Secrets

by Brenda Joyce

  "That's the third ti­me you've sa­id I'm ri­di­cu­lo­us." His to­ne was di­re.

  "No! That's not what I-"

  He cut her off. "We're not go­ing to li­ve li­ke pa­upers, Re­gi­na. At le­ast, not by my stan­dards. But may­be by yo­ur stan­dards we will be in po­verty. Do you want to le­ave me?"

  The last qu­es­ti­on was out of con­text. He sa­id it so simply and swiftly he to­ok her by sur­p­ri­se. "No! Of co­ur­se not!"

  "Then it's set­tled," he sa­id, set­ting his glass down un­ne­ces­sa­rily hard. He tur­ned and stro­de from the ro­om.

  Re­gi­na sank on­to the co­uch. For a mo­ment she was still, her lips qu­ive­ring. Then she pic­ked up one of the sam­p­les, the moss-gre­en vel­vet, and hug­ged it to her bre­ast. A te­ar wet it.

  Sla­de had sa­id the is­sue was set­tled, but as far as she was con­cer­ned, not­hing was set­tled. To the con­t­rary, she had the ter­rib­le fe­eling that he had just ope­ned Pan­do­ra's box.

  Xan­d­ria was im­p­res­sed.

  A but­ler had shown her in­to the par­lor and wit­hin mo­ments, a ma­id had bro­ught her a tray of tea and ca­kes. She lo­oked aro­und at the ro­om, smi­ling. The mon­s­t­ro­us co­uch had be­en rep­la­ced, the or­ga­ni­zed clut­ter, which was so un­li­ke Sla­de, had va­nis­hed, and a new Ori­en­tal rug was un­der­fo­ot. The few chan­ges had brig­h­te­ned and che­ered up the ro­om con­si­de­rably. She was so glad that Re­gi­na had re­tur­ned to Sla­de last we­ek, and her abi­li­ti­es as a de­co­ra­tor we­re not why.

  They hadn't ad­ver­ti­sed the­ir re­con­ci­li­ati­on, tho­ugh. Xan­d­ria had not se­en Sla­de sin­ce the din­ner party she had gi­ven for the newly weds. She wo­uld not ha­ve known the­ir es­t­ran­ge­ment had en­ded had Ed­ward not told her- at a rat­her star­t­ling ti­me. She smi­led in re­col­lec­ti­on of the mo­ment he had cho­sen, when she was shud­de­ring in his em­b­ra­ce, her shir­t­wa­ist un­do­ne, her cor­set pus­hed down, her skirts abo­ut her wa­ist-in her of­fi­ce, for God's sa­ke. With her clerk right out­si­de the un­loc­ked do­or, in the mid­dle of the wor­k­day. Ed­ward se­emed to thri­ve on dan­ger as well as lo­ve. Not that Xan­d­ria min­ded. And then the de­vil him­self wal­ked in­to the ro­om. Xan­d­ria slos­hed the tea she was po­uring over the rim of her por­ce­la­in te­acup. Her body al­so re­mem­be­red him, too well, in­s­tantly. "What a sur­p­ri­se, Mr. De­lan­za."

  He grin­ned. "Go­od mor­ning, Mrs. Kingsly." They sha­red a lo­ok. Xan­d­ria knew he was re­cal­ling the fact that the sun had awa­ke­ned them both in one of the Mann Gran­de's ho­tel ro­oms, and that be­fo­re she had slip­ped out, un­se­en, he had bro­ught her to a wild, ke­ening or­gasm. For the sa­ke of con­ve­ni­en­ce, Ed­ward had cho­sen to ta­ke up re­si­den­ce the­re, in­s­te­ad of with his brot­her. It ma­de every ren­dez­vo­us so much easi­er. Xan­d­ria wo­uld ne­ver bring a man ho­me to her own apar­t­ments, even tho­ugh her staff wo­uld un­do­ub­tedly be dis­c­re­et.

  "You are lo­oking rat­her sle­epy to­day, Mr. De­lan­za. Ha­ve you pas­sed a dif­fi­cult night?" she as­ked in­no­cently.

  "Very dif­fi­cult, ma­dam. You see, I was pres­sed hard to en­ter­ta­in a cer­ta­in fri­end of mi­ne, one who sho­wed no res­pect for the ti­me-in­de­ed, one who se­emed in­tent upon the par­ti­cu­lar en­ter­ta­in­ment I of­fe­red, too in­tent to ca­re abo­ut my ne­ed for sle­ep."

  "Per­haps you ne­ed a dif­fe­rent fri­end, Mr. De­lan­za."

