Lions and Lace

by Meagan Mckinney

  “Please. I must finish—”

  “Tell me.” He shook her, his hand tightening on her corseted waist.

  She tried to pull away, but he was easily the victor. She thought of tripping him, but her logic and her experience at Delmonico’s told her she was far safer struggling with him on both feet than grappling with him on the floor.

  “Come along, Mrs. Sheridan,” he taunted angrily while she tried to pull away from him. “Tell me why you won’t take it.”

  “I don’t like your gift because of the reasons behind it,” she hissed, her restraint finally gone. All of the anger she felt at seeing the Colleen sail away without her gushed to the surface. “I don’t like its cost. I don’t like its coldness. I don’t like who it’s from.”

  He’d gotten what he’d wanted, but her words seemed to lash at him. Infuriated, he pulled her against him in a rough embrace, shoving the diamonds in her face. “That’s choice, Alana. By all rights, you should love these things. Jewels as cold as these suit you.”

  She glared up at him, hating him at that moment. “I won’t wear your vulgar jewels, Trevor. You see, there are some things even your money can’t purchase.”

  His eyes gleamed with fury. “Yes, there are things I can’t buy. Like the right to touch you with these common Irish hands. But don’t worry, little Knickerbocker—the day may come when I might decide not to bother with buying that right. I’ll just take it.”

  Her mouth parted in shock. She looked down at his hands capturing her nipped-in waist, and a sharp sudden fear stabbed at her.

  “I get everything I want, Alana. One way or another,” he whispered.

  “And me?” she choked out. “Do you want me?”

  He left her question unanswered. With nerves of iron, he smugly released her. He stepped to the bed and dumped the glittering necklace on her satin quilt. “Get your maid in here and finish dressing,” he commanded. “We’ve got to take Mara to that bloody ball.”

  She stared at him, unable to believe he could shut himself off and on that quickly. When he met her stare with a cold one of his own, she picked up her silk skirts and ran for the dressing room. But the thought came with her: How in the world was she going to get through the evening with this beast, let alone another year of marriage?

  By the time the Sheridan coach arrived at Maison-sur-Mer, the ball had already begun. The Varick mansion was also in the “Louis” taste, but whether Louis XIV, XV, or XVI, Alana was unsure. In Newport all the Louis’s were beginning to blur together in a never-ending wash of gilt and marble.

  The ballroom was surprisingly full for so early in the season, and the hush that rippled through the room when Alana entered on Trevor’s arm told why. It was obvious that many of the guests had ventured to Newport after the Sheridan wedding to continue the entertainment. Alice Diana Van Alen’s daring marriage was still considered a spectator sport.

  Alana took a deep breath and put on a brave front when the butler announced loudly, “Mr. and Mrs. Sheridan! And Miss Sheridan!” This was difficult, however. After the episode in her bedroom, it had taken nearly ten minutes for her hands to stop shaking. Margaret dressed her hair in several plaits, all culminating in a smooth twisted chignon at her nape. Around her neck she rebelliously wore the Van Alen pearls.

  The carriage ride had been unbearable. She’d been forced to sit opposite Trevor, and even in the dark she could feel that piercing stare that lingered with particular vengeance at her neck.

  “Alana, darling! So glad you could join us tonight.” Joanna Varick, one of the last great matriarchs of Knickerbocker society, stepped to the entrance and greeted her. She was a handsome woman of fifty, wearing satin as white as her hair and the Varick emeralds, given to the family by the Marquis de Lafayette on his last tour of America.

  “How nice it was to receive your invitation, Mrs. Varick. I look forward to introducing you to my new family.” Alana gave Mara a reassuring smile. The girl looked terrified.

  Alana then turned to Trevor. He was almost scowling. Joanna Varick was staring at him as if she couldn’t quite accept Irishmen as guests in her ballroom. But when the matron turned to Alana, the glitter in her eyes betrayed just how amused she was by the scandal. “I think you know my husband, Trevor Byrne Sheridan,” Alana murmured, irrationally angered by the woman’s attitude.

  Joanna Varick placed the facade of a greeting on her face and held out her hand. “Congratulations, Mr. Sheridan. You certainly got the best of us … in Alana, that is.”

