cheeks.
He was slammed with more desire than he had ever felt before. He released her hand, no simple task, and bowed. “Until this afternoon,” he said harshly.
She did not reply.
Realizing he had not even acknowledged her sister, he finally nodded at her. Then he reached out and touched Ned’s cheek. He had never touched him before and he faltered, overcome.
This was his child, his son. He knew it with every fiber of his being, every pulse of his heart.
Ned smiled at him, all suspicion clearly gone.
Tyrell smiled back. Then he straightened, aware of warmth stealing into his cheeks, and he met Elizabeth’s steady, surprised regard. For one instant, their gazes locked anew and all he saw was his son and his wife.
It wasn’t until he had turned and left them that he realized what he had been thinking, and was horrified.
Tyrell had chosen to ride by horseback to Wicklowe, traveling alongside the coach on a handsome black steed.
He remained astride and few words were exchanged, but Lizzie did not mind; she had Georgie for company, as well as Ned and Rosie, and she was simply too excited.
Having spent the first night at a wayside inn, they traveled for most of the next day.
It was late in the afternoon when their carriage passed through a pair of high, wrought-iron gates.
Lizzie hung out of her window, straining to see.
The Pale was famous for its many palatial homes, all built in the past century, when the Irish and Anglo aristocracy chose to live within mere hours of Dublin, where society and government had then reigned.
The coach had turned onto a long, tree-lined drive made of white crushed shells.
Lizzie saw the estate ahead and she gasped.
Lush green lawns and magnificent gardens swept from the road to the mansion.
Dazzling white, four or five stories tall and rather square, it was set back from a large, man-made lake in the center of the drive.
Two wings, half as high as the central part of the house, fanned out from it on either side.
In the midst of the lake was a large limestone water fountain.
Framing the perfect scene were the Wicklow Mountains and the brilliantly blue skies.
“This is far grander than Adare,” Georgie said in awe. “It is not even fifty years old. I was told the current earl’s grandfather built it.”
“It is like a palace,” Lizzie added, stunned. This was where they would live? Was it possible? It was a residence befitting the earl and the countess and no one of any lesser rank.
Georgie smiled at Lizzie. “Can you believe it? This is your new home!”
“It is our new home,” Lizzie returned. They had finished circling the lake, which was bordered by perfectly clipped hedges, mostly in tall, fantastical shapes.
The drive straightened and about a hundred yards ahead lay the house, the front of which was designed like a Roman temple.
Now she could see servants pouring from it.
The entire staff was lining up to greet their master’s son—the man who would one day be their lord and master, the next earl of Adare.
Lizzie sat back in the coach against the velvet squabs.
What was she doing? She was not Tyrell’s wife, she was his mistress, and suddenly she was acutely aware of it.
She should not care what these servants thought, but somehow, she did.
She reminded herself that everyone had been more than kind to her at Adare.
But she had been so insidiously introduced there; this was vastly different.
The coach halted. Lizzie faced Georgie. “I entered Adare as a houseguest,” she said. “This feels awkward, Georgie. I am now his mistress! And to be terribly honest with you, I had decided to forget that Lady Blanche is his fiancée and that she even exists, as it is the only way I can be happy.”
“Maybe it is best that you avoid thinking of her and the future right now,” Georgie said uncertainly. “It won’t help anything, will it? And Lizzie? I am certain he will refer to you as a guest now, too,” Georgie said firmly.
Lizzie knew Tyrell would never introduce her as his mistress, but that was exactly what she was.
Everyone would soon know the truth—if they didn’t already.
Lizzie was well aware of how quickly gossip spread.
The moment Tyrell’s arrival had been remarked, callers would descend upon them.
She might pretend to herself that Blanche did not exist, but they would not live here in utter seclusion and soon some kind of reality would intrude.
For the past day and a half, she had been so immersed in her rather fantastic dreams that she had not considered what her life was really going to be like. Suddenly she was uncertain and afraid.
But there was no choice. Overcome by a sinking sensation, she suddenly realized how much had changed in the past day since Tyrell had taken her to bed. She now loved Tyrell too much to ever walk away.
“They are waiting for us to get out,” Georgie said, patting her hand. “Have courage, Lizzie.”
Lizzie somehow smiled at her sister and alighted from the coach with the help of a footman. Tyrell was shaking hands with a gentleman whom she assumed to be his steward. She turned and took Ned’s hand. “Mama?” he asked, clearly curious as to where they were.
“We shall live here for a while,” she said softly, her heart racing.
Tyrell turned abruptly, as if reading her thoughts. Instantly he smiled, striding to her. He hesitated, their gazes holding, then he lifted Ned into his arms. “Come,” he said to Lizzie.
She was dazed. The fact that he would carry Ned as if he were his father was a statement no one could miss.
Tyrell strode back to face the line of waiting servants, Ned still in his arms. “It is a pleasure to be back,” he said.
“The grounds appear in fine condition, and I am sure that when I enter the house, I will find the condition within to be as well maintained. Thank you.”
Lizzie began to really look at the servants in the line. They must have numbered close to fifty. She saw small, barely formed smiles of pleasure, and she realized that their master was well liked and that they were eager for his praise.
“I should like to introduce Miss Elizabeth Fitzgerald,” he said, Ned still in his arms. “Miss Fitzgerald will be staying here indefinitely as my guest. Her every wish is to be met.”
Murmurs of understanding sounded and fifty pairs of eyes trained upon her.
Lizzie told herself not to attach too much meaning to his use of the word indefinitely. But had he meant what he had just said? Was she to have anything she asked for?
Georgie seemed to think so, for she poked her in the ribs, her eyes wide.
“Her sister, Miss Georgina Fitzgerald, is also visiting us.” Tyrell was smiling at the staff. “And now I should like to introduce my son,” he said. “Edward Fitzgerald de Warenne.”
Lizzie gasped. Georgie gripped her arm to keep her standing upright.
There was not a single surprised murmur, but all eyes had turned to Ned.
No declaration could have been made with more purpose, she thought, stunned.
Tyrell had finally, definitively and publicly, claimed his son.
He had just proclaimed her the mother of his child.
In doing so, he had done more than proclaim her his mistress.
He had given her tremendous stature and tremendous rights.
“Elizabeth?” He turned to her, indicating that she come forward.
Lizzie felt all eyes turn to her again. She could not imagine what he would say or do next.
Somehow, she came forward. He smiled and slipped Ned into her arms. “You may decide which rooms best suit our son,” he said, lowering his voice.
“But I prefer for you to reside with me in the west wing, where the master suite is.” It was not a command; she saw the question in his eyes.
She gazed at him, incapable of looking away, and tears of happiness formed in her eyes. How could she refuse when she was so in love? It was what her heart wanted, more than anything—as long as she kept up some pretense and avoided all thoughts of the future.
“I cannot object, my lord,” she whispered unsteadily.