Chapter 23
A Remarkable Turn of Events
Eleanor held a small supper party with a dozen guests, the occasion being the official engagement of Georgie and Rory.
Papa had sent a messenger to town, giving his stamp of approval to the union, and Mama had slipped in a brief note mentioning how thrilled she was, managing to allude to Rory’s status as Eleanor’s favorite relation in the single paragraph she wrote.
Georgie was walking on clouds, almost literally, and Lizzie was deeply satisfied.
The couple had decided to wait until the spring to marry.
They had yet to go into supper. Their guests were a mixed group, and Lizzie noted that a gentleman her age was present, the youngest son from a good family.
She was so happy for Georgie that if Eleanor really thought to try to make a match for her now, she would not brood about it.
“Miss Fitzgerald?” The blond gentleman, who could not be a year older than herself, smiled engagingly at her.
“I should like to be so bold as to ask you to join me later in the week for a day at the races.”
Lizzie smiled firmly at Charles Davidson.
It was time to take a stand. She had no intention of going anywhere with any gentleman, and she questioned his motives, anyway, as her reputation had to be well known.
Even if he thought to actually court her, she was just not interested.
“I am flattered by your invitation,” she said, “but I am afraid I must decline. Unfortunately, I have a very busy schedule this week at St. Anne’s. ”
His face fell and he bowed. “I am heartbroken,” he said gallantly.
Lizzie heard the doorbell. “If you will excuse me? I think I will answer that.” She smiled and slipped away, but before she could step into the hall, Rory paused before her.
“Davidson is a good friend, Lizzie. Did you just give him the brush-off?”
She met his serious regard. “So you are the one who invited him.” She shook her head. “Rory, please, I am not interested.”
His gaze was searching. “May I give you some advice?”
Lizzie held up her hand, not wanting to hear him tell her to let go and move on. But before she could speak, she felt eyes upon her. She glanced past Rory into the hall—and saw Tyrell de Warenne.
Lizzie cried out in shock.
It had been so long.
He stood a short distance away from them, staring at her, his gaze brilliant and intense. And Lizzie could not tear her eyes from his. What was he doing there? What did he want?
And just seeing him, with so much between them, reopened every one of her wounds. Lizzie hurt as if she had left him yesterday—and as if it were only yesterday, she desperately needed to be in his arms. Then Lizzie saw the flowers.
She stiffened, staring at the gorgeous bouquet of flowers in his hand.
I do not want to marry Tyrell, or anyone. Oddly, Blanche’s shocking words came to mind.
But what Blanche wanted meant nothing in the scheme of things, Lizzie reminded herself almost frantically. Blanche would obey her father, just as Tyrell would do his duty to Adare. But why, dear God, had he come?
“Lizzie? I see that you are in shock. Stay here,” Rory said tersely. “I will take care of this.”
Lizzie barely heard him. Tyrell continued to stare at her, his gaze dark and intent. And in spite of all common sense and all past experience, hope began.
“What are you doing here?” Rory exclaimed in apparent disbelief, clearly dismayed.
Tyrell ignored him. Elizabeth stood on the hall’s threshold, transfixed by his appearance, as pale as if confronted with a ghost. Seeing her again, after the eternity of their separation, all his anger fell away, layer after layer, until he had no defenses left.
She was so beautiful, hauntingly so, and all he wanted to do was hold her, protect her, make love to her.
He could not recall why they were not together now.
He could not think of a single reason for them to be apart.
The urge to go to her and beg her for forgiveness overcame him then.
He no longer remembered that he was the victim, that she had left him.
Rory was livid. “You must leave, Tyrell. Being here will only distress her, and everyone else in this family. Or have you forgotten? You are affianced to someone else.” He was caustic.
He flinched. He was engaged to Blanche and he should not be there. But damn it, he could not leave until they had spoken. Finally he looked at Rory. “Who the hell is that blond gentleman who was fawning all over her?”
“A friend of mine. I had hoped they might like each other,” he shot back.
Tyrell was aware of the slow, deep burn of jealousy then. He had no right to be so possessive now. And he gave up. If he could control the fate of Adare, he certainly would not allow another man into her life. But where did that leave Elizabeth—and where did it leave them?
“You need to go home to Blanche,” Rory insisted.
