Lions and Lace

by Meagan Mckinney

  A moan escaped her, but it was not a moan of protest. Protests were useless now—worse, hypocritical—for how could she lie to him and herself that she didn’t want this when she did, so badly that it had become like a hunger that must be sated or she would die.

  His tongue, hot and strong, thrust again and again into her needful mouth, a wild accompaniment to the thrum of the shower. Demandingly, he cupped her breast, his palm brushing the steam droplets that clung to her nipples like diamonds. He flicked open the buttons to his trousers.

  She was hardly aware of what he did next. Her only sensation seemed to be his mouth on hers and the overriding instinct that he wanted her, ferociously.

  He lowered them both to the floor of the large marble tub and pulled her, naked, on top of him. This man who was so cold and totally in control had finally been cut from his bindings, and she could see in his gleaming eyes that nothing was out of bounds. For the first time in their marriage, the possibilities were endless.

  In a daze, drugged by the hot pounding of the rainbath on her back, the even hotter desire that ignited them, and the overriding desperation to seize this rare intimacy, she pushed aside his wet shirtfront and ran her hands greedily through the slick dark hair of his chest. He liked her brazenness because the corner of his mouth lifted in a dark smile. He caressed the soft pale thighs that straddled him before he twisted his hand in the length of her wet gold hair and pulled her down for another desperate kiss. His arm went around her hips, and he eased her onto him.

  His flesh filled her to the womb, and she arched back like a cat. Panting, he showed her how to move, and yearning to please him, she proved an apt pupil, particularly when his thumb caressed her at their joining where dark gold hair met jet black. It didn’t take long for her to respond, and her moan set his hands in motion. He pulled her down for another kiss, then took her breasts in his palms. He thrust up inside her again and again, and just when she saw the havoc this dangerous game was playing in his expression, in this man who needed control like a drug, she cried out, embracing her pleasure as if she were afraid it would be taken away.

  A second passed, or an hour, she didn’t know. Weak and gasping for air, she looked down at him as he still moved inside her. Her hands roamed his sodden clothes, his slick hair, his heaving chest, his pleasure-taut face, and she suddenly found she reveled in her power. For all her fears, she knew that Daisy had never had Trevor Sheridan like this. Her husband’s rigid facade was gone, and in its place was a wild animal that wanted her with a greed that took her breath away.

  She heard his groan, felt him shoot up inside her, and she wanted to cry, to laugh, to express any deep emotion that would equal the one she felt now. It was her first taste of power, and power was an insidious drug. But so was love, and she gloried in both because for one brief roaring moment she was a lioness.

  At five thirty Margaret stood in the corridor in front of Alana’s door and stared at Mr. Sheridan’s valet, who stood before the master’s door. Her mistress had not been in her bedroom or the bathing room where Margaret had left her. The master’s rooms were all locked, and by instinct neither of them, not even Mr. Sheridan’s elderly valet, dared to knock.

  Margaret looked at the old man expectantly, an expression on her face that said “Now what?” The valet simply nodded and turned on his heels. With an embarrassed pink in her cheeks, Margaret did the same, rationalizing that if Mr. and Mrs. Sheridan forfeited supper, they could still be dressed and ready for the Van Dam soiree at ten.

  Alana lay in Trevor’s arms in sheets damp from their shower and lovemaking. Trevor’s clothes lay in a wet trail to the bed. When he’d taken her there, he’d taken her twice again, more slowly but with no less fervor.

  And in the silences they held each other, Alana, lying on her belly, gently toying with the dark hair on his chest, Trevor, lying on his back, quietly stroking the gentle curve of her waist. They both seemed to fear words. Words were always the villain between them. They said too much, then not enough. So when it was time to speak, Trevor spoke in Gaelic, in soft tones she couldn’t translate but understood. She kissed him when he wanted kissing, he caressed her when she needed assurance, and finally when she whimpered beneath him, his pounding body within the carnal embrace of her legs, she came to the rhythm of his whispered pleasure as he said again and again “tar-cionn” until he could speak no more.

