Lions and Lace

by Meagan Mckinney

  Margaret returned and helped her with her toilet. That completed, the maid delivered the message that Eagan wanted a word with her in the palm court. Alana rushed downstairs, wondering what could be the trouble, but when she saw Caitlín, she knew the news was good. Caitlín was dressed in a costly gray brocade traveling dress, a gown that far exceeded a servant’s pay. On her finger was a diamond wedding band.

  Alana didn’t need the announcement. “When did you do it?” she gasped, her face opening with a grin.

  Eagan chuckled. He looked a bit paler than usual. “This morning,” he replied. “We wanted to stop by with the news before we left on our honeymoon. We’re going to Ireland to tell Caitlín’s mother.”

  He’s scared to death, Alana thought as she kissed him. She also thought he looked happier than she’d ever seen him. So there was justice somewhere in the world. “Wonderful! Wonderful!” Alana kissed Caitlín and held her hand. “Your mother will love Shivhan. You must be beside yourself waiting to show her off.” She smiled at the babe in her mother’s arms. Shivhan was dressed in a fine pink linen gown and looked every inch the spoiled little miss.

  “T’ank you for all your help, Alana. Your visits below-stairs meant everything to me. Eagan was right about you.” Caitlín impulsively hugged her.

  Alana laughed. “Pooh, what was a visit or two? I was just jealous of your babe, that’s all. I’d love to have a child as sweet and beautiful as Shivhan.”

  Upon hearing that statement, Eagan suddenly turned quiet. Alana stared at him, her pain glittering in her eyes. Eagan knew. Suddenly it took all her will not to cry.

  Eagan kissed his wife and asked her to wait for him in the library. Caitlín and Alana said their final farewells, and Alana was alone with Eagan.

  “Have you told Mara and Trevor about your marriage?” Alana asked, wanting to gloss over her troubles.

  “Yes, they know. I just spoke to them.” Eagan finally spoke his mind. “What’s going on between you two? There were two or three times I thought your marriage was going to last. Now it’s all busted apart.”

  Alana didn’t cry. She couldn’t allow herself that anymore. It was time to fight. “I’m afraid Trevor will never accept me, Eagan.”

  “But why not?”

  Just three little words, and suddenly those forbidden tears were pooling in her eyes. “Because I’m not Irish.” She gave a black little laugh. “I must be the only person in this whole city of a million who wishes she were.”

  He rubbed her arms. “He just can’t take you off that pedestal, can he.”

  “He’s the master of every situation. He’s done what he wants.”

  “I don’t think so. Not this time.”

  Alana shook her head. “Eagan, if he cared for me, there would be one hint, one tiny piece of evidence that would prove his feelings. If anything, he’s always gone out of his way to make sure I know I’m an outcast.”

  “He thinks about you all the time.” He ran a hand through his hair. “No one can say you didn’t try, Alana.”

  She nodded. “But I can’t stay here and play at marriage alone. He must meet me halfway.” She looked up at him and gave him a brave smile. “You’ll always be dear to me, Eagan. Now don’t leave your bride and daughter waiting. Have a delightful trip, and I’ll come visit just as soon as I know where I’ll be living.”

  Eagan sighed. “I wish it were otherwise.”

  She laughed and cried at the same time. “I do too.”

  The Croton Reservoir stood on the west side of Fifth Avenue between Fortieth and Forty-second Streets. Atop its enormous walls was a promenade favored by society. They could stroll, see and be seen, and take in the sweeping view of the ever-changing city skyline not yet dominated by buildings other than church spires.

  Alana went there to get away from the chateau, to think, to clear her head and force herself to contemplate what seemed inevitable: She was never going to have Trevor Sheridan.

  Their marriage was definitely going to end as soon as Mara and Nigel announced their engagement. With her emotions caught in Trevor’s web, she wished fervently that they had never met. It was unbearable to watch something she’d nurtured and hoped for die a premature death. Living with only a memory was a hollow future indeed.

  She stopped at the northwest corner and stared at the countryside past Sixtieth Street. In her depression, she was hardly aware of the man who stood next to her.

