Lions and Lace (15 page)

He smiled cynically, coldly, and reached into his breast pocket. He took out a thick sheaf of paper and laid it on the table next to him. "Have you a pen?"

"What am I to sign?" A small frown appeared on her brow.

"This stipulates the funds I am giving to you. Is ten thousand a month sufficient?"

The blood rushed from her head so quickly, she nearly fainted. Calculating quickly in her mind, she realized even if they were married for only a year, she'd have enough money to take care of Christal forever if necessary. Suddenly she was feeling more optimistic.

"Are you agreeable to that, Alana?"

She looked at Sheridan and nodded. Finding a pen and ink at her escritoire, she brought them over to the table and signed all the pages he designated. She wanted to read what she was signing, but there were so many
hereins
and
more-
overs
that the words became like Greek. There were three pages devoted just to "the definition of authenticity of signature," whatever that meant.

Disgusted, she blotted her signatures, and he placed the papers back in his breast pocket. "I can already hear the sighs of relief at Glass, Goldstein,
Sach
et al." That cynical smile again graced his lips.

"Now that the majority of your money is safe from my greed, will you excuse me?" She raised her eyebrows and pointed to the door.

He looked in no hurry to depart. His gaze again lowered to her wedding gown. Even in pieces it looked impressive. The satin clung and draped just where it should—at her breasts, at her waist, along her derriere. His eyes warmed, and he seemed to hesitate. "You haven't told me what you want sent over. This house goes for sale tomorrow."
His lips quirked in disgust.
"I suppose you'll insist on keeping that annoying maid of yours?"

"Margaret's been with me since the day she arrived at Castle Garden. I wouldn't think of putting her out on the street."

He rolled his eyes. "So be it. When they arrive tomorrow, tell them my butler Whittaker is the one they must answer to."

"Whittaker. You've an English butler, then?"

She'd made the comment with the most benign intentions, mostly because she was curious to know a little about the situation in which she was destined to find herself tomorrow. But Sheridan did not find the comment so innocuous. He grew still; his hands tightened on his ebony walking stick. "This isn't Ireland, now is it?" he said caustically. "We're in America, and the British can work for the Irish for a change when the Irish can pay for it."

"I meant only that—"

"I know what you meant."

She put her hands out in supplication. "No, really—"

He stood, and the words died on her lips. He was mistaking her comment for something she hadn't intended, something cruel and vicious. As much as she didn't like the man, she didn't want him thinking that of her. Yet his attitude was infuriating. He was always so anxious to jump to the worst conclusion.

"The wedding is to be at nine o'clock," he explained in a frigid, perfunctory manner. "I don't want anything to delay it. Lent is over, and the priests have too many to marry. I can't reschedule."

"If only I'd been thrown to you during Lent. Then I wouldn't be in this mess."

A black smile touched his lips. It never came close to those eyes. "You can cry some more, wife. It's not bad enough you've married an
Irisher
, but you've got a Catholic one as well."

"Stop it." Her chest heaved with suppressed anger. "Not everything I say is a premeditated slur against your background."

"Forgive me if I find that difficult to believe."

"No, I won't forgive you." She pulled up her train and followed him as he walked to the door. "I can't live as your wife and guard my tongue against any and every phrase that might be taken in the wrong way. You can't burden me with that too."

"Yes, and as you've just pointed out, I've already put a lot of burdens on you."

She grabbed his lapels and forced him to look at her. She whispered harshly, unwilling to let the servants hear her, "You have burdened me, and don't you ever forget it! You've forced me into a loveless marriage. You've taken away all my money. You've nearly ruined me with scandal. Yet for the last time I shall say this: You misjudge me when you twist my words. I don't care that you're Irish, and upon my grave, I swear I meant to attend your sister's debut. So knowing that fact, you will now and forever treat me accordingly!"

He hesitated, and for one precious second he almost looked as if he believed her.
But not totally.
His ire raised, he cupped her jaw and forced her to look at him. "I hate to blacken that snow-white soul you'd like everyone to see, Alana, but you've all the selfish reasons in the world to say such things to me. No, you're just like the rest of those Knickerbockers. You care about the 'purity' of those around you and little else."