  29

  “I want to marry Mara. I plan on taking her with me to England when I leave next week. I—” the duke hesitated, then spoke his mind, “I would hope to have your approval.”

  Trevor stared at Granville, who sat opposite him in the library. It was early the next morning, Alana still asleep in his bed. They had never gone to the Van Dam mansion. He rubbed the growth of beard on his jaw. The duke had arrived before he’d had time to shave, and there were a million things he needed to discuss, none of them with this impudent young Brit.

  “How does Mara feel about you?” he asked cursorily, his voice gruff and unwelcoming.

  Nigel paused, choosing his words with care. “I believe and pray that she returns my sentiments.”

  “She’s only sixteen, you know. Far too young, in my opinion, to marry.”

  “In Ireland they marry younger.”

  “This is not Ireland.” For the first time Trevor smiled. The duke became visibly tense. “You know, Your Grace,” said Trevor, “I’m quite aware that as damning as it is, there is no doubt the Irish love a lord. My father named me after the earl who owned the land he plowed. Such a high compliment. However, that was the same earl who let my mother starve when my father died. So I have no love for the Ascendency. Pardon me if I don’t slap you on the back and say ‘Welcome to the family, me boy-o.’”

  “The Granvilles have never been a part of the system in Ireland. We agree with you that it’s wrong and unjust.” The duke lifted his chin imperiously. For his twenty-two years, he suddenly seemed much older.

  “Fine. Then when it’s corrected, you shall marry my sister.” Trevor rose as if dismissing him.

  But Nigel was not to be bested that quickly. “Shall you have her elope, then? Because I swear that’s what we’ll do if we must. Even though I know she wants your blessing.”

  “But you’re the one who’s come for it. I find that amusing.”

  The duke spoke slowly. “If the truth be known, I don’t give a fig about your blessing, Sheridan. I can stand on my own. I don’t need you. I just want Mara to be happy.”

  Sheridan laughed. He clutched his walking stick. “You want Mara to be happy,” he mimicked. “What you want is all that American money that goes with her. Come along, boy-o, we’re not stupid. Tell the truth.”

  “I love your sister, Sheridan, not her money. And I’ll make a good husband for her, I promise you that.”

  Trevor turned dangerously pensive. “Granville,” he said slowly, “I want Mara to marry well, and I’ve done near-Herculean things so that she may have that opportunity. You must know, I didn’t do any of it to see her marry some impoverished duke who only wants her because her umbilical cord is attached to the Bank of New-York.”

  Nigel lost patience. “If you and I cannot come to an understanding, then I at least know I tried. I don’t want Mara because of her money. In fact, I don’t need her money, but since I cannot convince you of that, I’ll take my leave. But I must tell you, I plan to announce our engagement at Caroline Astor’s bal masqué. And after that, as they say, it’s between you and your maker, Sheridan.”

  Sheridan laughed again. “Let’s up the ante, shall we? You announce your engagement to Mara, and I’ll cut her off without a thin dime. If you want to marry an Irisher, Granville, then you’ll marry one. When you take her to wife, she’ll be as poor as her mother when she came through Castle Garden.”

  “Poor or rich.”

  “Then you’ll have no trouble announcing the engagement, will you.”

  “None whatsoever.” Angry, Nigel took his top hat, nodded tersely, and left.
>
  Trevor’s smile became more cynical. “You’ll never show,” he flung to the closed door.

  Alana rolled over and slowly opened her eyes. Sunlight streamed in from four enormous windows, four unfamiliar windows with drapes pulled aside and sashes thrown open. Though two stories up, she heard the noises of Fifth Avenue. The omnibuses rattled along, queuing for passengers; a man cursed at another for smashing into his brougham.

  She closed her eyes, remembering she was still in Trevor’s bedroom. She thought of last night and savored each stormy detail. Every muscle seemed to ache from their lovemaking, but there was a particularly wicked ache between her legs, one that made her wish her husband were still in bed with her.

