Lions and Lace (16 page)

She couldn't even look at Sheridan. The betrayal of those words made her want to cry out and run down the aisle, fall to her knees, and beg forgiveness. How could he stand so quietly and listen when he knew they were making a mockery of them?

She muffled a sob. The bishop continued his blessing, placing his hand upon her crown. ". . .
do
Thou graciously look down upon this handmaiden. . . . May she please her husband, as did Rachel; be prudent, as was Rebecca; long-lived and faithful like Sara. . . . May she be fruitful in offspring: be approved and innocent. . . .
"

A tear slipped down her cheek. She cared not a whit if Sheridan saw it. He was a cad to have done the things he'd done to
her,
and worse for bringing her to this church to make a pledge that held no more weight than dust.

"You may kiss your bride, Trevor Sheridan. You've now earned the right."

Before she could take a breath, Sheridan lifted her veil and placed his finger beneath her chin. He bent to kiss her, but her instincts overtook her and she unconsciously pulled back.

It was the wrong thing to do. She doubted anyone in the pews could see what had happened, but Sheridan had. To him, her rejection had been loud and clear, and those dark hazel eyes nearly spewed fire. His arm went around her. She couldn't utter a moan. His mouth slammed into hers, and she felt the searing scorch of his tongue as it forced its way between her teeth. His arm grasped her waist and lifted her clear off the floor to the gasps of shock and amazement of the guests in the pews.

Next to her, Mara released a giggle. But Alana hardly heard it. Her face flushed with anger, and her ears rang with fury. She wanted to beat him from her, but she couldn't in front of this crowd. His tongue burned against her, a delicious combination of velvet and steel, and the unwanted desire for him that rose in the pit of her belly made her even more furious.

Finally the scandalized bishop bade Sheridan stop. Trevor reluctantly released her, but before they turned to face their guests, the bishop whispered to him, "I caution you to control those passions, my good man, or you'll one day find yourself in the fires of hell because of them."

Sheridan, with his usual irreverence, said, "To hell or to Connacht, Father?"

He took her hand and placed it on his arm. The color was still high on her face when they turned and faced the congregation. She wanted to rub her lips, to wipe the kiss from them, but that wouldn't wipe it from her mind. His behavior was calculated to shock everyone, including her. She had expected her anger. What she hadn't expected was the desire that had rushed through her veins. It unsettled her so much that when Mara stepped forward to take her bouquet—for only a bride could wear orange blossoms, and now she was a married woman—Alana gave her a blank look. When she finally understood what the girl wanted, she gave her the bouquet and immediately felt Sheridan's hand tighten upon her arm. He escorted her down the aisle to the music of "
Lullay
My Liking."

It was not until he bad deposited her and her train into the carriage and climbed in beside her, his walking stick resting on his lap, that she dared confront him. "Nothing like this was to go on. You promised me," she snapped.

"And what has you so upset?" he asked as the carriage started up amid the cheers of hundreds. "I thought everything went as planned. Even that old witch Caroline Astor was there, albeit scowling." This last comment made him chuckle.

She found no humor in it. "She had a right to scowl about this unholy union.
That your priest could marry us, knowing these lies!"

"The bishop knows naught of our 'arrangement.' Although I suspect he wonders how I was able to persuade you to the Catholic altar."

"With blackmail and bribery!
What a wonderful start to a marriage." She couldn't keep the bitterness from her voice.

"Ours is no marriage," he corrected, his words like icicles in her romantic heart. "It's an arrangement with specific duties which you are to perform. For both our sakes, I suggest you do them expediently."

"Your sister's entree into society is my only duty. Remember that the next time you think to do what you did in church. I promise you you'll get no further. You'll not get the chance to consummate this marriage." Angrily, she crossed her arms over her chest and glared at him.

A shadow of a smile lifted the corner of his mouth. "Mrs. Sheridan, my kiss in church was no attempt at a consummation. That won't give you children. That's something else entirely."

Her cheeks flamed with embarrassment. There was no civil answer to what he had just said, so she fixed her attention on the passing crowds on Fifth Avenue. Until they reached the Sheridan mansion, she didn't look at him again, which was fortunate, for if she had, she would have found him staring at her, his gaze unwavering and inexplicably hungry.

The reception was held in the Sheridan ballroom, where Mara was to have had her debut. The people who had been invited then were for the most part the ones who attended now. They ate upon the gold Limoges porcelain and drank from the cobalt Stiegel goblets, were duly impressed by the fourteen-carat-gold chargers, and in general gazed in awe at the Sheridan wealth until their eyes fairly popped from their heads.

