Lions and Lace (24 page)

"Is that her name?" She cursed the tremor in her voice.

"Why the interest,
sweeting
?"

She closed her eyes. The man was impossible. He always seemed to say the one thing that made her ache to slap her palm across his cheek.

Turning from him, she said, "I really must get ready, so if you'll—"

"No." He stood and took her arm. Without his cane, he swayed against her, putting another hand on her waist to steady
himself
. "I want to know why you're rejecting my gift."

"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 fan, "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.