Lions and Lace (20 page)

"Why should I not? Have you intentions of taking her place?"

"But you're married!" she cried out, unable to believe this man. That he could retain a mistress now meant he truly had no respect for the vows he'd spoken just hours earlier.
And no respect for her.

"In theory, I'm married. In blood and heart and hand, I'm no more married than Eagan."

She stared at him, betrayal and rage crossing her features. Her feelings boiled up until they were almost out of control, but she managed to cover them with her Knickerbocker coolness. It was almost jealousy she felt, she realized after reining in her anger. But she could not be feeling jealousy because that was completely illogical. To be jealous would mean she had some feeling for this man who stood before her, and she had none.
Nor would she, ever.
"I see," she stated, her voice even and cold.

He looked at her rigid, defiant figure, and the muscle in his jaw relaxed a bit. "We can each have our vices in this marriage, as long as they're carried out in a discreet manner."

"You certainly have yours," she whispered, unable to stop herself.

He walked up to her, anger driven deep into his face. "What does that have to do with you?"

He took her arm, and she tried to jerk it away. Unsuccessful—his grip was like a manacle—she quieted but refused to meet his eyes. "This has nothing to do with me," she hissed. "And if you ever catch a man making love to me, you tell yourself the same thing."

"You almost sound jealous. Perhaps it was that kiss on the train—"

"I should have never let you kiss me! I should have slapped you instead!"

He released a black little laugh. "You'd dare slap me? What, and ruin those frigid, well-schooled little manners? Oh, no,
sweeting
, you wouldn't do that. You haven't the passion for something like that."

His sarcasm drove a hammer through to her heart, destroying her facade of detachment. Before she knew what she was doing, her hand came up and did exactly what he had taunted her to do. When she lowered her hand, her palm stung from hitting his face. Her only satisfaction was that his cheek had to sting worse.

She expected many things then. She certainly expected the burst of Irish temper, even half-expected to be slapped back. What caught her by surprise was the arm that encircled her waist, pulling her against him. His other hand held his cane, but by all evidence, he didn't need it, gauging from the strength of the arm that held her. She struggled against him; his arm held her like an iron band.

"Let go of me," she gasped.

He pulled her farther against him. Her hands reached up to push him away, but when they met with the warm muscle and crisp hair of his chest, they seemed to lose much of their strength. She could hardly believe a man could be so supple and yet so . . . hard.

Obviously angered, obviously relishing the thought of frightening her, he spoke down to her as if she were a truant child. "Let me explain something to you, Alana. This is a business deal. You do something like that to me again, and I'll see you pay with your little marble Knickerbocker ass."

"You provoked me." She struggled in his embrace.

"Yes, and you provoked me."

"I've never done that!" she retorted, clawing down his warm chest.

"Shall I show you?" he whispered, letting go of her waist and running his hand up the curves of her side. He grasped her jaw and tilted her head up. When she met his gaze, she was caught.

Her lips parted softly as he lowered his. She should have screamed in defiance, but as she well knew, his kisses had the effect of a drug. The more he kissed her, the more she wanted to be kissed.

His mouth was almost upon hers, and she unconsciously lifted her head to meet him. Her lips seemed to ache with the need to feel his pressing against them. Her mouth felt empty and unfulfilled, longing against her will for the caress of his tongue. He was just about to give her everything she so mindlessly desired when a noise came from behind them. Trevor's head snapped up, and a scowl washed away the restless desire on his face.

"Oh! The saints preserve us! I'm so mixed up in this huge house! Forgive
me,
miss—
er
—
Mrs. Sheridan!
I was
lookin
' for one of your trunks! Me heavens, I didn't know!"

Feeling as if she truly had been drugged, Alana stumbled from Trevor's hold and turned to Margaret, who stood beyond in the rose and ivory bedroom. The little maid's cheeks were bright red, and she looked around the room as if searching for a place to hide.

"It's all right, Margaret," said Alana, her voice still thick with desire. "You've done nothing wrong," she finished, giving Trevor an
embarrassed
glance.

"I'll wait for you in the dressing room, miss,
er
, Mrs. Sheridan." Margaret curtsied and ran for the nearest door. When it happened to be the water closet, Alana thought Trevor might explode. He took an angry step toward her bedroom, but Alana put her hands on his chest and stopped him. Margaret, fully flustered now, curtsied again, her cheeks like fire. She took one look at her new master's face and ran to another door. This time finding the dressing room, she shut the door behind her with a slam of relief.

In the ensuing quiet, Alana discovered her hands once more on Trevor's chest. She pulled them away as if touching a hot iron. Her palms curled as if hurting, or holding the sensation.

"Good night," she said softly, and turned to walk away.

He touched her arm. "Do you want me to move you to another room?"

She didn't know why this offer wounded her. Perhaps it just further chipped away at her beliefs in marriage, but somehow when he'd said the words, they stung in a more personal way.
"If you find it necessary.
But I can promise you I won't bother you again now that I know this is your bedroom."

"I could bother you, you know."

"I trust you," she whispered.

"That's your first mistake."

She looked up at him, startled by his candor, but there seemed nothing left to say, so she retired to her bedroom, shutting those intricate gilt doors firmly behind her.