  Had she ever thought him cold and detached? A secret smile played on her lips. He’d been anything but last night. Now it was morning, even later perhaps. Would he continue the intimacy between them, or would he move away, back into that fortress he’d built around himself? Her smile faded.

  She rolled over and looked at the other side of the room. Surprised, she found Trevor staring at her from a leather seat by the fireplace, his blackthorn across his lap.

  “I didn’t know you were still here,” she whispered, held captive by his penetrating stare. His gaze lowered, and she looked down, finding the sheet so low on her bosom, it was ready to expose one dusky nipple. Self-consciously, she pulled the sheet up nearly to her neck. “Have you been up long?”

  He nodded, and for some reason the lines and care worn into his face appeared heightened in the daylight. Perhaps it was because of the sweet fury of the night before, but as he stared at her, he looked every day of his thirty-two years. “You make a pretty picture asleep in my bed, á mhúirnín,” he said quietly. “So serene, so childlike—so different from the woman you were last night.”

  Alana felt a blush on her cheeks. She couldn’t refute him. Her passion had surprised even her.

  He removed a letter from his vest pocket. He stood and walked to the bed, looming over her as he handed it to her. “Here is the letter from the superintendent. Your sister is to be released into your care. All you have to do is show it to them at the asylum.”

  She took the letter and looked at it, holding it with trembling hands. Her dreams had come true. Christal would be freed into her care. Alana was ready to run to her bedroom to dress so that she could be in Brooklyn by noon. At last, everything was going to be all right.

  She looked up at Trevor, her face a mask of unspeakable joy. “Thank you,” she whispered. “You’ll never know how much this means to me. I’ll be in your debt forever.”

  “You erased that debt last night.”

  Her thoughts were so caught up with Christal, it took her a moment to realize what he’d said. He walked away, his blackthorn silent upon the carpeting.

  “If you think last night was payment for my sister’s freedom, you’re mistaken,” she said to his back.

  He stopped. He did not turn around. “It was payment. Why else would you be waiting for me as you were in the rainbath?”

  “I—” wasn’t waiting for you, she’d been about to say, but she couldn’t tell him that their encounter last night was an accident. Even she didn’t believe that. Some force had pulled them together and whether or not she wanted to go along with it, she did because it was too strong for her to deny. That was why she’d been so impelled to try the rainbath for the first time last night. She hadn’t known she’d been waiting for him, but somehow she’d known he’d come to her.

  “As I thought,” he said quietly when he had no answer from her.

  “No, it’s not as you think. Last night had nothing to do with Christal.” She rose on the bed, clutching the sheet over her chest. “I did it because I—” Her breath caught when she realized what she was about to say.

  “Why did you do it?” he asked, a scowl on his face when he finally turned around. When she didn’t answer, he said, “I’ll tell you why. Because you’ve discovered the arts of seduction and loveplay, and you now know how to get anything you want.”

  “That’s not why!” she cried out in disbelief that his thinking could be so skewed.

  “Then why?” he demanded.

  She looked at him, her face ravaged with emotion. “Why do you think a woman like me would become as wanton as I was last night?” Her voice lowered to a whisper. “A woman like me, Trevor, would only do that for the man she loves.” The words were out, and she found relief in finally speaking the truth. There was no hiding it any longer.

  He stared at her as she kneeled on his bed, the sheet artfully draped around her nude body. His expression was blank. Even his eyes shuttered what he felt. Finally he said, “You say you love me, Alana. But why would a woman like you ever love a man like me? Give me one earthly reason why.”

  Tears threatened as she saw him withdrawing. “There are no ‘earthly’ reasons for love, Trevor. I don’t even want to love you. You’ve nearly ruined my life, and you’ve hurt me. All I know is that I do love you, and though you push me away with both hands, I believe a small part of you loves me as well.”

  He said nothing, his emotions cloaked in steel. His lack of a response hurt her, but she was willing to be brave. She would fight for their marriage. She would be patient and give him time. He liked to be the master of the situation. For once in his life he was embroiled in something beyond his control.

  “Stevens would make a better husband than I, Alana. As much as I despise the fellow, I admit it. You’re from his world, not mine.” His voice seemed to catch for a moment, and his dark eyes turned stormy.