  His mo­uth qu­ir­ked. His eyes mo­ved over her warmly, strip­ping her na­ked. "I do not think so, ma­dam. This par­ti­cu­lar fri­end knows how to en­ter­ta­in as well as how to be en­ter­ta­ined. In fact, even now I lo­ok for­ward to our next me­eting."

  By now, she knew exactly what that me­eting wo­uld be li­ke, but not when it wo­uld be. Fi­re lic­ked her thighs. His words we­re eno­ugh to in­f­la­me her. She re­al­ly was a sha­me­less hussy, but Ed­ward was a sha­me­less ra­ke. They we­re well-su­ited. Then she saw the gle­am in his eye.

  "Don't you da­re!" She held up a hand as if to ward him off.

  Igno­ring her, he ap­pro­ac­hed. "Why not?"

  She tri­ed to push him away. "Re­gi­na will be he­re in an in­s­tant."

  Grin­ning li­ke a very na­ughty boy, he con­ti­nu­ed to ig­no­re her, pul­ling her in­to his arms and kis­sing her de­eply. When he had fi­nis­hed with her, she was bre­at­h­less and re­ady for him. "You are a bas­tard, Ed­ward," she sa­id wit­ho­ut ran­cor.

  "And you are my kind of wo­man," he re­tur­ned warmly.

  They both he­ard the ap­pro­ac­hing fo­ot­s­teps. Ed­ward dis­tan­ced him­self from her, anot­her grin lig­h­ting up his fa­ce. "You lo­ok very ple­ased with yo­ur­self," Xan­d­ria sa­id, so­mew­hat scol­dingly. A glan­ce in the mir­ror sho­wed her that she was flus­hed; se­ve­ral wisps of her ha­ir had es­ca­ped its co­il and we­re cur­ling aro­und her fa­ce.

  "I am," Ed­ward sa­id. "But I am al­so ple­ased with you."

  It was im­pos­sib­le not to be thril­led. For­tu­na­tely she was an ex­pe­ri­en­ced wo­man, or this un­re­pen­tant char­mer wo­uld ha­ve her fal­ling he­ad over he­els in lo­ve with him. She felt sorry for any yo­ung wo­man fo­olish and na­ive eno­ugh to cross his path.

  Re­gi­na ap­pe­ared in the do­or­way. "Xan­d­ria, what a won­der­ful sur­p­ri­se. Ed­ward and I ha­ve just fi­nis­hed a la­te bre­ak­fast. Wo­uld you ca­re for an­y­t­hing?"

  "No, no, I'm fi­ne." Xan­d­ria re­gar­ded her hos­tess in­tently. She wasn't su­re what she had ex­pec­ted- pro­bably a glo­wing bri­de. But Re­gi­na was not glo­wing; she lo­oked ti­red.

  Edward kis­sed Re­gi­na's che­ek ca­su­al­ly. "I had bet­ter ta­ke myself off," he sa­id, thro­wing one last lo­ok at Xan­d­ria. He strol­led from the ro­om.

  "I'm so glad you ha­ve co­me," Re­gi­na sa­id, the two wo­men set­tling down for a chat. Xan­d­ria pra­ised Re­gi­na for the im­p­ro­ve­ments she had ma­de upon the ho­use. Re­gi­na se­emed glad to de­ta­il all that she had so far do­ne.

  "How is Sla­de?" Xan­d­ria fi­nal­ly as­ked, trying not to watch Re­gi­na too clo­sely.

  Re­gi­na smi­led, but it was not wi­de. "He's fi­ne. He re­tur­ned to work yes­ter­day."

  "And how are you?"

  Re­gi­na smi­led aga­in. "I am fi­ne, just fi­ne."

  "You se­em ti­red."

  "Well-" Re­gi­na he­si­ta­ted. "I've be­en so busy, re­or­ga­ni­zing Sla­de's ho­me and-and shop­ping for the He­nes­sy pla­ce."

  "So the two of you are go­ing to mo­ve in the­re?" Xan­d­ria was de­lig­h­ted.

  Re­gi­na sig­hed, her ple­asant fa­ca­de fal­ling away, her ex­p­res­si­on now openly tro­ub­led. "I do not know. I do not know."

  "What's wrong?" Xan­d­ria to­uc­hed the ot­her wo­man's hand.

  "Not­hing, re­al­ly. Sla­de is just be­ing stub­born." She pa­used. "I think we are go­ing to ha­ve to clo­se up the He­nes­sy pla­ce for a few ye­ars, un­til Mi­ra­mar is on bet­ter fo­oting."

