Lions and Lace (19 page)

He seemed to like this almost too much, for his kiss became even more ferocious until she was bent back against the bar, accepting thrust after thrust of his tongue with the delirium of an addict. His hands caressed her corseted rib cage, but longing for something more substantial to fill his palms, he pushed them up until he almost reached her bosom. When he'd just reached the bottoms of her breasts, a warning went off in her head, one loud enough for her to hear. Wild, irrational panic beat through her veins, and she ripped her lips from his.

Panting, she stared at him, unable to believe what he had almost done. They stood suspended in their embrace, the only movement the erotic rhythm of the train beneath their feet.

When he straightened, reality came down on her like a bucketful of water. She was arched against the bar like a
trollop,
her head wantonly lolled backward, her lips eager for another kiss. Horror filled her expression, not because he had kissed her but because she had wanted so desperately to be kissed.
And by this man.
A man who hated her.

He looked down at her, studying the self-loathing that played across her features. Misreading the reasons for it, he wiped his face of any emotion and retrieved his whiskey. Then, as if he couldn't help himself, he said in a thick, earthy, contemptuous brogue, "So, Miss
Kickabocker
, is that what y'
foin
ladies do when
yer
hard-up
fer
a man?"

She could have slapped him. Betrayal crossed her face, hurt too, but she quickly covered them both with a cold mask of ice. As if she were the Queen of England, she turned and regally walked back to the sofa, not saying a word, her cheeks and eyes saying too much.

She stared once more out the window, and a silence came down on the Pullman. Numb, horrified, and too proud to lick her wounds, she sat like a mannequin posed at a funeral. She tasted whiskey in her mouth, and the thought that the whiskey could have come from him only unraveled her further. A shaking hand ran over her lips as if to draw the taste away. It persisted, cruelly reminding her of that kiss.

They were in the countryside now, well past 125th Street. Some would have been cheered by the old colonial farms and neat white pickets that ran for miles. The two in the private Pullman that bulleted north along the tracks were not. He sat drinking silently in the corner. His wife stared sightlessly out the window, inconsolable with the knowledge that her new husband had the ability to make her feel things that could only cause catastrophe.

At eight that evening a friendly black porter served them a multicourse dinner that Alana hardly touched. It took all her courage to sit across from Sheridan at the Pullman's cramped damask-draped dining table after that kiss. Excusing herself early, she sat uncomfortably in one of the velvet sofas until the
clickety
-clack of the train lulled her to sleep.

The locomotive lurched to a halt well after midnight. She awoke and looked around, unsure of the time or where she was. The Pullman was dim, lit only by the gaslights of the platform. Sitting up in the darkness, she pulled away whatever was covering her and looked for Sheridan. He stood across from her, alert and intense, staring out the windows, the gaslights silhouetting his profile. Her thoughts were still jumbled from sleep, so she just watched him, unable to ask if they were in Newport.

Even in the darkness, he was compelling, an unlikely combination of the forbidding and forlorn. When she saw his lonely formal figure absent-mindedly clutching that lion-headed stick, she felt a strange impulse to put her arms around him. Yet another part of her wanted to flee. He had the unique ability to cause irreconcilable conflict. He was one of the most unfeeling men she had ever met. On the other hand, there was something about him that moved
her, that
connected with her so deeply, he seemed to possess the power to mold her like clay. His cold contrivance
of this marriage had proven that. There was every reason, from the callous to the kind, not to marry this Irishman, but she had gone through with it. His manipulations had been brilliant, yet if she examined it more closely, she wondered if there wasn't another reason she'd agreed to it, the same reason she hadn't fought when he'd kissed her.

A blush came to her cheeks as she thought about that kiss. She longed to say she'd hated it, but that would be foolish when her actions had so clearly stripped away that lie. She'd all but made a wanton of herself. Anson had tried to kiss her like that once, but when his tongue had run along her closed teeth, she'd wanted nothing more than to make him stop, and she had. With Trevor, even in the church, she'd felt something else entirely. The desire not only to continue but go further had been almost uncontrollable. When his lips touched hers, a strange kind of magic happened. Suddenly she'd felt like
a some
kind of wild animal who at last recognized her mate.

But, she reminded herself, taking one last look at his dark figure, this marriage was nothing more than a contract, an impersonal, calculated business transaction the likes of which he made every day on Wall Street. If she failed to remember that and got her emotions tangled up with him, she had no doubt at all he'd treat her like any other stockbroker. He'd crush her. Indeed, he already had.

