Lions and Lace (28 page)

"Good morning! It's a beautiful day, isn't it?" Alana put on her brightest smile and entered the breakfast room. To her delight, Mara and Eagan were already there, Eagan obviously nursing a grand hangover.

She went to her place and waved Eagan back as he gallantly tried to help her with her chair despite his aching head. She dropped her napkin in her lap and allowed the footman to give her a double helping of eggs.

Though she'd had little sleep the night before, for some reason she was feeling unusually optimistic. The fact that Eagan and Mara were both at
Fenian
Court didn't hurt. They would buffer her from their older brother, and she'd come to the realization late in the night that with their chaperonage she and Trevor might find a common ground, a place where they could be amicable, and continue in this marriage along more suitable and tolerable lines. The possibility of this cheered her considerably, and her anxieties of the night before seemed to have melted beneath the brilliant Newport sun.

"Trevor must be still abed," she commented casually, staring at the empty chair opposite her own. "I wonder if I should send some breakfast up to
him?
" As strange as it seemed, she warmed to the wifely duty of sending breakfast to her husband.

"You can't. He's gone." Mara was almost on the verge of tears.

Staring at her, Alana now saw her glum look. And what she'd assumed was a hangover couldn't account for all of Eagan's grimness.

"Whatever do you mean, he's gone?" she asked Mara in her most unemotional tone. What a lie it was.

"He left for Boston before dawn. In his note he said something about business," Eagan answered for Mara.

"I see." Alana looked down at her eggs and wondered when she had had the desire to touch them.

"What's wrong with him?" Mara lashed out, her black brows knitted together in a frown. "It's his honeymoon! This is terrible. We three are here, and Trevor's gone to Boston—"

"Hush, Mara." Eagan nodded to Alana's still figure. "She doesn't need that now."

Alana hardly heard him. She couldn't think of anything but that Trevor had left her behind, and on her honeymoon. The hurt she felt was so deep and all-encompassing, she didn't know how to hide it, so she just sat very still and stared at her eggs.

"I'm sure he'll be
back
soon, Alana," said Eagan. "We don't own much in Boston. He can't be there forever."

She closed her eyes, unwilling to shed tears, unwilling to let him see the pain that had sprung up in their depths. By all rights, this shouldn't have hurt her. But it did hurt her, terribly, and it only grew worse as she thought of the possibilities. "Does Miss Dumont frequent Boston?" she whispered.

The pause was leaden.

"It's nothing like that, right, Eagan?" Mara asked, her girl's voice begging for reassurance.

"No, no—I'm sure it's not." He frowned and stared at Alana, her reaction obviously concerning him. "Look, Alana, he's not doing what you think—" He stopped and turned to Mara. "
Sweeting
, leave us, will you?"

Mara gave Alana a concerned glance, then reluctantly put aside her napkin and departed.

When she was gone, Eagan took the chair next to Alana and patted her hand. "There's no reason to take this so hard. He's just taking care of a few business dealings while he's up here."

"You don't believe that any more than I do." She looked at him, pain and desperation etched on her beautiful face. "He's gone to
her,
hasn't
he.
"

He was silent for a moment. "I don't know," he answered truthfully, his emerald eyes filling with pity.

"You know about our 'marriage,' then?"

"Yes."

She swallowed back her rising tears. "And does Trevor plan it to be always this dreadful?"

Eagan shook his head in disgust. "This is
all my
fault. I should never have come here, stirring things up. I thought Mara and I could help." He snorted in contempt. "I even thought to make him jealous, can you believe that?"

"No, this is
all my
fault," she countered numbly, grabbing at any rationalization that would keep her from the truth. "I should know better how to deal with this. I've— I've let it affect me because I"—her voice dropped to a whisper—"because I—"

She couldn't finish. But when he touched her hand, the tears began streaming down her cheeks, and her words came out in a sob. "I guess I wanted to believe those vows, Eagan. For one terrible, insane moment, I wanted to pretend they weren't lies."

He pulled her to his chest, and she cried as if her heart would break. He held her to him for a long time, and only after several minutes could she collect herself enough to pull back.

"Forgive me," she whispered, doing her best to wipe her eyes with her hands. He took his napkin and dabbed her cheeks. Tenderly he brushed away the strands of hair that had escaped her chignon. When he revealed her face, things happened very quickly. Their eyes met, and as if by instinct he bent down and kissed her softly on the lips.

It was over before she realized what he'd done, and apparently he hadn't been that aware of his actions either. But with realization dawning, his eyes opened wide, and a sheepish grin slid onto his face. "Sorry,
d
mhuirnfn
.
It's force of habit for me to kiss a pretty girl."

She couldn't look at him. Her cheeks flamed with embarrassment.

Still searching for an explanation, he began, "But of course I'm not used to kissing my own sister-in-law."

"You needn't explain.
Really."
She braved a glance at him, hardly believing what he had done. He cracked that wonderful rake's smile.

"No, I owe you an explanation, Alana." He shook his head in a manner that could only be described as vaguely amused self-disgust. "My brother and I are two different species with two different outlooks on life. Trevor, you see, makes money and seeks retribution for the thousands of slights to our background. That is his purpose, his passion, his essence. I, on the other hand, am then left free to spend the money and chase the girls—both of which I'm shamefully adept at."

