Secrets

by Brenda Joyce

  He re­ac­hed the barn. He tos­sed his duf­fel in a wa­gon. As he hit­c­hed a ma­re up in the tra­ces, he won­de­red if the he­avy pa­in in his chest was be­ca­use of his fat­her, his brot­her, Mi­ra­mar, or the wo­man he had left sle­eping in his ro­om. The wo­man who was his wi­fe, the wo­man he had da­red to lo­ve, just for one night.

  Re­gi­na had ne­ver be­en hap­pi­er. She wo­ke up smi­ling, bur­s­ting with ple­asu­re, unab­le to think abo­ut an­yo­ne or an­y­t­hing ot­her than Sla­de. Sla­de, her hus­band, Sla­de, her lo­ver.

  She sho­uld blush, but she was be­yond blus­hing now; in­de­ed, she tho­ught, she wo­uld pro­bably ne­ver blush aga­in. She dres­sed qu­ickly, won­de­ring whe­re he was, won­de­ring what they wo­uld say to each ot­her af­ter ha­ving sha­red such a wild, rec­k­less, de­ca­dent night. Her body felt a bit so­re, but her he­art was sin­ging. This was lo­ve, and she had ne­ver ex­pe­ri­en­ced it be­fo­re.

  Whi­le she dres­sed she ima­gi­ned the va­ri­o­us sce­nes that might oc­cur when they next met. He wo­uld smi­le at her from ac­ross the ro­om as she ap­pro­ac­hed, a re­al smi­le, a slow sexy smi­le, one that al­lu­ded to just how wic­ked the two of them co­uld be.

  Or he wo­uld cross the ro­om with fast hard stri­des and pick her up and whirl her aro­und, la­ug­hing. Then he wo­uld kiss her and tell her how much he lo­ved her. He wo­uld tell her that he wo­uld lo­ve her fo­re­ver, and that he was the hap­pi­est man on earth.

  He hadn't sa­id that last night. Last night he had not sa­id much, ex­cept for how be­a­uti­ful she was; he hadn't sa­id that he lo­ved her. Of co­ur­se, Re­gi­na knew that he did lo­ve her, in the sa­me way, and with the sa­me fer­vor, that she lo­ved him. He had pro­ved it with his hands and mo­uth and body, and so­on, very so­on, he wo­uld pro­ve it with words.

  To­day was the be­gin­ning of the rest of the­ir li­ves.

  Re­gi­na dan­ced with ex­ci­te­ment as she fi­nis­hed put­ting up her ha­ir. They we­re hus­band and wi­fe, and they we­re lo­vers, but they wo­uld be­co­me so much mo­re. They wo­uld get to know one anot­her. Be­co­me fri­ends. Be­gin to trust each ot­her. So­on the­re wo­uld be a child. And then anot­her, and anot­her. They wo­uld be a warm, lo­ving fa­mily. Re­gi­na glo­wed. She ima­gi­ned brin­ging Sla­de ho­me to me­et her fa­mily, and she trem­b­led with an­ti­ci­pa­ti­on. Her mot­her and her sis­ter wo­uld be im­p­res­sed with his po­wer, his cha­ris­ma, and his lo­oks. And she knew that her brot­hers wo­uld res­pond to him in­s­tantly, too. Al­t­ho­ugh they we­re from dif­fe­rent worlds, they we­re of the sa­me he­ro­ic mold that sets apart most men from an ex­cep­ti­onal few. Her fat­her wo­uld not be happy at first, be­ca­use he had not had the chan­ce to ap­pro­ve of Sla­de, but he wo­uld even­tu­al­ly see Sla­de for the man that he was, and when he ga­ve his ap­pro­val, they wo­uld be­co­me fast fri­ends. Re­gi­na might ha­ve had do­ubts be­fo­re, but not an­y­mo­re.

  She la­ug­hed, re­gar­ding her fa­ce in the mir­ror. Her eyes spar­k­led li­ke yel­low sap­phi­res, her che­eks we­re rosy with joy. She lo­oked li­ke a wo­man in lo­ve, she re­ali­zed; she lo­oked li­ke one of the hap­pi­est wo­men in exis­ten­ce.

