Lions and Lace (12 page)

She couldn't understand what could make him react this way. She was certainly not such an overly voluptuous woman that her weight falling upon him would cause such a reaction. And when she'd fallen, she was sure she hadn't landed on any vulnerable parts.

She looked down at him again, and this time he was staring back. His face had regained some of its color, and now she wasn't sure she had seen anything in those eyes but detachment and arrogance. She struggled to sit up, and her gown slipped provocatively from her shoulder. His eyes followed, and as if reacting to instinct, his hand, warm and strong, reached out and caressed the fragile flesh of her shoulder.

The shock of his skin against hers was electrifying. She took a sharp intake of breath but didn't pull back. When she looked down at him, he was staring at her gown, especially where her bodice met her sleeve, revealing a portion of one breast, and he studied its fullness with great relish. The undisguised, barely controlled lust on his face was something she'd rarely been exposed to, but while part of her feared it, another part, the part that for some reason was not in a terrible hurry to pull up her sleeve, tingled with a charge that was very much like desire.

"It's a hard bargain you make after all, Alice Diana Van
Alen
," he whispered, his gaze locking with hers. "And I'm wondering why no one has taken you to wife before now."

There was a long pause as they stared at each other, his question unanswered, especially because a knock sounded at the door. Shocked, Alana tried to scramble from him, but he held her where she was. Sheridan called "enter," and instantly Lorenzo Delmonico appeared with a portly aging priest at his side.

When they saw Sheridan and Alana seeming for
all the
world to be tumbling about on the floor, the old priest dropped his jaw and gaped like a schoolboy, and Lorenzo's eyes nearly popped out of his head. The restaurateur looked torn between wanting to stay and hear the sordid explanation and taking the stairs two at a time to the kitchens to relate this choice bit of scandal right away.

"Your guest has arrived, Mr. Sheridan," Lorenzo said elegantly, trying to appear as if it wasn't at all unusual to speak to a patron lying prone on the carpet. "Shall I bring more wine?"

Mortified, Alana looked down at Sheridan. She'd expected him to look as ashamed as she was, but he flashed
her a
Cheshire-cat smile, and his dark eyes gleamed with amusement. She knew then she was doomed. Discovering them like this, the priest would have no choice but to marry them and save them from the wicked sins of the flesh.

With amazingly strong arms, Sheridan lifted her from him and took his walking stick. He rose to his feet stiffly, then held out his hand and helped her. When she stared mutely at the old priest, Sheridan discreetly reminded her of her state of dishabille by pulling up her sleeve and covering her bared shoulder. His hand felt like fire, and she colored from the tips of her toes to her ears.

"Will you be so kind as to allow us our privacy?" Sheridan asked Lorenzo pointedly.

Lorenzo, remembering himself, said, "Of course, sir," and left the saloon. He looked disappointed. If he were not the professional that he was, Alana was convinced Lorenzo would have been on his hands and knees outside the door trying to listen through the keyhole.

"Mr. Sheridan, I believe now what you told me. You must marry this girl . . . before you pay with your soul." The priest's words were like a death sentence.

Alana began to deny what he thought, but Sheridan interrupted her. "We want to be married immediately, don't we, love," he said, daring her to disobey.

She remained mute.

"Can you perform the ceremony here, Father?" Sheridan turned to the priest.

Father Donegal looked supremely uncomfortable. It was bad enough trying to convince this powerful man to stay on the right path while in the shadows of the confessional. Face-to-face, it was difficult to summon the courage. "I've already waived publishing the banns for your marriage on Saturday, Mr. Sheridan. If I marry you tonight, I'll have to answer to the bishop. He'll be most displeased."

"
It's marry
tonight or my soul be damned. Look at my bride-to-be, Father. Can you blame me if my will is not my own?" Sheridan was being really wicked now. Alana looked at him, dismayed that he would so mislead a priest. But when she met his gaze, she was left with the feeling that he was not being entirely untruthful.

Father Donegal glanced at Alana's mussed hair and sumptuous gown. His gaze finally rested on her face, but then he quickly looked away as if he were thinking thoughts he shouldn't. "You must not make me anger the bishop," he said.

Sheridan's words were coaxing and slick, like silk over steel. "Perhaps I know a way to soothe the bishop's ire. I see construction on the cathedral has resumed. Will the bishop accept another donation for St. Patrick's? I, more than anyone, want to see him made archbishop."

The priest looked pained.

"You may tell him I'll have my bank officer visit him tomorrow." He looked at Alana. "But tonight I must marry this girl."

It was a bit of a moral dilemma, but politically there was no alternative. The bishop must have his cathedral. And he must feed the orphans at Five Points. "Shall there be another gift to St. Brendan's?" he asked.

