Lions and Lace (40 page)

"I—I can't stay too long. . . ."

"I don't care. I just wanted to see you. You were an angel to meet me. Can we walk together?"

Mara Sheridan looked behind her to her groom and
driver,
perched on her phaeton. "I can't go very far."

"That's all right. We'll stroll across the Mall and back. Will they approve?" The duke shot a glance to her carriage.

"We can do that. I've got an hour."

The duke held out his arm. "Then let's be off, shall we?"

Mara paused,
then
hesitantly accepted the duke's arm. They walked for several minutes, chatting about all things New York: Delmonico's, the Academy of Music,
Wallack's
Theater. They had just finished a discussion about how brilliant the actor Edwin Booth was and still treasured despite his brother's hideous crime when Mara fell silent, a worried look creeping into her eyes whenever she glanced at him.

"What is it that has you so quiet? Have I the pox?" Granville chuckled.

Mara shook her head. The pox he didn't have, no indeed. The Duke of Granville was a sternly handsome young man with fine English features, cropped blond hair that turned a pale shade of red in the sun, and laughing blue eyes, the color of which she'd seen only once when Trevor had taken her on the
Colleen
down to Montserrat. She'd never forget the Caribbean Sea. She saw it every time she looked in Granville's eyes.

"Why are you so quiet, Mary?"

She looked away, not even noticing he'd used the anglicized version of her name.

"Are you angry at me?"

"No, no," she blurted out, shocked that he might think such a thing.

"Then what?"

"It's just that—that—
well,
I'm just not sure why you're paying me attention." There, she'd said it. She could hardly look him in the eyes now.

He put his head back and laughed. "And why do you think that's so strange? Is it you think I'm too old for you, Mary? Well, I'm only twenty-two. Does that ease your mind?"

"It's not that," she said hastily, "although Trevor thought you were twenty-four, and this should ease his mind. He almost turned blue when Alana introduced us. He doesn't approve of you, you know."

Granville let out a boisterous laugh. "You asked me why a chap like me would want to court you. Well,
it's
comments like that, Mara, that never cease to be entertaining. You American girls—you say just what's on your mind."

"Not everything that's on my mind. . . ." Mara again turned quiet.

"Then what is it?" His laughing eyes turned somber.

She faced straight ahead, her face a mask of stone. "Have you heard from anyone about my debut?"

"Yes."

She searched his face for something that would betray him. Finally she said, "What did you hear?"

"That these colonials you New Yorkers call the Four Hundred did not attend." He brushed away a dark lock of her hair that had blown onto her cheek. "And I heard it was because you're Irish."

"And you're British. Trevor says we should hate the British because they hate the Irish even more than the Four Hundred do."

Granville's smile was at once mirthful and bitter. "Don't let anyone tell you to hate, Mara. That's always a bad practice. And as for me, I don't hate the Irish. My grandmother was Irish. Old Granville was one of the
Ascendency
from County Clare, and he stole my grandmother right out of the kitchens of his estate. They were married for fifty years and had ten children and thirty grandchildren. Do you hate me?"

Mara closed her gaping mouth. "No. I was just afraid that you might . . ."

"Hurt you?"

She nodded.

He touched her cheek again, this time not bothering with the pretense of brushing away a curl. "You know, we
Granvilles
are a strange set. Every one of us dukes married his wife within weeks of meeting her. Old Granville was the worst. One week his wife was a scullery, the next a duchess. Some say he was so dazzled by her, he proposed the day he met her, but she refused, believing him either mad or drunk."

"And was he?"

"I don't know. Do you think I'm mad or drunk?"

She shook her head and looked into those incredibly vivid blue eyes.

"Good," he whispered. When he was assured no one was looking, he kissed her lightly on the lips. "When shall we wed?"

She blushed. "Well, maybe you
are
just a wee bit mad."

He smiled. "I've got another four weeks. I'm warning you, I know how old Granville felt when he saw the duchess in the scullery. And I believe a long slow sail back to England would make the perfect honeymoon."

Mara just looked at him.

*
 
*
  
*

Alana sipped her champagne and watched the
waltzers
spin around the ballroom of the Fifth Avenue Hotel, the women in the arms of their black-clad partners turning like gaily painted tops. Mara floated by, led by Granville, her face serene and happy. Alana was glad. She hadn't been sure of the duke—Nigel, as he now insisted the family call him. She had just wanted the social coup of introducing Mara to him. Now she could see on his face how Mara entranced him, and Alana believed with all her heart that it was real.

She glanced at Trevor, who stood next to her, a pain searing through her heart when she had the fleeting wish that her husband might one day look at her that way. But wishing for things like that was futile. Even now his face was set with a grim expression as his eyes followed the dancers on the parquet floor.

"They make a lovely couple, don't they?" she said, trying to get him to talk to her. They hadn't spoken since that time in the servant's corridor, and for some strange reason she missed his biting comments. Even that was better than his cold, brittle silence.

