“But every option that would ease your guilty conscience would in turn break your heart, am I not right?”
Trevor shot him a look that could kill.
Eagan sighed and again shook his head. “For all your scheming, you’ve finally caught yourself in a scheme of your own making.”
“And I’ll disentangle myself yet, never you fear,” Trevor retorted.
Eagan smiled blackly. “What strange justice—to fall in love with your wife, the one woman you can never have.”
Trevor rose and poured himself another whiskey. A double.
Two hours later, Trevor was still drinking whiskey, still in a foul mood. He’d spoken to Whittaker about sending to Newport for the Colleen, thinking a long sail might do him good, but after he gave those orders, he turned moody and closeted himself, this time in the drawing room. There he drank some more and tapped out the tune to “Bridget O’Malley” on the Steinway, as if either might assuage his melancholy.
At precisely four o’clock Whittaker knocked on the drawing room doors and entered carrying a gold salver. Trevor growled, “Leave me alone,” but Whittaker ignored him. He walked up to his brooding figure and held out the salver.
Trevor needed only to glance at the card to know whose it was. “Is he here?” he asked Whittaker, anger supplanting his morose mood.
“Yes, sir. I thought you might just want to speak with him this time. He sent Mrs. Sheridan a note.” With a white-gloved hand, Whittaker turned over Anson’s card. He’d written the words Meet me.
Trevor stood up, in control despite his hours of drinking. “Send him in here.”
“Very good, sir,” Whittaker announced.
Whittaker promptly led Anson Stevens into the drawing room, closing the door behind him. Alone with his wife’s former beau, Trevor stared him down like a Yank confronting a Reb at Little Round Top.
“Is Alana not at home? Forgive my bluntness, Sheridan, but I’d come to call on her, not you.” Anson tightened his lips, clearly surprised and displeased to see him.
Trevor took a calming sip of his whiskey, but his anger churned like a steam engine. “Stevens, what gives you the right to come calling on my wife as if she were some unwed debutante fresh from her mother’s arms?”
Anson smirked. “Welcome to society, Sheridan. I guess New York isn’t like Ireland, where a biddy marries a mick, gets saddled with twelve children, and that’s the last that’s heard from her.”
“You’re not going to ever have my wife, Stevens.”
“Oh?” Anson raised a fine dark-gold eyebrow. “Caroline Astor thinks differently. In fact, I’ve heard rumors that an annulment is forthcoming.”
Sheridan’s words were calm. “What makes you think an annulment is possible?”
The hatred in Anson’s cold-blue eyes glittered like shattered glass. “Your marriage with Alana has been nothing but a facade. Everyone can see it. Alana has all but admitted it.”
Trevor gave him a nasty smile. “In the eyes of God and the law, I am Alana’s husband. What is or is not done in our marriage bed concerns us and only us. Take that message back to that witch on Thirty-fourth Street.”
In his fury, Anson grasped at any straw. “If an annulment is not possible, there’s divorce.… I’ll see Alana out of this mess no matter what must be done or said.”
“And why is she your cause?” Trevor snapped. “Are there no other young misses in the Four Hundred for you to concentrate your well-groomed rutting instincts on?”
Anson’s tone was like poison. “Caroline Astor and I consider ourselves missionaries. Alana is a girl of breeding, a rarity that shouldn’t be squandered on the likes of you. It’s our duty to save her from your dirty Irish money and your dirty Irish hands.”
Trevor slammed his drink on the Steinway. “You go back and tell your keeper that Alana Sheridan is a lost cause. I’ve put my ‘dirty Irish hands’ on her, and I’m keeping them on her.”
“She doesn’t love you. She only wants something from you, and when she gets it, I swear she’ll leave you. After all, she’s a decent girl.”
Trevor took that last comment like a blow to the jaw. But he recovered quickly. “Meaning no decent girl would stay married to me?” He paused long enough to let Anson squirm. Then he went for the kill. “Let me tell you something, boy-o. Alana may have her complaints about me. But one place she does not complain is in the bedroom.”
Anson’s control snapped. He strode over to Trevor, put his full weight behind his fist, and swung. Trevor ducked, adept at brawling from his years on the streets, then sent Anson careening into the Louis XV commode with his fist.
