Lions and Lace (23 page)

Alana looked down at the blurred image of Mara as she wept on her shoulder, and she couldn't stop herself from comparing her to Christal. Both girls had been forced to question everything around them at a tender age, even their self-worth. As Alana hugged her, she became even more determined that both Mara and Christal would overcome their circumstances and thrive. They must. "Mara," she said gently, "the world is not always kind. But you can't let it defeat you. You must go with us tonight. I promise you, Trevor and I'll do everything we can to make sure you aren't hurt again."

"They'll call me a biddy, just like they call all their Irish serving girls," she sobbed.

"No they won't. They wouldn't dare." Especially not now, Alana thought derisively, after they'd personally felt the damage the Sheridan wrath could bring upon them.

"I'm afraid. What if the women laugh at me?
What if the men won't ask me to dance because I'm—I'm Irish and not good enough?"

Alana kissed the top of her head and hugged her. "Things are changing, Mara. I promise you they'll be polite. And I think when those young men see how pretty you are, they might see being Irish as not such a liability."

"Is that why you fell in love with Trevor?
Because he is so handsome?"
Mara sniffed and accepted the handkerchief that Alana had tucked into her sleeve.

Taken aback, Alana only said, "Trevor is certainly handsome."

"Would you love him if he were not?"

Alana's brow furrowed as she parried this question. Mara wanted assurance, and yet it was impossible to answer her when the first supposition was wrong. She didn't love Trevor. "Your brother is your brother, Mara. It's difficult to separate all the things that make up Trevor Sheridan." Alana looked at her and said what was honestly in her thoughts. "But I will confess this. Though Trevor is an uncommonly good-looking man, there's also a force about him that I find I'm drawn to. If he were less handsome, I have to say I'm not sure I would feel differently about him."

"I knew you loved him! I knew it." Mara impulsively wrapped her arms around Alana and hugged her tightly.

Alana remained motionless, despising the falsehoods she and Trevor were building around them. "I trust we may go back to your bedroom, then, and decide which lovely Parisian gown might be correct for tonight's ball?"

Mara pulled back and wiped her eyes. "I'm still afraid." She looked up at Alana, and
trembled
a smile. "But I think you know best, so I'll do it."

"Growing up's not always so terrible, I promise you." Alana gave her a fragile smile. In her experience, the only good thing about growing up meant an increased ability to numb the pain. But she didn't see such a bleak existence for Mara. Somewhere there was a knight in shining armor for this wild, beautiful spirit.

"Alana, do really think one of the gentlemen will ask me to dance tonight?" Mara tossed her such a worried look, Alana couldn't help but laugh.

She pulled that rebellious jet curl and said, "Truly, Mara, the only problem I see for you, my girl, is which one to choose."

Alana was dressing for the ball when a knock came from the large gilt doors separating the master's suite from hers. It was silly, but upon hearing it she and Margaret stopped in their tracks as if the sound had summoned the executioner.

"Shall I open the door, mum?" Margaret whispered.

Alana paused, still smarting from what had happened that morning. But she'd had all day to prepare for seeing Trevor again, so she pulled on her veneer of ice and said,
"Please do," annoyed that her maid was so intimidated by the master, she felt she had to whisper.

Margaret went to the door, and Alana glanced at her reflection in the pier mirror. She was glad she looked cool and unapproachable. Her gown was an elaborate peacock-blue silk pulled up on the sides with large chartreuse bows and silk bouquets of deep-pink roses. Her slippers were peacock-blue shantung and peeked out beneath a frothy white Guipure lace petticoat. The dress had a
tournure
that was far more elaborate than for daytime, but she'd already sat once, and the bustle was not unmanageable. The only thing left to do was to braid and pin her hair into a coif, for it hung down her back in a thick buttery stream. Not bothering with it now, she nodded to Margaret to open the door.

As expected, Trevor stood there, already dressed in his evening finery of a black swallow-tailed coat and white pique vest. He was impossibly handsome in formal attire, especially when that hard mouth quirked in greeting and those eyes locked with hers, leaving her slightly out of breath. Before she could avoid it, she was stung by the thought that this was how he must look when he took his mistress out.

He entered her bedroom as if it were his domain. Surprise and something she almost wanted to believe was approval gleamed in his eyes as he took in her appearance.
He
especially noted her hair, free and cascading down her back in odd contrast to her rich, complicated clothes.

"Would you have me be
waitin
' for you in the
dressin
' room, Mrs. Sheridan?" Margaret peeped, nervous in the master's company.

Both of them looked at the little maid as if they had almost forgotten she was there. Trevor smiled, a little wickedly. "I don't think your maid likes me, Alana. She's always skittering away whenever I enter the room."

"Oh,
no,
sar
! You're a fine master, you are!" said Margaret. Nonetheless, she took a step backward.

Trevor laughed, clearly enjoying himself at Margaret's expense.

The cad,
thought Alana. "You're excused, Margaret. Why don't you go on downstairs and have some supper. I'll do my own hair tonight."

Margaret nodded,
then
looked at Trevor.

"That's right. Run along,
Pegeen
," he said, using Margaret's Irish pet name affectionately as if he were suddenly sorry he'd caused the little maid anxiety. "In fact, there's a surprise for you downstairs. Your husband, Kevin, just arrived. I heard you were pining for each other, so I summoned him from the house in Manhattan. Go to your true love and put the blush of an Irish rose back into those pretty cheeks."