  Alana wondered how Trevor was going to take that statement. She was surprised to see him give Joanna Varick his most wicked smile. “I entirely agree, madam,” he answered. He bowed and brushed his lips across the back of the woman’s hand.

  Joanna Varick lifted one brow in surprise. The matron was not used to such effrontery, but Alana couldn’t tell if Trevor displeased her or not. When Joanna Varick looked at her hand, Alana thought she saw a secret glimmer of pleasure soften the matron’s features. Irish or not, Trevor Sheridan was an incredibly handsome man and as cool as Joanna Varick could be, blood, not ice, flowed in her veins.

  “And this is my new sister-in-law, Miss Mara Sheridan.” Alana squeezed Mara’s arm and pulled the reluctant girl forward. Remembering herself, Joanna pulled her attention from Trevor and made to give Mara a perfunctory greeting. But Mara was difficult to dismiss. Shy and beautiful, adorned in the Worth creation with the swallows flying at its hemline, her hair demurely dressed with pearls, Mara Sheridan was a vision of innocence that even a Knickerbocker would have been proud of. Joanna Varick took one look at the girl, and a smile escaped her lips. “How lovely to meet you, Miss Sheridan.”

  “M-M-Mrs. Varick,” Mara said nervously, giving a little curtsy.

  “Mrs. Anders has the dance cards, child.” The matron turned to Alana. “Shall I take Mara around?”

  Alana could taste her first conquest. “That would be most dear of you.”

  “It’s of no account, darling.” Joanna Varick gave one last stare at Trevor, then coolly took Mara by the arm and led the girl into the crowd of her first society ball.

  “If they hurt her …”

  Hearing the harsh whisper, Alana looked up at Trevor as he stared at Mara and the matron making their way through the crush.

  “They won’t. They wouldn’t dare—now. Mrs. Varick likes her. And while she is considered one of our eccentrics—there was talk of a certain young man back in New York—the Varick line is impeccable. That’s enormously important to the Four Hundred.”

  He stared down at her. “What about Caroline Astor?”

  A small smile touched Alana’s lips. “Caroline Astor will accept her. Our marriage has given her no choice.”

  Their gazes met. Something flared briefly in his eyes, but whether it was loathing, longing, or triumph she couldn’t tell. “Good” was all he said before he held out his arm and led her through the ballroom.

  The evening continued to go well. Mara acquired many admirers and had yet to sit out a waltz. Trevor’s manner, while detached, was solicitous, and Alana was content to seat herself in a corner and watch the proceedings while he stood behind her.

  Everything went according to plan. The ball was small enough for Mara to impress and important enough that the impression would eventually be carried south to Manhattan. Alana was almost feeling smug when a silence fell throughout the ballroom. Whispers and giggles slipped out behind ostrich feather fans, and Alana stood to see the cause of the commotion. She almost fell back into Trevor’s arms when she heard the butler announce, “Ladies and gentleman, I present Mr. Anson Vanbrugh-Stevens!”

  A cautious, unreadable expression froze on her face, partly because she knew a third of the room stared at her and partly because the other two-thirds were split between watching Anson and Trevor watch her.

  In dismay, her gaze fixed on the entrance. Anson stood there scanning the faces in the crowd. He was a handsome man, tall and blond, with classic yet not too fine Dutch features and
vivid blue eyes. When these locked on Alana, anger fairly crackled in them, tempered only by a slight petulance on his lips.

  Ignoring her then, he stepped from the dais. The orchestra resumed another waltz, and the ballgoers did their best to pretend nothing had happened.

  “Mr. Vanbrugh-Stevens was not at the wedding, was he?” Trevor put a hand on her shoulder. To any observer this might have looked like a nonchalant show of affection for his wife. Alana knew otherwise.

  “No, he was not,” she answered coolly.

  He whispered for her ears only. “Could it be that he was not informed of your intention to marry?” There was no hiding the amusement in his voice.

  “I would have told him,” she answered stiffly behind her French fen, “but he was in Salzburg. There was no way to contact him in time.”