  It was the mid­dle of the day when Re­gi­na rus­hed from Sla­de's ro­om. She he­aded di­rectly for the den, ho­ping that he might be the­re, re­la­xing whi­le he wa­ited for her. But the den was empty. So too was the li­ving ro­om and the di­ning ro­om. Di­sap­po­in­ted, Re­gi­na pa­used, won­de­ring whe­re he might be. She he­ard Josep­hi­ne using a cle­aver in the kit­c­hen. Qu­ickly she cros­sed the thres­hold and po­ked her he­ad in. Josep­hi­ne tur­ned, and when she saw Re­gi­na her ex­p­res­si­on so­be­red even mo­re. Re­gi­na was star­t­led by such a res­pon­se. "Go­od af­ter­no­on. Ha­ve you se­en Sla­de?"

  Josep­hi­ne he­si­ta­ted. "Not sin­ce this mor­nin', chi­le."

  "Oh."

  "But Rick says he wants to talk to you. He's in his study."

  Re­gi­na brig­h­te­ned. Rick wo­uld know whe­re Sla­de was. She hur­ri­ed from the kit­c­hen, by now kno­wing her way thro­ugh the ho­use as if she we­re its mis­t­ress. With a start of ple­asu­re, she re­ali­zed that, as Sla­de's wi­fe, she was now its mis­t­ress, or at le­ast one of them. Mi­ra­mar was now her ho­me, and who wo­uld not be thril­led with a ho­me such as this? She ne­arly skip­ped thro­ugh the halls.

  Rick's do­or was aj­ar and he saw her be­fo­re she co­uld knock or an­no­un­ce her­self. "Co­me on in."

  Re­gi­na en­te­red, smi­ling. "Go­od af­ter­no­on."

  "Sit down, Eli­za­beth." His vo­ice was very so­ber, very firm.

  At his words, gu­ilt pi­er­ced her, def­la­ting her hap­pi­ness. "Is so­met­hing wrong?" She co­uld not bre­at­he nor­mal­ly. Had Vic­to­ria or Ed­ward fi­nal­ly told him that she was not Eli­za­beth? Did he know? Her mind whir­led with as­to­nis­hing spe­ed. If Rick knew, she was go­ing to ha­ve to tell Sla­de. Sla­de was her hus­band-she had to tell him the truth, and so­on. In fact, af­ter last night, she felt con­fi­dent that she co­uld tell him im­me­di­ately. Yet des­pi­te her con­fi­den­ce, the tho­ught was not ple­asant. How co­uld it be? The su­bj­ect was not ple­asant.

  "So­met­hing's wrong," Rick sa­id slowly, "but not so wrong that you sho­uld lo­ok li­ke I'm abo­ut to sho­ot you."

  Re­gi­na re­la­xed slightly in res­pon­se to his bri­ef smi­le. Yet lo­oking clo­sely at him, she saw that his smi­le did not re­ach his eyes and she grew une­asy aga­in. Did he know af­ter all? "What has hap­pe­ned?"

  "Lo­ok, ho­ney, the­re's no easy or ni­ce way to tell you this, but Sla­de has left."

  He spo­ke in En­g­lish, but he might ha­ve be­en spe­aking a fo­re­ign lan­gu­age for all the sen­se he ma­de. "Left?"

  "Left."

  "I-I don't un­der­s­tand."

  "Sla­de de­ci­ded to go back to San Fran­cis­co, whe­re he's be­en li­ving the­se past few ye­ars."

  "I beg yo­ur par­don?"

  Rick re­pe­ated him­self word for word.

  She sa­id, "Wit­ho­ut me?"

  He he­si­ta­ted. "Wit­ho­ut you. He knows you'll be ta­ken ca­re of he­re."

  It to­ok a very long mo­ment for her to ac­tu­al­ly com­p­re­hend what had oc­cur­red. And then her world cras­hed aro­und her with sic­ke­ning for­ce.

  "Ho­ney, you're not go­ing to fa­int, are you?" Rick jum­ped to his fe­et and was at her si­de in an in­s­tant. "He­re, let me get you a drink. I think you co­uld use one."

  Re­gi­na was stun­ned and dis­be­li­eving. She did in­de­ed fe­el pre­ci­pi­to­usly clo­se to fa­in­ting. "Are you sa­ying," she whis­pe­red, "that Sla­de has left me?"

  "Well, he hasn't exactly left you," Rick hed­ged. "He's just re­tur­ned to his li­fe up north."

  Re­gi­na sta­red. She was numb, in a sta­te of shock. Sla­de had left. Sla­de had re­tur­ned to San Fran­cis­co, wit­ho­ut her, whe­re he had be­en li­ving be­fo­re the­ir mar­ri­age. Sla­de had just mar­ri­ed her, but he had left. He had left her. Af­ter last night, he had left her.

