Lions and Lace (47 page)

"And this is
all your
fault, Alice!" the matron said, turning on her. "Your mother must be turning in her grave to have raised such an upstart! None of this would have happened if you hadn't married that—that
man!"
Mrs. Astor flicked a glance at Trevor.

Desperate not to fall apart in front of these two, Alana snapped, "Well, if you don't like it, Caroline Astor, then the devil
take
you!" She left without saying another word, Anson and the matron shocked into silence that such a vulgar Irish retort had just come from the mouth of one of their own.

Stumbling, Alana found her way through the crowd to one of the exits. She wanted to congratulate the newlyweds, but she knew that if she didn't flee immediately, she would become totally unglued. Outside, she procured a hired carriage from Brown and rushed back to the chateau.

It was quiet there. She walked through the marble foyer, every footstep echoing off the polished walls. Lifting her now-hated green satin skirts, she ascended the grand staircase, her heart as heavy as the stone of the walls. For the first time in her life, she wondered what she had left to look forward to. Christal was gone, perhaps in far worse straits than when she'd last seen her. And now her husband was gone too, the man she'd grown to desire and love.

Every step to her room was slow and difficult, her mind filled with memories of Trevor. She pictured his face, handsome but never serene, his expressions varying from intense pride to deep passion. She mourned that never again would she have the joy of lying in his embrace watching his expression as they laughed and shared a tender moment.

"If only you'd let me go with you, Christal," she whispered, flinging herself on her bed. She lay there for an eternity, it seemed, burdened by a heart and soul too weary to allow her to cry.

After nearly an hour, she rose, hearing Margaret's knock at the servant's door. Alana decided it was just as well the maid had interrupted because she wanted her to begin packing. It was imperative she leave tonight. To make a drama out of departing tomorrow seemed unnecessarily painful.

She was just about to give Margaret her instructions when the maid held out a small music box. "The master came home, Mrs. Sheridan. He asked me to give this to you as soon as I saw you."

Alana took the music box. With a trembling hand, she stroked the naively painted lid of forget-me-nots, thinking how refreshingly pretty it was against all the preponderance of gilt in her room. Nervously, as if she were afraid of putting too much store in its symbolism, she opened the lid and watched the mechanism chime out "Blue Danube."

The music touched her, haunted her, because it was so beautiful and because she had never waltzed to it in her true love's arms. And never would.

The thought sent a small crystalline tear cascading down one cheek. She wiped it away so that she could read the note inside.

Alana,

You once told me there'd come a day when I would regret making you marry me. I do regret it now, Alana, with all my heart. For tonight I've seen the joy on a willing bride's face, and I regret that I was never able to see that on yours. I mourn the sorrow I now understand that I've brought to you, but if you leave me, I'll mourn my own sorrow at losing you infinitely more. Let these words assure you that in this world of injustice, God's sword is ruthless upon the wicked. If I lose you, one man,
this
man, got what he deserved.

Trevor

Breathless with sobs, she could no longer read the tear-stained ink of his letter. His words touched her soul, saying everything she had ever wanted him to say. Desperate to see him, she wiped her cheeks and looked around, bewildered. Then, without hesitation, she ran from her bedroom.

She didn't have to go far. From the top of the banister she looked down and watched Trevor walk with tired stiff movements to his library, then shut the door. She wanted to run down the stairs and rush into his arms, but she squelched the impulse, knowing instinctively that wasn't the way to approach a lion. She had to do it cautiously, warily, to take each step with care and thought.

She made her way down the stairs and through the foyer, her eyes never leaving those austere library doors. Once there, she thought to knock but decided not to give him the option of refusing to see her. She entered and closed the door behind her.

He stood at the hearth staring into the cold ashes, his broad forbidding back to her. His blackthorn was clutched in his hand as if he needed its support even more tonight. She watched him, wrestling with her options, her emotions. She cleared her throat, unsure how to begin. Finally all she said was "Trevor."

He stiffened but didn't look up. She could almost picture his frown.

"Are you sorry you hurt me?"

He turned finally and caught her gaze. His voice was husky and low. "I never meant to hurt you."

She stared at him, the man she'd grown to love. Everything about him was contradictions. He hated the British, but she knew he would accept Nigel into his family because Mara loved him. He hid his background in that forced, overly mannered speech, but he burned with pride to keep his heritage alive in songs like "Bridget O'Malley." He was a man who could hate and love with equal ferocity, but he was never reduced to mediocrity. Life in society had surrounded her with senseless chatter or vacant silences, but never had her soul heard a roar.
Until she met him.

"I want a man who loves me. Are you that man?" she whispered.

The silence became leaden. He turned away to stare at the cold hearth.

"Do you
love
me?" Now the answer was simply
yes or no
, and she could act accordingly.

"I want you to have the right man, Alana."

She shook her head and said again to that unyielding back, "Do you love me?"

"I've never been in love before. I don't know what being in love is like."

