Excerpt of The Masquerade by Brenda Joyce

Prologue

A Prince and a Hero

Her mother was standing directly behind her and speaking
loudly, so the little girl could, unfortunately, hear her
every word. She buried her face in her book, trying to
concentrate on the words there. It was impossible, for they
were staring, Lizzie’s cheeks were hot.

“Well she does set herself apart, but that is only because
she is the shy one. She means no harm, of course. And she is
only ten! I am sure in time she will be as charming as my
dear Anna. Now, Anna is a true beauty, is she not? And
Georgina May, why she is a perfect oldest daughter, helping
me to no end. She is very sensible,” Mama declared. “And she
always does her duty.”

“I cannot imagine, Lydia, how you manage with three young
daughters so close in age,” the lady chatting with Mama
declared. She was the pastor’s sister and she had come from
Cork for a brief visit. “But you are fortunate. Anna will
make a good marriage when she comes of age—with such beauty
you will not have to worry about her! And Georgina May has
some potential. I think she might turn into a handsome woman
herself.”

“Oh, I am sure of it!” Mama cried, as if by wishing hard
enough she could make her desires come true. “And Lizzie
will do well, too, I am certain. She will outgrow that baby
fat, don’t you think?”

There was a brief silence. “Well, she will certainly slim
down if she does not have a sweet tooth. But if she becomes
a bluestocking you will have a hard time finding her a
suitable husband,” the pastor’s sister admonished. “I would
watch her carefully. Isn’t she too young to be reading?”

Lizzie gave up trying to read, hugging the precious book to
her chest, hoping Mama would not march over and take it
away. Her cheeks now burned with embarrassment, and she
wished they would talk about something or someone else. But
Mama and the pastor’s sister were strolling back to the
other adults. Lizzie sighed in relief.

Perhaps a summer picnic by the lake was simply the wrong
place to read. It was a large gathering, one that included
her family, their closest neighbor, the pastor and his
family. There were seven adults present and six children,
including herself. Her sisters and friends were currently
playing pirates. Shrieks and laughter punctuated the lazy
June afternoon. Lizzie glanced at the entire scene, briefly
watching Anna, who had been appointed a damsel in distress
and was pretending to weep over some misfortune. The
pastor’s oldest son was trying to console her, while his
younger son and neighbor’s boy were wielding sticks,
creeping upon them, clearly in the role of pirates. Georgie
lay upon the ground, the victim of some terrific misfortune.

Lizzie hadn’t been invited to play. Not that she wished too.
Reading had intrigued her from the moment she could identify
her first few words, and in the past six months, suddenly,
as if by magic, she could look at a sentence and most of the
words made sense. As quickly, reading had become her passion
and her life. She really didn’t care what she read, although
she did prefer tall tales with dashing heroes and sobbing
heroines. She was currently reading one of Sir Walter
Scott’s stories, never mind that it had been written for
adults and it took her an hour or more to read a single page.

Lizzie took one more look behind her and realized she had
been left very much alone. The adults were now seated on
several large blankets and were opening up their luncheon
baskets. Her sisters continued to play with the boys. Lizzie
felt a flutter of excitement and she opened up her book.

But before she could begin to reread the last paragraph
where she had left off, a group of riders came cantering to
the edge of the lake, just dozens of feet from where she
sat. Their voices were male, boisterous and young, and
Lizzie looked up as they leapt down from their horses.

Instantly fascinated, she realized that there were five
boys, all in their adolescent years. Her interest and
curiosity increased. They had been riding five hot-blooded
horses, and they wore well-tailored, expensive clothes. They
had to be aristocrats. Laughing and shouting, they were
stripping off their jackets and shirts, revealing lean,
tanned and sweaty torsos. Clearly a swim was in order.

Were they from Adare? Lizzie wondered. The earl of Adare was
the only nobleman in the vicinity and he had three sons and
two stepsons. Lizzie hugged her book to her chest, watching
a tall blond boy dive in, followed by a leaner, shorter,
dark-haired youth. Hoots and hollers sounded and two more
boys dove in, causing more shouts and more laughter and the
beginnings of s splashing match. Lizzie smiled.

She didn’t know how to swim, but it certainly looked like fun.

Then she glanced at the boy who remained standing on the
bank. He was very tall, his skin as dark as a Spaniard’s,
his hair has black as midnight. He was all lean, rippling
muscle—and he was glancing curiously at her.