  Thro­ugh the shock, an­ger his­sed.

  "You all right?" Rick tri­ed to hand her a glass of li­qu­or, but Re­gi­na did not ta­ke it, didn't an­s­wer. She ba­rely he­ard her fat­her-in-law. Her mind ca­me to li­fe aga­in. Sla­de had sta­ted from the first that he was mar­rying her for her mo­ney, not­hing mo­re. She had mar­ri­ed him for lo­ve. Last night she had go­ne to him in lo­ve. And he had ta­ken her not the way a man ta­kes his wi­fe, but the way a man wo­uld ta­ke a pros­ti­tu­te. And to­day, to­day he had left her.

  "Eli­za­beth, this do­esn't chan­ge a thing. He's still my he­ir, and you're still his wi­fe." Rick put his hand on her sho­ul­der. "You still be­long he­re, don't worry abo
­ut that."

  Angrily, Re­gi­na sho­ok his hand off. "That blo­ody bas­tard!"

  "Well, he can be that, at ti­mes."

  "He mar­ri­ed me and left me! He had no in­ten­ti­on- blast him-of sta­ying with me as my hus­band!"

  "Well, I gu­ess not."

  "Damn him!" Re­gi­na sho­uted. Te­ars blur­red her vi­si­on. Had she ac­tu­al­ly lo­ved him? Was it pos­sib­le? Now she co­uld see that she had be­en the big­gest fo­ol to think that he had re­tur­ned her fe­elings. Last night he had not be­en re­tur­ning her fe­elings, he had be­en using her! He had be­en sla­king his lust with her! How she reg­ret­ted what she had do­ne!

  "Lo­ok, he'll be back, he al­ways co­mes back," Rick sa­id, wit­ho­ut his cus­to­mary vi­gor. "And when he do­es, the two of you can work things out."

  "When! Next ye­ar?"

  Rick was si­lent.

  Re­gi­na got up and pa­ced wildly. She was a wo­man spur­ned, and ne­ver had she felt such in­ten­se emo­ti­on as she felt now. It was a wild, rec­k­less, bur­ning hat­red. God, how he had used her! And the fact that she had be­en a stu­pidly wil­ling vic­tim did not ex­cu­se his ac­ti­ons, not in the le­ast! But the­re was a so­lu­ti­on. And it was very ob­vi­o­us. She whir­led. "Whe­re is he?"

  "Fris­co."

  "Do you know exactly whe­re I can find him?"

  Rick lo­oked re­li­eved. "Ye­ah."

  "Go­od!"

  "You go­ing af­ter him?" Rick as­ked.

  "Oh, yes." Re­gi­na smi­led, but not ple­asantly. "I'm go­ing af­ter him-to get a di­vor­ce!"

  "Now hold on!" Rick cri­ed. Aga­in Re­gi­na sho­ok off his hand. "Don't you go ac­ting li­ke a fo­ol! Think of Mi­ra­mar! This is yo­ur ho­me now, Eli­za­beth, and that's what's im­por­tant. Sla­de will be back and-"

  "I'm not Eli­za­beth."

  Rick fro­ze.

  "I'm not Eli­za­beth," Re­gi­na sa­id, fe­eling a sa­va­ge kind of sa­tis­fac­ti­on. Rick was not to bla­me for Sla­de's ac­ti­ons, she knew that, but she co­uld not help her­self. "My na­me is Re­gi­na Shel­ton, Lady Re­gi­na Bragg Shel­ton, and yes, I'm re­la­ted to the Te­xas Braggs and the New York Braggs. My fat­her hap­pens to be the Earl of Drag­mo­re, and my mot­her is a co­un­tess. I am an he­iress in my own right. And I do not ne­ed you or Mi­ra­mar, thank you very much."

  "I see," Rick sa­id slowly.

  "And I don't ne­ed Sla­de!"

  "You got yo­ur me­mory back pretty sud­denly, huh?"

  Re­gi­na was too angry to ca­re at be­ing ca­ught in an act of de­ce­it. "I re­mem­be­red two days be­fo­re the wed­ding. But I stu­pidly wan­ted to marry yo­ur son and it had not­hing to do with Mi­ra­mar." She saw Rick's ex­p­res­si­on chan­ge, saw it brig­h­ten, but that didn't in­te­rest her eit­her.