  “Why, Mrs. Sheridan! What brings you up here with only your groom for company?”

  Alana glanced over, surprised to see Anson. “Hello, Anson,” she said, turning back to the promenade railing without really acknowledging him.

  “What a chilly reception.”

  She looked at him. He looked dashing in a gray morning coat and ruby cravat. She wondered why he was still bothering with her when any other lady would love his company. “I’d have thought you’d be the one giving me the cold reception,” she commented. “I heard about your row with Trevor.”

  Anson laughed. She didn’t quite trust it.

  “Don’t be angry with me, Alana. Your husband’s the one who started that fight. I was there for a simple visit, and he turned it into a boxing match.”

  “He’s not that much of a hothead.”

  “But look what he has to protect. Can you blame him?”

  He was paying her a compliment, but her suspicions were raised because she didn’t know why he was doing so.

  “Are you attending the Astor ball?”

  She nodded.

  He smiled. “May I escort you? I see Sheridan hasn’t attended too many functions of late.”

  She looked at him incredulously. He just couldn’t leave well enough alone. “You know that would only irritate him.”

  Anger tautened his face, though he did a valiant job hiding it. “That’s precisely it, my little Irish rose. He threw me out of that house like a drunken sailor ejected from a barroom. I think I have the right to irritate him a little … and enjoy your company, of course.” He smiled. He was so transparent, she almost laughed. That last comment was clearly thrown in as an afterthought.

  “You shouldn’t be placing me in such a position, Anson,” she reprimanded, looking again over the railing.

  “I’ve never seen you so glum, Alana. What is it? Did you marry the wrong man?”

  She steeled herself and didn’t answer.

  “May I escort you to Caroline Astor’s ball? It’s almost certain your husband won’t be attending, with his obvious dislike of Granville. It’s a crime that you of all women should go unescorted.”

  She released a deep sigh. “If my husband isn’t attending, I’ll send you a note, and you may escort me. Will that suffice?”

  “Fine! Fine!”

  “But I know you’re only doing this to anger Trevor.” What she didn’t say—her greatest fear—was that it wouldn’t work, that Trevor wouldn’t care if she attended the ball with Anson.

  “I’ll wait for your note” was all he said.

  The detectives still filtered in and out of the mansion, and Alana prayed every night that one might find a clue that would locate Christal. They were also on the trail of Didier. Christal had told her not to; it was dangerous and there were no accusations she could fling at him that she could substantiate—yet. But she wanted to know where he was. She was terribly disappointed to find that he too had disappeared.

  Alana had only to deal with the silent dark figure that was still her husband. She and Trevor had hardly said a word to each other for days. She ached to be near him, to experience those warm moments they’d had in bed, but the ball was in his court. She’d bared her soul. There was nothing left for her to say. The only solace she had was that it was easy to be cold and uncommunicative if the conversations weren’t long. And recently they hadn’t been.

  But now it was time to talk. Mara was becoming distraught about Trevor’s disapproval of Nigel, and as the Astor ball neared, she begged Alana to speak to him.

  When she knocked, T
revor was again in his cups in the library, a habit these days. Alana thought it just as well. If she had to approach such a beast, perhaps it was safer while the beast was inebriated.

  “Who’s there?” he growled at her from across the room.

  “I knocked. There was no answer,” she said coolly as she opened the large library door.

  “What is it?”

  His tone set her back on her heels, but she chose to ignore it. “I wanted to talk to you about Mara. Nigel and she plan to be married, you know—despite your attempts to ignore the fact.”

  Trevor stared at her as if he didn’t quite trust her visit. “They won’t be married,” he answered smugly. “I’ll cut her off if she does. Granville’s bluffing.”

  “I don’t think he’s bluffing.”

  “He is. He won’t announce that marriage, I’ll bet on it.”

  “Mara wants your approval.”

  “I don’t want to hurt her, but this is the only way. When he doesn’t announce their engagement, she’ll see I was right.”

  “You could be wrong.”

  He stared at her, anger in his eyes.

