Chapter 21
Forthright Conversation
Mary de Warenne wanted the holiday to be perfect—a time of peace, love and joy.
Family tradition held that they spend the holiday at Adare, but because of Tyrell’s engagement, they were at Harmon House in London.
She sat in a large chair in the family’s private salon, her grandson Ned, now a year and five months old, and her granddaughter Elysse, who had turned one a few months ago, both playing together happily at her feet.
So much warmth filled her at the sight, but it did not change the fact that she was very worried about Tyrell.
Concern filled her as she gazed across the room.
Tyrell stood at the hearth with Rex, who had come up from Cornwall for the holidays, Edward, and her firstborn son, Devlin O’Neill.
The men were discussing the war—the subject hardly ever changed—and as always in her family, there were as many opinions as there were voices to express them.
A heated argument was in progress, but Tyrell was barely listening.
Instead, he stared at the dancing flames in the fireplace, unsmiling and obviously detached from the conversation and the gathering.
Mary continued to watch him, loving him as much as if he were her own son.
Yet she dared not pry into the cause of his recent dark humor, and Edward refused to do so.
She felt certain she knew why his smiles were so rare now, why he buried himself in his obligations at the Exchequer.
His heart was broken and she wished that she could be the one to heal it.
How fortunate she was—she had married for love not once, but twice, and Edward was the love of her life.
Unlike other ladies of her rank and consequence, she did not believe that an heir must sacrifice himself for his family, all in the name of duty, for she had seen firsthand where such self-sacrifice led.
Suddenly Devlin moved away from the group of men.
Tall, striking and bronzed, he smiled as he strode over to the ladies, his gaze locking with his wife’s.
Virginia sat beside Blanche, who had joined them for the holidays, and sixteen-year-old Eleanor was on the sofa not far from Mary.
They exchanged the look of lovers and Mary was so glad.
Once, not so long ago, vengeance had ruled Devlin’s life, but Virginia had somehow changed that.
“Mother?” He smiled at her. “Why are you so pensive?”
Her gaze moved back to Tyrell. “I am merely tired,” she murmured to her stepson.
Devlin followed her eyes. “Would you care to tell me why he is so moody?”
Mary stood and they walked away from the women. “I have my inklings, Devlin, but perhaps you could speak with him and see for yourself. Once, before you married Virginia, he was very helpful to you. Maybe now you can be helpful to him.”
Devlin’s tawny brows rose and he glanced at Blanche, who was chatting with her sisters-in-law-to-be. “I think I begin to see,” he said slowly. “You are right. He was far more than a brother. Revenge almost cost me Virginia. He was a great friend. I hope to return the favor.” He turned to go.
Mary took his arm. “Will Sean join us?” she asked, referring to her younger son.
Devlin smiled reassuringly. “I have not heard from him since he left Askeaton in June. I believe he is still in the midlands. Whatever quest he has undertaken, I am sure we will learn of it soon.”
Mary nodded, hoping he would return home.
When Sean had abruptly left his ancestral home in June, he’d not said a word as to where he was going or what he intended, and it was odd.
He had only been gone a few months and Mary was not really worried, but she did miss him.
Of course, Cliff was also absent, but then, he had always been an adventurer by nature.
She watched Devlin help Virginia to her feet, kissing her cheek briefly. He then chucked his stepsister on the chin as if she were still a child before turning his attention to Blanche. “Have you been enjoying your first holiday with the rather unwieldy de Warenne family?”
“Very much so,” Blanche said, smiling. “I am a single child, and it is stunning to be a part of so much warmth and good cheer,” she said.
Mary watched Devlin as he proceeded to chat with Tyrell’s fiancée.
In the few months that Mary had known Blanche, she had never seen her act in any manner except the most exemplary—she never raised her voice, never lost her temper, was generous and helpful.
Mary genuinely liked her—there was simply nothing not to like.
But Tyrell seemed indifferent to her. And Blanche did not seem to even notice.
She had so hoped that they would fall in love, or at least become very affectionate toward each other. She felt certain that was not going to happen—not anytime soon.
The earl paused by her chair. “Darling, what can I do to ease your worries?” he asked softly.
The countess looked up, reaching for his hand, his mere presence warming her considerably. “I am so happy Devlin and Virginia came home,” she said. Devlin and Virginia had spent well over a year at the plantation where she had been raised in America.
