She didn’t know why this offer wounded her. Perhaps it just further chipped away at her beliefs in marriage, but somehow when he’d said the words, they stung in a more personal way. “If you find it necessary. But I can promise you I won’t bother you again now that I know this is your bedroom.”
“I could bother you, you know.”
“I trust you,” she whispered.
“That’s your first mistake.”
She looked up at him, startled by his candor, but there seemed nothing left to say, so she retired to her bedroom, shutting those intricate gilt doors firmly behind her.
Margaret had already laid out a peignoir on the massively draped Louis Philippe couch when Alana joined her in the dressing room. Both women were too embarrassed to converse, so Alana obediently slipped into the sheer bit of peachy froth that was a part of her bridal trousseau. Though she wasn’t disturbed by letting Margaret see her in such attire—her maid had seen her naked every day she’d been with her—Alana was still disturbed by the alluring gown. When she peeked into the cheval mirror, she could see her nipples, covered only by a mist of peach silk. Trevor had picked out her trousseau. He’d certainly done a fine job, leaving her with no modesty.
“’Tis a good thing you’re now married, ma’am. It surely ain’t fittin’ for a young miss to be wearin’ such a thing.” Margaret shook her head at the spectacle in the mirror.
Alana nodded her agreement and dismissed her for the night. Morning was almost here. It had been an incredibly long day, and she was glad to go to bed, even more to cover her nakedness with the heavy satin quilts. When Margaret had turned the gaslights out and departed, Alana thought she’d go right to sleep, but she didn’t. She stared through the darkness at those enormous gilded doors to Trevor’s room and thought about the man on the other side. He wouldn’t come to her room. She couldn’t imagine their ever becoming so intimate. If anything, they were too much alike. They were both restrained and logical. And logic told her now that falling in love was not part of their arrangement.
But no matter how she tried to deny the strangeness of the situation, she tossed and turned and stared at the gilded doors. Again and again she pictured him standing just beyond those doors, his hand raised to grasp the doorknob, his face taut with determination. If he came to her that night, there were a thousand scenarios, everything from the crude to the sublime, that could be played out between them. Lying in the darkness, with dawn just tipping the horizon, it seemed she thought of them all, but not one came to fruition. In the end she fell asleep, depressed with the knowledge that her wedding night had come and gone. And never had she imagined it could be so lonely.
“But I don’t want to go to Newport! Why is Trevor making me, Eagan! It’s his honeymoon. I feel so stupid tagging along!” Mara made this announcement just as her trunks were being carried down the huge marble staircase of the Fifth Avenue chateau. The extra servants were already at Grand Central, and the Sheridan Pullman was again ready for another trip north.
Mara looked at her departing trunks in disgust. She turned to her brother. “I know you know more about this than you’re telling me, Eagan, so confess now or it’ll go hard with you.” She knitted her dark brows together and gave Eagan such a wrathful expression, he couldn’t help but laugh.
“Mara, me sweeting,” he said, putting his arm around his sister’s shoulder and leading her into the drawing room, “let me tell you a few things about Trevor’s marriage. The first is, Trevor doesn’t know what’s good for him. Did you know that?”
Mara shook her black curls.
“And did you know that Trevor is somewhat less than perfect—yes, even in spite of the fact that he is related to me?”
“Oh, you’re just teasing me.” She pushed him away. “You’re not going to tell me a thing—”
“Oh, yes I am, sweeting. You sit there like a good girl, and I’m going to tell you everything you need to know about your trip to Newport and Trevor’s marriage.”
“All right, tell me,” Mara demanded once she was seated.
“Do you like Alana?” Eagan began.
“Yes. She’s very nice.”
“I agree.”
Mara started to say something, but Eagan held up his hand. “Mara, our brother’s marriage is in trouble, and we might be the only ones to save it.”
Mara gasped, despair clouding her piquant features.
“There are things you don’t know about our brother.” Eagan turned from her to impress her with the gravity of the situation. Yet a wicked twinkle appeared in his amused emerald eyes when he peeked at her. “I tell you this because it may help you help him.”
