Lions and Lace by Meagan McKinney

loathing, she knew she would never hate anyone as she hated Didier at that moment.
    "The girl is Sheridan's problem! He's left me no money to take care of her now!" Didier grasped the aged man by the lapels. "By God, you tell Sheridan he's going to pay for all the misery he's caused me! I'll go to my grave before I'll let him off the hook!"
    "Remove your hands at once," the butler appeared to say.
    Alana let out a muffled sob, and Didier shot her a vengeful glance. But with no other course left to him, he released the butler and stumbled back, skidding on the slick wet marble.
    As much as Alana resisted, she couldn't stop herself from pleading, "Please don't leave me like this!" But the words were as useless as she had feared. Didier staggered through the porte cochere and disappeared into a hack he hailed from the avenue.
    In desperation, she hung her head and gave vent to her tears, bitterly noting that the rain washed them from her cheeks as fast as they spilled from her burning eyes.
    "Miss?"
    She looked up and found the elderly butler out in the rain futilely holding a large black umbrella over her soaked figure while he tried one-handed to untie her. It was then she had the misfortune to look toward the open bronze doors.
    In the years to come she would always remember her first sight of Trevor Byrne Sheridan. He stood in silhouette. She was not privy to the details of his face, but he left a deep and lasting impression on her. He held a walking stick, an unusual accouterment for such a tall, muscular form. His straight, formal figure was pleasing, yet his stance left her feeling as if a frigid wind had just passed through her heart. He crossed his arms and tipped his head back to look down at her as she almost knelt on the wet marble stairway, and in the shadows he looked every bit as cold, dark, and forbidding as the night that mercilessly pelted her with rain. And she knew then, with a truth that pierced her very soul, that the devil before her now was sure to be worse than the one who had just left her behind.

 
5
     
    Alana repressed a shiver by sheer will. She was freezing, but she did her best to hide it by crossing her arms over her chest and taking long controlled breaths. Her gown was dripping wet, and the blackguard who sat silently behind his huge overly carved library desk didn't even offer her a wrap.
    She stared at Sheridan, anger, humiliation, and determination burning within her. Her uncle's actions had cut her to the quick. What was worse, the Irishman knew it. Shuddering, she remembered how he'd looked at her when his butler had led her into an awe-inspiring marble foyer. The expression on his face was unforgettable, an odd marriage of pity and satisfaction. It was obvious that he saw her as a hated Knickerbocker and found great amusement in her downfall. But the pity was far harder to take. When his gaze had lowered to her wrists, red and scraped from the bindings, she wanted to run from him in shame.
    Yet now, sitting in the Irishman's library, she swore to endure. Though she held herself together with the thinnest shred of dignity, she kept Christabel in the forefront of her thoughts to strengthen her. She had to save her sister— with as great a need as his when he had sought revenge for Mara. That above all else, she reminded herself, was important.
    But the Irishman was a more than worthy opponent. With his piercing dark stare and cold manner, he inspired a fear in her that her uncle never had. She believed she knew how far Didier would go to achieve what he wanted, yet of this ominous man sitting in front of her she knew nothing. She was at his mercy, and her future and her sister's rested upon his whim, doom or salvation awaiting them as Trevor Sheridan chose.
    Alana watched him shuffle papers on his desk, her shame enormous. Ever since Sheridan had led her to his library, she'd forced herself to put up her Knickerbocker facade, if only to retrieve some of her pride. Now she sat mutely