Lions and Lace (11 page)

"Five thousand is an obscene sum for a ring, Mr. Sheridan, and your vulgarity in telling me its price is only surpassed by the way in which it was delivered."

The simmer began to boil. "You criticize my wealth,
Miss Van
Alen
, yet I wonder how you will feel a month from now when you're selling that exquisite dress you wear to the rag merchant."

A dark depression settled around her, but it wasn't for fear of losing her family's money or the dress she wore. It was for
Christabel
. "I have beaux, Mr. Sheridan. Haven't you ever thought that if I become desperate, I might marry one of them?"

His smile didn't reassure her. "Yes, I've heard about your beaux, Alana, particular that Stevens lad. And I tell you what—if you marry one of them, you can count on me ruining the lad the second you whisper 'I do.' "

She blanched. The option of marrying Anson was no option at all, but it unnerved her that this man had every avenue blocked. Perhaps the best she could do for
Christabel
would be to marry Trevor Sheridan, and she had almost convinced herself of that this afternoon with Mrs. Astor. But every time she thought about crossing that line and accepting this man's crazy scheme, all she had to do was look into those dark vengeful eyes and know she couldn't be so foolish. It was wrong. All wrong. No matter how logical his plans sounded, her heart rebelled. She didn't love him. And he was very dangerous.

"I should go," she whispered, wanting to end the discussion.

She was just about to rise when he grasped her hand from across the table and held it as in a vise. "Listen to me. You've got more trouble than you know if you refuse my proposal. I'll make sure of it."

She pulled on her hand. To her dismay, it didn't budge from his warm grip. "No, you listen to me, Mr. Sheridan. I've already got more trouble than
you
know of. So you needn't cause me more."

"Stay." He held tight.

"Let go of me." She glared at him.

Looking as if that were the exact opposite of what he wanted to do, he released her. He took a second to tame his temper, then said to her retreating back, "If you leave here with your cheeks so red with indignation, they'll see you in the main saloon, and it'll only cause more gossip. They'll know I got the better of you."

She spun around and faced him. The gall of it was that it was true. They would see her in the main dining saloon, and there wouldn't be a soul who wouldn't be out on calls tomorrow snickering about her fleeing Delmonico's. They'd deduce that Trevor Sheridan had the ability to incite passion in her, and that was the last thing she wanted.

She resumed her seat, her gaze furious. She stared at him, and her frustration grew. The silence was so oppressive that she was almost glad when Lorenzo brought his waiters to serve them their meal. The beef was delicious, the sauces delicate yet flavorful, but Alana might as well have been eating cardboard for all the enjoyment it gave her. Dessert was an assortment of ice creams—raspberry, bourbon, chocolate—but they were soup by the time the waiter took them away untouched.

When they were finally alone again, Sheridan stood and walked to a lace-covered rosewood table. On it was a brandy decanter and two crystal brandy snifters. He poured two healthy drinks and put one in front of her. She thought he would take his place but saw that he had to retrieve his own glass. Again she found it unusual that he would hold on to his walking stick for that small trip.

When he sat again, he laid the ebony walking stick across the table, the gold lion's head burnished in the dim light. She looked up at him and again thought of lions.

"Miss Van
Alen
, I wanted this to be gentle, but the more you refuse, the more cunning I'm forced to use." He took a sip of the brandy and made a face as if the liquor didn't quite suit him. "Now I see I'm at the end of my rope. I must either convince you to agree to marry me before you leave this room tonight or consider my plans ruined. Is there any way we might come to an agreeable settlement without the use of more distasteful methods?"

His words were intentionally ominous, and they produced the desired effect. Dread weighed upon her chest. But they didn't produce the desired result. She summoned all her courage and with soft but unyielding words took her final stand. "My life is not yours to do with as you wish. It was not yours to ruin after your sister's debut, and it's not yours to use now as a means of gaining what you really desire: an entree for Mara into society. It will be very difficult for me, now that I've been hurt so much by your manipulations, but somehow I will get through it. Somehow I'll find a way to hold things together. In the meantime, I wish your sister well, Mr. Sheridan. She's a lovely girl, and I didn't like seeing her hurt. I understand things better now, and I see how much you care for her and want to protect her. You're a good brother to do so much for her, but I can't let you continue at my cost."

He listened to her, his strong well-shaped fingers stroking the lip of his snifter. When she was through, he seemed truly pained to say what he said next. "Alana—I'm going to call you that because soon you'll be my wife—I'm not accustomed to failure." He paused and looked down at his vest. From the watch pocket, he removed his gold watch and checked the time. He replaced it slowly. "It's now ten o'clock. At ten thirty an old priest will arrive here from St. Brendan's. I intend to convince him to marry us here, tonight. What I've told him is that if I don't marry you immediately, I'm going to take you to my bed without benefit of marriage."

The color drained from her face. She stood, knocking the chair over. "You—you cannot
think
that!"

"That is my plan. We're to marry officially and publicly at St. Brendan's Church Saturday, and to assure that you will be there and not stand me up in front of your peers, I'll have you become my wife tonight." Sheridan was calm. "You see, I've thought of everything."

"You haven't!" she cried out, gripping the edge of the table as if she were reeling from his blow. "What if I don't
show
up on
Saturday!
I could still humiliate you, and if you force me into this tonight, I swear I will do just that!"