"Yes, I care about that! But it's the purity of their hearts I judge them by, and I've seen well enough of yours to know you haven't a clean spot on it!" Angry that he'd so upset
her,
she released a moan of fury and pried his fingers from her chin. But before she could get them off, a pin along the seam of her bodice jabbed at her and viciously pulled along the tender flesh next to her breast. She tried to grab it, but the seam was underneath her arm, and she couldn't see well enough to find it. In agony, she reached around until she felt a strong hand on her arm and another at the seam searching for the pin. When Sheridan had several pins taken off, revealing a good portion of her pink silk corset, he finally found the offending object hidden in the pink-
ribboned
edge of her chemise. He removed it, then took out his handkerchief and pressed it to the edge of her breast to absorb the tiny drop of blood before it stained her delicate undergarments.

"I can do this now," she said stiffly, embarrassed that he'd seen so much of her corset.

He nodded and allowed her to take his handkerchief. Surely it was her imagination, but when he removed his hand, it brushed lightly against the side of her breast, and she could have sworn that it trembled.

"Your handkerchief," she whispered when she no longer needed it. She thrust it into his palm, a small crimson dot the only evidence of her wound.

He stared at the drop of blood, then at her as she clutched the sides of her seams together to preserve her modesty. That mysterious Irish fire burned again in his eyes, and as if he were afraid of being burned, he glanced down at the red drop and said cruelly, "Funny. It's not blue at all. In fact, it looks remarkably like Irish blood. Who'd have thought?"

His sarcasm cut her. "We both bleed," she answered quietly. "I think it wise neither of us forget that."

He pocketed the handkerchief. "I'll see you in the morning."

"In the morning," she nearly sobbed before he walked out the door.

The day of Alarm's wedding arrived, and she thought it fitting that it was still dark when she arose to dress. Madame
LaBoeuve
, looking ten years older than when she'd first shown herself at Alana's door, appeared with her dress at precisely six o'clock. The gown was now finished, with a pointed
basque
-waist richly
oversewn
with
passementerie
of pearls that must have taken an army of seamstresses all night to attach. Her skirt was satin, looped up in back to reveal an underskirt of Duchesse lace. It had a simple virginal veil of silk tulle that covered her face and tumbled to the floor elegantly behind her. Everything from the rose-point lace of her gloves to the satin of her shoes was the tender color of snow in candlelight, even the bridal bouquet. Sheridan had delivered orange blossoms.

Her attire was exquisite. No cost had been spared. But Alana could find no joy in it. As Margaret tightened her white damask corset and handed her
her
silk garters, all Alana could think about was how much this day should have meant to her, how much it would have meant to her if she'd been in love with her bridegroom. A painful longing tugged at her heart, but with it came the doomed acceptance of what was to come. She had to marry Sheridan. Everything she cared about depended on it, yet that thought was little solace as she picked up her bouquet and smelled the fresh sweet scent of orange blossoms. In years to come that innocent fragrance should bring back vivid memories of a joyful day. But already her wedding day was something she wanted fervently to forget.

She was dressed before the first blush of morning painted Washington Square. She couldn't sit easily because of the yards of fabric of her heavy satin train, so she stood at the window and watched the emboldened sunlight stride across the park, her breakfast still untouched on the tray on her desk.

She did her best not to think of her dream, the white clapboard house and the faceless man who always turned away just when she called out to him. It had always been doubtful she would meet that man. Still she thought about him, especially this morning while she hung between two worlds, one she desperately wanted to exist and one that tragically did.

"It's time, miss. Your uncle's downstairs. Oh, miss, you do look beautiful!" Margaret dabbed her eyes. "You're so lovely, I'm sorry I won't be there."

Alana turned from the window and forced herself to smile. "But if you leave now, I'm sure you can find room in the pew with the other servants."

"How can I, miss?
After what I did to your dear Mr. Sheridan?"
Another bout of tears threatened Margaret.

Alana gathered her bouquet, unable to meet Margaret's eyes, especially after those last words. "You didn't know the man barging in here yesterday was my
hus
—" She coughed, unable to believe her near mistake. "Fiancé," she corrected quickly.

Typically, Margaret could go from tearful contrition to heated indignation in lightning speed. "But the man should know better! You weren't married yesterday! He had no right to come into your bedroom!"