  "I see." Xan­d­ria was si­lent for a mo­ment. Wha­te­ver was go­ing on was not her con­cern, even if she wo­uld de­arly lo­ve it to be. "Is the­re an­y­t­hing I can do to help? If Sla­de ne­eds a go­od set-down, I will gladly de­li­ver it."

  Re­gi­na chuc­k­led. "No, but thank you, Xan­d­ria." Im­pul­si­vely, she re­ac­hed out and squ­e­ezed the ol­der wo­man's hand. "I'm glad you ca­re so much for Sla­de. And I'm glad we are be­co­ming fri­ends."

  "So am I." Xan­d­ria smi­led and fa­ced her hos­tess mo­re squ­arely. "Wo­uld you mind very much if Fat­her and I held a party in ce­leb­ra­ti­on of yo­ur mar­ri­age?" Re­gi­na's eyes spar­k­led. "I do lo­ve a party." Xan­d­ria la­ug­hed. "So do I! Then it's set­tled. W
e shall plan it for the fol­lo­wing Fri­day night. A ga­la. We shall in­vi­te ever­y­body who is an­y­body. You do know that this mar­ri­age is the talk of the town? Pe­op­le are dying to me­et you, and I am dying to show you off! You are abo­ut to be­co­me the re­ig­ning qu­e­en of the city, my de­ar!"

  Re­gi­na sto­od at the win­dow and wa­ved to Xan­d­ria as she step­ped in­to her car­ri­age on the stre­et be­low. The light smi­les she had worn du­ring Xan­d­ria's vi­sit we­re go­ne. Her brow was fur­ro­wed, her mo­uth tight, her he­art tro­ub­led.

  She told her­self that ever­y­t­hing wo­uld be fi­ne in ti­me. It was nor­mal for mar­ri­ed co­up­les to ha­ve di­sag­re­ements. But the dis­tan­ce she had sen­sed Sla­de was ke­eping this past we­ek had be­en mo­re in evi­den­ce last night du­ring and af­ter sup­per. It was only when they had re­ti­red to the­ir bed that he had tur­ned to her, ma­king lo­ve to her in a man­ner that was al­most fren­zi­ed. And af­ter ha­ving just had the­ir first re­al ar­gu­ment, her res­pon­ses had be­en equ­al­ly as wild.

  This mor­ning whi­le she had lin­ge­red in bed and he had dres­sed to go to work, she had no­ti­ced him lo­oking at her in­tently. She had smi­led at him but he had not be­en ab­le to smi­le back. Kis­sing her che­ek be­fo­re le­aving, he had told her he wo­uld not be ho­me for sup­per that night. He had a bu­si­ness en­ga­ge­ment.

  Re­gi­na knew her hus­band well eno­ugh to know that he was still tro­ub­led by the is­su­es that had be­en ra­ised the night be­fo­re, as she was. She was qu­ite cer­ta­in that Sla­de was not co­ming ho­me for sup­per be­ca­use of the is­sue of her in­he­ri­tan­ce that now lay bet­we­en them. He wo­uld put a physi­cal dis­tan­ce bet­we­en them now, she tho­ught in dis­may, as well as an emo­ti­onal one.

  She still co­uld not be­li­eve that he wo­uld re­fu­se her in­he­ri­tan­ce when it co­uld sol­ve most of the­ir prob­lems. She ho­ped he wo­uld co­me to his sen­ses. In a few days, when he had sim­me­red down, she wo­uld ha­ve to de­li­ca­tely ra­ise the to­pic aga­in. But if he did not chan­ge his mind she wo­uld ha­ve to ac­cept his de­ci­si­on. But she cer­ta­inly wo­uld not le­ave him just be­ca­use they wo­uld ha­ve to lo­wer the­ir stan­dard of li­ving. It was un­be­li­evab­le that he might think so.

  He had not sa­id when he plan­ned for them to re­turn to Mi­ra­mar. Ob­vi­o­usly it wo­uld be so­on. On the one hand Re­gi­na lo­oked for­ward to re­tur­ning and was thril­led a the pros­pect; al­re­ady she lo­ved the ran­c­ho and, mo­re im­por­tantly, it was whe­re Sla­de be­lon­ged. On the ot­her hand, she was fil­led with worry. Un­less they sol­ved the is­sue of her in­he­ri­tan­ce first, the­se first se­eds of con­f­lict wo­uld be no­uris­hed by the ad­di­ti­onal prob­lems awa­iting them the­re. Re­gi­na was thin­king of Sla­de's re­la­ti­on­s­hip with his fat­her. Her fe­elings had not chan­ged. She had sen­sed from the start that it wo­uld be im­pos­sib­le for them to li­ve at Mi­ra­mar with any amo­unt of hap­pi­ness un­less Sla­de and Rick ca­me to so­me un­der­s­tan­ding with each ot­her. Wha­te­ver was the re­al ca­use of the con­f­lict bet­we­en them, it had to be up­ro­oted and la­id to rest.

