Lions and Lace (7 page)

All the blood drained from her face. She shook herself, unable to believe where his thoughts were going. "You must be joking. You aren't possibly thinking of asking
me
to marry you?"

He paused and with a wry twist to his lips said, "I've no thoughts of
asking
you at all."

She should have been relieved, but with that dark penetrating stare not wavering from her face, she could hardly think to take her next breath. "What are you planning, then?"

"Perhaps a wedding . . ." Pensively he walked to his desk. He smoothed out the crumpled paper that held her biography and read it over again.

"
Whose
wedding?" she asked, desperately trying to hide the anxiety in her voice.

"Alice Diana Van
Alen
. . . one of the treasures of New York . . . of Washington Square and
Petrus
Stuyve-sant
. . ." He finished the biography and glanced up. Their gazes locked.

"My God, what are you saying?" she finally whispered, her very soul crying out in horror.

"I think I need a Knickerbocker wife. I think that's the answer to this perplexing problem."

Her heart skipped several beats. She couldn't reconcile herself to what he was implying. Finally she asked what she knew she must. "So you
are
asking me to marry you?"

"Not
asking."

She stared at him, unable to accept that he might abuse his power this way. Her shock was so
great,
she could barely choke out the words. "You're—you're
telling
me to marry you?"

"Are you in the position to say no?" He almost laughed when his gaze raked down her sodden, ruined dress.

She turned from him, unable even to think. Every part of her seemed to have gone numb. This was like living a nightmare.
The picture-perfect ending to a hellish night.
She didn't want to ponder how far he might take this crazy idea because if her experience was any indication, the answer was as far as he wanted to go. Trevor Byrne Sheridan didn't retreat. That thought alone made her want to faint, to succumb to blessed darkness.

"Surely you're not serious," she whispered, horrified.

"No?"
He
picked up her crumpled biography and studied it with rapt attention.

"You can't be," was the answer she clung to. This was madness.
Utterly untenable, even from his point of view.
After all, he was surely a papist, and she was most definitely not.

He met her stare again. "This could be the best business decision I've ever made. I understand your uncle Baldwin Didier got rich off your connections, even if he did lose it all in the end."

She angered. When would someone look at her and see something other than a way to make
himself
richer? "Marriage is not a business decision," she stated frostily.

He almost laughed. "I beg to differ, Miss Knickerbocker. In your crowd, it's all business, right down to the pedigree."

She was growing hysterical. If this man was becoming set on this insanity, she could see a long and difficult fight ahead, one she desperately wanted to avoid. "I was taught to believe marriage involves people and their emotions, not money and a ticker tape."

"Must it?"

His question left her astonished. She finally found her tongue and spoke slowly, as if that would make him understand. "Marriage is for a lifetime. There are things involved in marriage that cannot be compared to business—"

"Such as?"
He cocked one eyebrow, and for the briefest of seconds she could see the little hustler he must have been when he was a boy, the little hustler that had made him the enormously wealthy man he was today.

She groped for an answer. Finding one, she held on to it like a lifebuoy. "Children," she gasped. "They're a consequence of marriage and cannot be treated like a business."

He walked over to her and ran his finger beneath her chin, his touch raising her anxiety to dizzying heights. "I can see to it we won't have any children."

She closed her eyes and tried to calm herself. It was useless. "This has got to be some terrible joke. You cannot be serious. We don't love each other. We don't even know each other."

He smiled darkly. "Think about it, Alana. The irony is priceless. You're the purest of Knickerbocker bloods. It's only fitting that you should be the sacrifice for what was done to Mara."

"But I wanted to attend her debut, I tell you! My uncle locked me in my bedroom!"

His answer was a disbelieving smirk, and he put a quick death to that topic when he said, "You know, the more I think about it, the more this arrangement suits me."

"Marriage is not an 'arrangement'!"

"Ours will be."

"But it only suits you! What about me? I don't want to marry you!"

"You don't want to marry a
mick
, is that what you're thinking?"

The bitterness in his voice threw her. Cautiously she shook her head. "It doesn't matter that you're Irish, Mr. Sheridan. I won't marry any man I don't love."

"Can you afford the luxury of refusing me? Where's that desperate woman who needed her pitiful fortune returned?"

"Why would you want to do this? Is getting Mara a place in society so important to you that you're willing to sacrifice so much for it?"

He gazed at her in her damp, clinging, peach-colored gown, and that lion in him didn't even attempt to hide the base desire for what he saw. His words came slow and easy. "Where's the sacrifice?"

For the first time she knew his guard had slipped. She heard the brogue in his words, the softest of sounds, not entirely unpleasant. Instead of saying "Where's the sacrifice?" he'd said "
Whare's
the sacrifice," rolling in an extra
r.
She didn't want to think about the reason for his slip, but while he stared at her in all her ruined finery, there was no hiding from the lust burning in his eyes. She threw her arms across her chest and backed away like a frightened kitten.