  “So that was what finally sealed your fate. You couldn’t summon your Knickerbocker knight to rescue you before the evil knight brought you to the altar.”

  When she didn’t answer, he leaned over her and whispered, “I understand he’d proposed several times. I’ll always wonder why I could trap you into marriage and he couldn’t.”

  “He wanted me as his wife, not as a tool for revenge. His intentions were completely different from yours,” she hissed in a low voice so that no one else would hear her. She might also have mentioned that Trevor’s offer of marriage had an out after one year. Anson’s was for life.

  “My intentions might not be so different.” His gaze restlessly dipped to the display of creamy skin where the peacock-blue silk fell from her shoulder.

  Beneath his stare she couldn’t form a response. Realizing there was nothing she could say at that moment without risking Mara’s future, she twisted around to afford a better view of the ballroom. To her utter shock, Anson stood in front of her, his face polite and angry.

  “Mrs. Sheridan.” He uttered it like a curse. He bent and kissed her hand. “May I have this waltz?”

  “I’m—not sure.” She glanced up at Trevor and saw instant dislike in his eyes.

  “You don’t mind, do you, chap?” Anson said to Trevor, pulling Alana to her feet. He didn’t bother to hide the contempt in his voice.

  Trevor said nothing, and that frightened her more than if he had.

  She placed her hand on her husband’s arm. “Let me have one dance with him, Trevor,” she whispered. “Think of Mara. Everyone expects me to dance one waltz with Anson.”

  She watched him grip the gold head of his cane as if it were Anson’s neck. Without protest, Trevor leaned back against the wall, arms crossed over his chest.

  She placed a pleasant smile on her face and took Anson’s arm. He gave Trevor a bitter glance, then took her by the waist and swept her into the crowd.

  Alana nodded to the familiar faces on the dance floor. It seemed everyone was bumping into them, desperate to hear even a snatch of the conversation.

  “It’s lovely weather we’re having in Newport this week. Much warmer than can normally be expected.” Anson smiled politely to a matron, then turned angry eyes upon her.

  “Yes,” she answered, unsure where he was leading.

  “I want to congratulate you, Mrs. Sheridan, on your fine marriage.”

  She took a deep breath. At least now she knew where they were going. “I know your mother sent a telegram. There wasn’t time to tell you in person. I’m sorry.” She felt it best to disarm him and get right to the point. Anson was as angry as she’d ever seen him. She had never known he could be so impassioned.

  “I got here as soon as I could. To no avail,” he added sharply.

  “Please don’t be angry, Anson.” She looked up at him, her emerald eyes full of contrition. “There was no other choice.”

  “You had me as a choice!” he whispered furiously.

  She watched as he nodded to Joanna Varick, who was staring at them from across the ballroom. When his attention turned back to her, Alana said, “As perfect as you are, Anson, you weren’t right for me, and you know that. I told you that before.”

  “And that mick is?”

  His words made her miss a step. She stumbled briefly, and he caught her in his strong arms.

  “Alana, we had everything in common—our families, our backgrounds, our ideas. You should have married me before it was too late.”

  “You know nothing about me, Anson. It would never have worked.”

  “I know nothing about you!” His face turned thunderous. He looked around and carefully remolded his expression. “And Sheridan knows you better? In a week, he knows you better than I? I ought to kill him. I know exactly what that bloody mick did to get to know you better.”

  “Don’t call him that,” she said, her face unable to keep up the pretense any further. “Don’t call him that word ever again.”

  He stared down at her, unable to believe her anger. “You defend him? Caroline Astor told me you were practically dragged down that aisle to his side. She wants you to think about an annulment.” He pulled her closer. “I do too.”

  “I’m not going to get an annulment, Anson. I don’t know what else to say. I’ve married Trevor Sheridan. I’m staying married to him.” That was, of course, only a half-truth, but she didn’t want to explain that when her marriage was dissolved, she would still reject his offer. There was no point in hurting him further.

  “Are you going to have that vile Irishman’s baby?”