“What don’t I know about Trevor?”
“He’s shy.” Eagan had to bite his lip to keep from laughing.
Confusion crossed her face. “Trevor is shy?” she repeated incredulously. She looked around as if trying to comprehend what he had told her. When Eagan still hadn’t turned around to face her, she suddenly became wise. “Oh, you goose! You’re pulling my leg. Trevor isn’t shy!”
Eagan collected himself, though it took a will of iron. He whipped around. “But he is, Mara, and it’s going to ruin his marriage. You’ve got to believe it. I’m counting on you to help him. You’ve got to make sure when you’re in Newport that he and his bride spend every living minute together, or he may never get over this ‘affliction.’”
“Eagan, Trevor isn’t shy! He’s made all this money, and he sees men at the exchange all the time—”
“But it’s women that put him into a fright. He’s deathly afraid of women.”
“But I saw him with that actress friend of his, Miss Daisy Dumont, once. He was a bit drunk at the time and didn’t notice that I was in the library. He pulled her in there and kissed her. Eagan, I recall quite clearly that he was not shy. Why, without even asking her permission, his hand went up unhesitatingly and squeezed her—”
“Forget that you even saw that!” Eagan snapped, horrified that his virginal little sister could be so knowledgeable about such activities, especially in the household. “Why didn’t you tell someone about this?”
Mara looked a bit surprised. “Who was I supposed to tell?”
“Well, you should have told someone! No doubt seeing that—” he began to stumble over his words, “well, seeing such a thing, no doubt, has brought many unanswered questions to mind—”
“No it hasn’t.”
Eagan looked as if he were totally stumped, as if he didn’t know whether to be relieved that she wasn’t pelting him with awkward questions or terrified that she might know more than she should. A faint blush came to his face when he realized that Trevor might not have been the only culprit to give Mara a show. Unable to inquire about that, he brushed the topic aside altogether and began anew. “Forget about Daisy Dumont, Mara. She’s not of the same class as Alana. You see that now, don’t you?”
To his inexpressible relief, Mara nodded.
“Fine, then you can see how our brother Trevor could be suddenly struck by a paralyzing fit of shyness around a woman as refined as Alana Van Alen?”
“I suppose,” she answered slowly.
“That’s why he’s bringing you up there, don’t you see. He’s afraid to be alone with her.”
“Do you really think so, Eagan?”
God forgive me, Brother. I know not what I do. Eagan nodded with utmost conviction.
“Then what should I do to help him?”
He hid his winner’s smile behind a cough. He sat down and put his arm around her again. “Mara, sweeting, I’ve thought about this all day. Here’s what you should do.…”
14
Alana didn’t see her husband the next day or the day after that. She’d heard that Trevor liked to take long walks on the beach, but she never chanced to see him. He walked only at dawn and dusk, an inappropriate time for a lady to be out walking.
She occupied herself with writing Christal about the wedding and reading a volume of Civil War poetry, Drum-Tap
s, penned by an obscure battlefield attendant named Walt Whitman.
By evening, however, she was bored. Their honeymoon was to last two weeks, even three, and Alana began to wonder how she would fill the countless hours before they returned to Manhattan. It was May, and since the season had hardly begun in Newport, she could count on getting at most a couple of invitations to balls. Mara had yet to arrive, and there was no one except Margaret to talk to. While Alana loved her maid dearly, they had only so much in common; their conversations were beginning to repeat themselves. Alana had already walked the grounds and attempted to explore the endless maze of the house. With no companionship, the days stretched before her like a cavernous yawn.
A welcome diversion came when Trevor sent a rather abrupt note asking her to dine with him in the dining room. She’d been taking her meals in her suite, and now she actually looked forward to the “outing.” She dressed with care in an elegant forest-green cut velvet and the family pearls, but when she arrived in the dining room, she almost longed for the intimacy of her vast suite of rooms.