Alana smiled uneasily, thinking just how much right Sheridan did have in the bedroom. "Please fetch Kevin and go to the church. It won't be the same if you're not there."

"Oh,
miss,
can it be that you're a bride today? Wasn't it only yesterday when you and your dear sweet sister were
wearin
' short dresses?" Margaret's gaze wandered to the daguerreotype of Christal, and she threatened to cry again. "What a shame the poor lass died so young."

"I wish she could be here," Alana whispered, tears filling her eyes too. She looked at
Christal's
picture, and a devastating regret tightened in her chest.

Margaret wiped her eyes for the last time. "Here,
look
what I've done now. I've made you glum. And this is such a wonderful day! Oh, miss, I wish you every joy! How I'd love to see you say the vows."

"You must be there, Margaret." Alana went to her desk, and from a tiny silver Le Roux box she took out enough coins for a hackney coach. "Go on. Put on your finery and take this. You'll
be
there before I am."

Margaret suddenly turned shy. "I couldn't, miss. How could I pay you back?"

Alana almost laughed. With as much dignity as she could summon, she said, "Marrying the man that I am this morn, I don't think we have to worry about these few coins. In the future I suspect there'll be more of these than I'll ever know what to do with."

"May the Holy Mother Mary bless you, miss. For all that you've done for us." Embarrassed,
Margaret
scooped up the coins and curtsied. She was gone before Alana could say another word.

Despondent once more, Alana looked at the picture of Christal, and her heart broke again. She gathered her voluminous satin skirts, walked up to the velvet-framed daguerreotype, and touched the glass that had just been replaced. She kissed her sister on the cheek. "Someday, Christal," she whispered. "Someday I'll find the way to exonerate you, and then I'll dance at your wedding."

Reverently, she placed the daguerreotype in the stack of boxes by her
door that were
to go to the Sheridan mansion. She took an encouraging breath and walked out of the room.

Her uncle met her in the foyer, and her eyes told him exactly what kind of cur she thought him. She frostily accepted his hand as he helped her to the carriage, thinking how different the situation was from the last time he'd put her into a carriage.
Yet how alike it was.
Again he was taking her to Sheridan. Again she didn't want to go.

In oppressive silence they rode up Fifth Avenue. The crowds grew thick as they passed the Sheridan mansion and thicker still as they approached the church. The Four Hundred were as close to royalty as New York had; there were almost a thousand people outside the church watching the display. The crush of carriages was phenomenal, and they lined up along Fifth Avenue like shiny black top hats all the way to
Fifty-fourth
Street. There were so many of them, the bridal carriage had to wait for almost half an hour for all the guests to pull up and disembark.

At last, it was time.

William Backhouse Astor, Jr., descended the marble steps of the medieval-style church and assisted her from the vehicle. Although most believed him not to be the illustrious figure his father had been
,
Alana still thought he was dashing. He wore morning gray, his tall stature complemented by the swallow-tailed coat and top hat. His enormous black mustache was fashionably curled like the horns of a water buffalo until it grew into his substantial sideburns. Though she could tell he was disturbed by the publicity of this wedding, he offered his arm with staunch politeness. His face was drawn as if he didn't particularly relish the task before him, and Alana would always wonder if this was because of the row caused by her notorious husband or his notorious wife.

In the vestibule two tiny pages dressed in black-velvet Gainsborough suits lifted her train. The organ began Handel's
Water Music,
and suddenly she found herself walking down the aisle, her hand lightly resting on William Astor's arm as she headed for that dark, forbidding man who stood bleakly before the altar with the bishop.

With every step she wanted to run in the other direction. Their marriage at Delmonico's had been short, and she'd been so numbed by the whole ordeal she could hardly remember it. Now, however, everything struck her with cutting clarity: the shocked crowd, most of them Protestant members of Grace Church, the metropolis's most exclusive court of heaven, scandalized to be sitting in what they believed to be a pagan place of worship, silent as she and her escort passed row after row of pews; the frigid stature of Mrs. Astor who refused to turn and look at her; the rakish young man, a younger copy of Sheridan, who nonchalantly eyed her with approval as he stood next to his brother; and Mara, Sheridan's choice for maid of honor, who walked just ahead of her down the aisle, heart-wrenchingly lovely in a pink satin gown inappropriately innocent and short for her womanly sixteen years.