  “Your lack of faith in her judgment disturbs her greatly. I almost think she’s willing to give up Nigel just to please you.”

  “Then she should.”

  “I said almost.” Alana gave him a chilly smile. “Your sister has a mind of her own. I suspect she’ll marry her beloved whether you like it or not.”

  “He won’t marry her if she’s penniless.”

  “What if he does?”

  “Then I’ll recant what I said about cutting Mara off.” He leaned forward, nearly sloshing the whiskey in his glass. “But he’ll drop her. Mark my words. The bastard’s only going after her for her money.”

  “Well, for once, you’re not being a hypocrite. You finally admit there’s no possibility that one can love another for the person inside, but only for the assets that can be brought into a marriage.” Each word dripped acid.

  He watched her, his eyes brilliant with anger and guilt. “What you fail to understand, Alana, is my decision that our marriage cannot be based on love. It’s based on right and wrong. It was wrong of me to use you the way I did. It’s up to me to correct the wrongs and see that you’re better off for this—deviation in the course of your life.”

  She laughed. “Is that how you describe our marriage? ‘A deviation’?” She almost wept, the hurt drove so deeply into her heart. And she was furious. He wouldn’t allow himself to love her because he was too obsessed with their stations in life. He’d built a wall around himself, and there was no allowing her in.

  Retreating, she turned her back on him and with shaking hands poured herself a whiskey.

  “What are you doing?”

  She took a deep breath. “I thought we should have a toast, Trevor.” She turned around, facing him, then lifted her glass. “I think it’s appropriate, don’t you? After all, we’ve been through a lot together in this marriage, as brief as it’s been, and I think we should end it with dignity.”

  He stared at her, a white-knuckled grip on his blackthorn.

  “To you, husband,” she began, her wounds shielded from his view. “I’ve seen you lie, cheat, and steal to get ahead. But you’ve gotten everything you wanted, and I admire—”

  Before she knew what he was doing, he violently knocked the glass from her hand. She gasped as it shattered against the marble fireplace.

  “Don’t mock me,” he said through clenched teeth.

  “I wasn’t!” she shot back, her eyes blazing with fury. She cared not a whit about his feelings when hers were so mortally wounded. “That’s right. I was telling the truth. I admire you—”

  “And you hate me.”

  She said nothing, wanting to hurt him just a fraction as badly as he had hurt her.

  “Hate me, then,” he rasped. “You have that right after all I’ve done, but you won’t mock me.”

  “You know all too well how I feel about you.” Their gazes met, and she no longer bothered to hide her emotions. She loved him, and if he couldn’t see it in the way she looked at him now, by the hurt in her eyes, in the vulnerable way she had held out her heart in her hands for him, he would never see it.

  There was a long silence. Neither seemed to know what to say. Finally she said, “The ball is at eight. Are you attending? Mara and I need an escort with Eagan gone.”

  “No,” he answered adamantly. “Mara expects an announcement of her engagement, and I won’t watch your people hurt her again.”

  His words stung her. In soft tones she said, “Anson has offered his escort. I’ll have him take us.”

  Quietly he bit out each word. “Stevens is taking you to the Astor ball?”

  She was desperate to maintain her composure. “I’d think you’d be grateful.”

  He turned from her, his face rigid and cold. Cursing, he whispered, “Ah, these sophisticated times.…” Then he pushed away from the decanter table, refusing to look at her.

  For some irrational reason, his apparent lack of jealousy, of caring, hurt her more than anything he’d done before. Anger froze her unshed tears, and she quickly left, never hearing the sound of his whiskey glass as it shattered against the library wall.

  33

  It was truly an auspicious affair when the sexton of Grace Church, the “glorious Brown,” consented to play castellan for the arriving guests. The man stood underneath the white canopy at the front of the Astor house, dressed in immaculate tie and tails, supervising the drivers with his silver whistle, ushering in the ladies with his silver tongue.

