Lions and Lace (26 page)

Trevor escorted Alana to her bedroom door. They exchanged few words, then Alana disappeared into her room, and Mara watched her brother's forlorn figure march stiffly to his. There'd been a second when Mara was sure her brother had the impulse to kiss his wife just as she'd seen him kiss Daisy. It was a movement of his hand on Alana's waist perhaps, or just her overactive imagination. Whatever, the kiss had been aborted, and the two had sought chilly solace in their separate chambers.

Mara's sapphire eyes saddened at the realization that her brother's brilliant marriage was in trouble. Her brow furrowed as she tried to think of a way to save it. When the idea came, her brow cleared, and she ran to her bedroom to write Eagan.

Her letter began:
Drastic measures tomorrow . . .

Trevor came down the next morning visibly pleased to see the calling cards left on the mahogany Townsend and Goddard block-front chest in
Fenian
Court's enormous marble foyer. The
stack of cards were
proof of Mara's success the evening before, and he seemed content to sift through them, noting with satisfaction all those illustrious names.

But when he came to the last card in the stack, his expression abruptly changed. His dark moody eyes turned thunderous. Looking briefly at the writing on the back, he put the card in his pocket, summoned the majordomo, and gave him explicit instructions—essentially, to drag his wife downstairs to have breakfast with the master.

Alana awoke with Margaret standing over her bed holding out her dressing gown. The little maid informed her that her presence was requested downstairs immediately. Irritated yet intrigued, Alana dressed in a sienna-colored watered silk day gown and departed for the sunny breakfast room.

The master's disposition, however, was anything but sunny. Trevor gave her one black glance before she was assisted to her seat by the majordomo. The intimate breakfast room was hung with lime-green taffeta, the same silk and tassels festooned at the many windows. But even this cheery color couldn't wash away the pall of the master's mood as he stared at her in dead silence. The mahogany eating table sat only six, and when she went to take her napkin, he seemed to take comfort in being so close that he could see every
subdety
of her expression.

Alana looked down at her plate and found Anson Stevens's calling card staring up at her as if it were a coiled snake. Her eyes briefly flickered to Trevor before she found the courage to pick it up.

"He wrote you a note on the back," he bit out.

Alana glanced up and saw the servants quietly skulk out of the room. She turned the card over and read:
I
don't believe you.

She looked up. Trevor's face was etched with anger. His eyes fairly glittered with the power of his emotions. "He seems to be confused, Alana. I'm not sure he understands the sanctity of our marriage." His barely leashed fury mocked his restrained words.

She placed the card on the tablecloth. "I'm famished. I hope we eat soon."

"What doesn't he believe?"

This question threw her. Her expression faltered. She couldn't tell him what she'd said to Anson. She'd rather die.

"What doesn't he believe, Alana?" Trevor prompted, his anger becoming more ominous.

She ignored the question. "The servants are returning soon, I hope?" It was the wrong thing to do.

Trevor took note of her
noncommunicative
stance, looked down at his coffee, and calmly took a sip. "If Stevens thinks he may cuckold me, you may want to mention I'll see him dead first." The words were delivered with such
ice,
it took a moment for Alana to think of a comeback.

Her eyes sparked with fury. "How dare you cast stones at Anson—or
me.
You've no right at all. Or have you forgotten our dear Miss Daisy Dumont?"

"Daisy was my mistress before I knew you," he bit out.

"And I knew Anson before I knew you. What's sauce for the gander is sauce for the goose, I say."

He stood, his chair screeching back on the highly polished parquet. "Daisy has nothing to do with this. I've always conducted my affairs with utmost discretion. Stevens, on the other hand, wants to make a fool of me. And I will not let him. Am I making myself clear?"

"Could you possibly believe that something in this world does not concern you? Oh, I know that's a shocking statement, my great Atlas, but have you ever considered that this might not be some grand plan to ruin you? Did you ever consider that perhaps Anson possessed some tenderness for me and is having a difficult time relinquishing it?"

He was obviously not immune to her sarcasm. Slowly, with barely leashed fury, he said, "I'm your husband, and as your husband I've certain rights under the law. One of them is the right to keep you from other men, even if I must beat you to do it."

Her body trembled with anger. Standing, she said, "And shall I go after you with a frying pan the first night you desire to see your little Daisy?"

"If you're planning on filling her shoes, then speak up now, and I'll have no more to do with Daisy."

His offer was clearly a dare. Her gaze locked with his for one sizzling second, and she was almost tempted to push them both over the edge and take up the gauntlet. But logic came to the rescue. She threw down her napkin, nearly running over Mara in her desperate flight back to her suite.

It was almost evening when she received Mara's note. All day Alana had paced in her room—angry, hurt,
frustrated
. When the girl's request that she meet her in the gazebo came, she relished the escape. She left her room, not bothering with a shawl.

Sweeping down the lawn tinted with lavender shadows of the statuary, Alana could almost feel her spirits lifted by the beauty around her. The sun was just disappearing behind Bellevue Avenue, and the sea was a deep, placid indigo. Behind her,
Fenian
Court rose like a white marble monolith defying the sea to claim it.

The boathouse was empty as she made her way through. Once on the pier, she looked to the end, expecting to see Mara step from the gazebo.

Yet Trevor appeared. "What are you doing here?" he asked warily.

"Where is Mara?"

His face turned grim as he looked behind her down the dock to the door leading to the boathouse. It immediately slammed closed, and a key turned in the lock. Next, Alana saw Mara running up the lawn to the house.