“I am thrilled he has come home, and that he and Virginia have solved their problems. Devlin is a changed man because of her. The love of a good woman,” he quipped.
“Edward, has Tyrell even smiled once this evening?”
He took her hand, his own smile fading. “Whatever he is brooding about, I am sure it will pass.”
Mary thought that he was wrong. And she gazed across the room at Tyrell, who had turned to observe Devlin and Blanche with no indication of interest and not a flicker of jealousy.
Even though he and Devlin were stepbrothers, the de Warenne men were infamous for their possessiveness and jealousy.
“I think it is obvious that he is pining for Miss Fitzgerald,” Mary said carefully.
Edward’s eyes darkened, an indication of a rising temper. “I suspect you are right. But he is a man and my heir and he will certainly get over the affair.”
Mary had never been afraid to oppose her husband, not in any way. Gently, she said, “I was hoping he would fall in love with Blanche and I know that you were, too. But I think he is deeply in love with Miss Fitzgerald.”
“The match is a great one and Tyrell knows it!” he exclaimed. “Love is not a prerequisite for marriage. However, if he can cease his brooding, I have little doubt he will become quite fond of Blanche. He needs some time,” he added.
Mary knew him so well. She knew he blamed himself for Tyrell’s changed nature and that he was angry with himself. “I believe you are wrong, Edward,” she said very calmly. “I don’t believe time will change anything.”
Edward flushed like a boy who was guilty of some small crime.
“What would you have me do? You know what this match means to me. And I believe that Blanche suits him. She may not be as passionate as Miss Fitzgerald, but she will be a great countess, Mary. And now we can sleep at night and not worry about the future of our grandchildren,” he added in a harsh, chastising tone.
“Darling, you know what you should do, before it is too late. And I know you will do what is right for Tyrell, because you love him so and you want him to enjoy a lifetime of peace and happiness, just as we have.”
Edward was dismayed. “I have to think of the future, Mary, this one time, before I think of my son!”
Mary stood on tiptoe, grasping his shoulders. “You are one of the smartest men I know, and you will find a way to achieve all of your ends. I feel certain of it.”
He smiled then, grasping her waist. “I remain a puppet on your chain.”
“Really?” she teased, and he kissed her.
Spurs sounded, as did hard, purposeful strides in the hall outside.
Mary turned, wondering which of their two remaining rascal sons had finally decided to join them for Christmas.
For one full moment she did not recognize the stranger who stood in the doorway.
He was a tall, bronzed man with a red scarf on his head, tied over most of his sun-streaked hair, a very large dagger in his belt, a pair of pistols at his waist and a bejeweled sword on his hip.
He wore a clean but faded shirt, the sleeves full and billowing, and over it, a Moor’s colorful, embroidered, gold-braided vest. The long, dangerous gold spurs on his boots also seemed eastern as well. And then she realized who he was.
“Cliff?” Edward breathed in astonishment, as stunned as his wife.
One of his brothers laughed, Tyrell or Rex, and then they were all embracing Cliff, hard.
With the festive supper meal now over, the men had adjourned to their brandies and cigars, the ladies back to the salon to gossip and converse.
Tyrell stood alone on the terrace outside.
It was a very cold, damp night, the weather uncertain, divided between rain, sleet or maybe even snow.
He sipped a whiskey, incapable of feeling the cold.
He had been so cold inside for so long that frigid temperatures had actually become welcome.
Gray eyes met his, hugely vulnerable and oddly accusing and filled with hurt.
He cursed, furious with the invasion. Would he never forget that miserable affair? Or would it always haunt him? He drained the glass and slammed it on the balustrade, breaking it.
He had given Elizabeth Fitzgerald his heart, wholly and completely, and he would never forgive her for her betrayal.
The initial wound had healed, but he wore a scar, one that continued to ache and burn and disturb him.
Sometime ago he had learned that anger could be a refuge, as it was far more tolerable than grief.
He no longer grieved. Instead, inside of himself, he raged.
Now he shook the blood from his hand, disgusted with him, with her, with the world.
What would it take, he wondered, to never think of her again? To forget her face, her name, her very existence?
You will not leave me. Nothing changes!