Chapter 18 A Moral Dilemma #3
But he did not answer at first. He kissed her urgently, and Lizzie opened for him, allowing him great liberties.
He finally pulled away, when she was aching with a raging fire that only he could put out.
“If I give my word, it is done, and I am giving you my word. You need not worry about your parents.” And he kissed her again, this time sliding his hand into her bodice and over her breast.
Desire warred with the moral dilemma she had thought to avoid. If her parents were accepted into society, would Papa not forgive her? Would Mama not be happy? Even if she remained at Wicklowe with Tyrell, as his mistress, just for a while?
“Elizabeth!” he cried. And it was a demand, for clearly he felt that she was only giving him her aching body and not her real attention. He held her face and she was forced to meet his hot, hard gaze. “You are not leaving me,” he said tersely. “Not now, not ever. We will manage this together.”
She felt his power and it was more than she could bear, when she did not want to leave him, anyway. She surrendered. “I won’t leave,” she whispered as he kissed her tears away, fumbling with the buttons on the back of her dress.
But her unspoken words echoed. Not yet.
He tore his mouth from hers and their gazes met, as if he had heard her speaking her terrible thoughts aloud.
Lizzie tried to smile at him but it was impossible.
He lifted her into his arms and carried her into the bedroom. And now, as he lay her down in his bed, Lizzie welcomed him. Their mouths melded, their clothes disappeared, his big body pushed hard and frantically into hers.
It was as if a clock was ticking, and they both knew it.
Tyrell realized that the sun was rising.
Its rosy glow crept into the shadowy room.
He sat with his head in his hands on the sofa before the fireplace, an empty glass by his feet on the floor, clad only in a pair of breeches.
The fire had dulled to a few mere sparks, but hours ago, when he had left Elizabeth asleep and softly smiling in their bed, it had been aflame.
With his fingers, he rubbed his throbbing temples. The pain merely increased.
“I will not bring this up again. She deserves more than you can ever give her and I know you know that.”
Rex’s words had been haunting him all night.
But even last week at Adare, he had known that Rex was right.
Elizabeth deserved a home of her own. She deserved a husband, not a lover, happiness, not shame, and knowing her now as well as he did, knowing how kind and genuine she was, he was acutely aware of what he had done.
I have ruined them. They are in disgrace. I am shameless, Tyrell, and so terribly selfish!
She was not the selfish one! Tyrell laughed, but the sound was bitter and his eyes burned, although he told himself it was from the fire’s smoke.
He was the selfish one, to blackmail her into being his mistress, and then to take her innocence instead of walking honorably away.
He had ruined her. He had ruined her without a single thought for her welfare or her future, behaving like a beast, not a man.
He knew that any amends he might think to now make were far too late, but if he were half as honorable as he had always thought himself to be, he would still make those amends. He could so easily buy her a husband, a title and estate and all the legitimacy she would ever need.
You could never hurt me, my lord. I love you too much!
Tyrell covered his face with his hands. He knew better than to believe any declaration uttered in the heat of the moment, but a part of him wanted to believe her words.
She was so innocent and so naive, and every moment they spent together was hurting her more than she was even aware of. But how could he let her go?
How could he let her stay?
She deserved more than a place in his bed.
She deserved more than shame. She deserved his name, but he was plighted to another, and as long as he was his father’s heir, that would never change.
In a few months he would marry Blanche Harrington, securing the future of his family.
His duty was a boon, not a burden, he reminded himself.
He had always wanted this, and there was no reason to have doubt, no reason to feel caged.
Suddenly he envisioned a long, bleak and bleary road, the skies above dull and gray, a future without Elizabeth, and his heart shrieked in warning and protest.
God, he had thought that he would be able to manage a future with both a wife and a mistress, but already the guilt was consuming, already she was paying a terrible price for his lust and selfish depravity.
He dared not even consider what Blanche might be thinking or feeling now.
Neither woman deserved to be entangled with the other—neither woman deserved such a life.
Tyrell trembled. He had never intended this.