Sheridan nodded.

"I'll marry you, then," the priest conceded.

"Excellent." Sheridan smiled, and Alana was struck by what a handsome rogue he really was. And he was a rogue, for his enjoyment was entirely at her expense.

"Are you ready now?" Father Donegal removed a small Bible from beneath his cassock.

He opened it to the Sacrament of Marriage, but before she could stop herself, Alana cried out, "Wait."

Sheridan pulled her back and said to the priest, "If I may have a word with my
fiancée
, Father?"

Father Donegal nodded and Sheridan took her to the opposite corner of the saloon. He whispered, "What's it to be, Alana?
The
front page of the
New York Chronicle}
Believe me, I probably could leak a thing or two to the
Times
and the
Herald
if that would be to your liking."

She hesitated, desperate to fight what was happening yet powerless to do anything about it. After a moment, she nodded, but before she allowed him to lead her back to the priest, she grasped his
coatsleeve
and said in a trembling, angry voice, "I'll marry you, Mr. Sheridan. But under these conditions only: that I
be
allowed my own money and that my withdrawals not be answerable to you. And you must promise that from this day forth, whatever secrets I possess are mine and are never to be asked about or inquired into. Do you promise?"

"I promise," Sheridan answered easily.

She lowered her head, relieved that he had promised, furious that she was being forced into this. Numbly she allowed him to lead her back to the priest. Lorenzo and a busboy fresh from Sicily were summoned to be witnesses,
and after they were sworn to secrecy, Father Donegal resumed his position in front of the couple and began.

"What is your name, child?" he asked.

"Alana—" She faltered, still not believing that this was happening. "Alice Diana Van
Alen
."

Father Donegal stared at her. "You're not Catholic, are you, Miss Van
Alen
?"

She shook her head. "My family has always belonged to the Reformed Dutch Church."

"I see." He lowered his Bible. "Then I must ask you to swear in the name of Jesus Christ our Savior that you will raise the children of this union as Catholics."

Alana swallowed, her numbness melting into panic. She wanted to cry out that there were to be no children of this union. And now she was being forced to promise before God that she would raise her babies in a religion completely foreign to her. "I do so swear," she whispered, unable to look at Sheridan.

Satisfied, Father Donegal began the rite, but Alana hardly heard him. His words were like a stream, one running into another, merely background noise for the war being fought inside her.

She was totally numb by the time she was required to whisper, "I do." She heard Sheridan quickly say, "I do," and the next thing she was conscious of was his taking her left hand and slipping onto her finger that vulgarly large diamond from Mr. Tiffany's store.

The priest then blessed their union, and Sheridan lowered his head, brushing her lips with a light, perfunctory kiss. When he straightened, she finally found the courage to look at him. What she saw didn't comfort her. His dark eyes shone with triumph, and there was a new possessive-ness in them. She suddenly knew she'd been a fool to do this. He'd been impossible to defy when she'd been a woman of independence. Now that she was his wife, her very soul was his to mold and use as he wished.

With that thought heavy on her mind, she took an unconscious step backward. The priest made a rather jovial remark that if she was looking for her
bridegroom,
he was in the other direction. Lorenzo laughed, and the busboy echoed him, though it was obvious he knew not a word of English. But her panic wasn't soothed. She felt as if she had just been bound to the devil. She couldn't take her eyes from Sheridan. In his satisfaction, he almost looked as if he were gloating. And he had every right to. His mastery had worked. Everything had gone like clockwork. She was this man's wife now, legally and before God. What on earth had she done?

Later that evening the black and green Sheridan carriage pulled up in front of the brownstone on Washington Square. It was not even midnight, but to Alana it seemed she'd left for Delmonico's a lifetime ago. Now, whether she liked it or not, her life was changed forever.

The carriage lamp cast a circle of light into the interior of the vehicle. Sheridan sat on one tufted brocade seat, and on the opposite side, as far away as she could get, Alana sat on the other. They had both been quiet on the ride down Fifth Avenue. After the priest left their saloon, Sheridan had summoned her wrap, and they departed without any exchange of words. What was there to say? The ceremony had brought no happiness, no reason for joy and celebration. For Sheridan, there would only be the cold satisfaction of a job well done. Alana had even less. She'd not been the one scheming. She'd been the prey caught in the net, and now that she'd been taken captive, she felt nothing except heart-wrenching bitterness.

The driver dismounted and held open the door. Sheridan got out first and assisted her. She didn't expect him to walk her to the door, nor did she want him to, but he did. He opened the tiny
porte
cochere
and allowed her to step inside.
Pumphrey
should have met them at the front door, but when Sheridan had sent the brown coupé back to the town house, the butler obviously thought she'd be home much later.

