Read Online Lions and Lace by Meagan McKinney - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Meagan McKinney
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money, I beg of you. I must have it."
"If I do, it'll be as if I'd given it back to your uncle."
"But even so, my uncle still pays for Chris—" She stopped herself.
His curiosity obviously piqued, he said, "Pays for what?"
She pulled back, but he gripped her hands anew. Still, she wasn't going to tell him about Christabel . And as quiet as they'd kept things, she knew her sister wasn't in that little biography he'd been reading. "Cease this torture, Mr. Sheridan. Tell me what I have to do to get my money back, and I'll do it," she said, shame and fury battling within her.
"My requests would definitely offend you."
He held her gaze. He wasn't smiling. Any other man might have smiled then, even leered. Sheridan looked grave. His coolness scared her. It wasn't that he was unaware of the connotation of his words. On the contrary, his brief heated glance at the flesh pushing over her bodice proved that theory false. Yet he was a master of detachment. His studied nonchalance made her think he was waiting to see which would offend her the most—his "requests" or the fact that they were made by a common Irishman.
"Give me back my money," she whispered, an edge to her voice.
A dangerous glint appeared in his hazel eyes. She didn't know what he was going to do next. She knew only that she was vulnerable to him. They both knew it. She was exhausted, cold, wet, and near despair. He could do anything now, ask anything of her, and if he were crafty enough, probably force her to comply.
She suppressed a shiver and lowered her gaze. She looked down at her skirts and for the first time noticed how the wet peach satin clung to her hips and thighs, outlining her shape. Despite the sculpturing of her undergarments and the layers of artfully draped silk, she looked almost naked.
She raised her face to his, desperation etched into her expression. But just when she expected him to lay his cards on the table and shock her with his demands, he did the most extraordinary thing. He merely touched her arm and glanced again at the bruises on it. Incredibly, he seemed to soften. "Why do you need that money so desperately, Miss Knickerbocker?''
She stared at him, tears glistening in her eyes. How could she tell him? How could she reveal such a terrible, personal thing to this rude, arrogant man? Her lips couldn't form the words.
He released her and walked once more to the fire. He said, "You may go, Miss Van Alen . Forgive me that I don't summon the butler, but at this late hour—"
"Are you not going to return my fortune?"
"Return your fortune?" He smirked. "No, I'm not going to return your fortune. You Knickerbockers owe Mara something for your bad behavior. Now you'll take your punishment and like it."
Her fury exploded. She wanted to hurt him and said the first thing that came to mind. "This won't solve a thing, and do you know why? Because your fate is written in stone, Mr. Sheridan. No one has ever changed Mrs. Astor's mind about who the Four Hundred should be. And your filthy manipulations will never make her!"
He grabbed her so abruptly, her teeth shook. "Nor my filthy money. Isn't that what you think?"
"Yes," she hissed.
"And if I want acceptance, then I'd better damned well go back to the Irish shanty from whence I came—is that right, Miss Knickerbocker?"
She couldn't answer him for the sob that was rising in her throat. She loathed contention, yet this man could bring out the very worst in her.
Disgusted, he pushed her away. "I'll get Mara into that little society of yours, I swear upon my grave I will!"
"You will never convince Mrs. Astor! Their rules may seem cruel, but they're ironclad. You have to be born into that set. Don't you understand that?" She was no longer taunting him. She was trying to reason with him. She could see the anguish the Knickerbockers had caused, but Sheridan's pain seemed better ended by giving him the brutal, heartless facts, no matter how unacceptable they might be to either of them.
Yet it
"If I do, it'll be as if I'd given it back to your uncle."
"But even so, my uncle still pays for Chris—" She stopped herself.
His curiosity obviously piqued, he said, "Pays for what?"
She pulled back, but he gripped her hands anew. Still, she wasn't going to tell him about Christabel . And as quiet as they'd kept things, she knew her sister wasn't in that little biography he'd been reading. "Cease this torture, Mr. Sheridan. Tell me what I have to do to get my money back, and I'll do it," she said, shame and fury battling within her.
"My requests would definitely offend you."
He held her gaze. He wasn't smiling. Any other man might have smiled then, even leered. Sheridan looked grave. His coolness scared her. It wasn't that he was unaware of the connotation of his words. On the contrary, his brief heated glance at the flesh pushing over her bodice proved that theory false. Yet he was a master of detachment. His studied nonchalance made her think he was waiting to see which would offend her the most—his "requests" or the fact that they were made by a common Irishman.
"Give me back my money," she whispered, an edge to her voice.
A dangerous glint appeared in his hazel eyes. She didn't know what he was going to do next. She knew only that she was vulnerable to him. They both knew it. She was exhausted, cold, wet, and near despair. He could do anything now, ask anything of her, and if he were crafty enough, probably force her to comply.
She suppressed a shiver and lowered her gaze. She looked down at her skirts and for the first time noticed how the wet peach satin clung to her hips and thighs, outlining her shape. Despite the sculpturing of her undergarments and the layers of artfully draped silk, she looked almost naked.
She raised her face to his, desperation etched into her expression. But just when she expected him to lay his cards on the table and shock her with his demands, he did the most extraordinary thing. He merely touched her arm and glanced again at the bruises on it. Incredibly, he seemed to soften. "Why do you need that money so desperately, Miss Knickerbocker?''
She stared at him, tears glistening in her eyes. How could she tell him? How could she reveal such a terrible, personal thing to this rude, arrogant man? Her lips couldn't form the words.
He released her and walked once more to the fire. He said, "You may go, Miss Van Alen . Forgive me that I don't summon the butler, but at this late hour—"
"Are you not going to return my fortune?"
"Return your fortune?" He smirked. "No, I'm not going to return your fortune. You Knickerbockers owe Mara something for your bad behavior. Now you'll take your punishment and like it."
Her fury exploded. She wanted to hurt him and said the first thing that came to mind. "This won't solve a thing, and do you know why? Because your fate is written in stone, Mr. Sheridan. No one has ever changed Mrs. Astor's mind about who the Four Hundred should be. And your filthy manipulations will never make her!"
He grabbed her so abruptly, her teeth shook. "Nor my filthy money. Isn't that what you think?"
"Yes," she hissed.
"And if I want acceptance, then I'd better damned well go back to the Irish shanty from whence I came—is that right, Miss Knickerbocker?"
She couldn't answer him for the sob that was rising in her throat. She loathed contention, yet this man could bring out the very worst in her.
Disgusted, he pushed her away. "I'll get Mara into that little society of yours, I swear upon my grave I will!"
"You will never convince Mrs. Astor! Their rules may seem cruel, but they're ironclad. You have to be born into that set. Don't you understand that?" She was no longer taunting him. She was trying to reason with him. She could see the anguish the Knickerbockers had caused, but Sheridan's pain seemed better ended by giving him the brutal, heartless facts, no matter how unacceptable they might be to either of them.
Yet it