He had intended to protect Elizabeth and make her happy, not hurt her and make her miserable and ashamed.
There was right and there was wrong, and he had been raised to know the difference.
Elizabeth deserved more than he could ever give her.
He had to be noble now. He had to let her go.
Tyrell lurched to his feet, shaken.
He simply could not do it.
The summer was waning. Three weeks had passed and Lizzie sat at a small Louis XIV desk in a pleasant salon she and Georgie often used, as it was not too grand, a quill in hand.
She was attempting a letter to her parents.
They had been to Adare twice for supper parties, and had recently received an invitation to Askeaton, where Captain O’Neill, Tyrell’s stepbrother, was now in residence with his American wife and daughter.
Soon, Lizzie thought, Mama’s old circle would be eagerly inviting her back into their homes. Wouldn’t they?
And surely Papa was not so angry or disappointed in her.
Lizzie wanted to beg them to forgive her and to try to understand how she had come to choose a life with Tyrell, as illegitimate as it was.
She wanted to explain that she had not been thinking clearly, for she would never do anything that would hurt those she loved the most. She wanted to explain that this was her single chance to be with Tyrell and that it would not last forever.
So far, all she had written was “Dear Mama and Papa.”
Then she finally began to write.
The summer has been an exceedingly pleasant one with long, warm sun-filled days and very little rain.
I am well, as are Ned and Georgie. We have spent most of our time here at Wicklowe, usually taking our dinner on the back lawns in a picnic-style.
But we did go into Dub-lin once to do some shopping.
Ned has been learning to ride and he adores it.
His father bought him a Welsh pony with four white socks and a star.
Ned has named him Wick, much to everyone’s amusement.
We miss you very much and hope you are well.
Your devoted daughter, Lizzie.
Lizzie did not care for her letter at all but was afraid to beg for forgiveness.
And she could never explain her choice, much less in a letter.
Perhaps the recent storm was now over. Perhaps, with these new invitations and a new social life, her parents had already forgiven her for the disgrace she had brought upon the Fitzgerald name. Lizzie prayed for a timely reply.
She stood, stretching. It was a Sunday afternoon, so Tyrell was not in Dublin, and she knew he was busy with his head gardener, involved in inspecting some of the recent additions to the grounds.
He had said that today he wished to take her for a picnic, just the two of them, not even with Ned.
And he wanted to teach her to ride. Smiling, she walked over to the huge windows that looked out toward the front of the house, wondering if she might catch a glimpse of him.
From where she stood, she could see a part of the driveway, the lake and the towering limestone fountain in its midst. She was surprised to see a coach approaching.
There had been callers in these past few weeks.
There had also been a number of supper parties.
Tyrell had social responsibilities that he would not shirk and to Lizzie’s surprise, no one had batted an eye at her.
While she was introduced as a houseguest, everyone knew she was Ned’s mother and that she was living openly with Tyrell.
But there was no condescension and Lizzie had been invited to call on their neighbors in return for her hospitality. Tyrell had encouraged her to do so.
“In Limerick, I am a disgrace. But here, no one cares about my status,” she had said to Tyrell one night while in his arms. She slept in his bed every night.
“Just about everyone who has called or dined at Wicklowe has a mistress or a lover. We are not an exception but the rule.”
Lizzie knew the stereotype—that infidelity ran rampant among the highest classes of society—but she hadn’t really believed it before. “But I am living with you, in your house.”
“And you are under my protection.” Tyrell had studied her, stroking her cheek. “Lord Robieson has three bastards, all of whom live under his roof with his two legitimate daughters. Yes, I know, he doesn’t keep his mistress there as well. She has her own house.”
Lizzie had called on Lady Robieson, a plump, pretty, vivacious woman whom she had liked. “And Lady Robieson doesn’t seem to mind,” she murmured, wondering at that.
“She is notorious for taking her own lovers.”
Lizzie stared at him and he stared back.
Tyrell finally spoke. “It may not be right. But it is the reality of our times.”
Lizzie studied him. Did he morally condemn their affair as she did, when she dared to really think about it?
