Lions and Lace (8 page)

One hand slammed him into the white marble mantelpiece. Sheridan and he came face-to-face. "Listen to me, boy-o," the Irishman quipped. "I shouldn't have to pay dogs like you, but
more's
the pity, I'm forced to." A murderous gleam sparked in his eyes, and he twisted Didier's collar. "Or am I?" he whispered, making Didier whiten at the suggestion.

"Let me go," he rasped, taking in Sheridan's enraged features. There were a lot of stories about this man, some that he'd been raised on the street, roving with a gang of boys who'd performed all sorts of treachery in their efforts to get by. Knowing this, Didier wasn't about to test Sheridan's fighting skills, especially when the Irishman had pinned him to the mantel without dropping his ever-present walking stick. "I said, let me go," he repeated, his voice becoming shrill.

Sheridan stepped back. He glanced around, as if trying to cool that quick Gaelic temper. "There are conditions to my giving you that money, Didier," he instructed in a monotone. "First, you're to show up at the wedding, and you'd better learn how to play-act because everyone had better believe you bless this union."

Didier nodded reluctantly.

"Second, you're to leave New York after the wedding. I won't have you spreading any vicious rumors that I paid for my bride."

"That's ludicrous! Where will I go?" he protested.

"To the devil if it were up to me." Sheridan gave him another frightening glance, and Didier wiped the defiance off his face.

"The third condition is the most important." Sheridan turned grave and pinned his opponent with his dark stare. Didier, unable to help himself, squirmed. "After Saturday, your niece is to be my wife. And as my wife, I find I'll have the duty to keep her away from harm.
That being so, if you come within a mile of her, if you ever raise your hand in anger to her, I will kill you.
I will strike you down dead. Have I made myself clear?"

Didier sputtered, giving Sheridan a guilty glance. "Are you saying I've hurt the girl? She's lying, I tell you!"

"Your niece hasn't said a word to me. That's just my policy."

"Christ, you must be out of your mind. You don't even know this girl you're marrying. Why would you make such a statement?"

Sheridan took a moment to stare at the gold lion's head of his walking stick,
then
quietly, in a soft brogue, he an
swered, "I saw bruises on your niece last night. After me father died and we came here to New York, I saw bruises like that on me mother. It makes me crazy to see that on a woman. Do you understand? It makes me
crazy."

Didier licked his lips in fear.
"All right."

"Good."

Business finished, Sheridan quit the parlor without the civility of a farewell. Didier scooped up the black portfolio and followed him, counting bank notes. Outside, he finished counting and began to laugh. He feathered the edges of the notes with his thumb, reveling in the sound. Brazenly, he called as the Irishman ascended to his carriage, "The joke's on you, Sheridan! I must tell you, I would have taken a lot less for her!" He hugged the portfolio to him and laughed.

Sheridan only turned and smiled. Before he disappeared into the landau, he said, "On the contrary, Didier. You see . . . I would've paid a lot more."

Leaving Didier dumbstruck, Sheridan knocked on the landau's door. The driver cracked the whip, and the carriage sped away.

Alana had never slept in satin sheets before. She hadn't wanted to sleep at all, but she'd felt foolish when the servants had left her and she sat all alone in the huge rose velvet chamber perched on a tiny gilt chair. Unwillingly she'd lain on the bed, thinking that when the laundry maid returned with her dress, she'd depart to seek Sheridan. But now, after she'd obviously slept for many hours, she was even more uneasy with her foreign surroundings, uneasy even with the sensual slippery satin that enveloped her. Something had gone wrong. The light filtering through the ornate rose drapery at the window told her it was late the next day. The maid had never returned with her dress. Or had she come and gone, laying out the gown on some chair?

Alana sat up and pulled together the sides of Mara's robe, which she all too generously filled out. She looked down and still couldn't completely close the deep slit of the robe's bodice. Forgetting her modesty for the moment, she stood and surveyed the room, but there was no peach satin gown anywhere. Distressed, she was just about to search the adjoining dressing room when the chamber's door flew open. Certain it was the laundry maid, Alana looked up expectantly.

The Irishman walked in as if the room were a men's club. Shocked to her core, she scrambled to close her bodice.

She was unsuccessful. Mara's little pink robe wouldn't close. She skittered backward, unsure where to hide. Before she could take two steps, he was in the room, the door closing behind him.

"How dare you come in here when I'm not dressed!" she gasped while he laid his walking stick by the fireplace and nonchalantly seated himself on a velvet settee.