The dining room was an enormous gilded jewel with paneling from a seventeenth-century French chateau. She entered, and Trevor stood, greeting her in a perfunctory manner, his expression blank. She moved toward him, but then her gaze roved down the eternal stretch of table to the opposite end where a footman held her chair. The footman seated her, and she felt ridiculous when she tried to look at Trevor a mere fifty feet away, her view obstructed by eight brilliantly lit gold candelabra that did nothing to add warmth to the cold marble room. Dinner was served promptly, and Alana ate in silence, unwilling to make herself look like a fool by attempting to shout conversation.
It was almost a relief when dessert was served. She was uncomfortable eating beneath the gaze of two oversolicitous footmen, and her dinner partner sat so far away, he might as well have been back in Manhattan.
She had just dipped her spoon into the custard when Mara burst into the dining room, her traveling cape still around her shoulders. “Hello everyone! I’m here at last!” Mara skidded to a halt when she saw her brother at the end of the long table. She turned in the other direction, as if she were watching lawn tennis, to find Alana sitting stiffly at the other end. “Good heavens! It is true!” Alana heard the girl whisper to herself before Mara ran to her and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “Hello, dear sister-in-law! How has Newport been? I can’t wait until we have time to get to know each other.” Mara went to the other end of the table and kissed her brother. “Trevor! No, don’t get up, Brother mine. I’ve eaten, and when you and your lovely wife are through, I’ll see you in the library for tea. I’m off now!”
Mara was gone before Alana had time to put down her spoon.
“What was that all about?” Trevor’s voice echoed off the marble. In the distance she could see his footmen shrug as if they were used to their young mistress’s flights of fancy.
Unable to endure the last of this dinner, Alana abruptly stood and waved to Trevor. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to freshen up before the evening continues,” she called in as loud a voice as she could without cupping her hands and shouting.
Trevor stood and nodded. Only after she was out of sight did he resume his seat. Or take his eyes from her figure.
Alana was longer than she thought she would be. She found the great marble staircase all right but then made a wrong turn and wandered on the second floor through several sitting rooms, a billiard room, even an unused nursery, the wing that held the bedrooms escaping her. She finally stumbled on the servants’ stair and startled a laundry maid from whom she procured directions to her suite. Once there, Margaret helped her with her toilet, and she rushed back downstairs, afraid she might be missed.
She shouldn’t have rushed. From the entrance to the library a warm family scene greeted her, the likes of which she hadn’t seen in years. Trevor tended the fire, laughing at something Mara had just said. Mara sat on the sofa, her hands acting out her conversation like any other sixteen-year-old.
“… and did you see all those important people in St. Brendan’s, Trevor? Father Donegal said he’d never seen a wedding like yours in his entire lifetime.”
“More’s the pity he’s an old man, then. Fadder Donegal will be seein’ many a weddin’ like mine in the future, I’ll wager.”
Alana stood there, entranced by her husband’s soft, lyrical accent, a nice sound—natural, relaxed, seductive. He rarely revealed it, and she knew if she hadn’t been eavesdropping, she wouldn’t have heard it. Feeling like an intruder, she watched the easy camaraderie between brother and sister as they conversed. Part of her wanted to make her presence known and be included with them, but part of her hesitated, afraid that there was no place for her. It was clear that the Sheridan family was very tightly knit. She was the stranger, a foreigner to both of them, to be guarded against and held at a distance. Backing into the shadows, she decided it might be wise to depart.
But Mara’s voice suddenly chimed, “Alana! You’re back! We wondered where you had gone!” And then there was no graceful exit.
Alana plastered a smile on her face and stepped through the doorway. Unwillingly, her gaze riveted to her husband, and he stared back at her, assessing her with that dismissive yet probing stare.
Mara ushered her in. Feeling awkward, like an interloper, Alana said, “I hope I’m not interrupting.” She noticed that Trevor agitatedly fingered the lion’s head on his cane and that gesture could mean only one of two things—how much he disliked her knowing his affliction or how much he disliked her intruding presence. She didn’t know which bothered her more.
Forcing her gaze from him, she found the nearest chair and groped for something witty to say. “So, Mara, has New York missed its most infamous couple yet?” She started to laugh, but when she glanced at Trevor, the laughter died in her throat.