Alana could hardly endure the three-hour wedding breakfast, beginning with Mr. Napoleon
Sarony
making a daguerreotype of the wedding couple. Her nerves were frayed to virtual ruin during the fifteen minutes they stood for the picture. In it she demurely looked down at the clasped hands of her and her husband. She felt anything but demure with Trevor beside her. Though she couldn't move, she couldn't even dare look at him, still she knew with every sense he was there. She felt him like a pulsating force, a force at once great and terrible. There was no escaping him, especially when his hand had a steely velvet grip on her own, when his breath tickled hotly upon her ear, when his scent, a seductive blend of bay rum and adult male, grew to such an obsession that she could taste it on her palate.

After that torture she sat next to her husband, eating nothing and drinking every time her champagne glass was filled. The morning had shaken the very foundations of her beliefs. The bishop's words still haunted her, her vows still rung hollow in her ears. She had promised to be this man's wife, promised him all her wifely duties until death took her away. And it was all a lie. Her marriage was nothing more than a farce, a one-act play.

She peeked at Sheridan covertly as he laughed at something his brother had said. Sitting at the bridal table overlooking his guests, he appeared like a king viewing his kingdom. His satisfaction was almost palpable, and she despised him for it. Yet for all that he had done to ruin her, she despised him more for that kiss in the church than all the rest combined. That kiss had stepped over the line from the impersonal to the intensely personal. For one brief second he had clasped an emotion she hadn't wanted to give him. If he ever did that again, she was afraid he'd hurt her so badly, he'd make what he'd already done look like child's play.

He turned to her and caught her staring. Their eyes met, and a current passed between them. She wanted to be hostile, but it was impossible when his gaze probed so deeply, she felt as if he had passed through her soul. She sat, motionless and silent, helplessly trapped in the web of his stare, but too quickly the magic wore off. An arrogant smile graced his lips, and she ached to slap it off.

"We leave at noon. Let Mara show you where to change your gown. Shall I summon your maid?" he asked with false solicitation.

"Yes," she whispered angrily, and began to stand. He stopped her.

"My bride hasn't had a toast yet."

"That isn't necessary," she quipped.

"I insist."

She sat down and saw Sheridan glance at his brother. Eagan rose and lifted his glass. The entire room went silent as he spoke.

"An Irish marriage is renowned for being a long one."

He solemnly turned to Alana and raised his glass higher. "I predict this one shall endure for eternity.
To the bride!"

Everyone, no matter how reluctantly, said, "To the bride!" and sipped champagne. Alana only grew
more pale
. She'd just been pummeled with another curse, another lie. Again she wanted to put her hands over her ears and run away.

Sheridan stood; the crowd hushed. He raised his glass and looked at her. His gaze held her so tightly, she felt as if she were the only one in the room. "Where I come from in Ireland, they've had many a famine, and we've a toast to the bride that loosely translated says 'May she always have potatoes.'
" In
a deep, compelling voice, he looked at her and said, "To my bride, Alana.
Go
mbeidh
fatal
aice
go
brach
.
" He raised his glass higher and scandalously added,
"Erin go
bragh
!"

There was a split second of disapproving silence before William Astor raised his glass. As if to taunt his wife, he said loudly,
"Erin
go
bragh
!
God bless you, Alana!"

Everyone followed in the toast, even a sour-faced Mrs. Astor, and the room again buzzed with talk.

Alana stood and tried her best to smile. She was moved by his toast, moved by the history and the pain that was behind it. Sheridan had had the character not to mock her with pretty words, yet she was unnerved by his foreign Gaelic tongue, as she could see most in the room were.

Slowly she lifted her glass to the crowd and looked across the sea of faces. It was her wedding day, yet there were none in the room she considered friends. Didier sat at the table with the
Astors
, a false beaming smile upon his face, handsomely paid for, no doubt, by her husband. Caroline Astor nearly spewed venom from her eyes, though her expression was one of dignified serenity. So many faces were familiar, yet those who loved her were not there. With tears suddenly springing to her eyes, she hastily lifted her glass to the sea of faces and drank. She didn't look at Sheridan. Mara helped her with her train, and she went upstairs, thankful for the blessed respite from all the prying eyes, including her new husband's.

"What do you think of my bride, Eagan?" Sheridan asked in the quiet of the library while Alana was upstairs changing into her traveling suit. The guests still drank in the ballroom, waiting to send off the bride and groom before they too could take their leave. Sheridan had slipped off his frock coat and stood before the fire in his shirt, his black brocade vest and his gray striped trousers. Relaxed with his brother, he didn't use his walking stick, resting it against a velvet ottoman.

"Having seen her, I understand a few things now." Eagan sipped his brandy with the casual air of one who always has a glass in his hand.

"Like what?"

Eagan grinned like an urchin running from the whip. "Like why you insisted upon marrying her within a week. She's bloody beautiful."

A cynical smile touched Trevor's lips.
"Aye, Knickerbocker cold, but Knickerbocker beautiful."

"She's any kind of beautiful, and don't deny it. You haven't taken your eyes off her since she walked down that aisle."

The muscles in Sheridan's jaw tensed. "You are mistaken in that."