"Your clothes are on their way." His gaze flickered to her, lingered on her state of dishabille,
then
reluctantly tore itself away. In a quiet voice he said, "I thought you'd be in better spirits after some rest. I can see now I was mistaken."

"What time is it?" she asked, giving him a desperate glance. He was in dinner dress, not a good sign.

"It's almost five o'clock in the evening."

"Good God." She bit her lower lip. She was ruined. She had lain in this man's house and slept while her reputation tumbled to the gutter.

He looked at her.
As if against his will, his gaze traveled to that parting of the robe where her bosom was crushed between her crossed arms.
"No one knows you're here, Alana. I've made sure of it." He looked away as if she were some kind of temptation he savagely wanted to resist. "One
I
of your gowns—a more appropriate one than the one you wore here—
is
being sent over. When it arrives, you can go back to Washington Square. I've made it . . . all right for you to return there."

"What do you mean, 'all right'?" She didn't know what he was talking about. Were these crazy wedding plans now a thing of the past?

"I mean that you're free of your uncle. He won't be . . ."
Sheridan looked as if he were searching for the right word, "bothering you any longer. He's agreed to leave you alone."

"You paid him, then?" she accused in a trembling voice.
"You paid
him for me? You still believe this wedding is going to happen?"

"It
is
going to happen." When he looked at her, she couldn't stop the tears from falling onto her pale cheeks.

"And my uncle accepted your terms?"

He nodded.

Feeling utterly destroyed, she turned from Sheridan so that he wouldn't see the tears cascading down her face. She had somehow hoped that her uncle would stop him. Now that Didier hadn't, now that he'd proven once and for all that he
was
a knave, she felt as if the ground had been taken from under her feet. The final blow was her uncle's. She couldn't believe that he would sell her to this man.

"You're better off."

Sheridan's words were meant to comfort her. If she hadn't known better, she would have sworn she'd heard that brogue again, a clear signal that her tears had touched him. But she did know better. A man who could pay another for a wife would be quite unmoved by a woman's tears. "I will not marry you." She wiped her cheeks with her palms and faced him again. "You might have paid my uncle for his blessing, but I'm the one who must walk down the aisle and say the vows. And I won't. And no one in New York has the power to make me."

"Alana, your defiance is admirable, but pointless." Sheridan pierced her with that dark gaze, "You will marry me. And next Saturday, no one in New York need make you, for you'll do it of your own free will."

"I won't," she countered, her eyes flashing like emeralds. His offer of wealth might have been tempting, but
Christabel
was cocooned in terrible secrets. Even to maintain her sister, Alana couldn't reveal them to Trevor Sheridan.

"You will. I'll see to it."

"Do it, then." Her eyes clashed with his. It was a long moment before he was the victor.

"I know you need money," he said, his voice coaxing and deceptively soft. "And I know you need it more than just to live on.
So why, Alana?
Tell me. I can be ruthless. Is preserving your independence worth enduring my wrath?"

"It is, and I'll go to my grave before I'll tell you why." She was heartened that Didier in his last despicable act had kept their secret. Once Sheridan flashed his bribe, she suspected Didier hadn't wanted to spoil it all by informing him of his fallen soon-to-be sister-in-law.

"But you do need money." He rose and went to her, the noise of his walking stick on the polished floor a brilliant form of torture. "You need money desperately. I can see it on your beautiful face. It's something that goes beyond your own needs. If you had to, love, I believe you'd whore yourself for it."

Her self-control broke. She raised her hand to slap him, but he caught it in midair. He pulled it down to her side and roughly pulled her to his chest. He finished by saying, "But then, no doubt a girl like you'd rather whore yourself than marry the likes of me, now wouldn't you?"

She stared up at him, too angry to think about her state of undress, too angry to think of anything but how much she hated this man.

"Go on, answer the question," he prompted contemptuously.

"I won't marry you," she choked out, fighting back tears of rage. "I won't because I despise you. You play with people's lives like it was a game of chess. But I'm no rook to be moved as you see fit. I've a mind of my own. I'll move where I like."

"You need that money, Alana," he whispered against her hair, stifling her rebellious movements in the steel of his embrace. "You need it so badly you can taste it. And what's it for?
Morphine?
Gambling? Do you lovely little Knickerbockers have the same dirty vices we
navvies
have? Well, I don't care why you need it. As my wife, you may have all the money you can use. All you have to do is speak two little words. Say 'I do' Saturday, and you'll never want for it again."

"You make everything sound so—disreputable," she cried, her nails scratching down the black worsted of his evening coat. His offer was terribly tempting. She only wished she could believe him.