"My humiliation will be your humiliation, as my wife. Remember that. If you don't show up Saturday, I'll simply announce that we couldn't wait and that we were married here, this night."

He had indeed dealt her a shattering blow. She lowered herself to the banquette and put her shaking hand to her lips. "No one is going to show up at that wedding—you know that.
If you couldn't get them to your sister's debut, why would they attend your wedding, and at a Catholic church at that?"

He took a deep gulp of his brandy, as if he were unused to savoring
a liquor's
flavor. "You do yourself an injustice. They'll come to see one of their own marry me."

"They
won't! Don't you see? They'll simply shun me as they have you. And then this will be for naught! Don't you see how impossible this is?"

He shook his head. "It's not at all impossible. I have one trump card you forgot about. It's stipulated in your parent's will that when you marry, William Astor, Jr., is to give you away. So you see
,
if he's forced to be at your wedding, his wife will be too. And if Caroline Astor is there, then everyone will be there."

Alana closed her eyes, an all-encompassing dread seeping into her soul. She'd forgotten about that clause in the will. It had seemed so incidental when Didier had read it in the parlor that rainy afternoon following her parents' burial. William Astor had been there, out of respect for her father. Caroline had been absent, of course, the reading of wills too morbid a task for her to attend. Alana recalled that when Mr. Astor had left the town house that day, he'd placed a kiss on her forehead and told her how honored he would be to perform such a noble task. She had smiled, barely hearing him, for at that time she'd been too numb to register anything. But never in her wildest dreams could she have imagined this eventuality. She wondered how William Astor felt about his promise now. She didn't wonder how his wife felt about it.

Sheridan's voice intruded upon her thoughts. "I've thought of everything, Alana. You see, you have no choice but to marry me and cooperate."

She looked at him, wild-eyed. Grinding her fists into the burgundy moiré, she said, "I won't do it. When that priest comes here, I'll tell him everything—how you're forcing me, how we plan on an annulment. He won't marry us then."

"But you won't do that."

"And why not?" she shot back at him. "I've lived nineteen years free. I'll do anything to see that I get nineteen more!"

"You won't do that, Alana, because I know you have a secret, a secret that makes you susceptible."

She paled further. Their gazes locked, and she could barely whisper, "How do you know that?"

"I don't know what it is." His voice took on an odd soothing quality when he
added
, "Nor do I care what it is. But whatever, I know you have one, and I'll find it out and see it smeared across tomorrow's headlines of the
New York Chronicle
if you don't cooperate tonight."

She felt like a mouse caught in a bear trap. Her insides roiled with fury and fear. "Even if I have been hiding something, how do you think you could find out what it is?"

"If Tuesday's headlines announcing our marriage didn't tip you off, let me just tell you. I own the
Chronicle.
And I've men in my employ there who are trained to delve into people's lives and find their secrets. They'll find yours, and when you read about it, it'll sound so bad, you'll wonder how you lived with it all these years."

She could feel herself beginning to break. Tears came to her eyes, and her voice started to tremble. "The
Chronicle
is too respected a newspaper to waste space on such things. When your reporters find the reasons for what I hide, they'll only bore their readers by divulging it."

Sheridan put his elbows on the table and leaned toward her. "If you haven't guessed, as most have, Alana, journalists are the greatest fiction writers of our time. Believe me, when they find out what you have to hide, they won't bore the
Chronicle's
readers."

She turned away from him just as a tear slipped down her cheek. She tried to stem the flow, but he had her beaten. There were no other arguments she could use. He hadn't overlooked one detail. She was going to have to marry this man, and though it would probably ruin her life, the choice was now either
Christabel
or herself. She was left with no choice.

Her shoulders began to shake with silent sobs. She wiped at her tears but new ones sprang forth. There was so little she wanted out of life, it was difficult sometimes to accept that she would never have it. She thought of that man in her dream, and that simple white clapboard house. That was all she had ever longed for. But her shadow man, the man whose face she could never quite see, had never appeared. He'd been replaced by this bitter wealthy Irishman sitting behind her.

"It's not a death sentence,
sweeting
. You'll get your annulment, and a fine pot of gold to boot." After those words, a hand rested on her shoulder, obviously to comfort her.

She pulled away from it as if it were the devil's own. "I'll get an
annulment,
do you understand? You're not to touch me!
Ever!"
She shot him a scathing, contemptuous glance.

At her rejection, his cheeks tautened with anger. He muttered, "Of course. You wouldn't want a common
Irisher
to soil those fine lily-white Knickerbocker thighs."

Whatever semblance of composure she had left snapped when she heard that crude remark. Unable to stop herself, she stood and took the closest thing, an empty water goblet, from the table. She meant to throw it at him with all her might, but he grabbed her wrist and forced her to drop it. The goblet fell noiselessly to the moiré banquette, but she twisted to take another one from the table.

She understood only later what happened. He pulled her to him to prevent her from hurting him and inexplicably lost his balance. Suddenly she found herself toppling forward, his superior weight dragging them both to the ruby carpet. She landed with a thud on his chest as his ebony stick fell to the floor next to them.

Panting with anger, she raised her head from his chest and glared at him. She would have accused him of purposely creating this mischief if she hadn't seen the expression on his face. His face had paled, made paler still by the evening shadow of beard on his jaw, and his eyes fixed on the gilt ceiling, their expression glazed with what could only be described as suppressed pain.