"I'm asking you. Do you love me?" Her voice caught with unshed tears.

He paused as if thinking through each word. "I've nothing to compare it to, but if love is obsession, if love can be so powerful it overtakes a man's reason and his will, if love is the feeling that one would rather die than live only to grieve its loss—" He turned, and she could see the desolation on his face. In one sweet rough whisper, he said, "Then yes, I love you, Alana. I'm doomed to love you. I'll always love you."

Tears streamed quietly down her cheeks. The tension between them stretched taut, the seconds passing with no words. She groped for the right thing to say, the way to express just how much he meant to her, how desperate she'd been at the thought of losing him, how much she needed him, loved him.

But when the words would not come, she did the only thing she could that would ensure he would never leave her. She picked up her skirts and ran to him, flinging
herself
into his embrace. With a gasp of relief and joy, he held her with both arms, his walking stick clattering to the marble floor, at long last useless.

How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And
loved your beauty with love false and true, But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you, And loved the sorrows of your changing face.

—William Butler Yeats

"
Wintertime
" came the feminine whisper, muffled in the huge walnut tester bed, "Christal and I would go sleighing in the park. What a wonderful time we'd have. Father bought us a sleigh one year, and it was a beautiful sleigh, in the shape of a seashell, painted a deep green and lined in red velvet. It was small, only big enough for two girls, and I remember one snowy afternoon when Father followed us with his trotters, grooms in tow, and we drove through Central Park, the cold
ruddying
our cheeks, snowflakes clinging to our hair, the sharp liniment smell of our ponies comforting us in the midst of all the ice. Our feet were frozen, our hands too—we never wore our muffs—but we didn't want to return to Washington Square, though Mother had promised us chocolate upon our arrival." Alana touched her husband's bare chest, reveling in his warmth and hardness. She smiled at him, a wry smile but one very much like the secret, intimate smile of a wife. "I must seem so spoiled to you."

He didn't answer, so she playfully tweaked his chest hair. "Tell me your best childhood memory—I know you have one. Tell it to me."

Trevor stared up at the high canopy. The gaslight flickered shadows over his pensive face. "Perhaps my best memory is that of my father."

She was quiet. He spoke so little of his former life, she listened with rapt attention.

"We had family in Connemara, and summers me father and I would go out on
t'eir
boats with the other men to catch rockfish from Galway Bay. . . ."

She watched him dreamily, his accent, which he used often now, softening the hard edges of his English. He spoke of innocent childhood tasks, hero worship for his father, the simple joy of riding the waves high in the
curragh
and being counted one of the men. When he was through, her soul mourned for the child that was no more.

She rested her cheek against his chest and stared out the windows of his bedroom in the chateau, noting every frozen windowpane of February. She grew quiet, her eyes taking on a misty faraway look.

"You're thinking of Christal, aren't you?" he asked softly, stroking her back.

"I'm thinking of Christal and dreams." She was quiet for a long while. "Will we ever find her?
Or Didier?"
Her voice had an edge of unresolved sadness.

"The last we heard, your sister was in Bolivia, but you cannot go there, love, and you know it. So promise me you'll let me find her. It may take some time, but I swear to you I'll do it."

"I know you'll find them. I just wish it were soon."

"You said you were thinking of Christal and dreams. What are the dreams,
a
mhuirnm
?"

She smiled softly. "Before I was married, I used to dream of a simple white clapboard house, and a man, and children. I yearned for the simplicity of another life, a poorer life."

"Are you sorry I can never give you that?"

"You've already given me that. Rich or poor, I want the man I love, a family—not the trappings, be they simple clapboard houses or mansions by the sea."

Suddenly he frowned. "You've startled."

His fierce stare, the one that once made her jump, now made her smile. "The baby's
kicking.
He's just like his father, you know." She placed her hand over his, and together they felt the sharp little punch against her belly.

"How do you know it's a boy? It could be a girl just as well."

She smiled. "Oh, he's a boy, all right. He's kicking and screaming to get into this world, and will no doubt come early just to be difficult. I told you, he's like his father."

He kissed her then, a searing tender kiss that left her aching for more. "Tyrant," she whispered. Then he kissed her again, proving her correct.

Afterward she snuggled into the crook of his arm, relishing the weight of his thigh as it covered hers.

"I love you,
á
mbúirnín
,
do you know that?"

Their eyes locked, and she looked at him, every emotion written clearly on her face. "Yes," she whispered. "I knew it when I saw your letter. I've never doubted it since."

His gaze didn't release her. "I want you to rest this next month. I don't want anything to go wrong. You mustn't worry about your sister."

"I just hope Christal is out there somewhere, finding
a happiness
as deep as mine."

"And are you happy?"

"I love you, Trevor. Does that answer your question?"

It did. He leaned over, cupping her breast, kissing her mouth. Her hand drifted up to his hip, and she tenderly fingered that small round scar. She'd been foolish ever to grieve over his inability to waltz. She thought that now as he began the waltz of lovemaking again.