Secrets (32 page)

Although she had known he was angry, she had not known he was this angry. His words dripped icicles. If he were not her husband and they were not newlyweds, she would think him to be more than hostile, to be hate-filled.

Regina had taken off her shoes, which she carried in one hand. They had seen her parents out moments ago. Now she paused, almost afraid to approach her husband, which she must do in order to pass him and exit the door. “I'm sorry,” she said softly, meaning it.

“Just what are you sorry for?”

She flinched beneath his hostile regard. “I'm sorry I invited my parents for supper. I had no idea it would be such a miserable evening.”

“Of course you didn't. In the course of your
charmed
life, this is probably the first ‘miserable' evening you have ever spent.”

She dropped her shoes. “Were you eavesdropping?”

“A man can't eavesdrop in his own home,” Slade said. He strode to the bar, where he poured himself an oversized bourbon. Regina had stopped counting the number of drinks he'd had hours ago. She had never seen him imbibe so much and with such determination. Yet he did not appear drunk.

“If you did not want me to hear something I shouldn't, then you should have thought about the consequences of speaking openly in
my
house,” he added vehemently.

She flinched. She tried to decide if he was drunk. Some men became nasty when drinking. She had never been afraid of Slade before, but her instincts were surging forth now to warn her against him. For his anger was directly aimed at her. “Slade, I am sorry, for everything. Please.” Making an instinctive decision, she approached him. “Let's go to bed.” She touched his arm.

He batted her hand away. “Don't touch me.”

She backed up. “I think you've had enough to drink.”

He stared. “I'm not drunk, not by a long shot. Not yet. But believe me, I will be before this frigging night is through.”

“What have I done?” she whispered.

“You've done it all.” He tossed off the entire glass. “Get out of here. And don't bother waiting up. Sex is the last thing on my mind tonight.”

Regina cried out. His crude words were a crushing blow, an intentionally cruel one. She could not believe he would say such a thing—and refer to all the glorious intimacy they had shared so disparagingly and so callously. “Why are you doing this? Why do you want to hurt me?”

He eyed her silently.

“If you're trying to make me hate you, it won't work.” Her control was gone. She cried, but silently, tears streaking her cheeks. “You see, you can be a bastard but it won't change anything. I'm your wife, for better or for worse.”

If he was aware of her shocking language, a first for her, he gave no sign. “I wonder,” he said harshly. “Wife—or martyr?”

She shook her head in confusion and denial.

“
I don't want a martyr for a wife
.”

“I'm not! I'm not!”

He turned his back on her. “Get the hell out of here, Regina, before I say any more. Get out now.”

But she didn't move. She was breathless, her heart fluttering in fear, but she was no longer afraid for herself. She was afraid for their marriage. They had reached a crisis point, and even if she did not understand how they had arrived here, or even why, she knew they had to talk about it immediately. She was not even aware that she was crying. “Please tell me what I have done,” she implored. “Please, Slade.”

He whirled. “Damn you! Dammit! If you won't leave, I will!”

She gasped as he rushed past her and into the corridor.

“No,” she cried, racing after him. He flung open the front door. “Slade, wait! We must talk! We must!” She knew with certainty, with all of her heart, that she must not let him walk out that door—and out of her life.

But he ignored her. And the fog instantly swallowed him up.

S
he dressed with the utmost care.

Lifting her bright-pink skirts, she slid the sheerest silk hose, translucent and white, slowly up her long legs. Garters trimmed in white lace and dark rosebuds followed. Finally allowing her palms to fall free of her thighs, she sighed, dropping her skirts. Her skin was deliciously alive.

Elizabeth Sinclair turned to face her reflection in the mirror.

She smiled. Seduction always stirred her blood. It was only a possibility today, but even the mere possibility stimulated her.

She was strikingly beautiful and she knew it. She smiled at herself, pleased. Slade Delanza could not be indifferent. No man was ever indifferent.

Adusting her rose-red felt hat and taking up her matching gloves, she left her hotel room. Downstairs the doorman hailed her a hansom. Elizabeth ordered the driver to the Feldcrest Building on the corner of Van Ness and Eddy.

Settling back against the worn leather seats, she let her hands slide over her belly. It was too bad it had come to this. If she weren't pregnant she would not
have to marry. She sighed, unable to regret the past year—or the past years.