The gaslights were dim in the enclosure, and Alana, typical of her class, didn't possess a key to unlock the front door. She glanced at Sheridan and was unnerved to find him staring at her. She reached up to pull the chain that rang the doorbell, and the diamond ring on her hand flashed before her eyes. With trembling fingers, she removed it and held it out to him.
"I
believe you'll need this again for Saturday," she said, not looking at him.

He glanced at the beautiful ring in her palm. Quietly, he said, "I'll get another one for the ceremony Saturday. Keep this one on. It's your wedding ring."

"Don't buy another one. We won't be married that long." She held out her hand.

He still refused it. "The ceremony Saturday won't make us any more married than we are tonight. This evening bound us together as man and wife, and that is your wedding ring. Keep it on."

His insistence irritated her. As if she were a servant, she answered, "Very good,
Mr. Sheridan."

"My pleasure, Mrs. Sheridan.
"
He smirked, and she was left speechless. The name shocked her. No one had spoken it before now, and it brought home the reality of her situation.

Numbly she pulled the chain to summon
Pumphrey
and be rid of Sheridan. If she had less than two days of freedom, she was determined to spend as little of it as possible with this man.
Pumphrey
opened the door, one side of the collar of his jacket turned up as if he had donned it in a hurry. He looked surprised to see his mistress with Sheridan. Alana couldn't blame him. The only man he'd ever seen her with had been her uncle. She'd never invited any of her beaux to her house, not even Anson Vanbrugh-Stevens. After the fire, she'd insisted on her privacy.

She turned to excuse Sheridan, but to her dismay, he walked right in as if he were the master of the house. She stood speechless for a moment, then collected herself and said begrudgingly, "
Pumphrey
, would you please ask Hazel to make us some coffee? We'll take it in the parlor."

Pumphrey
nodded, his eyes flickering with surprise. Alana relinquished her wrap, and the butler left the hall stealing covert glances at the Irishman who the newspapers proclaimed was to marry his mistress.

Alana looked at Sheridan. She knew she should be gracious and ask him to accompany her into the parlor, but she couldn't quite summon the necessary words. The best welcome she could give him was to nod slowly toward the parlor.

He sauntered into the room and sat on the Belter settee as if he had been there before. His walking stick was nonchalantly laid to rest on its rococo arm, and he made a point of watching her lower herself to the
Thonet
chair.

It was at that moment that the evening got the best of her. Unable to stop
herself
, she commented frigidly, "It's customary in New York for a
gentleman
to remain standing until all the ladies have found their chairs." She was being a pill, and she knew it, but if she had had to marry this man, the least he could do was treat her with courtesy and pause before he took ownership of her mother's settee.

Sheridan lips took on a sarcastic twist that any other person might have mistaken for a smile. He answered acidly, "What a coincidence. That's how we do it in County Roscommon. Except where I come from, it's customary for a lady to invite her gentleman friend into her house with a kind and gracious word, not just a nod of that cool blond head."

Feeling upbraided, she retorted, "You can't expect me to welcome you into my house as if we were courting, can you?" Her voice rose. It was the culmination of a bad night in a week of bad nights, and she was ready to snap. "After all, now that we're—" She heard a noise in the foyer. Whoever was there had suddenly stopped, probably having heard her distraught tone.
The
footsteps resumed, and soon
Pumphrey
entered with their coffee. He set the silver tray upon the Phyfe card table and discreetly rolled the faux-walnut pocket doors together, leaving them alone.

In a harsh whisper, she said, "You can't expect me to take to this situation with immediate grace, Mr. Sheridan. When I went out tonight, I had no idea this would happen to me. I thought there'd be time—"

"Time to back out,
Mrs. Sheridan?"

She colored. There was that name again. Mrs. Sheridan. "Don't call me that," she asked softly.

"All right, Alana, then you
call
me Trevor."

There was a challenge in his voice and insistence. But there was also something else, a strange wistful note that caused an unexpected tingle down her spine.

"You're my wife now," he said, the planes of his face hardening. "Is it too much to ask that you at least give the appearance of it?"

"This isn't going to work . . .
Trevor,"
she said, his name sounding foreign yet oddly comfortable on her tongue. "There will come a day when you'll regret this hasty wedding.
Despite what you think now."

"I can't imagine a circumstance that would make this situation disadvantageous," he answered, nearly gloating. "I have everything in place."

"You'll live to rue this day. You've interfered with too many lives to remain unscathed. Someone will avenge all your wrongdoing."

His gaze captured hers. "And will that someone be you?"

Yes!
she
wanted to cry out, though she doubted that she would ever possess the cunning to outfox him. Instead, she said gravely, "If I'm not the one to do it, you'll pardon me if I laud the person who finally does."