Lizzie shoved her face in her book, hoping he didn’t think
she was fat, too.

“Hey, fatty, gimme that!”

Lizzie looked up as the pastor’s younger son tore her book
from her hands. “Willie O’Day!” she cried, leaping up. “Give
me back my book, you bully!”

He snickered at her. He was mean and Lizzie despised him.
“If you want it, come and get it,” he taunted.

He was three years older than she was and a good three
inches taller. Lizzie reached for the book; he merely held
it up over his and out of her reach. He laughed at her.
“Bookworm,” he sneered.

She had spent days reading the first ten pages and now she
was terrified he wouldn’t return it. “Please! Please give it
back to me!”

He held the book out to her—and when she tried to seize it,
he turned and threw it in the lake.

Lizzie gasped, staring at her books as it floated in the
water by the shore. Tears filled her eyes and Willie laughed
again. “If you want it, go get it, fatty,” he said, walking
away.

Lizzie didn’t think. She ran the few steps to the lake’s
edge and reached down for the book.

And to her utter shock, she lost her balance and fell.

Water closed in around her, over her, Lizzie’s mouth filled
with it and she coughed, took in more water, and began to
choke. As she sank, down beneath the surface, choking,
incapable of breathing, she panicked, suddenly terrified.

Strong hands seized her has she flailed and suddenly she was
above the water, in a boy’s arms. Lizzie clung, her face
pressed to his hard chest, choking and sobbing at the same
time. He started striding from the lake and Lizzie began to
breathe the panic and fear instantly subsiding. Still
grasping his slick, strong shoulders, Lizzie looked up.

And into the most amazing dark blue eyes she had ever seen.

“Are you all right?” her savior asked, his regard intent
upon her.

Lizzie opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out.
Their gazes held and she simply stared, and as she stared,
she fell.

Headlong, helplessly, hopelessly into love.

Her heart skidded and rushed and raced and swelled.

“Lizzie! Lizzie! Oh, Lord, Lizzie!” Mama was screaming from
farther up the bank.

“Are you a prince?” Lizzie whispered.

He smiled. Her heart lurched and then began a wild, happy
dance. “No, little one, I’m not.”

But he was a prince, Lizzie thought, incapable of tearing her gaze from his handsome face. He was her prince.

“Lizzie! Is she all right? Is my precious baby all right?”
Mama was in hysterics.

Her prince laid her down on a blanket. “I think so. A bit
wet, but it’s a fine Irish day and she’ll be dry in no time.”

“Lizzie!” Papa knelt beside her, white with fright. “My
darling girl, what were you thinking, to go so close to the
lake?”

Lizzie smiled, not at Papa, but shyly at her prince. “I am
fine, Papa.”

Her prince’s smile faded.

“How can we ever thank you, Lord Tyrell?” Mama cried,
grasping both of his hands now and diverting his attention.

“There is no need, Mrs Fitzgerald. She’s sage, and that is
thanks enough,” he said.

And Lizzie realized who he was—the next earl of Adare, the
earl’s eldest son, Tyrell de Warenne. She hugged her knees
to her chest, still staring at him, stunned. But then,
hadn’t she known he was a prince—or nearly the equivalent of
one? For in the south of Ireland, the earl of Adare was very
much like a king.

Tyrell’s brothers and stepbrothers had gathered around them,
curious and concerned. Tyrell turned and they instantly
parted to let him through. Lizzie wanted to call him
back—not that she ever would—until she realized what he was
doing. Thrilled, she watched him wade into the lake and
retrieve her sinking book. A moment later he returned with
it. He smiled at her. “You may need a new copy, little one.”

Lizzie bit her lip, too shy now to even thank him.

“Lord Tyrell, we are in your debt,” Papa said seriously.

Tyrell waved dismissively at him. He looked around and his
eyes hardened. Lizzie followed his gaze and saw him coldly
eyeing Willie O’Day.

Willie turned to run.

Tyrell reached him in one stride and seized his ear.
Ignoring his howls of pain and protest, he dragged him back
to Lizzie. “Get down on your knees and apologize to the
little lady,” he said, “or I will thrash the hell out of you.”

And for the first time in his life, Willie did as her he was
told, weeping as he begged Lizzie for forgiveness.