"
Newpaht
!
Newpaht
!" the
carman
cried in a Boston accent when he stepped into the Pullman. The black porter went ahead of him and turned up the gaslights.

It took Alana a moment to adjust her eyes to the light. Then she looked down and saw what had been covering her. She'd thought it was some kind of light blanket, one she couldn't recall pulling over her. To her dismay she found it was a man's black frock coat. She held it out to see if it was true. It was indeed her husband's frock coat.

"My coat doesn't bite," Trevor commented.

She looked up at him, unsure of what he meant. Then she realized how she was holding his coat. "It was kind of you—" she began helplessly, but he turned from her.

"It's late. Our carriage is waiting. Let's be off." He stepped to her and shrugged into the coat, a tight, hostile expression on his face.

She opened her mouth, desperately wanting to say something, to thank him or deny what he thought. But she took one look at his face and decided against it. There would be no changing his mind tonight.

"I'll need my cloak," she mumbled, looking around for it. He nodded to the porter who stood ready by the door, her blue velvet cloak in hand. She stood, and the porter walked over to drape it over her shoulders. Footman and servants had been helping her with her cloak as long as she could remember, but suddenly she didn't like the foreign hands upon her. It now was her husband's task to place her cloak around her shoulders, and as the porter did it, she looked at Trevor, longing shamelessly etched on her face.

Bellevue Avenue was quiet as their carriage rolled along, headed for
Fenian
Court, Sheridan's mansion. When she'd been a girl, she and
Christabel
had spent many a happy day walking along Bailey's Beach searching for seashells or just sitting on the cliffs at
Brenton
Point watching the surf toss upon the rocky black coast.

Ten years ago Newport had been an entirely different town.
Gingerbreaded
houses with wide breezy verandas lined Bellevue, and in June enormous powder-blue hydrangeas bloomed everywhere, giving the town a homey atmosphere. The resort was favored by Southerners, who came north to escape the sweltering heat back
home,
and summering Bostonians who wanted a more social atmosphere than Cape Cod.

But everything was quickly changing. The donkey carts and picnics of summer were fast being replaced by the societal stratagems of the Four Hundred. If democracy was forced upon them in Manhattan for the sake of husbands' business dealings, it was not in Newport. Wives were the
unquestionable rulers of this land, and with their husbands' money, the skeletons of monstrously huge fifty-room "cottages" were already obscuring the ocean view.

From the carriage, Alana looked at the looming shadows of the mansions, impressed with their size yet saddened by what they represented. The old Newport was going the way of the cow pastures along Bellevue, and an even more rigorous round of exclusivity was coming. She tired of the game. It was all a facade, anyway. She knew better than anyone else that behind all the pretentions lay an appalling amount of insecurity and just plain fear.

It was ironic to discover that
Fenian
Court was the most pretentious of them all.

They turned left and trotted down a drive
sentineled
by budding elms.
Fenian
Court, the fabled manse,
lay
ahead, its Louis XV styling apparent even in the gaslight. Tons of marble had been imported to build the Petit
Trianon
look-alike. It had every French rococo detailing: Hardly a straight line wasn't forced into a curve; everything that could be gilded was. Even the stairs sweeping up to the house were a cliché—marble, with a curving wrought-iron banister iced by gleaming bronze handrails.

The size was breathtaking. She'd heard the Sheridan "cottage-by-the-sea" consisted of seventy-eight rooms, not including the outbuildings, such as the boathouse, stables, and garden houses. From the moment Alana had heard about it, she'd amusingly dubbed it "Bold
Fenian
Court."

Their welcome was as well rehearsed as a ballet. The majordomo took her cape; the secretary handed Trevor the closing ticker tape. Sensing her fatigue, the majordomo expedited her to her rooms. Trevor was asked if he wished to send any telegraphs. When she was led away, her husband gave her a stiff bow, dismissing her with what appeared to be utter indifference.

Hurt despite telling
herself
otherwise, she went to her suite, walking through marble corridors fit for Marie Antoinette. But she was unable to comprehend the majesty of the interior because of her exhaustion and her roiling emotions. So much had happened to her today, and no matter how she rationalized that this marriage would be only a memory in as little as a year, her instincts told her that her life had irrevocably changed course.