  A light rain misted the sidewalks, graying the city to a ghostly translucence beneath the gaslamps. Carriages were lined up all the way down Thirty-fourth Street to release their passengers, the Stevens brown coupé among them. It soon pulled up, and Alana alone was helped down. Mara was not with her because the duke had wished to escort her and had called early. Believing them soon to be engaged, Alana allowed Mara to go on without her, and she had waited for Anson.

  Anson had disapproved of her Celtic costume at first sight, but his disapproval gave Alana an odd tingle of delight. Her only disappointment was that Trevor had not seen her as the Irish queen Maeve. Perhaps deep down she had thought to gain some acceptance by dressing as a Celt, that if he’d seen her dressed this way, he’d see her in a different light. But he had never emerged from his library, and Anson had arrived to take her to the ball.

  In the foyer a footman took her green velvet cape, and Anson nearly scowled when he took in the sight of her gown once more. Nonetheless, he held out his arm and strolled with her into the picture gallery where society had gathered. The crowd was thick, the gallery stuffed with the Four Hundred, who mingled like preening pigeons on a New York rooftop. Handing her champagne from a passing footman, Anson said, “Have you heard the rumor that the duke will announce his engagement to Mara Sheridan? Isn’t that absurd? And he’s British!”

  Irritated, Alana accepted the champagne. “My sister-in-law is a sweet young woman, beautiful and accomplished. Why shouldn’t Granville want to marry her?”

  “I know what he wants from sweet young Mara, so why would he shame himself by announcing an engagement to her? The one doesn’t have to do with the other.”

  She halted, fury burning on her cheeks. “You mean money?”

  Anson looked down at her and said smugly, “No, my dear, he wants the exact thing I want from you—if I could get it without doing the same.”

  She almost spat, she was so angry. “I always suspected you were a cad, Anson, and now you’ve just proved it.”

  “Well, a cad is better than that trash you’ve been saddled with. And who knows, if you ever do get an annulment, your pedigree may induce me to overlook your dubious virginity and marry you anyway.”

  “How dare you!” she whispered, pulling away from his arm. They hadn’t been at the ball five minutes, and their false accord had already disintegrated.

  “Careful, Alana. You’r
e making a scene.” He locked her arm back in his, and no struggling was going to take it from him. “After all the trouble and humiliation you’ve put me through, tonight you’ll behave. The least you can do for me is to act respectable.”

  “What are you, my keeper?” She dug her nails into the flesh of his upper arm. Finally he let her go rather than risk a scandal.

  “Where are you going?” he snapped under his breath. He laughed cruelly. “Are you off to seek out that husband of yours? Oh, I forgot. Wasn’t he invited? Or was he with those other Irishers that were handling the stables tonight?”

  “You couldn’t shine my husband’s shoes, Anson.” She gave him a look of disgust and was just about to walk away when Trevor Byrne Sheridan was announced at the door.

  The entire ballroom fluttered nervously, like birds with a predator in their midst. From the doorway Sheridan surveyed the room, appearing austere and unapproachable in black tails and a white barrel-knotted tie. Every person in the room seemed to flinch back, as if to say “I hope that look isn’t for me.”

  But not Alana. She stood her ground, her gaze violently meeting his, though they were half a room apart. They stood there saying nothing, dueling with glances, until the music seemed to start again and the crowd relaxed, filling the distance between them.

  Shaken, Alana looked up and found Granville at her elbow. He asked her to join him in the German cotillion, a dance that took nearly two hours. It was a tradition passed down by Caroline Astor’s mother, Mrs. Schermerhorn, who thought polkas, redowas, schotisches too wild. Alana almost fell to her knees in gratitude for the long diversion. She accepted quickly and was fortunate not to spy her husband again in the crowd during the entire dance.

  But when dinner was announced, Alana did see Trevor again. Her heart nearly stopped to find him sitting in a parlor in a “comfortable,” a plush upholstered armchair, the latest rage from Paris, Joanna Varick perched precariously on the arm of the chair, both laughing at something Trevor had just said. Her husband’s smile was blinding, and Alana felt her breath catch in her throat when he turned it on her. But when their gazes met, that wonderful smile faded, replaced with a grim expression until he turned his eyes away once more.