Lions and Lace (14 page)

"I don't know what I'm saying." Alana released a forced laugh. "I've been married so short a time, I can't think straight."

"He must be a generous man to let you come here and tell me about your wedding when you should be on your honeymoon."
Christal's
eyes glistened with happiness. "Tell me he's a fine man. You deserve a fine man."

Alana stared at her, unable to answer for a moment. She couldn't explain that her honeymoon hadn't yet begun or that her "real" wedding had yet to take place. It was so terribly complicated, and from
Christal's
expression, all her sister really wanted to know was if she was happy. "He's everything I want," she whispered flatly. It was true.
As true as her logic could make it.

"Oh, I'm so glad. Now you'll have children. They'll heal all these wounds I've caused. I know they will." Christal hugged her again and Alana numbly accepted it, glad that her sister couldn't see her face.

When they parted, Christal suddenly looked tired, and Alana knew she should leave. She gathered her steel-mesh purse and straightened her kidskin gloves, but before she stood from the bench, Christal said, "Did Nurse
Steine
tell
you I've been having dreams?"

Sorrow filled Alana's eyes. Her heart grew heavy. "Don't let's talk about it. It's such a beautiful day."

Christal tried to hide her torture behind a pale, beautiful face. Her hand shook as she placed it over her sister's. "No. I must tell you, Alana. Someday I'm going to remember what happened. I must remember. I
must."

"They say not to. My darling, don't do this to
yourself
. You're so young, I can't stand it that you've got this weighing on your mind."

Christal broke away. She swallowed, and Alana could see tears glistening on her cheeks. "In my dream I went so far, I could feel my hand burning." Christal looked down at her palm. She wasn't wearing gloves, and Alana saw the unusual scar that had convicted her sister in the eyes of the police chief who'd investigated their parents' death.

The scar on her palm was in the shape of a rose, the exact pattern of the silver
repousse
doorknobs that graced their parents' bedchamber. When her parents had burned to death in their bedstead and the door of their bedroom had been found locked, all evidence had pointed to
Christabel
, then only thirteen. The police had found her hiding in her wardrobe, obviously
having
escaped the blaze from the ledge outside her parents' room. She was so traumatized that to this day Christal had never regained her memory of what had happened that night or why she'd been in their parents' bedroom during the fire that had at one point raged so hot, the, doorknobs had become like cattle brands.

With vile clarity, Alana remembered how kind Didier had been afterward, settling their parents' will, financing the repairs to the house on Washington Square. He'd seemed genuinely shocked by what had happened, especially at
Christabel's
fate. Alana would never forget his face when the superintendent of police told him about the incriminating burn on
Christal's
hand. Didier had been so moved that he'd personally convinced the superintendent to show mercy on Christal because of her tender years and pleaded for her to be put away at Park View instead of jail . . . or worse. He'd been beside himself to protect the unsullied Van
Alen
name and he'd done a magnificent job of wiping up the tragedy behind him. It was the last kind act she'd known him to do. And if Didier hadn't had an alibi of being seen at the Academy of Music that night, Alana might not have believed, as she'd been forced to, that her parents' death was nothing but a bizarre accident.

"Don't let's speak of it now, Christal. You look so tired, this can't be good for you," Alana whispered.

"No, I'm going to remember, Alana. It's my only hope."

"Christal—" said Alana, her voice breaking with emotion. She couldn't stand to see her sister in such pain, her dear little sister who had gone with her to Loft's confectionery all those years ago and with wide eyes had surveyed the rainbow of gumdrops and chocolates, only to agree with her older sister that the licorice was best. There were all kinds of misfortunes in this world, and poverty was definitely one of them, but at that moment, if working with a shovel would have eased her sister's plight, Alana would have dug until her hands bled.

"Please go now, Alana." Christal wiped her cheeks and stood. She crumbled her remaining bread crumbs for the ducklings still gathered at her feet. "I really am tired, and you've been here too long. You mustn't make your husband impatient on my account."

Alana stood, wanting anything but to leave at that moment. "Let me help you to your room."

Christal shook her head. "You can't help me with any of this, Alana. In the end, I'm the only one who can do it."

"Please don't upset yourself." Alana went to take her hand, but Christal brushed it away.

"No, Alana, you must leave now. I can't be responsible for taking you away from your husband. He's already been so kind to let you come.
You
must tell him how grateful I am"—
Christal's
voice shook—"and you must promise me that you'll tell him that I said he's wed the most brave and dear lady in all of New York."

Alana began to weep, and unwilling to upset her sister further, she ran up the hill toward the front of the asylum and her waiting carriage.
Christabel
didn't watch her go. The ducklings still gathered at her feet, and she stared down at them with the tragic face of a doomed Ophelia.

Alana's eyes were red and puffy from crying when the coupé stopped in Washington Square. Despite the clamor for her attention to the upcoming wedding, she went directly to her room and stayed there, ignoring everyone from the delivery boy to sweet-tempered Margaret. She wanted desperately to cheer herself. In the past she'd always found a way to do it, but this time she wondered if she would ever smile again. The tears still streamed down her cheeks every time she thought of Christal.