  She looked up in shock, her cheeks suddenly burning with shame. “Is that what everyone thinks? That I had to get married because Trevor—”

  He almost laughed in bitterness. “And what are we supposed to think? Sheridan forces you marry him, but it couldn’t have been just for the money because I have money. A lot of it. You could have married me, Alana. But regrettably, I always played the gentleman.” Not missing a beat of the music, he roughly pulled her around, taking the corner.

  She was silent for a long time, letting herself follow him unconsciously in the waltz. Softly she said, “It’s not what you believe, Anson. Things will prove differently in a few months.”

  “Yes, nine months.” His hand roughly gripped her waist.

  “I didn’t marry him for that reason.”

  “Then why?” He tilted back his handsome blond head and laughed. His anger renewed, he pulled her against him. “Don’t lie to me and tell me you love him, because I’ll never believe that.”

  As she stared up at him, she suddenly knew why she and Anson could never have been happy. For all their superficial compatibility, they were different spirits entirely. She wanted love. He wanted what society deemed best. She wanted acceptance; he wanted perfection. She wanted to cry on a man’s strong shoulder and unburden herself of all the tragedies that tore at her heart. He wanted to spare his expensive cravat.

  “Go on, tell me you love Sheridan,” he demanded sharply, smiling at the guests around them.

  She only stared at him.

  He smiled. “I knew you wouldn’t.” Triumph filled his deep-blue eyes. “You couldn’t love a man like that.”

  “I’m drawn to him. I was, from the very moment I saw him.” She didn’t know why she felt the need to explain. She wondered if it was more for her understanding than his.

  “Ah, fine. But that’s not love.”

  “No.”

  “So tell me you love him, Alana, and I’ll leave you alone. Don’t, and I’ll hound you for the rest of your days to get that annulment.”

  “I love him.” Alana refused to look at him, suddenly overcome by a swell of emotion. It was the worst lie she’d ever told, yet it didn’t feel like a lie. It felt worse than a lie; it filled her with a wild, searing panic.

  Much to the guests’ shock and delight, Anson stopped right in the middle of the ballroom. He grasped her to him, for the moment unmindful of scandal. “You’re telling me that you’ve fallen in love with a common goddamned Irisher? That you’ve rejected me because you’d actually prefer to be with that—mick?” he whispered furiously.

  “Ye
s,” she gasped.

  There had been very few times in Anson Vanbrugh-Stevens’s life when he’d been told no. Alana supposed her rejections of his suit had been most of the reason he’d been so persistent. The idea of losing was difficult for him to accept, but watching him now, she knew he would finally have to. He’d been confident he’d get what he wanted. The worst had happened.

  Without another word, he bowed to her and shoved his way through the crowds. He left, stony-faced, not bothering to even thank his hostess.

  Alana felt the stares at her back as if they were knives. With tears threatening at any minute, she fled to the balcony, taking in the sea air in great heaving breaths. She couldn’t stop herself from crying. She hated hurting Anson. For all his faults, he still had a right to be indignant. She had treated him callously with her quick marriage. Now she had lied to him. But had she? More tears came, and she forced herself not to think about the reasons. It wasn’t true, of course. She couldn’t love Trevor; she hardly knew him. But for the first time she saw the possibility of falling in love with her husband. The idea left her breathless and afraid.

  “You shouldn’t fret so, Alana. Mara’s success has been swift. You’ll be back in his arms in no time.”

  The cold voice startled her. She looked up and found Trevor standing by her on the long dark balcony. Against her will, she shivered.

  He gave a dark laugh. “I take it by Mr. Stevens’s departure, however, that his greatest virtue is not patience.”

  “He wanted to marry me,” she said quietly. “It was cruel not to give him notice of my marriage.”

  “He’ll get over it.”

  His callous attitude chilled her. She wondered when it would be directed at her. She wondered if it would destroy her. “Anson’s presence seems to have disturbed you, Trevor.”

  “He’s everything I dislike in you, á mhúirnín.”

  “And what do you dislike in me?” she asked angrily, hiding her hurt behind a well-bred facade. He’d called her something in Gaelic. Was it a curse?

  “I hate your privilege. I hate the fact that you’re from a set of exalted loins and therefore everything is your due, whether you’ve earned it or not. The Knickerbocker lack of hardship disgusts me.”