Blood streamed from Anson’s nose, and he looked around, dazed. Trevor took this as the cue to send for the footmen. The green-and-black-liveried fellows arrived and discreetly dumped Anson back into his carriage while Trevor gave explicit instructions in Gaelic where to send him.
When the ride in the park was over and the duke had bid his farewell, Alana went to her suite to change for dinner. She had still not seen her husband, and the longer the time they were apart, the more she dreaded that first glance into his eyes. She made it to her rooms without incident. Margaret hadn’t arrived yet, and Alana reveled in being alone, the quiet allowing her a few moments to prepare herself for what she knew would be a trying evening.
She threw her kid gloves on the bed, hardly glancing at it, but then the card caught her eye, tossed across her satin coverlet as if in anger. Her hand trembling, she picked up the card and saw that it was Anson’s. She turned it over and paled at what was written there. Crossed out were Anson’s words Meet me and in their stead, in a bold, commanding hand, was written, Shall I give you the words to Bridget O’Malley? The card fluttered to the bed.
Trevor had again proved he was jealous, and Alana could have cried with the irony of it. Once she’d believed that a man must love to be jealous, but she’d forgotten that one can also be jealous over a possession. Love need not be involved. The other night had proved it. Trevor might not want her, but until she was no longer his property, he would kill rather than let another have her.
She touched the gold border of the card. Her husband was a crafty sort, but she was beginning to understand his manipulations. He meant something by these words on Anson’s card, and no doubt they were his way of hurting her.
“Mrs. Sheridan?”
Alana looked behind her and found Margaret standing there holding a flannel-wrapped bundle, an enormous smile on her face. “Oh, Mrs. Sheridan, I had to show you. Caitlín let me bring the babe up here. Has there ever been sooch a darlin’ little girl?”
Alana walked over to the bundle. There, nestled in a pink blanket, was a newborn infant. The baby’s features were perfect, her tiny head was dusted with a sprinkling of black hair. “Oh my,” Alana whispered, and touched the tiny chin. The child made a face, and both women laughed.
Margaret held her out. “Would you like to hold her, Mrs. Sheridan? We never had a babe to care for, you and me, did we. I wonder if Kevin and me will ever … Well, enough of that! Here. Hold the child. I knew you’d love her.”
Alana colored with excitement. She could hardly remember the last time she’d held a baby in her arms. When the child was placed there, so warm and soft and fragile, her heart tugged with love and protectiveness. “When did she arrive? I don’t remember any of the servants expecting,” she said.
“Mr. Eagan found the lass. The mother, Caitlín O’Roarke, was stuck in a lift with him. Mr. Eagan delivered her.”
“I don’t believe it!”
“Oh, it’s true, Mrs. Sheridan. And Mr. Eagan, he’s in love with the child, don’t you know. He can’t do enough for her—or her mother. Brought her here and gave her a job, he did—that is, when she’s feelin’ up to it.”
“I always knew Eagan was a good soul. I could see it in his eyes. He’s got such warm, caring eyes.”
“Yes, Mrs. Sheridan.” Margaret stroked the baby’s dark downy head. “Well, I’d best bring the child
back below-stairs.…”
“Let me come with you. I’d love to meet her mother. And I want to hold her for a little while longer.” Alana smiled at the baby. “What’s her name?”
“Siobhan,” Margaret whispered.
“What a beautiful name. Well, little Shivhan, let’s take you back to your mama.” Margaret held the servant’s door, and they took the steep steps to the lower quarters.
Through a maze of passages and servants’ rooms, they arrived at the mother’s bedroom to hear an intense voice coming from it. “In a few days, after you’re stronger, you can be up and around. Until then, when the doctor has given you permission, you will stay here.”
Alana and Margaret entered the room just as Eagan picked up a young woman in a white cotton nightgown and placed her gently back in bed.
“But I should be workin’,” the girl said, her face pale from her ordeal of giving birth, her eyes wary of her surroundings, obviously suspicious of her good fortune.
“No, Eagan’s right,” Alana broke in. “You can’t even think about working now when you’ve this dear child to care for.” She smiled down at the bundle in her arms. Shivhan was fast asleep.