Margaret gasped. She was so shocked, she could hardly stutter, "Why,
t'ank
you, Mr. Sheridan."

"I don't abide separating man and wife. So go to him. I'm sure he missed you."

"Oh
t'ank
you, Mr. Sheridan!"

He nodded, dismissing her. Margaret
left,
her expression at once awed, grateful, and skittish.

"That was very thoughtful of you," Alana said when the servant's jib door was shut and they were alone. She could hardly believe it. Trevor Sheridan was impossible to pin down. One moment he was behaving like a rogue; the next, a saint.

" '
Twas
nothing," he answered, his face again solemn.

But it was something. For the first time, she'd seen him be kind to a person other than his family. It was clear he liked Margaret despite his bullying. He'd complimented her looks and had been thoughtful enough to bring her husband up from New York.

Alana didn't want to feel the hurt that crept into her heart, but it was impossible to deny. Her husband was more solicitous and friendly to her maid than to her, his wife. She knew she should be grateful to find that Trevor loved and looked
after his own
. But a terrible suspicion cut her to her very soul—he would never be capable of bestowing that kind of affection on her, never allow
himself
to love and look after her.

Despair fell over her when she told herself exactly why that was so. In his eyes, she wasn't good enough. Margaret was good enough because she was
Irish,
being Irish made Margaret almost a relative, a distant relation from the family of Erin. Trevor considered there a bond between them he could never have with his own wife. Alice Diana Van
Alen
was an outsider, not good enough to be one of them because she had the wrong background, the wrong breeding. But just as a poor woman could do nothing about her poverty, she could do nothing about the woman she was. It was a bitter pill to swallow to think that the mess of their marriage had been spawned to gain the
Sheridans
' acceptance into a social set that Trevor in truth rejected out of hand. It was further ironic that he'd been concerned that a husband and wife not be separated when Alana couldn't imagine two people more distant than she and Trevor.

"Mara is waiting for us in the drawing room. She's ready to go," he said, interrupting her dark thoughts.

She watched him walk across her bedroom, careful to hide her frustration and disappointment. Defiantly, she composed herself. She couldn't be anyone other than who she was, no matter how hard she tried. So if he would never accept her, it was best to let her heart freeze over, to see this marriage as a business and get on with it. "Is Mara
dressed?"
she asked, concentrating on their talk that afternoon.

Trevor paused,
then
cracked a rare smile that took her breath away.

"She is. She's beautiful. I thank you."

Still angry about the
Colleen,
determined never to be vulnerable again, she nonetheless released a small sigh of relief. No doubt it wouldn't have gone well for Mara, or herself, if she hadn't been able to talk Mara into the Worth gowns. Pulling her tresses to her shoulder, she said
selfconsciously
, trying to inject a frigid tone, "Well, thank you for the news, but I must have my privacy. I've yet to dress my hair."

"Leave it for now. Come over here." He sat on one of her slipper chairs, resting his cane on his lap. Next to
all the
pink satin and gold fringe, he looked overpoweringly masculine.

She picked her way across the room, careful to avoid looking too anxious. But she was anxious. His intrusion into her bedroom made her nerves fairly sizzle. She didn't want to show any feeling toward him, but her unexpressed emotion at his rejection this morning colored her cheeks a deep cherry red.

When she stood at his side, he reached into his breast pocket and drew out a long case. He handed it to her without further ceremony. "This is a token of my gratitude for helping Mara. I had it sent from Boston this afternoon. If things continue to go well, you can expect more of the same."

Her hands trembled when she opened the leather-lined case. With a sharp intake of breath, she gazed down at a necklace dripping with diamonds. It was so
elaborate,
she couldn't begin to count the number of stones.

"You may keep that, Alana, even after the annulment. It's my gift for a job well done."

She closed the lid. All her determination to remain cold and unemotional doomed to fail. His words were an insult, his actions worse; they gouged her heart. She wanted to shout at him, to slap his face. Instead, she collected herself, vowing he would never shatter the veneer that kept her safe. "I'm sorry. I can't accept this." She held the case out to him, her face a mask of marble. "If you'll excuse me, I must do my hair."

He hid his surprise well. In a deadly calm voice he asked, "Why are you refusing this?"

She did her best to rein in her pain and humiliation, but it was a Herculean task. She didn't like his necklace. She hated it. For
all its
priceless dazzle, it was only another wretched reminder of the mechanics of their marriage. Trevor Sheridan thought he could buy anything with his millions. It was finally time someone disabused him of this notion.

She met his gaze. Hers held more than a touch of reprimand and social superiority. She almost enjoyed saying what she had to say. "Where I come from, Mr. Sheridan, giving jewelry isn't an intimacy to be shared between strangers."

He didn't hide his surprise well this time. He answered, his tone ominous, "You're not a stranger. You're my wife."

"In name only."

He stared at her, obviously stumped for an answer. Clutching the leather case, he snapped, "So I'm to just toss this out the window? If you don't take it, what do you propose I do with it, then?"

"Perhaps your mistress would find it a nice addition to her collection." After the words were out, she could have kicked herself.

His eyes met hers with the serenity of a thunderstorm. Opening the case, he let the blindingly bright diamonds cascade down his hand. He taunted, "No, no. I think Daisy has enough of these."