She didn't say a word.

"I wish I could say it'll never happen again, but—"

"When you have the right girl, Eagan, it'll never happen again."

A cynicism reminiscent of his brother touched his lips. "I'll never find the right girl,
á
mbúirnín
.
There's no girl out there for me. Believe me, I've tried them all."

She studied him. He was being honest with her. He was a rake, a bounder, a father's nightmare. If she were not so helplessly captivated by his brother, she could see how easy it would be to fall into this charmer's arms. Those wicked green eyes and that handsome Irish face must have conquered innumerable women. She was almost sorry she was not one of them. But that was impossible, and not because of her wedding vows or any fears of reprisal. It was impossible because even against her will, her heart and soul could
lie
no more. She longed for Trevor.

Stunned by this realization, she looked across the table to the master's empty place. Was she falling in love with her husband only to see him driven further and further away from her? He hadn't even lasted the honeymoon. How could she convince him to stay for the marriage, especially with Daisy Dumont waiting in the wings? The thought sent tears down her cheeks.

"No more tears." This time he handed her his napkin and let her dab at her eyes
herself
. Very gently he changed tack. "Come, Alana, it's such a beautiful day, let's forget about Trevor and my bad behavior. We'll fetch Mara and the crew and take the
Colleen
out into the sound. We'll have so much fun, we won't think about anything else."

She looked down at her hands clutching the tear-soaked napkin. Eagan's pleasure seeking might soothe his worries, but experience had told her it would do nothing for hers. "Would you mind very much if I declined?" she asked gently.

"Is there something else you'd like to do, then? Can I escort you into town? Take a ride in the country?"

"You know what I really want, Eagan? I want to return to New York. I don't want to stay here and wait for Trevor. Do you understand?"

He nodded. "I'll make the arrangements right away. Mara and I will go back with you. Trevor may not consider you part of the family, but we do. We'll stick by you,
d
mhuimih
,
never fear."

"A
mhuirnfn
—
what does that mean?" Trevor had called her that before, and she'd assumed it was some kind of Irish profanity. She didn't expect Eagan's answer.

"It's a Gaelic endearment. It means, literally, 'my love.' "

She was stunned. "Is it used rather freely, then?"

"Well . . . yes. Why do you ask?"

Disappointed, she lowered her eyes, unwilling to let him see how this depressed her. She answered glumly, "No reason. I heard the servants use it once, and I was just curious about it. Now, if you'll be so good as to excuse me, I must tell Margaret to start packing my things."

"Certainly."
He stood and watched her go. But upon the last glimpse of her retreating back, hope sparked again in those vivid emerald eyes. "Liar," was all he said.

The Federal architecture of Brattle Street had not been sacrificed to cast-iron modernity as in Manhattan, but Trevor Sheridan was hardly the type to notice or care about such subtleties. He'd been in Boston four days, and every bit of business he could even think of had been performed twice. He'd read the morning ticker tape and in only a few hours he'd amassed a small fortune in Hudson stock. His warehouses in Boston were immensely profitable, his steamships fully booked. In short, there was ostensibly nothing that could account for the scowl on his face. But as his hired carriage rolled down the old cobbled lane, the scowl only grew blacker the more he sank into his thoughts.

According to direction, the carriage turned and soon halted in front of a brick colonial building. The tasteful gilt sign read:
Weymouth Jewelers.
Trevor left the carriage and entered with little fanfare.

When the mustachioed proprietor saw him, however, he abruptly left the customer he was attending and rushed to his side. "Mr. Sheridan! How good of you to visit us. Do tell me your lovely sister is in town. I've a pretty sapphire bracelet that's a perfect trinket for one so pure and young."

"Mara's not with me this time, Weymouth, but I want to bring her something. Show me the bracelet."

Weymouth unlocked the case, looking like a cat with cream on his whiskers. He placed the heavy gold-and-sapphire bracelet on a velvet pillow and presented it to the Irishman. "Five hundred dollars buys a priceless amount of good taste, don't you agree?"

Sheridan handled the expensive piece as if he were picking through bad lettuce. He tossed it back on the pillow and said, "Fine. Wrap it up."

"Most definitely, sir."
Weymouth snapped his fingers, and a youth in an expensive suit immediately appeared to take it away. "Now"—the jeweler brushed his whiskers with his finger, wiping away the imaginary cream—"is there anything else I might get you, perhaps for that lovely Miss Dumont I've only had the pleasure to meet, regrettably, once?"

Sheridan looked the man in the eye. "I've married since that trip with Miss Dumont. I see you did not hear of it up here."

Weymouth skittered away from the subject of Miss Dumont like a cat running from a rabid hound. But a man well-versed in the art of the deal, his hopes still ran high. If the
Irisher
dropped a fortune on his mistress, what heavenly price would he pay to keep his wife adorned? "I congratulate you, sir," he announced. "Your wife is
undoubtably
a paragon of virtue and a great beauty. A discriminating man such as
yourself
could have it no other way."

Sheridan nodded, immune to the man's fawning.

Getting down to business, Weymouth wandered to another cabinet and began to unlock it. "Is Mrs. Sheridan fond of diamonds? I've got a—"

"No," Sheridan interrupted, his scowl growing darker. "Diamonds aren't for her."