The Masquerade Read Online Free Page B

mute.
    “Are you hurt? Can you speak?”
    Lizzie closed her eyes, hard. She began to tremble, but not with fear. His arm was around her shoulders. She was pressed against his side.
    Entirely new feelings began, shooting fiercely through her, warm and wonderful, illicit and shameful, the kind of feelings that afflicted her in the privacy of her bedroom in the moonlit hours of the night. His touch had set her afire.
    Lizzie knew she must, somehow, converse. She noticed his fine doeskin breeches, encasing his strong legs, and the fire spread. She dared to look at his fine wool jacket, which was the same dark navy blue as his eyes. It was open, and he wore a dove-gray brocade waistcoat beneath it, a white shirt below that. Abruptly Lizzie looked away, then, as abruptly, up at him. “Y-yes. I can speak…somewhat.”
    Their gazes locked. He was so close that she could see each and every one of the splendid features she had memorized long ago. Tyrell de Warenne could only be called an extremely handsome man. His eyes were a deep shade of blue, his lashes long enough to please any courtesan. His cheekbones were high and his nose was as straight as an arrow. He had a mobile mouth, usually full, now firmly pressed together with either anger or displeasure. He had the aura of a king.
    “You are in shock. Can you stand up? Are you hurt?”
    She had to find her senses. Lizzie swallowed, unable to look away. “I don’t think so.” She hesitated. “I’m not certain.”
    His gaze was on her body now, moving past her chest and down her hips and skirts. “If something was broken, you would know it.” His gaze returned to hers and his expression seemed even darker. “Let me help you up.”
    Lizzie could not move. She could feel her cheeks burning. She had almost been run over, but her heart was pounding madly with feelings no nice young lady should ever have. Suddenly, she saw him in an entirely different place, an entirely different situation—she saw flashes of his white steed and a dark, woody glen where two lovers were passionately entwined. Lizzie saw herself in Tyrell’s arms there and she inhaled, hard.
    “What is it?” he asked sharply.
    Lizzie wet her lips, trying to ignore the image of herself in his arms, being kissed intensely. “No-nothing.”
    His gaze locked with hers and it was searching. Lizzie had the frightening feeling that he guessed her shameful attraction and, worse, her daring thoughts. He put his arms around her to lift her up and she thought she might expire from the desire consuming her. Lizzie did not know what to do. She could no longer breathe, even if she wished to.
    She could smell the pine, the earth, the musk that was him. His mouth probed gently, his strong hands as gentleon her waist. Their bodies were touching everywhere, they were thigh to thigh, her bosom against his ribs.
    “Miss?” he murmured. “Perhaps you might release me.”
    Lizzie came back to reality with stunning force, realizing he had lifted her to her feet. They were standing on the sidewalk—and she was clinging to him. “My lord,” she gasped, horrified. She leapt away, and from the corner of her eye, she saw him smile.
    The heat in her cheeks increased. Had she just thrown herself at Tyrell de Warenne? How could she have done such a thing? In that moment, she had been in the woods with him, not standing on High Street in town, and she had actually felt his mouth on hers! And now, now he was laughing at her.
    Lizzie fought hard for composure. She was so distressed she could not think clearly. Did he know she was madly in love with him? She looked away, wanting to die of embarrassment.
    “I should like to catch those rowdies and shove each one on his face in the mud,” Tyrell said suddenly. He reached into his pocket and produced a shockingly white linen handkerchief, offering it to her.
    “Do you…know them?”
    He faced her. “Yes, I have had the misfortune of having made the acquaintance of each and every one of