Margaret had already laid out a peignoir on the massively draped Louis Philippe couch when Alana joined her in the dressing room. Both women were too embarrassed to converse, so Alana obediently slipped into the sheer bit of peachy froth that was a part of her bridal trousseau. Though she wasn't disturbed by letting Margaret see her in such attire—her maid had seen her naked every day she'd been with her—Alana was still disturbed by the alluring gown. When she peeked into the cheval mirror, she could see her nipples, covered only by a mist of peach silk. Trevor had picked out her trousseau. He'd certainly done a fine job, leaving her with no modesty.

" '
Tis
a good thing you're now married, ma'am. It surely
ain't
fittin
' for a young miss to be
wearin
' such a thing." Margaret shook her head at the spectacle in the mirror.

Alana nodded her agreement and dismissed her for the night. Morning was almost here. It had been an incredibly long day, and she was glad to go to bed, even more to cover her nakedness with the heavy satin quilts. When Margaret had turned the gaslights out and departed, Alana thought she'd go right to sleep, but she didn't. She stared through the darkness at those enormous gilded doors to Trevor's room and thought about the man on the other side. He wouldn't come to her room. She couldn't imagine their ever becoming so intimate. If anything, they were too much alike. They were both restrained and logical. And logic told her now that falling in love was not part of their arrangement.

But no matter how she tried to deny the strangeness of the situation, she tossed and turned and stared at the gilded doors. Again and again she pictured him standing just beyond those doors, his hand raised to grasp the doorknob, his face taut with determination. If he came to her that night, there were a thousand scenarios, everything from the crude to the
sublime, that
could be played out between them. Lying in the darkness, with dawn just tipping the horizon, it seemed she thought of them all, but not one came to fruition. In the end she fell asleep, depressed with the knowledge that her wedding night had come and gone. And never had she imagined it could be so lonely.

"But I don't want to go to Newport! Why is Trevor making me, Eagan! It's his honeymoon. I feel so stupid tagging along!" Mara made this announcement just as her trunks were being carried down the huge marble staircase of the Fifth Avenue chateau. The extra servants were already at Grand Central, and the Sheridan Pullman was again ready for another trip north.

Mara looked at her departing trunks in disgust. She turned to her brother. "I know you know more about this than you're telling me, Eagan, so confess now or it'll go hard with you." She knitted her dark brows together and gave Eagan such a wrathful expression, he couldn't help but laugh.

"Mara, me
sweeting
," he said, putting his arm around his sister's shoulder and leading her into the drawing room, "let me tell you a few things about Trevor's marriage. The first is
,
Trevor doesn't know what's good for him. Did you know that?"

Mara shook her black curls.

"And did you know that Trevor is somewhat less than perfect—yes, even in spite of the fact that he is related to me?"

"Oh, you're just teasing me." She pushed him away. "You're not going to tell me a thing—"

"Oh, yes I
am,
sweeting
. You sit there like a good girl, and I'm going to tell you everything you need to know about your trip to Newport and Trevor's marriage."

"All right, tell me," Mara demanded once she was seated.

"Do you like Alana?" Eagan began.

"Yes. She's very nice."

"I agree."

Mara started to say something, but Eagan held up his hand. "Mara, our brother's marriage is in trouble, and we might be the only ones to save it"

Mara gasped, despair clouding her piquant features.

"There are things you don't know about our brother." Eagan turned from her to impress her with the gravity of the situation. Yet a wicked twinkle appeared in his amused emerald eyes when he peeked at her. "I tell you this because it may help you help him."

"What don't I know about Trevor?"

"He's shy." Eagan had to bite his lip to keep from laughing.

Confusion crossed her face. "Trevor is
shy?"
she repeated incredulously. She looked around as if trying to comprehend what he had told her. When Eagan still hadn't turned around to face her, she suddenly became wise. "Oh, you goose! You're pulling my leg. Trevor isn't shy!"

Eagan collected himself, though it took a will of iron. He whipped around. "But he is, Mara, and it's going to ruin his marriage. You've got to believe it. I'm counting on you to help him. You've got to make sure when you're in Newport that he and his bride spend every living minute together, or he may never get over this 'affliction.' "

"Eagan, Trevor isn't shy! He's made all this money, and he sees men at the exchange all the time—"

"But
it's
women
that put him into a fright. He's deathly afraid of women."

"But I saw him with that actress friend of his, Miss Daisy Dumont, once. He was a bit drunk at the time and didn't notice that I was in the library. He pulled her in there and kissed her. Eagan, I recall quite clearly that he was not shy. Why, without even asking her permission, his hand went up unhesitatingly and squeezed her—"

"Forget that you even saw that!" Eagan snapped, horrified that his virginal little sister could be so knowledgeable about such activities, especially in the household. "Why didn't you tell someone about this?"

Mara looked a bit surprised. "Who was I supposed to tell?"

"Well, you should have told
someone!
No doubt seeing that—" he began to stumble over his words, "well, seeing such a thing, no doubt, has brought many unanswered questions to mind—"

"No it hasn't."

Eagan looked as if he were totally stumped, as if he didn't know whether to be relieved that she wasn't pelting him with awkward questions or terrified that she might know more than she should. A faint blush came to his face when he realized that Trevor might not have been the only culprit to give Mara a show. Unable to inquire about that, he brushed the topic aside altogether and began anew. "Forget about Daisy Dumont, Mara. She's not of the same class as Alana. You see that now, don't you?"