Her bedroom, contrary to what she'd seen of
Fenian
Court, was decorated in refreshingly restrained tones of rose and ivory. Left alone by the majordomo, Alana sought out her dressing room but was undecided which door it was. There were several nondescript doors to her left, then a pair of ornate gilded doors to her right. Believing the gilded ones led to her dressing room, she flung them open, only to discover that her husband's room lay beyond.

When she saw the room was empty, she let out an audible sigh. The last thing she wanted was to stumble in on that cold Irishman while he was preparing for bed. She was about to leave when suddenly it struck her how different Trevor's room was compared to the rest of the house. Standing in the middle of an ancient Tabriz carpet, she looked around, curious about the master's domain. A cheerful fire blazed in the hearth, taking away the chill of the May night. The mellow walnut paneling added more warmth, and during the daytime there would be a breathtaking view of
PJiode
Island Sound from the eastern windows. The drapes were a rich but plain brown linen dobby; the blankets, a striking heavy wool tartan. In the privacy of his quarters, the ostentation had disappeared, replaced instead with handsome simplicity and no-nonsense function.

Her gaze wandered back to the fireplace. A chair of gray-blue leather awaited its owner with the morning's neatly bound
Chronicle
resting on the ottoman. The master's walking stick leaned casually against the arm. Her eyes widened, and she took a protective step backward. She'd never seen Trevor without that stick in hand. If he'd laid it down, then he must be—

"What are you doing here?" a familiar voice barked from across the room.

Stunned, Alana looked up to find Trevor standing in a doorway holding a towel as if he'd just finished washing. He'd stripped down to his trousers, and two of the top buttons were undone. Naked, his chest seemed even
more broad
than in a shirt. Droplets of water glistened like sweat against the dark hair sprinkled down his front.

When he saw where her gaze was drawn, he rubbed himself down with the towel. "I asked what you're doing here," he snapped, tossing the towel on the bed.

"I—I—" she stammered like a fool.

Hesitating, as if he didn't really want to do it, he took a step toward his walking stick and defied her to speak. His jaw was so
tense,
it looked as if it might crack. He strode to the fireplace, each step more awkward and difficult than the last.

"Why, you're hurt," she whispered, shocked by the discovery. Her instincts drove her to his side to assist him. This made him so angry that if he'd been one fraction less the gentleman he was, she wondered if he wouldn't have struck her.

"Get away from me," he snarled, grabbing his stick.

"But you're hurt," she repeated, her hands falling helplessly to her sides.

"I'm not hurt," he bit out. "I hate to inform you, my girl, but you can add 'gimp' to your husband's other sterling attributes."

She let this news sink in as he clutched the lion-headed stick and strode to another corner of the room. Watching him, she finally saw that what she'd mistaken for stiffness and formality in his bearing was not that at all but a physical dependence on that stick.
Now she could see that he leaned too heavily upon it, used it overly much for just a fashionable accouterment to his attire.
Though he hid it well, there was no disputing the evidence of what she'd just seen. This big, strong, intimidating man was a cripple.

"Is that why you fell in Delmonico's?" she asked quietly, remembering how she'd thought she'd been the one to put them in the predicament the priest had found them in. Now she could recall her legs entangled with that walking stick.

"Yes," he
answered,
his back to her as he looked out at the blackness through the windows, the lighthouse on
Sachuest
Point the only break in the inky nightscape.

She nodded, though he couldn't see her. "As much as that scene benefited you, I didn't think you had planned it."

"No."

"How—"

Before she could get the words out, he whipped around and faced her. "What business is that of yours?" he
asked,
a nasty tone to his voice. "And what business do those idiot servants have putting you in that goddamned room connected to mine so that you can wander in here and dare ask me these questions?"

His tone tore her to shreds. "I think they believe I'm your wife." She could barely choke out the words.

He calmed, but a muscle still clenched his jaw.

"Haven't I a right to know what affects you?"

His dark green-brown eyes filled with contempt. "Are we to share this marital bed?" He tossed a glance at his heavy Jacobean-revival bedstead. "Are you going to live with me as my wife?" He snorted in disgust. "No, that's not the bargain we made. You're no more my wife than my mistress back in Manhattan is. So you've no right to know anything about me."

This last revelation about his life nearly knocked her to the ground. Her horror and surprise was beyond her ability to hide. "You have a mistress?" she gasped.
"Even now?"