"You don't like some
Irisher
looking at you that way, do you, Miss Knickerbocker," he said, tormenting her.

All the years of training to play society belle came back to her. She painted on her most frigid facade and gave him a stare that told him exactly what she thought about his looking at her that way, and it had nothing to do with his being Irish. "I'm not about to be bought and sold this way, no matter how terrible my circumstances," she retorted, angry at him for treating her like some kind of expensive whore and angry at herself for weakening toward him when he used that seductive brogue.

"Think about why you need your money back. Will that convince you?"

"No!" she burst out. Then her thoughts turned to
Christabel
. But she couldn't completely martyr herself for her sister, no matter how much she loved her. Yet when she pictured her sister sitting in the filth of Bloomingdale Asylum, where she'd have to go when the money ran out, it nearly drove her insane.
"No—" she choked, wanting to fight him.

"Then you can go back to your uncle, penniless as before."

"Why must you do this? It's madness. Find a more willing girl. You could marry anyone!"

"If we
Sheridans
could marry anyone, we wouldn't be in this fix, now would we?"

She met his glance and couldn't stop herself from surrendering a small moan. "What if I can't help you? You will have married a stranger for no reason."

"You can help. I bet Mara will be married within a year if you guide her." His stare never wavered.

She turned away. There was no possibility that she could go through with this crazy idea. She couldn't marry this stranger and throw away all her future happiness. Sheridan wasn't the man for her, the man in her dreams, the one who lived in that simple white house she could never quite reach.

"I'll give you an annulment as soon as Mara is happily married. And of course I'll see to it that you'll never want for anything again," he promised softly.

In some ways his offer was the worst thing that had ever happened to her; in others, it was the best. She couldn't picture herself married to this enigmatic stranger standing before her, but the appeal of his money and the worry that would be off her mind because of it was almost too sweet to resist.

Yet resist it she must. It was a terrible idea, necessitating things she couldn't even foresee now. He spoke of an annulment, but what if that wasn't possible? She knew a consummated marriage could not be dissolved that cleanly. She looked at him, and the thought of consummating their marriage made her blanch. What if their separation required a divorce? She couldn't live out the rest of her life as a
divorced
woman. The shame it would bring to her family name would be beyond bearing.

No, she could not marry this stranger. Even though it would remove her from Didier, and allow her to take care of
Christabel
as long as
Christabel
needed it, she couldn't do it.

"This won't work. Don't you see? I can't make Mara fall in love with a Knickerbocker," she whispered.

"You won't have to. I want Mara to be happy, and I'd rather she see your peers for the shallow persons they are. I believe in my sister. She'll fall in love with a good man, be he a Knickerbocker or not."

She couldn't hide her bitterness. Facetiously she asked, "But what if she gives up on you and this entire mess and retires to a nunnery? What then, Mr. Sheridan? Shall we be stuck with each other for all eternity?"

He smiled, displaying even white teeth that hinted at carnivorous appetites. "That's up to you, Miss Van
Alen
. Put my sister on the right path, and you'll have your freedom quicker than you can blink."

She grasped one last straw, desperate for anything that would get her out of this man's clutches. "My uncle is my trustee. He must approve my
marriage—-it's
stipulated in my parents' will. He won't be convinced of this crazy plan. He hates you."

Sheridan laughed. "After what he did to you tonight, Miss Van
Alen
, I've no doubt he'll sell you. And the best part of it is
,
I'll wager he takes my very first offer. Now what do you say to that?"

She stared at him, her face pale and disbelieving.

She didn't say a word.

The next few hours were almost as bad as the previous ones. The more time Sheridan had to think about the marriage, the more he seemed to embrace the idea. Alana did her best to reason with him, but he could not be moved to change his mind. For some strange reason at which Alana could only guess, his sister Mara took precedence over both their needs. Sheridan was determined to right the wrong done to her, no matter the cost.

Alana's frustrations mounted the more she pushed against Sheridan's implacable will. Her choices were to fight or run away, but neither seemed viable. She was no match for this iron-willed Irishman, and where could she run in the middle of the night, soaking wet and without a penny to her name? Not to Washington Square, for even to walk back to her home would mean risking her life. New York had never been a safe city. There had always been the poor and the desperate, and even in her posh neighborhood it didn't take long to walk from the Bowery. And she wouldn't turn to Didier. After what he had done to her, she swore on her grave she would never have anything to do with him again—even if that meant she must marry the Irishman.

The seriousness of her situation began to sink in. She was sadly lacking in alternatives. Her only consolation was that she had time, and she prayed that Sheridan would eventually see the folly in his plan. And if that didn't happen, she prayed she would find a way out before he dragged her off to a Roman church.