Caitlín looked at Alana in awe. By her dress, Alana was clearly the lady of the house. Caitlín couldn’t seem to believe she would bother with the likes of her.
Eagan made the introductions and said, “That’s telling her, Alana. The baggage won’t stay in her bed.” He looked down at Caitlín, Caitlín chanced a glance back at him, and suddenly Alana was struck by the intangible bond between them. If she didn’t know better, she’d think Eagan was rather taken with this girl he’d saved from a life of shame on the streets. And she’d think that shy, smiling glance Caitlín gave Eagan was filled with hero worship. Maybe something more.
Eagan nodded to Alana. “I must say, Mrs. Sheridan, you look good with a babe in your arms. Trevor should take note.”
Alana paled and blushed at the same time—if that was possible. Eagan’s comment frightened her and compelled her. The possibility of a child was beyond the realm of her and Trevor’s relationship, and yet, because of the other night, it was more of a possibility than she cared to think about.
The baby saved her from having to comment. Shivhan startled, awoke with a cry, and Alana’s attention turned to her. She rocked the newborn in her arms. “I think it’s dinnertime,” she said softly.
Caitlín offered to take the infant, but before Alana could hand Shivhan to her, a voice sounded from the doorway saying something in Gaelic. Trevor stood there, sporting a new walking stick, an Irish blackthorn. He’d just bathed. His hair was still wet, slicked back as if with Macassar oil. His jaw was freshly shaven, his vest a brilliant scarlet, his paper collar crisp, white, and new.
Again he said something to Caitlín in Gaelic. It made the girl nervous, and she turned her eyes warily to Eagan. Trevor laughed.
“Must you frighten her? She’s just had a baby.” Alana didn’t know where she’d found the courage to say that, especially after Trevor’s gaze captured hers, his eyes recounting all the passion, guilt, and fury that they’d spent on each other two nights ago. He lowered his gaze to take in the picture of her holding the baby. Approval crossed his face, then worry, then anger, in that order.
“I only asked the girl if she were some kind of Celtic princess. I expect so, since she’s holding court here in her room.”
Alana could tell he’d been drinking. He didn’t look drunk, but there was something in his eyes, an unnatural gleam. The baby wailed, sensing the tension. Alana rocked her. She stepped to the mother and said, “It must be suppertime. Margaret, will you stay here and see if Caitlín needs anything? I’ll take away the men, so she may feed Shivhan.”
“Yes, Mrs. Sheridan.”
“Gentlemen,” she said woodenly, “will you follow me upstairs?”
Trevor didn’t say a word, so Eagan spoke up. “I’ve got business downtown.” He looked at Trevor. “She’s all yours, Brother o’ mine.” With a salute and a fond look at Caitlín, Eagan left the tiny servant’s room.
Caitlín struggled with Shivhan, waiting for privacy before baring her breast. Alana angered at Trevor’s lingering. She gave him a lethal stare, then left the room.
“Wait.” He caught up with her in the corridor. He took hold of her arm just as a maidservant curtsied and scurried by, clearly unnerved at finding the master in the help’s quarters.
“What!” she hissed, snatching back her arm.
“We have to talk.”
“You’re drunk. And isn’t this a little tardy? What’s there to discuss?” She laughed bitterly, unable to civilize her pain. “Oh yes, I suppose it’s time to orchestrate our Grand Lie for our annulment now that Mara’s taken with the duke.”
“Mara’s seen Granville again?”
“What a coincidence. We saw him in the park. Imagine.”
His gold-green eyes lit with anger. “Fine. Let Mara see him. As I said, I’ve my own ways of handling him.”
“As usual, you’ve got everything under control. So if you’ll excuse me—”
“No.” His hand tightened on her arm; his voice turned soft. “We’ve got to talk.”
She pulled at the manacle of his fingers. “I know this will come as a great shock to you, Mr. Sheridan, but I don’t want to talk to you.”
“Well, you must talk to me. And where will it be—here in the servant’s passage or upstairs in the privacy of the drawing room?”
“You’ve obviously been drinking. I don’t have conversations with drunk men. There’s nothing to discuss.”