Displeased by her comment, he took a seat by his sister on the sofa, all the while gracing Alana with that dark, hostile stare. Unnerved, Alana returned his stare but leaned back in her chair as if bracing herself. He believed everyone outside his family was the Enemy. She wondered if he would ever change his mind about her, his own wife.
Mara leapt to her feet, unexpectedly interrupting this silent exchange. Misreading the situation, the girl exclaimed, “Oh dear, what am I doing! Alana, you must sit next to your husband!”
Alana’s jaw dropped. She couldn’t even think of a protest before Mara had her by the hand and pulled her to the sofa. “No, no, it’s all right, Mara. Sit next to your brother,” Alana told her, desperate to avoid her husband’s attention and more important, that bleak, belligerent manner of his.
Mara shook her head. “Oh, I couldn’t keep you apart. I know how much you must long for each other.”
Alana felt the heat of a blush rise to her cheeks. She couldn’t look at Trevor.
“You do?” he asked, his voice at once incredulous and suspicious.
His little sister hid a smile. “Well, I can imagine. After all, I’m sixteen now. I’ve at least read penny novels, you know.” Mara all but shoved Alana onto the small sofa next to her brother. Appearing satisfied, Mara took the big leather chair opposite them and stared at them, dreamy-eyed.
Alana could feel the blood drain from her face. Chagrined was hardly a strong enough word to describe how she felt, being forced to sit right next to Trevor on the postage-stamp-size sofa. His proximity was more than unsetting; in fact, she felt a rush of panic whenever she thought of it. Desperate to cover this, she said nervously, “So, Mara, tell us about your trip.”
“You may hold hands if you like.” Mara smiled. “Oh, I know Mrs. Mellenthorp might not approve, but she’s not here, now is she?”
“Mrs. Mellenthorp?” Alana questioned, looking for salvation from Mara, who only gave her a sweet smile. Finally she braved a glance at her husband, but he didn’t answer either.
He looked as if he might throttle his sister. “Mara—” he rumbled ominously.
But Mara interrupte
d. “Hold your wife’s hand, Trevor. You must go about as if I’m not even here. I don’t want to think I’m keeping you apart.”
“You aren’t keeping us apart.”
“But I am. I shouldn’t be here. Eagan told me so.”
“Eagan, eh?” Trevor scowled, his expression more enlightened.
“Please hold Alana’s hand, Trevor. There’s no need to be shy.”
Shy! Alana almost cried out in dismay. Before she could, Trevor roughly snatched up her hand resting on the cushion next to him. But she might as well have been a tree trunk for all he seemed to notice. He refused even to look at her.
“Wonderful,” Mara said, sitting back in her chair, that same romantic expression on her face.
“Tell us about your trip, Mara,” he demanded testily.
Mara rambled on about her delays in Narragansett, the footman forgetting one of her trunks, while Alana sat like a statue, her hand captured beneath the lion’s paw. She was moved by the strength, the warmth, the anger, of the hand holding her own, and she was almost afraid to glance at him for fear he’d read more in her expression than she wanted.
“But I want to hear how you’ve been, Alana.” Mara turned to her. “Do you like Fenian Court?”
Alana took a deep breath. It was difficult to make conversation when her mind was so focused on the man next to her. His hand wrapped around hers like thick molten steel. His leg grazed hers, and though there were yards of batiste and silk velvet between them, she was sure she could feel every tense muscle in his thigh. “Fenian Court is certainly beautiful, but I never expected it to be so huge.” Alana released a nervous laugh. “I confess, I find it impossible to get around this place.”
Mara smiled. “And how about my brother? Please don’t tell me he’s abandoned you for all that ticker tape of his. I’ll be terribly disappointed if he has.”
“Well, I …” Suddenly Alana felt Trevor squeeze her hand. He was coaching her; he wanted correct answers. She knew he didn’t want to educate his sister on the more jaded aspects of their marriage, yet the pressure on her hand annoyed her. She was no child needing to be tutored on the ways of polite society. She knew how to behave without his prompting. He squeezed more tightly. She rebelled. “Well, yes, he’s impossible too.”
Lions and Lace Page 18