Not long after she and Sheridan had reached their impasse, the butler entered and led her out of the library like the doomed to the gallows. She thought she'd be shown to a waiting carriage and be driven back to Washington Square. Instead the austere butler brought her to an upstairs chamber that could have served Marie Antoinette—if the cherubs painted on the ceiling and the rose velvet upholstery were any indication. She was obviously expected to relax there, an impossibility considering her situation. Yet as desperate as she was, cold and weary, she could hardly think of anything except how wonderful it would be to be warm again.

But to her astonishment an army of maidservants arrived in the rooms, ready to attend to her toilet, and Alana found herself rebelling again. An elderly woman who introduced herself as the housekeeper tried to take her into the satin-draped dressing room where a French porcelain tub was filled with steaming rose-scented water, but Alana adamantly refused it. She was neither mistress nor guest in this household. It would be difficult enough borrowing one of Sheridan's blankets to place over her shoulders; she was definitely not going to let down her guard enough to bathe, not in this man's house.

In the end, however, she capitulated. Not because she trusted Sheridan and not because her desire to fight him had been tempered but because upon her refusal of help, the flock of maids just stood there adrift without new orders, looking at her in her torn and dirtied peach satin gown as if she were some pitiable street urchin. Disgusted with herself and the entire situation, Alana finally removed her ruined gown and sank into the tub, her pride stifling an unwilling sigh of pleasure. She had surrendered, but only for the moment, she told herself. When she had regained her strength, she would fight again.

She was given a girl's pink wool robe that had to be Mara Sheridan's, for it was a shade too small. Alana put it
on,
waiting for the return of her dress that she assumed had been taken to the laundress.

Once her hair was coiled in a chignon at her nape, she perched uncomfortably on a gilt fancy chair, making every effort to avoid the room's enormous rococo mirrors. Their reflection didn't lie, and every time she peeked into one, she saw an overwrought girl with a pale face and a slightly bruised cheek. She didn't even have face powder to hide behind.

Exhausted, she battled the urge to sleep and pondered her situation until she felt she would go mad from a lack of ideas. But there was nothing she could do until her gown was returned, so she waited, fighting off unconsciousness like a boxer who'd received a knock-out. She was nodding off for the third time when the elderly housekeeper addressed her again. "Would you like to retire, miss, or should you like me to send the girl for your breakfast?" The woman clasped her hands, obviously anxious to please.

Alana sat up straight and looked at the woman. What was going on? The servants were acting as if she'd just moved in. She answered cautiously, "Please don't trouble
yourself
further. I know you must have other duties to attend to."

"I've been given specific orders to see to your needs first. Mr. Sheridan himself gave the orders to me."

Alana was completely taken aback. Collecting herself, she said, "May I have my gown now? I must speak to Mr. Sheridan before I depart."

"I'm sorry, miss, but Mr. Sheridan's unavailable. He's making arrangements for the wedding."

Alana felt as if she'd been struck. "The wedding?" she repeated, incredulous.
"So soon?"

"He's gone to see your uncle."

A wild surge of panic raced through her. Sheridan's scheming was not to be underestimated, and already he was going forth at full throttle. Facing that fact, a wild desire to fight him overcame her, but the same rhetorical question kept reverberating through her mind: What could she do?

Alana closed her eyes, wishing fervently that she could just give in to the desire to sleep and then awake to find she had had a nightmare. Her thoughts darkened even further and turned to Sheridan. What was he saying to Didier? Was he exchanging bank notes, buying her as if she were some stock on the exchange? Was he gloating over this latest coup, or was he waiting to see her again to gloat? Moaning, she knew only one thing. If she didn't find a way to extricate herself from this mess in a hurry, she just might awake to find herself married to the man.

Morning broke over Washington Square in a bath of orange sunshine. It tinted the naked trees in the park and glittered off the oily street stones until they appeared like jet. The hurdy-gurdy man was already
about,
calling out in a strong Italian bass while an old gnome-like woman swept the curbs, singing a blasphemous rendition of "Amazing Grace."

The cacophony of the city had begun again, made complete with the clatter of the wheels of an expensive black landau as it stopped at number 38.

Sheridan stepped from it, his eyes narrowing in the intense sunlight. He viewed the prepossessing brownstone with a jaundiced gaze and wasted no more time. His walking stick clicked on the steps, and he rang the bell.

A butler answered the door, obviously surprised by Sheridan's early call, even more so by the Irishman's dark, commanding stature.

"I'm here to see Didier. Tell him to meet me"—Sheridan entered the foyer, surveyed his surroundings, and pointed his walking stick toward the parlor—"in there."