He pulled her closer. She smelled the liquor on his breath, but her desire for him struck her like an arrow, his smell of whiskey and soap seducing her.
“You say there’s nothing to discuss, but you’re wrong,” he rasped, obviously trying to be more rational than his drunken state would allow him to be. “Let’s just begin with your physical condition.…”
She stiffened, her cheeks flaming with anger and embarrassment.
He added, “The symbolism of little Siobhan in your arms hasn’t escaped me. Are you ready perhaps to be holding your own in nine months?”
His words cut her. He made a mockery of their relationship and their lovemaking. To him, the possibility of their having a child seemed like nothing but an inconvenience. She let loose her fury. “Oh, and that would destroy your plans, wouldn’t it.” He tried to interrupt, but he couldn’t break through her indignation. She continued. “I can just see you, saddled with a Knickerbocker child. How revolting! No wonder you’re panicking. Do you want me to pay a visit to Madame Restell?”
“I’d kill you if you visited that woman.”
She didn’t doubt he meant it. Suddenly she was filled with so much irrational anger that all she wanted to do was beat him until she dropped with exhaustion. He was the cause of all her problems, and that he dared instruct her on anything but how to help Mara was more than she could endure. She tried to pull away again to avoid a scene, but he wouldn’t let go. She pulled again and again until her anger overflowed.
Out of control, she slapped him hard across the cheek—once, twice, three times—while he just stared down at her, hard and dispassionate. “Are you done?” he asked rigidly when she began to cry.
“I hate you,” she whispered through her tears, now not caring if the whole world saw her. “I can’t wait for that annulment.”
“That annulment may not be possible.”
“Why?” she lashed out, crazy from anger and her soul-wrenching hurt. She wanted to love this man, but everything he did drove her to despise him. He toyed with her like a cat with a mouse. The rules changed constantly until she could no longer endure the emotional upheaval.
“The babe that was in your arms should tell you why.”
“I won’t be having your baby.”
He chuckled blackly. “Oh? And how do you know that? Does that pristine womb of yours reject the idea of spawning a child by the likes of me? Well, mor
e’s the pity, because you may have no choice.” He jerked her against him. “And don’t get any ideas in that sophisticated society head of yours. I’ll know if you’re pregnant even if I must monitor your laundry and interview your maid daily.”
“You crude man.”
“That’s right. I am a crude man. A pagan in this civilized world of yours. Don’t you ever forget it.”
“How can I?” she retorted, hysterically wrenching her arm from his hold. “You remind me of it at every turn. No wonder you can’t buy acceptance. I don’t care how much money you have—nothing could sweeten your kind of hypocrisy and prejudice. You’ve mastered those two things all too well. But then, why should that surprise anyone, since you’re a victim of them yourself!”
“I’m no victim,” he growled.
“Oh?” she said, staring boldly into his eyes. “I think that’s exactly what you are. You’re a victim of society, Trevor Sheridan, so you think that gives you some divine right to hurt anyone in your path. But what you’re really a victim of is your own twisted thinking, and because of that, you’ll be a victim forever.”
He looked as if he wanted to raise his brand-new walking stick and hit her with it. Instead, he shoved her away. “No one could take such a woman as you. You’re just like a diamond, Alana, beautiful but cold. More’s the pity you don’t like diamonds, because they do become you all too well.” He shook his head in disgust and looked at her. “This marriage is a curse and has been from the beginning.”
“Yes, it’s a curse, and I can’t wait to escape it!” she cried.
“Then don’t cross my path again,” he said ominously. “If you play temptress as you did the other night, I’ll see you back in my bed, and if we escape this time without a babe, you may bank on the fact that next time you’ll not be so lucky.”
“Even if I have your baby, I’ll leave you! And being Catholic, you’ve more to fear from a divorce than I!” She stared at him, the ghost of a triumphal smile on her lips.
He crossed his arms and accepted her challenge. “You don’t understand, á mhúirnín. There’s no way to divorce me. Our marriage vows are binding till death do us part. No matter if you run, you’ll still be my wife. And unless there’s an annulment, you’ll remain my wife until you breathe your last breath and are cold in the grave.”
Lions and Lace Page 32