He suddenly laughed.
"Such ominous words.
Yet you should be on your knees giving thanks that I've taken you out of a bad situation."

She turned ice cold. "I could handle my uncle without your manipulations."

His eyes nickered down to her arms, the bruises now healed. "Of course," he answered sardonically.

Angered, she stood and walked to the coffeepot. Pouring them both a cup, she handed him his without a word.

When she resumed her seat, he looked at her at length. "I must tell you that tomorrow you've got to decide what servants you're to bring into my household.
Also what belongings.
You won't be coming back here after Saturday. If you're to get Mara into society, I insist you be under my roof as soon as possible."

Her eyes widened. She hadn't given much thought to giving up her household. Of course, she would have to do that now, as this man's wife, but the thought of losing everything familiar was unbearable. Panic seized her again. This wedding had been too quick. She'd not been able to think out all the sacrifices she'd have to make.

Whares
the sacrifice?
Sheridan's words echoed in her thoughts. She looked around her, at her mother's dear Belter sofa and the Duncan Phyfe mahogany card table that had been in the family almost three generations. The table's base had been carved as an American eagle spreading its wings, and she remembered with aching clarity how her father had once referred to it as
Phred
, making a joke out of the fact that when the Van
Alens
had bought the table so many decades before, the cabinetmaker who'd made it was then only an unpretentious Scotsman named Duncan Fife.

Unexpected tears threatened her eyes. She had had no attachments to the furnishings in her house. If anything, she rejected them and thought of other possibilities, as her dream of the simple white house proved. But that was before Trevor Byrne Sheridan had thrown his mighty fist into her life, destroying everything she'd hoped for and believed in. It was easy to reject the old Knickerbocker life when she thought she was destined to marry another Knickerbocker and lead what would be to her an ordinary existence. It was not easy to leave these old pieces of furniture that had her family's glorious history worn into every scratch in the priceless mahogany and upon every shiny piece of velvet upholstery when she knew she was giving them up because fate had dealt her a terrible blow.

A cold ball of emotion lodged in her throat, warning of hot tears to come. But she couldn't allow herself to cry, not in front of this man. Not again. Not after what he had done to her tonight. So she swallowed them, controlling herself like an expert. If the Knickerbockers had taught her one thing, it was how to put on a facade at a crucial moment.

"We'll honeymoon in Newport," Sheridan announced in a deep, rumbling voice.

She glanced at him; he was staring at her. His accent had filtered into his words, surprising her. Had something thrown him? Perhaps her coolness unsettled him. Perhaps despite her efforts, he'd seen her distress over their marriage and found it moved him more than he'd expected. Perhaps there was, after all, a humane man beneath that cold exterior. But when her stare met his and she looked deep within his eyes, she found nothing but defiance and the well-rehearsed self-confidence of a conqueror who was utterly convinced he had made the right decision.

He continued, this time in flawless English. "The season's just starting. You'll have time to get better acquainted with Mara.
And to introduce her around."

"In Newport?"

He nodded.

She'd almost asked why his sister was coming on their honeymoon, but their marriage was a sham, executed for the sole purpose of benefiting Mara. Why wouldn't his sister come along? Mara might as well start her social conquests right away. If the truth were known, Alana was almost glad the girl would be in tow. Then she wouldn't be alone with Sheridan. "What does Mara think of our marrying?" she asked, suddenly wanting to know all the details that had led up to this catastrophe.

Sheridan finished his coffee. "She's confused by it, unsure how she might have motivated it. I haven't told her anything, and I would consider it wise if you kept silent on the matter as well."

Alana heard the threat. She whispered, "What does she think of me?"

"She speaks kindly of you." A strange emotion caught in his voice. "She, of course, speaks kindly of everyone."

Alana didn't argue. It fit well with what she remembered of Mara Sheridan. She glanced at the man who was now her husband, sitting uncomfortably on the settee that was too fussy and delicate for his large frame. His dark, angry eyes and unyielding expression gave her only one thought. If Mara Sheridan personified a saint, her brother Trevor did a magnificent job of negating his sister's goodness. He unbalanced her altruism and then some, tipping the scales toward wickedness.

"You've a lot to do tomorrow. I'll leave you." He stood and grasped the gold lion's head of his walking stick. "Send a list of the things you want. And the names of the servants you would keep."

Alana nodded numbly. She had a lot to do tomorrow, but first and foremost was a trip to Brooklyn to tell her only blood relative that she had married the night before.

Sheridan paused as if he were not sure how to phrase his next words. "Alana, I understand there were some beaux who fancied you. I expect tomorrow you owe it to them to tell them of the finality of our arrangement."