  "Well, I've le­ar­ned my les­son," she sa­id hotly. "I'm di­vor­cing Sla­de im­me­di­ately and go­ing ho­me, whe­re I be­long. And he can just go find him­self anot­her he­iress to sa­ve his pre­ci­o­us Mi­ra­mar!"

  Part Two

  Exposed

  Chapter 17

  The day af­ter le­ar­ning of Sla­de's de­ser­ti­on, Re­gi­na ar­ri­ved in San Fran­cis­co.

  It was half past the ho­ur of fo­ur. Re­gi­na sat ri­gidly, hands clas­ped in her lap, fil­led with ten­si­on. Ad­re­na­li­ne had be­en pul­sing in her blo­od­s­t­re­am sin­ce yes­ter­day's bet­ra­yal. Sin­ce she had le­ar­ned what a re­al bas­tard her hus­band was, she had not be­en ab­le to do an­y­t­hing but think of him. The­re we­re rings of sle­ep­les­sness aro­und her eyes, which we­re al­so puffy from crying. Be­ca­use along with the an­ger, the­re was so much pa­in.

  Edward le­aned over and pat­ted her un­s­te­ady hands. He had vo­lun­te­ered to bring her to his brot­her; in fact, he had in­sis­ted he ac­com­pany her. The si­tu­ati­on was al­so hor­ribly hu­mi­li­ating-what bri­de was de­ser­ted the day af­ter her wed­ding by the gro­om? Re­gi­na wo­uld ha­ve pre­fer­red tra­ve­ling alo­ne, but, of co­ur­se, la­di­es did not tra­vel alo­ne. She had ac­cep­ted. Her ac­cep­tan­ce had be­en frosty. She was not just fu­ri­o­us with Sla­de, but with his en­ti­re fa­mily, even if it we­re un­re­aso­nab­le.

  Ne­ver­t­he­less, Ed­ward was not­hing but ca­ring and sympat­he­tic. It was slightly lon­ger than an eig­ht-ho­ur jo­ur­ney by ra­il from Tem­p­le­ton, whe­re they had ca­ught the day's tra­in. He kept a mi­ni­mal amo­unt of con­ver­sa­ti­on go­ing, just eno­ugh to dis­t­ract her, and all of it ca­re­ful­ly in­no­cu­o­us. His wit had even bro­ught forth the ghost of a smi­le twi­ce. Re­gi­na was no lon­ger co­ol to Sla­de's brot­her. How co­uld she be? He might ha­ve gu­es­sed the truth abo­ut her be­fo­re she had told Rick yes­ter­day, and he might ha­ve even sha­red that truth with his mot­her, but it no lon­ger mat­te­red.

  His kin­d­ness was all that mat­te­red. She lo­oked at him gra­te­ful­ly, any an­ger she had be­en ta­king out on him go­ne. Even now, des­pi­te the fact that she had be­en un­com­mu­ni­ca­ti­ve and just short of ru­de all day, he was at­tem­p­ting to com­fort her. Lord, how she ne­eded com­fort.

  That tho­ught thre­ate­ned to un­do her con­t­rol. She tur­ned her he­ad away so he wo­uld not see how clo­se she was to fresh te­ars. Now she ne­eded self-con­t­rol mo­re than ever. When she fi­nal­ly con­f­ron­ted Sla­de, she wo­uld not we­ep.

  Nor wo­uld she ra­il. Yes­ter­day she had ac­ted li­ke com­mon shrew. She had shri­eked and sho­uted at Rick who was cer­ta­inly not res­pon­sib­le for what his son ha do­ne. To­day she wo­uld be co­ol and calm. Just be­ca­use Sla­de fa­iled to ha­ve any mo­rals what­so­ever, she did no in­tend to sink to his le­vel. She was a well-bred lady. She wo­uld cling to her man­ners and gen­ti­lity no mat­ter how hard it was. She must. She must ne­ver let him see what he had do­ne to her.

  Re­gi­na ma­na­ged a small smi­le for Ed­ward's be­ne­fit, a fra­gi­le kind of thank-you, and glan­ced away. She had not only lost all of her self-res­pect with Rick she tho­ught, de­eply as­ha­med, every ti­me she re­call her wed­ding night and her be­ha­vi­or-her aban­do­ned en­t­hu­si­as­tic, scan­da­lo­us be­ha­vi­or-she qu­aked. If she co­uld ha­ve just one wish, it wo­uld be that the nig' had ne­ver hap­pe­ned. Sla­de had only be­en using her but she had lo­ved him. At the ti­me her lo­ve had be­en an ex­cu­se to in­dul­ge in all the un­s­pe­akab­le acts he had gu­ided her to­ward. To­day, the­re we­re simply no pos­sib­le ex­cu­ses for the past. Now when she had to fa­ce him he wo­uld al­so re­mem­ber her be­ha­vi­or. The me­re tho­ught was mor­tif­ying.