Eagan sipped again, unperturbed by his brother's mercurial mood. "I'm actually jealous of you, Trevor. Your
wife has the face of an angel, and if you look lower
. . ."

Sheridan's head snapped up. He shot Eagan a glance that made the words die on his brother's lips. Turning back to the fire, he said, "Don't be too jealous of me tonight. I wager it won't be quite what you imagine."

"On the contrary, my imagination is limited. I'm the untalented one in the family, remember?" Eagan finally smiled again. "Why are you going to Newport with her? Why don't you sail to Alexandria? Egypt's becoming quite popular, you know. All that sailing time and that long ride down the Nile, if you grasp my meaning."

"Newport will suffice."

Eagan conceded that with an understanding nod. "So when will you return?"

"Two weeks." Trevor hesitated with his next words as if he were already expecting what was to follow. "And I'm going to bring Mara with us. She'll come up later with the rest of the servants."

Eagan choked on his brandy. He gave his brother a disbelieving stare. "You
are
joking. You're going to take Mara on your honeymoon?"

"I want her to get to know my bride."

"Shouldn't
you
get to know your bride?"

Sheridan's gaze flickered to the fire, unable to meet his brother's eyes. "I'll have time for that."

Eagan's stare grew more hostile. "What are you playing us for, Trevor? Do you think we're fools? What are you up to?"

Sheridan didn't answer.

Eagan took a long drink from his glass. Coolly he said, "I see now. You don't love this girl. You're using her for Mara's sake. You should have let me in on this." He smirked. "But of course you wouldn't consult
me
on something this important. Oh, it's all right for me to pick out the wine or have a philosophical conversation on Euclid's
Elements,
but to have a hand in anything of real importance—"

"That's not true," Trevor snapped. "You're the one with the university. But what have you to do with my choosing a wife?"

"I would have talked you out of something this crazy." Eagan shook his head. "What does the woman you just married think of all of this? Does my sister-in-law have any regard for you, or have you forced her into this? Does she think we're all just a bunch of stupid
micks
like the rest of them out there?"

"I don't know what she thinks of us, and I really don't care." Trevor's expression hardened.

"Does she even know, then? Or does she actually think you have some regard for her?"

"Alana knows."

"Mara?"
Eagan asked.

"How do you explain an arrangement like this to Mara?"

Eagan snorted in contempt. "Don't you think she's got brains in her head? She'll figure something's not right. She's got to suspect already, with you dragging her along on your honeymoon."

"Well, I'll never tell her, and neither will Alana." Trevor looked at him and waited.

Eagan shook his head in disgust.
"
I
won't tell her, Brother, if that's what you want. But
Mara'll
find out sooner or later, and when she does, don't be surprised if she doesn't handle it well."

"She won't ever know."

"How can you do this?" Eagan's voice was full of disbelief. "How could you marry that woman and say those vows and not accept her as your wife?"

"We won't live as man and wife, and when Mara has her place in society as she deserves, Alana and I will get an annulment."

"An annulment," Eagan scoffed. "I give you a week before you get beneath that woman's petticoats."

"The
devil bite
your tongue!" Trevor lashed out in Gaelic.

Eagan smiled, seeing he was getting to him. "So you're worried.
As you ought to be.
You married her, Trevor. She's your wife now, not an opponent on the exchange. You won't extricate yourself from this one easily."

"She'll not be
livin
' with me as me wife!"

Sheridan's brogue was out in fall now, and Eagan judiciously decided it was time to retreat.
"Fine.
If that's part of your bargain, you live by it." He took another sip from his glass. "But I see one big problem. If you don't treat that beautiful woman like a wife, what will you do if a man comes along who wants to?"

Sheridan didn't answer. He jammed his arms into his frock coat and snatched up his walking stick. He gave Eagan a murderous look before slamming out of the room.

"Your hair is so pretty. It's just the color of butter. I wish I had such pretty tresses." Mara stroked the brush through Alana's hair while Alana sat at Mara's lace-festooned dressing table. The maids bustled in the background, packing away the bridal gown and laying out her traveling cloak.

Surrendering to the relaxing pull of the bristles through her scalp, Alana closed her eyes and said, "You mustn't wish for that, Mara. You just might get them. And believe me, with my hair, you wouldn't have turned all those heads at the reception. Your coloring is ever so much more stunning."

"Those people really only want ladies who look like you."

Mara's voice was so wistful and
brave,
it was like a knife turning in Alana's gut. She opened her eyes and looked at Mara in the mirror. Her gaze fell again on the girl's gown, and she knew she would have to ask Mara about the short dresses in the not-so-distant future. At sixteen, a girl didn't usually go about in short dresses. Alana had known some Southern girls who'd come up from Atlanta, and much to Mrs. Astor's disapproval, they'd been in long dresses at fourteen.

"Mara," she said gently, "you mustn't believe such things, because they're not true. You're a lovely young woman, and any man would be proud to have you on his arm."