  Re­gi­na sig­hed. Just yes­ter­day af­ter­no­on she had be­en blis­sful­ly happy. Now she was wor­ri­ed and mo­re than just ap­pre­hen­si­ve, she was af­ra­id.

  She was abo­ut to turn away from the win­dow to pre­pa­re to go to her aunt and un­c­le's. She had not se­en them sin­ce she had re­con­ci­led with Sla­de. She had sent them se­ve­ral no­tes ex­p­la­ining the si­tu­ati­on and that di­vor­ce was no lon­ger an is­sue, but she owed them a per­so­nal re­as­su­ran­ce that she was fi­ne. Be­fo­re she co­uld mo­ve she saw a car­ri­age stop­ping in front of the ho­use. She re­cog­ni­zed it; it be­lon­ged to Brett. She smi­led ru­eful­ly. Ap­pa­rently they we­re co­ming to her, de­ter­mi­ned to find out for them­sel­ves if all was truly well. Brett step­ped down from the car­ri­age. Re­gi­na le­aned for­ward to wa­ve, abo­ut to call down to him in gre­eting. But the words di­ed in her thro­at.

  For the man was not Brett. It was her fat­her, the Earl of Drag­mo­re.

  The Co­un­tess of Drag­mo­re rus­hed in­to the ho­use first. Re­gi­na cri­ed out in de­light, em­b­ra­cing her mot­her warmly. The co­un­tess was pe­ti­te, even smal­ler than her da­ug­h­ter. When Jane pul­led back from Re­gi­na, she was crying openly. "What hap­pe­ned to you? I ha­ve be­en so frig­h­te­ned!"

  "I am so sorry, Mot­her!" Re­gi­na hug­ged her aga­in.

  Her fat­her grip­ped her sho­ul­ders, me­eting her ga­ze sternly. "This con­vo­lu­ted ta­le was just ex­p­la­ined to me by yo­ur un­c­le. Thank God you are all right!"

  "When did you ar­ri­ve?" Re­gi­na as­ked.

  "We ar­ri­ved in New York last we­ek. Brett wi­red us that you we­re fi­ne, but re­fu­sed to an­s­wer any of my nu­me­ro­us in­qu­iri­es. We ra­ced he­re, Re­gi­na, un­do­ub­tedly set­ting a world re­cord for tran­s­con­ti­nen­tal tra­vel. I ha­ve just left Brett and Storm. We ha­ve had a long dis­cus­si­on. I be­li­eve I am be­gin­ning to ma­ke sen­se out of this fa­iry ta­le. Are you truly all right?"

  Re­gi­na nod­ded, her eyes wi­de and wat­c­h­ful.

  Nic­ho­las Shel­ton's ex­p­res­si­on dar­ke­ned. "Go­od! Then I can blast you for put­ting us thro­ugh hell! Is it true? That you had am­ne­sia? That is why the­re was no word from you when you di­sap­pe­ared du­ring the tra­in rob­bery?"

  "It's true, Fat­her. You know I wo­uld ne­ver di­sap­pe­ar li­ke that on pur­po­se."

  "Not you, no. That is so­met­hing yo­ur sis­ter wo­uld do, but not you."

  "Nic­ho­las," Jane re­bu­ked softly, "Ni­co­le is a very pro­per lady now."

  Nic­ho­las eyed his wi­fe. "Dar­ling, be­li­eve me, des­pi­te her be­ing a duc­hess, she is no mo­re pro­per now than she was be­fo­re she was wed. Had­ri­an is con­s­tantly swe­eping up crumbs of scan­dal af­ter her." He tur­ned back to Re­gi­na. "Expla­in to me how you mar­ri­ed this man. I was told by Brett that you re­ga­ined yo­ur me­mory be­fo­re the wed­ding. I can not un­der­s­tand this, Re­gi­na. You ha­ve ne­ver be­en one to be im­pul­si­ve or ir­res­pon­sib­le."