He looked at her, his eyes trailing down to the necklace she wore. She'd been so angry after their last encounter that when she dressed for the cotillion tonight, she'd stumbled upon the diamond necklace he'd given her so long ago. She saw it, and his words burned into her memory.
No one could take such a woman as you. You're just like a diamond, Alana, beautiful but cold.
More's
the pity you don't like diamonds, because they'd become you all too well.
Vengefully, she pulled the gaudy thing out of the drawer and clasped it to her neck. If he thought her a cold woman, she'd take great pleasure in proving it.

But now the necklace stood between them like a wall of cannon. He knew exactly why she'd worn it. She'd seen it in his eyes as she descended the staircase that evening. His frigid disparaging glance took note of how she despised his gift and how she was using it to mock him. They hadn't had a cordial moment since then.

Alana regretted it. They were forced to be in each other's company, and it was bitterly uncomfortable not to have a pleasant word with the man she'd slept with. "They make a lovely couple, don't you think?" she repeated.

"Who?" he asked, surprising her.

"Why, Mara and Nigel, of course."
She looked at him, confusion crossing her face. He hadn't taken his attention from the ballroom floor since they'd arrived.
If he wasn't thinking about Mara in the arms of that Englishman, then what?

"You haven't danced all night. Why is that? Is Stevens the only man here who is willing to waltz with you?" he asked, his comment seeming to come out of the blue.

"What?" she exclaimed, taken aback

"What's wrong with these gentlemen? Everyone knows you love to dance. Why hasn't someone asked you?"

"Trevor, what are you talking about?" She looked at him as if he'd gone mad.

But he hadn't gone mad. What he'd been saying suddenly became all too clear to her when his gaze moved to his blackthorn. Angered, he abruptly excused himself and went to the bar for another brandy.

She watched him go, his stiff artificially formal gait tearing into her soul. He rarely showed his insecurity about his wounded hip. Though she didn't know why it irritated him so much tonight, when he took his drink from the bar and walked into an adjoining room to brood, she was compelled to go to him.

She found him in the reading room, a lone figure standing by the open windows on Fourteenth Street. There were few others in the room—an old fellow snoring in a leather chair, a busboy clearing away some used glassware. She walked up to him, unsure of what to say. "Dinner will be served soon. I'll need an escort," she said quietly.

"Stevens won't do it?" He eyed her, his face taut with distrust.

"Do you want me to be escorted by Anson?" Her voice grew husky.

He was about to answer her when a loud group of young men burst into the room. They went right to the bar, laughing raucously and ordering brandies from the bartender.

". . . so the
Irisher
says, 'Brace yourself.'
" The
man who delivered the
punchline
slapped a friend on the back, and they all burst into renewed laughter.

"Oh no—I've got one better than that!" one man cried. The others chanted for him to speak.

"Well, the biddy runs to her mother and says, 'Moodier! I'm pregnant!' "

The men
waited,
their faces alive with anticipation.

The man chuckled. "And then the biddy's mother says, 'But,
Bridie
, are
ya
sure it's
yourn
?' "

Howls of laughter echoed through the room. The men slapped each other on the back as if they'd just won an election. Alana stood perfectly still, barely able to look at Trevor's face. He had been in a foul mood when he came into the room. Now his face was cast in stone, hiding what had to be an awesome rage.

"Fairchild, me boy-o, how's
t'at
steel mill of yours
runnin
' these days? I understand the stock's
doin
' well!" Trevor called out in his thickest brogue.

The men turned around, and one by one the color drained from their faces.

"Sheridan." The man who'd delivered the joke stepped
foward
. He said almost sheepishly, "We didn't know you were in here."

"
T'at
was a funny joke you just told. But we've a lady present here. I
t'ink
you owe me wife an apology."

Fairchild's gaze shot to Alana. It was obvious he was more afraid of having offended her husband than her, but he nodded and said, "Forgive me, Mrs. Sheridan. I didn't see you here. I shouldn't have told such a vulgar joke in front of you."

Alana didn't answer him. Her eyes turned to her husband.

"Very good,
me
man. You're excused." Sheridan scanned them all, clearly taking note of all their names. The men left like whipped hounds, tails between their legs, mentally counting the precious funds in their bank accounts and wondering when Sheridan would drain them away.

After they'd gone, silence rained like hail. Summoning her courage, Alana touched his arm. "Trevor?" she whispered, aching for him to speak to her. "They didn't mean it. They were just stupid young men having a good time. Don't waste another minute thinking about them."

He nodded, still not looking at her. His voice was tight with fury. "I didn't want any of this, you know. It's Mara and Eagan I've fought for. I've never had any desire to socialize with people like you."

"I know that," she answered, hurt by his "people like you," yet understanding it.

"Sometimes I've hidden what I'm most proud of because I didn't want my background to hurt them."

His insecurity moved her, blossoming almost to tenderness. "You mean your brogue? You're not using it now, you know. You only use it when you're angry . . . or when you forget." She thought of the time in bed when he had forgotten. He'd slipped into his brogue and proved he couldn't be the iron-willed creature he wanted to be all the time. For one aching moment, his emotion had run high, and he'd been forced to let down his guard. And she had reveled in the power it had given her.