Chapter 19
The Ultimate Sacrifice
Georgie’s suite of rooms was across from the nursery. Lizzie and Georgie rushed into her suite and Lizzie whirled, confronting her. “Why are you so quiet? I know what you are thinking!”
Georgie inhaled. “I am thinking that this is so awkward.”
Lizzie started. “I am thinking that this is so shameful.”
Georgie went to her and spoke with the utmost calm, clearly trying to reassure her. “You love each other. That is hardly shameful. What is shameful, truly, is that Tyrell does not wake up, break off his engagement and take you to the altar!”
Lizzie bit her lip, shaken. When she was in his arms in the darkest hours of the night, she knew beyond any doubt that he loved her, too. In the light of day she was not so sure. “The first sons of earls do not marry impoverished country gentry and you know it.”
“Sometimes they do!” Georgie cried. “He could marry for love—he is wealthy enough to do as he pleases.”
Was Georgie right? Confused, Lizzie quickly changed the subject to the pressing matter confronting them. “What am I to do? Do I stay here in your suite and hide until Harrington leaves? We cannot go down to dine tonight, can we? And what about Ned? Does he hide in the nursery now, too?”
Georgie touched her. “You must speak with Tyrell when the opportunity arises. I am certain he will have no doubts as to the proper course of action.”
Lizzie knew the proper course of action—she had always known the proper course to take. She hugged herself. “I never told you this. I spied on her. I spied on Lady Blanche.”
“You did what?”
“I stole into the engagement ball.”
Georgie stared in astonishment. “And?” she finally asked.
Lizzie inhaled. “She is terribly beautiful, Georgie. I could not find a single fault with her. She is elegant, gracious and she seemed to possess a very pleasant nature, indeed.”
“I suppose it would be rude to hope she was ugly, fat and mean.”
“She is such a good match for him,” Lizzie said miserably. “I am sure she will eventually fall in love with Tyrell, if she hasn’t already. And he, of course, will be thrilled to have such an elegant and proper English wife. He will undoubtedly come to love her as well.”
He could marry for love—he is wealthy enough to do as he pleases.
Lizzie wished Georgie had never said that.
She was wrong, anyway. Tyrell deserved a wealthy, titled wife.
Blanche would be a great countess one day, Lizzie had no doubt.
And she was so beautiful that surely Tyrell would fall in love with her, sooner or later.
“I want him to be happy, Georgie. I see no reason why he would not be happy with Blanche Harrington.”
Georgie seized her hand. “And what about you? You have been in love with Tyrell since you were a small child. You never asked for this—he insisted you become his mistress. You have been so happy and you deserve all that you have had. But I see where you now go, Lizzie, I do!”
“I beg your pardon?” Tyrell asked from the open doorway.
Lizzie whirled, wondering how long he had been standing there and wishing they had not left the door so widely ajar.
And she felt her world, already tilting precariously, begin to crumble into dust. He was so terribly grim, but then, so was she.
Georgie was right, she knew what she must do. “My lord,” she whispered.
“I hope I am not interrupting,” he said, looking only at Lizzie, “but I must have a word with you, Elizabeth.”
Georgie took her cue. She nodded at Tyrell and hurried from the room, having the good sense to firmly shut the door behind her as she did so.
Lizzie hugged herself, not daring to meet his searching eyes.
“Lord Harrington has arrived unexpectedly,” he said, his voice hard.
“I know. I saw.” She managed to look up. His expression was stark.
He strode to her, pulling her hands away from her body and gripping them. “I am so sorry!”
Helplessly she shook her head. “He must have heard of our affair. There can be no other reason for his calling like this, so unexpectedly, without sending word.”
“He claims he spent a weekend with Lord Montague in the south and decided to call rather spontaneously.” He had not released her hands.
“Do you believe him?”
“No, I do not.”
Lizzie told herself, very firmly, not to cry. Tears would solve nothing now. “Perhaps he wishes to discuss your marriage,” she said, and she was horrified at how distraught she sounded.
His face tightened and he did not speak.
From Tyrell’s set expression, Lizzie realized that Harrington must have said just that. “So he does wish to discuss your marriage?” she cried, and her tone was terribly shrill.
He turned away. “It should hardly come as a surprise. We both know I am affianced. We have both known it from the start.”