  His words panicked her. She could see him slipping away. Her tears fell in earnest now. She wanted to shake him and force him to say what she needed to hear. “My God, Trevor, can’t we ever be equals? Is there something so lacking in your character that you cannot put aside who I am for what I am? I’ve been able to do it with you. I see you not as an Irisher up from the gutter but the man I desperately want to love!”

  He stood, the emotion on his face no longer hidden behind a mask. “No, you don’t see me, Alana.” His words were laced with bitterness and anger. He made no effort to hide his accent. “T’e man you want to love is still inches from the gutter. I see that every time we go to those cotillions, every time Caroline Astor looks at me with distaste. The man you beg for is not much of one. He cannot even be askin’ his own wife for a dance. And why is that?” He looked into her eyes, and she swallowed a sob. “I’ll be tellin’ ye why. Because the man you want for a husband was shot thievin’ in Five Points and canna be waltzin’, ever!”

  He turned and walked to the window, not bothering with his cane, his movements stiff, awkward, oddly violent. She watched him, tears streaming down her cheeks, a dark hopelessness seeping into her soul. He didn’t think their marriage would work because he didn’t think himself good enough for her. He would never accept her because of his insecurity, so their marriage was doomed before it had begun. The pain of that revelation was beyond her tears.

  A knock sounded, shattering the silence. Trevor barked “Not now!” at the closed door, but Whittaker’s muffled voice said, “A telegram has just arrived, sir. It’s for Mrs. Sheridan. I thought it urgent.”

  Trevor looked at Alana. She wiped her cheeks and pulled the sheet around her more closely. He went to the door. When Whittaker departed, Trevor handed her the telegram.

  She wasted no time opening it. The color drained from her face as she read:

  Christabel Van Alen disappeared Park View 5am. Believed to have run away. Searching. Prognosis not good. Will contact you when found.

  Mrs. Mathilde Steine

  Numb, Alana lowered the telegram. The sheet had slipped, but she didn’t notice.

  He took the telegram from her limp hand and read it. When he was through, he said, “I’ll find her. I’ve men who can look. Pinkertons.”

  Grief etched on her features, she refused to look at him. All she could think of was Christal—fragile, vulnerable Christal, her only rela
tive besides Didier, out on the streets with no one to care for her.

  “Have you heard me?”

  She raised her head, too distraught to find the words to answer him. In one brief interlude she’d lost the man she loved and her sister. “Why did she do this? Just as I had her freed …” she said numbly.

  “I don’t know, love. I don’t know why she did this.”

  “She didn’t do this.” Her anger surfacing, she felt tears again spring to her eyes. “Christal would have never done this without a reason. I don’t care if everyone thought her mad. She wouldn’t have left me without a good reason. I know it. I know it!” She searched wildly for a wrap so that she could flee.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” he demanded.

  “I’m going to Brooklyn! I’m going to find her!”

  “There’s nothing that you can do that I can’t do a hundred times over with Pinkerton men. I’ll have everyone look for her. How are you going to make a difference?” He held her. The sheet slipped altogether, and she was left naked and struggling in his embrace. “Be reasonable, Alana. There’s nothing you can do right now.”

  Her anger flared. He’d rejected her love, and now he was keeping her from her sister. Unable to get away, she lashed out at him. “Let me go! I’m the only one who can help her. After all, isn’t it odd that you discover my sister one day and the next day she disappears?”

  “What do you mean by that?” he asked, pushing her onto her back and pinning her to the bed.

  She nearly spat. “I mean, after all, even you have to worry about your reputation. Perhaps finding out about my mad sister made you see that it might sully Mara’s social conquests. And with all your effort behind her success, I can see why—”

  “You’re not thinking clearly, and you know it.”

  “Let me go,” she said quietly, too quietly.

  “Your sister was ill. You told me they’d had her drugged. She was confused and escaped in the early hours of the morning. I’m sure she’ll turn up. I’ll have everyone I can hire looking for her.”