She had been sent away to school in London by her father when she had been thirteen. Remembering, Elizabeth smiled. She had been caught in the stable with the strapping young Irish groom—and they hadn't been doing anything that had to do with horses, but everything that had to do with riding.

Kevin hadn't been her first lover and he hadn't been her last. But he was one of her fondest memories because he had been directly responsible for her being sent away. She had hated the small-town life of San Luis Obispo for as long as she could remember. She was thrilled to be sent to London.

The elite private academy for young ladies was no match for Elizabeth. She quickly learned how to slip away at night. She had always looked—and acted—older than her years, and she quickly became a part of London's thriving nightlife.

She continued to present herself as a proper, devout young woman by day. When she came home she let no clue slip that she had not been reformed by the academy. She agreed to the betrothal, having little choice. When she met James Delanza she decided he was nice enough, if a bit boring. Still, he was very attractive, and she imagined the first few years of their marriage would be quite enjoyable.

Her father had died last summer. Elizabeth was sorry, she had loved George, but his timing could not have been better. For upon his death his entire fortune passed to her and she no longer had to wait until she was wed to receive her inheritance.

Never a fool, Elizabeth continued her charade. She spent that summer in San Luis Obispo mourning her father, while James came to see her every weekend, attempting to comfort her. Unfortunately his idea of consolation and hers were quite different. As soon as she was scheduled to return to London for her last year at the academy, she did. Eagerly. But she did not set foot back in the school. Instead she set herself up in a lavish
town house, living a life that was an imitation of that of the British nobility she consorted with.

She would have stayed in London indefinitely, despite her looming marriage, when an affair ended abominably. This time, for the first time, Elizabeth was the one jilted, coldly and callously. Her lover had been an earl, both powerful and handsome, and Elizabeth was as in love with him as a woman like her could be. She was shocked and furious. She even tried to reason him out of it, to no avail. Not only was he through with her, he had the audacity to tell her that he was getting married—and that
he
was in love with his bride.

Elizabeth returned to America in a huff. She sent James a letter ending their engagement as soon as she arrived in San Luis Obispo near the end of May. Her stepmother had remarried, and Elizabeth, shedding all pretenses of amiability, rented a small mansion which would make Susan green with jealousy and hired a large staff, leaving abruptly and in open triumph. She soon took another lover, but found it hard to shake the earl's image from her mind.

Once she had realized that she was three months pregnant, she knew she could not continue as she was and that she must act swiftly. It was one thing to pretend to be a proper woman while doing as she pleased, it was quite another to be unwed and obviously pregnant. Her lover was married or she might have demanded that he wed her. Because time was of the utmost consideration, Elizabeth decided to go forward with a union with the Delanzas.

It was for the best that James Delanza was dead. He had not taken it well when she had broken their engagement. Being an expert when it came to men, she was well aware that he had been terribly in love with her, but she had crushed him as one would a fly, the way the earl had crushed her. In the process she had revealed too much. Had he survived the flood, it would have been impossible to reconcile with him.

Rick had two other sons. Elizabeth would not consider the younger one. Although she was an heiress, she
was too vain to even consider marrying Edward, who had nothing, not even the hope of one day owning Miramar. She was certain Rick would still favor an alliance between his oldest son and her. She had always known that Miramar needed her inheritance. Little could have changed in the past two months. And by now everyone at Miramar was just over the shock of James's death. Indeed, her timing was probably perfect.

Elizabeth smiled. Her excuse for visiting Slade would be to pay her condolences—which were long overdue. He would be instantly attracted to her, of course, and she would use it for all that it was worth. If he were still distraught over his brother's death, she would comfort him the way that James had never comforted her. And she would work fast.

 

Regina's heart was in her throat. She was sick to her stomach. She made no effort to disembark from the hansom. The driver twisted to look at her. “Lady, this is it. The Feldcrest Building. You owe me twelve cents.”

“Yes,” Regina said hoarsely, fumbling for the change. She gave it to him and stumbled to the curb. She was loath to go into the building.

Slade had not come home last night. She had not slept a wink, crying until she'd had no tears left, afraid that their marriage was crumbling before her very eyes. In the past days as their relationship continued to deteriorate, it was only their lovemaking that offered hope, that still bound them together in intimacy. Last night was the first time since they had been living together as husband and wife that Slade had not slept with her. It seemed ominous. And she still could not understand how they had spiraled so viciously to this conclusion. Not so long ago they had been happy. Or had it only been the illusion of happiness?