She knew him well enough now to think that he did not really approve of adultery, and that he would not be pleased with himself for violating his own moral code. “And we are like everyone else.”
Tyrell had looked away. “Yes.”
Lizzie had not added, “But that does not make it right.” She had snuggled against him, suddenly unhappy and worried. There were so many moments when it was so easy to keep the future at bay, but always, eventually, it intruded.
Suddenly Tyrell had caught her face in his hands. “Have you been happy, Elizabeth, here at Wicklowe?”
Lizzie had stilled, her heart leaping uncontrollably, wanting to tell him how much she loved him and how she always would, no matter what might happen. She had nodded, thinking only of him. “Yes. You make me more than happy, Tyrell.”
He had smiled, moving over her and in time, inside her, but when she had looked up, there had been a shadow in his eyes.
It hadn’t been the first time she had seen that shadow there—nor had it been the last. Lizzie knew with a lover’s intuition that something was disturbing Tyrell.
She was worried about their future, but surely his worries were of a different nature.
She told herself he had grave matters of state on his mind.
And reality was now intruding yet again, in the form of another caller. She had so been looking forward to spending the afternoon alone with Tyrell. She watched the coach as it passed the lake and fountain; it was very grand, a six-in-hand. Some alarm began.
This was no run-of-the-mill social call, she realized. Worse, that team of perfectly matched bays was terribly familiar. As the coach door was opened by a liveried footman, she knew.
Lord Harrington had left Adare in just such a conveyance.
It was impossible. He was not expected; he was either in London or his summer home in the Lake country. This had to be a messenger, didn’t it?
But a messenger would never travel in such a conveyance and she knew it.
And Lizzie recognized the slim gentleman alighting from the coach, his confident bearing unmistakable. Lizzie cried out and stepped back behind the draperies, instinctively afraid to be seen.
Lord Harrington was here.
Lizzie was numb with dread, and the huge clock that had been ticking off every second of every minute of every day, there in her mind, suddenly ceased.
As if it were a genuine thing, Lizzie wanted to hear that clock. She wanted to shake it, rattle, it, wind it back up. Instead, in growing panic, she pushed open the balcony doors and rushed outside. At the stone railing she paused. Gripping it, she leaned forward.
Tyrell stood on her side of the lake with the gardener, just a few steps from the driveway, staring at the coach. Lizzie could not make out his expression as he was too far away.
Harrington had seen him; he waved and reversed direction.
Tyrell raised his hand in return.
Unable to breathe, Lizzie saw Harrington striding purposefully toward Tyrell. Tyrell began to walk toward him. A moment later the men had shaken hands. Harrington clapped Tyrell on the back, the gesture familial and affectionate.
Lizzie choked, clasping a hand over her mouth to hide the sound. What should she do now?
“Lizzie!”
Lizzie whirled at the sound of her sister’s distraught voice. Georgie stood on the threshold of the salon. “Lord Harrington has just arrived!”
Lizzie somehow nodded. “I know.”
“What are we going to do? What are you going to do?” And for once in her life, Georgie sounded panicked.
Her instinct was to run, hide. “I don’t know.”
“You can’t stand there!”
Her mind began to function. She was not the mistress of this house, never mind that Tyrell had pretended it was so, never mind the deference shown her by the staff and all of their neighbors. She was Tyrell’s mistress and nothing more, and the man who would soon be his father-in-law was outside.
She ran across the terrace and back into the house, Georgie at her side. They fled headlong through the east wing, but Georgie seized her wrist, halting them both. “Your rooms are in the west wing,” she cried.
Lizzie looked at her, feeling bloodless. “Georgie, I am not going to the master suite!”
Georgie nodded. “You are right. You had better share my suite. Oh, why didn’t he send word!”
“I will tell you why,” Lizzie said harshly. “Lord Harrington did not send word because the rumors reached him in London. He wanted to catch Tyrell and I living together openly like this.” And suddenly she was ready to weep. “He is here for one reason and one reason only.”
The future she had refused to think about had become the present.