Lizzie’s temples throbbed; it was hard to think. “What would you have me do, my lord? Should I pack my things and flee the house in the middle of the night while everyone sleeps?” Too late, she realized how bitterly she spoke.
His grasp tightened. “No! His arrival here changes nothing, Elizabeth—it changes nothing.”
“It changes everything, my lord,” she whispered unevenly in return.
He pulled her close, crushing her to his chest, seeking her mouth.
Lizzie began to cry as he kissed her, again and again.
She could not respond, not when her life was over.
He stopped, holding her tightly, “Don’t cry.
This changes nothing, Elizabeth. I still want you in my arms every night.
” He tilted up her chin so their gazes met.
“I will have your belongings moved into the adjoining room here with your sister. It’s only for a few days.
” His tone was firm but kind with whatever sympathy he now felt for her.
But she hardly wanted his sympathy now. She tried to push away from him, but he would not let her go.
She gave up, her hands pressed against his hard chest, which heaved with his own distress.
She breathed deeply, finally finding some small shred of composure.
“She must be in London even as we speak, in the midst of preparations for the wedding,” she said hoarsely. She had to ask about the future now.
He stared before finally responding. “I imagine so.”
She wet her lips, closed her eyes briefly. “Will the wedding be at Adare?”
“It will be in London,” he said tightly, his face impossible to read. He hesitated. “You have every right to know the details. We will be wed at St. Paul’s on September 15.”
“I see,” she said, finding her pride now and clinging to it, as it was all she seemed to have.
She seemed to have moved outside of herself and it felt very much as if she were watching a drama on some theatre stage.
She had managed to achieve an utter detachment from her heart.
How long, she wondered, could she sustain that?
If she were lucky, it would be for the rest of her life.
“That is but a month away. When do you leave for London?”
He spoke as formally now, but his gaze was filled with caution, as if she were an adversary that he must fear, or a prey he must prevent from an escape. “In two weeks.”
He would leave Ireland in two weeks. He would leave her in two weeks. And the stage collapsed; the players she was watching vanished into thin air. There was only herself and Tyrell and her own consuming grief.
She had been living in a dream world of her own making.
Since coming to Wicklowe, she had refused to think of the future, refused to think of the woman he would one day marry, even after Papa’s frightening visit.
With the entire household treating her as a wife, not a mistress, with Tyrell treating her that way, she had spent her days dreaming about him and the time they had already spent together, the memories they had already created.
Her nights had been spent in a passionate frenzy.
Since Papa’s visit, that clock had been ticking, or had it been ticking since her parents had first marched her up to Adare with Ned?
It no longer mattered. The clock had stopped when Lord Harrington had arrived, and now those few memories would have to last her a lifetime.
It was over.
A huge weight, the weight of grief and loss, began to bear down on her.
Not moving, he said, slowly and carefully, “I will spend two weeks in London and return to Wicklowe. I still have to attend my post in Dublin,” he said.
Lizzie had never imagined suffering so much heartache. She heard him, but vaguely. And what about Ned?
Tyrell was talking to her. He wet his lips and said with the utmost care, “I have given the matter a great deal of thought. I will buy you a house in Dublin. Any house you wish, as grand as you prefer. You will live there with Ned and your sister and I can visit you every day.”
Lizzie held her chest, but the pain was intensifying, anyway. She gazed up at him, the man she had always loved when she had no right to do so. He thought to visit her every day—and go home to his wife every night.
“You are not leaving me,” he said, a vast and terrible warning.
Lizzie tore her gaze from his. If she tried to speak, her grief would rush from her body, heart and soul in a tidal wave, and he would know.
Suddenly he knelt before her, clasping both of her hands. “Please don’t do this. Please don’t cry.” He hesitated. “I am terribly fond of you. You know that, don’t you?”
She couldn’t even nod.
He tried to smile and failed utterly. “What would you have me do? It is my duty to marry Blanche. It is my duty to the earl, my duty to Adare.” He spoke in an odd rush.
“I have never failed in my duty before, Elizabeth. Since the day I first breathed air, I have been raised to put the de Warenne name and family and the earldom first and last. Adare is who I am. I must think of the next generation!”
How odd it was, she thought, he spoke as if in a panic. “I do not want you to fail in your duty and I never have.”