  Re­gi­na swal­lo­wed. The­re was no mis­ta­king her fat­her's omi­no­us to­ne. But she had known that it wo­uld even­tu­al­ly co­me to this. Nic­ho­las was not happy with her mar­ri­age. "Fat­her, he is a go­od man."

  "Did he or did he not marry you for yo­ur in­he­ri­tan­ce?" Nic­ho­las was bru­tal­ly di­rect.

  Re­gi­na fro­ze.

  "Well? Brett sa­id that you told him that he mar­ri­ed you for yo­ur in­he­ri­tan­ce."

  Re­gi­na swal­lo­wed. "But that is in the past. He do­es not want my mo­ney now."

  "Oh, re­al­ly? Well, that's go­od, be­ca­use if you re­ma­in mar­ri­ed to him, I am cut­ting you off wit­ho­ut a sin­g­le shil­ling."

  Re­gi­na gas­ped.

  "Nic­ho­las!" Jane cri­ed. "Can't we at le­ast sit down and dis­cuss this ci­vil­ly?"

  "I find not­hing ci­vil abo­ut so­me for­tu­ne-hun­ting ra­ke se­du­cing my da­ug­h­ter and mar­rying her be­hind my back!"

  "He did not se­du­ce me," Re­gi­na whis­pe­red, hor­ri­fi­ed. This was wor­se, so much wor­se, than she had ima­gi­ned it wo­uld be.

  Her fat­her was a very cle­ver man. "He may not ha­ve se­du­ced you be­fo­re the wed­ding, Re­gi­na, not with lo­ve-ma­king, but he must ha­ve do­ne so with words. And can you tell me he has not se­du­ced you now? I un­der­s­tand that you ca­me to yo­ur sen­ses and left him, in­ten­ding to di­vor­ce him. Ob­vi­o­usly he suc­ce­eded in lu­ring you back to him. We shall wa­it whi­le you pack yo­ur bags."

  Re­gi­na had be­en abo­ut to pro­test her fa
t­her's gra­vely er­ro­ne­o­us as­sum­p­ti­ons. She stif­fe­ned. "Excu­se me?"

  "You ha­ve ma­de a mis­ta­ke but it can be cor­rec­ted." His to­ne sof­te­ned. "You do not ha­ve to fe­ar for yo­ur re­pu­ta­ti­on, dar­ling. I will ta­ke ca­re of ever­y­t­hing. I can ob­ta­in a swift di­vor­ce, and when you re­turn ho­me, you shall be mar­ri­ed im­me­di­ately. Any scan­dal will be swept away qu­ickly eno­ugh. The Mar­qu­is of Hunt is eager to marry you. He will be the next Du­ke of Car­d­ham, Re­gi­na. With such a hus­band you ha­ve not­hing to fe­ar."

  Re­gi­na was in shock. "I am not le­aving Sla­de! Sla­de is my hus­band! Not­hing will chan­ge that."

  "A di­vor­ce will chan­ge that."

  "No!"

  Nic­ho­las strug­gled for con­t­rol. Jane to­uc­hed his wa­ist. "Nic­ho­las, this is not the way, ple­ase! I know you are up­set, but you must calm yo­ur­self so we can dis­cuss this ra­ti­onal­ly!"

  "I do not see what the­re is to dis­cuss. That bas­tard has de­ce­ived and se­du­ced my da­ug­h­ter, Jane. He is not go­ing to get away with it."

  "He did not de­ce­ive me! I knew he was mar­rying me for my mo­ney and I ag­re­ed an­y­way! Ple­ase, Fat­her! I lo­ve him!"

  "You lo­ved Hor­ten­se, too."

  "No," Re­gi­na cri­ed, "I ne­ver lo­ved Ran­dolph! I just tho­ught I did."

  "Ne­ed I say mo­re?"

  His im­p­li­ca­ti­on was cle­ar-that she only tho­ught her­self to be in lo­ve with Sla­de now.

  Re­gi­na knew she co­uld not win a war of words with her fat­her. But she wo­uld win this bat­tle. She had to. Ta­king a de­ep, cal­ming bre­ath, she sa­id, "Ple­ase, Fat­her, co­me in­to the sa­lon and sit down. We can talk abo­ut this. I can ex­p­la­in. So­on Sla­de will be ho­me and you will me­et him and see for yo­ur­self the kind of man that he is. Ple­ase."

  "No, Re­gi­na. The­re is not­hing to dis­cuss ex­cept yo­ur di­vor­ce."

  Re­gi­na to­ok anot­her bre­ath, this ti­me for co­ura­ge. “Then the­re is not­hing to dis­cuss at all. Ple­ase le­ave, Fat­her."