Pumphrey
had never been so abused.
Or so intimidated.
He cleared his throat and said, "I'm sorry, sir, but this is the Van
Alen
residence. If you desire to see Miss Van
Alen's
uncle, he has rooms at—"

"I know where his rooms are," Sheridan snapped. "And I also know he's here—taking inventory, no doubt, while the mistress of this house isn't around to stop him." He nodded again to the parlor. "You tell him to meet me in there.
Right away."

Pumphrey
appeared as if he wanted to object once more, but he took one long look at the Irishman's thunderous expression and thought better of it. He quit the room, anxious to be gone.

Alone, Sheridan stepped into the Van
Alen
parlor and glanced around. The room was handsome, the furniture expensive. Still the decor bowed to the dictates of proper society. Nothing was
too
new. The Knickerbockers considered newness the height of vulgarity. Even their daughters were taught to place their costly
Worth
gowns in the attic for a season or two, as if to cure them of their immediate stylishness.

With a mild disgust marring his handsome features, Sheridan sat on the rosewood settee and waited. He didn't have to wait long. Didier soon appeared at the faux-walnut doors,
hungover
and ill at ease. When he set his gaze upon Sheridan, it was as if all of last night's activities had suddenly
came
back to his memory. Didier fastened his shirt collar, looking like he'd just been dragged from bed. He smoothed down his Van Dyke and finally summoned the courage to say something. "Where's Alana?"

"Why do you ask?" Sheridan stared at him.

"She's my goddamned niece, that's why. I want to know where she is."

"Your concern is impressive, Didier. I see this will cost me more."

Didier looked like a cur
who
had suddenly discovered a rat in his doghouse. "What does that mean?"

"Exactly what I said.
I'm here to pay you. I want to purchase your good blessings. Your niece and I plan to marry."

If he'd just been told the Commodore had died and he had inherited all the Vanderbilt millions, Didier couldn't have been more surprised. His notorious blue eyes nearly popped from their sockets. "What did you say?"

Sheridan studied his well-groomed nails. "Your niece, whom you so graciously introduced to me last night, and I have decided we want to be wed. We'll need your blessing."

The first gleam of wariness shadowed Didier's gaze. "What are you up to, Sheridan?"

"I want an entree into society, and Alana, as my wife, will do that for me. She and I will be wed next Saturday." Sheridan turned his dark hazel eyes upon Didier and looked as if he were using every ounce of strength to control himself. "That is . . . with your permission, of course."

"You're tricking me, aren't you, Sheridan," Didier countered. "But your trickery's not working, because I haven't anything left after that last bout. The Van
Alen
money's been depleted. I don't have a penny."

"Who knows that better than I?" Sheridan lifted one eyebrow and laughed.

If Didier had been a brawler, he'd have punched him.

Sheridan returned to the subject. "In any case, I'm not playing around. I want to marry your niece. And I'll need your blessing to do it."

Didier stroked his beard down one side with his knuckles, the other with his palm. He stared at Sheridan, unsure.

"Are you going to give it to us or not?"

"Permission to marry?
Not without a damned heavenly settlement." Didier appeared smug, obviously thinking he'd cornered the Irishman into revealing his scheme.

But Sheridan was ready for him. "Splendid," he said. "I'm glad we're down to business." He pulled out a gleaming black leather portfolio and thumbed through the bank notes in it.
"How much, then?"

Didier
swallowed,
his bleary eyes unable to tear away from Sheridan's portfolio.

"How much, boy-o?"

Sheridan's slang did the trick. Didier's angry gaze met the Irishman's.
"One hundred thousand dollars."

"That much?"
Sheridan asked, unmoved.

"That'll teach you that I won't be insulted by some shoddy. Not in my own house."

Sheridan stood and angrily grasped his walking stick. But he composed himself before he spoke again. "I'll give you fifty thousand. Not a penny more. And I suggest you take it. If you don't, Caroline
Astor
will hear where your niece spent all of last night. She won't be worth fifty thousand then, I wager."

Didier paled.

"Is it fifty thousand or not?"

He gave Sheridan a contemptuous stare. "Still trying to buy your way into that crowd, aren't you,
Irisher
."

Sheridan's face became taut with anger, but he calmly dangled the portfolio in front of him. "Is it fifty thousand, or do I go elsewhere—to a lawyer perhaps? I think he might find ways around the stipulations in that will."

Didier's expression boiled, but he held himself back. He stared at the portfolio and finally succumbed to his need for money. Obviously despising the Irishman, he nodded for Sheridan to hand it to him.

Sheridan dropped it at his feet. "Twenty-five thousand now," he informed him. "The rest when the wedding is over."

Didier looked as if he were having apoplexy. With obvious relish, he said, "I think I should have more money if I have to sacrifice her to a dirty
mick
like you."