His fiancée’s pale image came to mind and he knew, in that single, stunning moment, that a marriage between them would never succeed. Suddenly, he was afraid of what he must do. As suddenly, there was no doubt.
And he met Elizabeth’s gray eyes again, eyes that were huge with hurt. She did not have to speak for him to hear her plea: why? The single potent question echoed there between them in the hall. He was damned if he knew the answer.
“Damn it, Ty, it is obvious you still have feelings for her. It is my duty as her future brother-in-law to make certain that you do not hurt her again—and jeopardize her chance of a real future with someone else.”
He did not hear. Georgina had come to stand with her sister, as pale with distress, and she put her arm around her. Elizabeth did not seem to notice. “She isn’t going to be with someone else,” he said, glancing dismissively at Rory.
“What?” Rory gasped.
“I must give her the flowers,” he added, his gaze only on Elizabeth now. “I wish to speak with her. Then I will go.”
“Tyrell!” Rory shouted.
But it was too late. Tyrell was walking away, toward Elizabeth.
Lizzie could not move and she could not breathe. She no longer heard the voices in the salon behind her and was not aware of her sister standing beside her. Tyrell was approaching and he was fiercely intent.
He paused before her and bowed. Lizzie had forgotten how mesmerizing he was. She could feel his power, his strength, his resolve; she could feel his heat, his virility; she could feel him. Absolutely overcome, she forgot to curtsy in return. Somehow she managed to say, “Ty—my…my…my lord.”
His dark gaze moved slowly over her face, as if recalling every feature—or memorizing every one.
He did not speak. She felt sweat trickling between her breasts and down her belly.
His gaze veered to her mouth and then lower, to the swells of her bosom.
Instantly, painfully, desire filled her in that terrible way only he could relieve.
Nothing had changed. She could almost feel his hands closing on her arms and she could almost feel his hard body against hers. She could almost feel him deeply inside of her, their bodies joined. In that moment, she wanted him desperately, and not just physically. She had never missed him more.
“Elizabeth,” Tyrell said stiffly. And then to Georgina, “Miss Fitzgerald. May I offer you congratulations on your engagement?”
Lizzie looked at Georgie, who appeared ready to explode. But she said, “Thank you.” And then she looked at Lizzie for her cue.
Lizzie swallowed hard. “Would you leave us?” she asked.
Georgie looked back and forth between them before she nodded, clearly displeased. She left.
Tyrell thrust the flowers toward her. “I heard you were in town.”
She blinked at the bouquet of scarlet roses. Why had he brought her flowers? What did the bouquet mean? Somehow she accepted them, aware of the heat flooding her cheeks. “Thank you.” She clutched the flowers to her chest.
“You look well, Elizabeth,” he said seriously, and his gaze slipped over her royal-blue evening gown again before lifting to her eyes.
She dared to meet his probing gaze. Oh, she was not well, not at all.
She had not been well since she had left him and their son, but she could not discuss that.
“You also seem well,” she said, a tremor in her tone.
But now she saw shadows in his eyes that she had never seen before, and she knew something was not right.
Something was bothering him—or hurting him—greatly.
His expression appeared briefly mocking. “I am well enough.”
Lizzie dared. “This is a great surprise.”
“Yes, I realize that,” he said, not offering up any explanation for his sudden call.
She inhaled, trembling. “Why? Why have you come, Tyrell?”
His smile was grim. “I hadn’t realized you were in town until I spoke with Rory this morning,” he said, as if that explained it all.
But it explained nothing. Lizzie wet her lips. “I see,” she said.
“We are old friends,” he added, watching her closely now.
“Friends,” she echoed. The word hardly did justice to their prior relationship and surely he must know it. Or was that how he thought of her now, as an old friend? She knew her cheeks were hot. “Of course we remain friends,” she said as calmly as possible. “You will always be my friend, Tyrell.”
He searched her expression for she knew not what. “So you remain loyal to me, after all this time?”
Dear God, what did that mean? He was increasing her discomfort.
“Of course. Friends are loyal to each other. It is the nature of friendship.” She did not want to speak this way, being indirect and worrying about innuendos.
“Surely you know me well enough to know that I am always sincere. You will always be my friend,” she heard herself say with passion. And she meant it.
He stared, then spoke abruptly. “You have changed,” he said roughly. “You are more beautiful and alluring than before, and now you have a confidence and poise that only a mature woman gains.”