But if there were only two things she would remember of this day in the years to come, it would be the overpowering sweet citrus scent of orange blossoms and the look on Sheridan's handsome face when their eyes at last met. She would never forget that look.

Her bridegroom's eyes glittered with conflict. He was triumphant. The gleam in the gilded depths of those hazel eyes told her so. Yet there was something else there, something she couldn't quite name that ate at his glory and took one cutting edge off the sword of his victory. Perhaps it was a tiny glimmer of guilt for what he had done to her, perhaps it was only a sudden jab of doubt that maybe this marriage was not destined to be the simple bargain he'd planned. She didn't know. She only knew he'd seen to it that their marriage was even now rock-solid in the eyes of his church and the law. There was absolutely no turning back.

William Astor left her at Sheridan's side and returned to the pew where his wife stood. Alana finally noticed that Sheridan wore morning gray also. He had on a dove-colored frock coat and dark-gray striped trousers. His cra
vat was pearl, his shirt blinding white,
a
startling contrast to the black hair that had been slicked back with
Macassar
oil. This had the stunning effect of making his shoulders look even broader, the lines of his face more austere, his eyes arresting,
his
gaze inescapable.

She somehow had the power to tear her gaze away when the bishop made his exhortation. Finished, the bishop then turned to her bridegroom and boomed out his words as if he wanted to make sure there could be no one in the church questioning this lawful union about to take place.

"Trevor Byrne Sheridan," said the bishop, his face grave and deadly serious, "wilt thou take Alice Diana Van
Alen
, here present, for thy lawful wife, according to the rite of our holy Mother, the Church?"

His chin lifting in defiance, Sheridan said in a deep, confident voice, "I will."

The bishop nodded resignedly and turned to her. "Alice Diana Van
Alen
, wilt thou take Trevor Byrne Sheridan, here
present
, for thy lawful husband, according to the rite of our holy Mother, the Church?"

Alana's heart seemed to stop in her chest. The entire church seemed to still and lean forward to listen. The words were so simple, and though she knew they wouldn't change a thing, whether she uttered them or not, in this huge Gothic church with the presence of both God and man casting judgment upon her, it seemed blasphemous to speak anything but the truth. She glanced at Sheridan, and he was as still as a statue. His gaze burned into her as if daring her to defy him. "I will," she whispered, dooming herself into making those words the truth.

The bishop took her trembling hand and placed it in the bridegroom's. Sheridan's was warm and strong, and its strength seemed to seep into her and keep her standing.

Sheridan made his pledge in his usual assured, stiff manner. When it was her turn, her voice quavered and fell, the emotion she felt coloring every word until she ended with the hushed phrase "until death do us part."

They knelt, and Alana
trembled
a smile at Mara while the girl valiantly tried to assist her with her enormous train.

"I join you together in marriage, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen." The bishop sprinkled them with holy water,
then
began the Blessing of the Ring. When he was through, he sprinkled the ring with holy water in the form of a cross and handed it to Sheridan, who took it and turned to her.

Like thunder and lightning, their gazes met. She stared hard at him, and even through the mist of her veil, her eyes were reprimanding and beseeching. His held only defiance and an iron-hard determination that said, "I
will
do this."

She looked down to remove the diamond from her finger so he could place his wedding ring there, but before she could do it, his hand stopped her. He took the ring the bishop had blessed, a perfect circle of sapphires, and placed it on the finger with the diamond, saying, "With this ring I thee wed, and plight unto thee my troth."

She glanced down at her hand laden with both his costly rings. "Now you're married to me twice," they said to her, making the panic inside her begin to swell. She looked at him and saw him take off a heavy gold
Claddagh
ring, in the shape of two hands holding a heart with a small crown over the heart. As if performing an old Gaelic tradition, he turned the ring so that the heart no longer faced outward, as if to symbolize the intimacy and fidelity of marriage.

The bishop began his nuptial blessing, and his every word drove another knife of guilt into her heart. ". . . to be so
inseperately
bound to him, that Thou didst give to her body its beginning from his body—thus teaching us, that it should never be lawful to sever that which it had pleased Thee to form out of one substance. . . ."