"She hasn't had a whipping in years, but tonight I'll see she gets one," Trevor vowed, his face taut with anger.

"She's locked us out here!" Alana gasped.

"Eagan told her to do this.
All that hand-holding business.
I knew she was up to no good the evening she arrived. She lured me here with a note."

"She did the same to me." Alana looked down at the dark blue waters swirling beneath the dock. It was much too deep to wade ashore. "You'll have to swim, Trevor. I'm sorry, but of course a lady in my position . . . well, I never learned how."

He met her gaze and answered cuttingly, "I can't swim."

Her eyes widened. "How can that be? I've heard you're a remarkable yachtsman. The
Colleen
is renowned because of your skill."

"If I'm such a good yachtsman, it's because I don't want to drown," he answered through clenched teeth.

In despair, she looked around. The gazebo loomed in the foreground; she was unable to think of an escape.

"We'll just have to bide our time until the bloody brat lets us out," he said quietly.

Her shoulders slumped in defeat. He motioned toward the gazebo, and together they walked to it.

The minutes stretched like hours as the light slowly seeped from the sky. The gas was turned up at
Fenian
Court, the numerous windows glittering like diamonds. It was a beautiful sight to sit in the dark and see such a grand palace illuminated on the shore—but the night air was growing cool, and she shivered, especially when she looked at Trevor, who sat in the shadows.

"Shall she keep us here all night?" she whispered, her voice hesitant.

"I bloody hope not," was his terse answer.

"You've got to explain the situation to her, Trevor. She obviously thinks our marriage is something it's not."

"I don't want her disillusioned."

"Our annulment won't disillusion her?"

He was quiet. Though she couldn't see his eyes, she knew with all her womanly instincts that they were trained on her. "An annulment doesn't quite admit the cynicism that this arrangement does."

She nodded. It was one thing to end it when there was at least an attempt at a marriage. It was another to make a marriage a farce from its inception. Depression settled over her, and she no longer felt like talking. She turned away, finding solace in the inky landscape and biting sea breeze.

"You're cold," he commented.

She hugged herself. "I didn't think I'd be here all night."

"Here." He was so
close,
she could feel his breath in her hair. He placed his frock coat over her, his large warm hands lingering on her delicate shoulders.

His touch paralyzed her. She couldn't face him to say thank you.

"Why didn't you marry Stevens?" he whispered, his voice inquisitive yet harsh.

Having no better explanation, she said, "Anson wasn't the man for me."

"How could anyone be more your kind than that man?
He bloody reeks with good breeding."

Ignoring his sarcasm, she closed her eyes and tried to picture the man in her dreams. For so long she had imagined what he might have
been,
what she wanted him to be. She could always conjure up that dream at a moment's notice and immediately feel its emotion. Now, for some reason, it was difficult. It all seemed so far away, like a memory from another life. "There are traits other than good breeding that I desire more, contrary to what you believe," she parried.

"Such as?"

She took a fortifying breath. "I want a kind man. I want him gentle, intelligent, strong. His good breeding—or the amount of money in his pocket—makes no difference to me at all."

He turned ominously silent, clearly feeling her jab. "This man you describe—is he the one you saw in Brooklyn the day before our wedding?"

She spun around, shock leaving her speechless. He knew about Brooklyn! Her heart took a leap. Had she sacrificed herself for nothing? The thought nearly killed her.

Wishing she could make out his face in the dark, she gasped, "You told me you would not delve into my affairs! Have you followed me into Brooklyn?" Growing hysterical, she cried, "I only married you because you promised me you'd leave me alone!"

"I don't know why you went to Brooklyn." In the darkness he reached out and touched her cheek. "I only know that we're married now, and with every day, I like that promise less."

"You can't renege." She turned away, disliking the feelings that his touch summoned in her.

"Tell me you won't go there again."

She pulled away, fear building in her chest. "No. I must go there again."

He paused, and even the lap of the sea against the pilings couldn't drown out the fury in his silence. "How well I now understand Stevens's frustration. Does he know about Brooklyn?"

"No one does." She grasped his arm, acutely aware of the power of the muscles bulging beneath his shirtsleeve. "I beg of you—don't delve into my life. I'm doing all that I can to help your sister. Please, just leave me alone."

"Answer me one thing. Is it this man you visit there? Have you a lover there?"

"No," she said, desperate to have his promise.

"How can I be sure? You seemed so well acquainted with this man you describe."

"Believe me, this is none of your affair. You must stay out of this and never follow me again!"

"Alana!" He shook her. "What am I to think? If you tell me nothing, I can only think the worst!"

She could no longer hide her despair. Bitterly, she said, "The man I've described doesn't exist. Don't you know that?"

"He's not Anson?"

"He's no one. He lives within my imagination, and there I fear he'll stay for the rest of my life." Her voice broke.

The silence between them was leaden. It was several moments before his hands loosened their steely grip.

"Now do you believe me?" she asked, defeated and angry.

He stared down at her in the dark. "Yes," he whispered.

"Promise me we'll never discuss this again."

"No."

She started, unable to believe his audacity. Had he no morals at all that he could break a promise so easily? "I married you to secure my privacy. We had an arrangement. If the terms have changed, you should have informed me before now."

"When I made my proposal, I had your dossier in front of me. I thought I knew everything about you. You were the classic New York elite, from your Washington Square residence to your tasteful little tea parties you held every Monday afternoon. But now I find this secret of yours eats away at me, and I can't help but wonder if that secret is the one thing that makes you human."