Her sister's plight had always affected her, but today something inside her broke, and now the dam no longer held. Perhaps it was the strain she'd been under, perhaps tomorrow's impending ceremony, but Alana knew in her heart that it was neither of those things. Seeing Christal as she had today was what was breaking her heart. Her sister's attempt at bravery in the face of such monumental sorrow made Alana ashamed for ever having indulged in a moment of self-pity. Her troubles, even Sheridan's forced marriage, seemed inconsequential compared to
Christal's
. As she wiped her tears again with her damp handkerchief wadded tightly in her hand, Alana swore with all the power of her soul that someday she would see her sister out of that place and restored to the life she'd been meant to lead.

A knock interrupted her solitude, and Alana was tempted to ignore it. But when the couturiere, Madame
LaBoeuve
, called to her in a desperate plea for her to try on her wedding dress so that it could be finished by morning, Alana took pity on the woman, wiped her eyes, and opened the door.

She looked nothing like a joyful blushing bride, but Alana didn't care. Ignoring the curious stares of Madame
LaBoeuve's
seamstresses, she stepped out of her carriage dress and stripped down to her pink silk corset and chemise threaded with matching pink ribbons. Madame
LaBoeuve
and her seamstresses went to work expertly pinning and basting the satin gown, all of them very noticeably trying to ignore her red eyes and tear-stained cheeks. Alana knew she should care what they thought of her, but at that moment she just wanted to be left alone.

She should have known she wouldn't be so lucky.

Not a second had passed after Madame
LaBoeuve
placed the last straight pin when Alana's maid, Margaret, could be heard protesting vehemently outside the bedroom door. All eyes turned, and to Alana's horror, Trevor Sheridan suddenly appeared with Margaret near hysterics at his coattails trying to bar him from the room.

"The man won't listen, miss!" Margaret shrieked. "Shall I fetch Kevin to throw him out? What shall I do?"

"Whatever is this about?" Alana gasped, feeling as if she were naked beneath Sheridan's stare with just the loosely basted bridal gown held to her bosom.

"I've never seen such a beast of a man—to barge into a lady's boudoir!" Margaret squealed.

Sheridan ripped his gaze from Alana, flashed a dark smile down to the little maid, and said for her ears only, "Go
dachta
an
diabhal
tu
."

Margaret's eyes widened, as if to say the language, if not the words, were familiar.

"You don't know what I've said, do you,
Pegeen
?" Sheridan inquired, vaguely annoyed. Warily, Margaret shook her brown curls.

"The English take you, then, if you don't know the tongue of your motherland. Go on! Go back to the kitchens. Leave. All of you," he suddenly commanded to Madame
LaBoeuve
and her army of seamstresses. "I want to be alone with my"—his gaze again traveled to Alana, who stood in the brightness of the windows clutching her bridal gown—"fiancée," he finished with an amused glitter in his eyes.

"This is outrageous behavior," Alana protested, his gaze making her heart thump wildly in her chest. "You can't come into my bedroom! It's not done!"

"It's now done," he answered succinctly as the last little seamstress scurried past him. Even Margaret had disappeared, running back to her Kevin, no doubt, to see what kind of Gaelic curse Sheridan had placed on her brow.

"Have you no decency? What gives you the right to barge into my bedroom like this?" she hissed when they were alone, unable to believe the gall of the man.

"I'm your husband. That gives me the right."

"But no one else knows we've wed. You've shocked my servants."

"Let them be shocked." He walked closer and suddenly saw her red-rimmed eyes. "You've been crying," he stated flatly, the expression in his eyes the only hint of his interest.

Anger colored her all the way to her temples. She turned her face from his and said in a low, vengeful voice, "Why shouldn't I cry? I've a lot to cry about."

Her sister's situation was killing her, but he didn't know this, and when she looked at him again, it was obvious he had mistaken her tears as a sign of her shame over their marriage. If it were possible for a man to freeze, Trevor Sheridan had done just that. He was never a terribly warm man, but in seconds his manner and attitude suddenly changed from neutral to menacing. With stiff, formal steps he went to a chintz-covered chair by the fireplace. He sat as if defiantly claiming his territory and laid his walking stick like a rapier across his lap.

She strode over to him, nearly tripping on the long bridal train. "If you wanted to speak with me, you should have waited for me in the parlor. Why have you barged in here like this?"

"I don't wait in parlors." His eyes were as cold as she'd ever seen them. How such a dazzling combination of gold and green and brown could so suddenly turn to ice was beyond her ability to comprehend. "You're my wife," he rasped. "You'll see me now."

His words sent a chill down her spine, but she found them all much more preferable to the word
wife.
He made it sound like a curse. "This was not a part of our bargain," she whispered harshly. "I didn't agree to allow you to invade my privacy whenever you thought it might convenience you. You must leave this minute."

He stared at her, his gaze unwillingly flickering over the white satin that was taut against her breasts. Nonetheless, his expression remained dispassionate. "Would you have rather I sent my attorneys here instead? I wager your privacy would have been more violated with a dozen lawyers crawling around this room."

"Your lawyers would have at least waited for me in the parlor."

"I'm not sure about that. They're a very excitable group. When I informed them I had married, they fell over themselves to try to see you. Apparently they don't like anyone encroaching upon my estate."

"Well, they're intelligent men. I certainly intend to have some recompense after what you've put me through." She thought of her sister's bills. Those lawyers wouldn't find a way to circumvent what she had due.

He shook his cursedly handsome head. "I've told them about our agreement. But for you to get anything, they insisted that you sign these papers immediately. They were about to come when I told them I'd bring them to you myself."

"How gracious of you."
She couldn't keep the acid out of her words, especially when she saw how premeditated this was. He'd come instead of his lawyers just to see the irritation spark in her green eyes.