  It was al­so in­c­re­dib­le that she had tho­ught, even for a mo­ment, that he had lo­ved her, too. Ne­ver wo­uld she be so na­ive aga­in.

  The tra­in was slo­wing, al­re­ady en­te­ring the lar­ge glass-and-iron sta­ti­on. Thro­ugh the dusty win­dows, Re­gi­na saw a hi­ve of ac­ti­vity. Com­mu­ters we­re ever­y­w­he­re. Men we­re rus­hing to and fro in the­ir dark su­its and ja­unty hats, hur­rying to catch the tra­ins that wo­uld ta­ke them ho­me, whet­her it was the ele­gant, su­per-fast Owl, a non­s­top to Los An­ge­les that tra­ve­led thro­ugh the San Jo­aqu­in Val­ley, or just a lo­cal spur to San Jose or Oak­land. Re­gi­na's he­art was po­un­ding he­avily. So­on she wo­uld con­f­ront Sla­de and de­mand a di­vor­ce. So­on, but not so­on eno­ugh.

  She shif­ted on her se­at, ad­re­na­li­ne thrum­ming thro­ugh her body mo­re strongly than be­fo­re. She co­uld ba­rely wa­it, yet an­xi­ety fil­led her too. Not­hing was ever easy with Sla­de, but she wo­uld per­su­ade him to di­vor­ce her. Af­ter all, on­ce she ma­de it cle­ar that he wo­uld not get her mo­ney, he wo­uld no lon­ger be in­te­res­ted in the li­a­ison. And she wo­uld not re­ve­al to him that she was Re­gi­na Bragg Shel­ton, not u
n­til af­ter he had sig­ned the pa­pers, be­ca­use she did not want him to re­ali­ze the ex­tent of her we­alth and con­nec­ti­ons.

  That me­ant that she had to mo­ve swiftly. She did not plan to see him to­night. She in­ten­ded to go di­rectly to her un­c­le, Brett D'Archand, so that he co­uld drum up di­vor­ce pa­pers to­mor­row. Brett was a fa­bu­lo­usly we­althy man, which me­ant he was a very po­wer­ful man. She wo­uld not con­f­ront Sla­de un­til she had di­vor­ce pa­pers in her hand, ho­pe­ful­ly by to­mor­row eve­ning. And she wo­uld get his sig­na­tu­re. If he da­red to re­fu­se, he wo­uld ha­ve a fight on his hands the li­kes of which he co­uld not win. She wo­uld bring all of her fa­mily in­to it, she wo­uld bring all of the­ir po­wer aga­inst him.

  He did not de­ser­ve an oun­ce of con­si­de­ra­ti­on from her, yet she shif­ted une­asily. Thin­king of how he co­uld so easily be des­t­ro­yed by her un­c­les, her fat­her, and gran­d­fat­her com­bi­ned was mo­re than un­p­le­asant. She had to be ho­nest with her­self. She des­pi­sed him-she did. But it was not li­ke her to se­ek ven­ge­an­ce. She co­uld not. She did not ha­te him eno­ugh for that. She wo­uld set­tle the di­vor­ce her­self. So­me­how the idea of Sla­de stan­ding alo­ne aga­inst her fa­mily dis­t­res­sed her.

  Edward did not know of her plans. She was not even su­re if he knew that she in­ten­ded to di­vor­ce his brot­her, al­t­ho­ugh she tho­ught that Rick wo­uld ha­ve pro­bably told him. She tur­ned to Ed­ward, won­de­ring what his re­ac­ti­on to her qu­es­ti­on wo­uld be. "Wo­uld you li­ke to spend the night at my un­c­le's? It will not be an in­con­ve­ni­en­ce-in fact, it will be a ple­asu­re."

  Edward lo­oked star­t­led. "Yo­ur un­c­le's?"

  "Yes." She smi­led. "Didn't you know that I ha­ve fa­mily he­re? Brett D'Archand, the ship­ping mag­na­te, is my un­c­le. I will be sta­ying with him, of co­ur­se."