"I don't care why you must have that money, Alana. I just want you in that church."

She paused and thought about it. How wonderful it would be to have
Christabel's
future secure. With this man's limitless funds, she would never have to worry about her sister's expensive care again. Her only worry would be for herself, and as she looked up into Sheridan's taut, hard features, she was again overcome with doubt. She was crushed in his arms, her petite stature hardly a threat to his tall, muscular one. And in this stance she couldn't ignore the requirements of marriage, particularly the physical requirements. "I won't marry you because I won't live with you as your wife," she finally said.

He shook her gently. "You needn't think of that. We'll get an annulment."

"I can't risk that," she moaned into his chest. "I won't do it."

"You will, sweet lady. You'll right the wrongs done to Mara, or I'll hunt you down like a fox in a meadow and see that you never enjoy a moment of peace again." His hand brushed down her hair, belying the harshness of his words.

She spent her remaining tears and finally looked up at him, her eyes accusatory. He met her glare and lowered his gaze, a spark flaring in his eyes when he found what he'd been searching for. Her mind filling with dread, she looked down and saw what had captured his attention. Mara's chaste pink robe had proved otherwise. In her struggles it had parted, revealing not only a lush portion of one breast but the rose-colored edge of one nipple. "You promised an annulment. An
annulment,
" she whispered harshly, betrayal written upon her every feature.

A small pulse throbbed at his temple. His jaw clenched, outlining every strong muscle. At that moment she seemed to be asking something that he wanted to refuse. But slowly, regretfully, reason seemed to take hold of him again. He nodded, his arms fell away from her, and she stumbled back, clutching at her bodice.

"I'll keep you informed of the wedding plans. I'll send word to Washington Square." His gaze again flickered to her chest where the valley between her breasts was lush and deep. He continued. "Your uncle's behavior last night is knowledge only you and I possess. Therefore, you'll return to your home this evening unsullied by past events. Since this is to both our advantages, I suggest you behave for the rest of the week in your usual lady-like manner. Saturday we'll wed, and then you may embark upon your new career as my wife."

"I'll find a way out of this, Mr. Sheridan. I swear I will spend the entire week scheming to be free of you."

He walked to a green
bonheur
dujour
and took a newspaper off a tray that had been brought while she slept. He handed it to her, letting her read the
New York Chronicle's
shocking evening headlines:

WEDDING OF THE CENTURY!!!

THE
MRS. ASTOR SWOONS IN NEWPORT!

KNICKERBOCKER TO WED FENIAN SATURDAY!

Seeing her shocked face, Sheridan smiled. "Try" was all he said.

The next day, a pale and drawn Alana received callers in her parlor. They came in droves after reading the headlines announcing the upcoming nuptials. Alana expected them. After the announcement of her marriage in the
Chronicle,
her only surprise was that her "friends" had waited long enough for breakfast to be over before showing up at her door.

Didier was not among them. He had yet to show his face at Washington Square, and Alana had heard from the servants that he'd been forced to lower his living standards from the Fifth Avenue Hotel and move to lesser quarters. Yet Didier's whereabouts interested her little. There were far too many other worries, the first the incessant flow of gossipy well-wishers who rushed to leave their calling cards. If Sheridan thought she might try to flee, his fears could be put to rest; she'd never get through the line of carriages that had formed in front of her house.

Ostensibly, her visitors were arriving to pay their respects to the bride-to-be. Yet in the fifteen minutes allotted for a formal call, they tried tactfully to pry all sorts of information out of her about her hasty engagement to the Irish financier. One matron was even so bold as to ask if her corset had changed sizes recently.

Feeling as if she were fighting a war, Alana dodged their questions and innuendos as if they were bullets. She didn't confide in any of them since she didn't trust them, so she spent all of Wednesday in the parlor fending them off, her only weapons wit and evasion. But on Thursday morning, when the Astor carriage stopped at number 38, Alana almost admitted defeat. All night she'd tossed and turned trying to think of a way out of the financial catacombs in which the Irishman had put her. She was exhausted and running out of ideas, and she was now going to have to defend her situation to the very woman who had been the cause of it.

Yes indeed, it was a perfect time to receive a call from
the
Mrs. Astor.

Alana watched as
Pumphrey
entered the parlor with Mrs. Astor's calling card on a salver. The white vellum card was completely folded in two, a rather dramatic gesture of disapproval in the language of calling cards. Alana merely stared at it, not needing to read the name engraved upon it.