Regina did not know, and she was afraid of the answer.

All night and all day, as she had alternately mourned
what was happening to them and contemplated how they might surmount such straits, images of Slade as he had been last night, utterly cold and totally distant, haunted her. If his goal had been to bar her from his heart, she knew that he had finally succeeded. But if his goal had been to make her hate him, then he had failed.

For she meant what she had said. She was his wife, for better or for worse, and she did not take such vows lightly. The promises she had made had come from her heart, as did the resolve which now filled her.

She swallowed, feeling sad and frightened. Slade had not come home last night; there was no excuse for such behavior, but she would not even mention it. She would not shriek or scold when she saw him. She would handle this crisis with all the dignity she could muster. She could not let him continue to slip away from her—she could not. She intended to fight for her marriage. She would begin by inviting him out to lunch.

Resolute, Regina entered the high-ceilinged lobby. She approached the elevator quickly, where another woman was waiting. After the elevator had arrived, Regina entered behind the stranger. Regina was immersed in her own thoughts, but she noticed that the woman pressed the button for the tenth floor. Only Charles Mann's offices were there, and she regarded the woman curiously.

The other woman stared back rather haughtily. Regina looked away. She had seen enough. The other woman was strikingly beautiful, about Regina's own age, a bit taller, more voluptuous, and very fair and blonde. There was an air about her that was very sophisticated—in that way she reminded Regina a little of Xandria.

Regina had barely slept the night before and she knew that she looked terrible. Her face was pale and her eyes were puffy. She had probably never looked worse. Normally Regina would not compare herself to another woman, but today she could not help feeling dowdy next to the stranger.

When the elevator stopped on the tenth floor, Regina
politely let her exit first. She could not imagine what such a woman would want with someone from Charles Mann's office. The other woman had removed her gloves and Regina had already noticed that she did not wear a wedding ring, so obviously she was not visiting her husband. Perhaps one of the clerks was a beau. Trailing behind her, Regina frowned when the woman appeared to be going all the way to the end of the corridor. There was only one office at the end of the hall and Regina froze in her tracks.

Why would this woman be visiting Slade? What business could she possibly have with him?

The woman paused in front of the desk where Slade's assistant, Harold, sat. He had not seen Regina yet, who lingered halfway down the corridor, and when he saw the young woman he immediately became flustered. Even from a distance, Regina saw Harold turn beet-red when confronted by her beauty.

They spoke. Harold got up and went into Slade's office. A moment later he returned and ushered the woman inside. He closed the door to Slade's office and took his seat.

Regina moved forward. “Good day, Harold.”

He started. “Mrs. Delanza! I did not see you.”

Regina did not waste words. “Harold, who is that woman who just entered my husband's office?”

“Her name is Elizabeth Sinclair, ma'am.”

 

Regina sat as still as a mannequin at her dressing table. Her reflection was pale and ghostly white. She gripped a pearl-handled brush in her hand. She had been putting up her hair. On the bed lay the gown and underclothes which she would wear that evening to the gala at Charles Mann's.

She could not concentrate on the task at hand. Her mind was spinning crazily as it had been all afternoon. She had thought herself to be that woman, Elizabeth Sinclair. For a week or more she had lived as that woman, as Elizabeth Sinclair. And then, when the amnesia had disappeared, she had masqueraded as her as well.
She could not help being touched with guilt for purposefully assuming the other woman's identity.

They did not really look alike. There was no real resemblance between her and Elizabeth Sinclair. Yes, they were both blonde and pretty, both slender and petite. But there was no way that anyone who had ever met either one of them could mistake them for each other.

Of course, Rick had already confessed that he had realized the truth from the beginning, and Regina had long since forgiven him. No one else at Miramar had ever laid eyes on Elizabeth, except for James, who was dead.

What was she doing here?

The question had drummed in her brain all day until her head was aching from it. Regina could not help thinking that she was here to take what should have been hers from the very start—both Miramar and Slade.

She stared at herself. Her face was drawn, her expression tense. Her fear was ridiculous; she was Slade's wife, and that was irrevocable. But Elizabeth Sinclair's advent into their life could not have come at a worse time. It was one more blow for her to survive, and after the series of blows already dealt to their marriage, she felt almost incompetent to deal with it.

But she would.

Her thoughts were interrupted when Slade knocked briefly on the door, then pushed it open. Regina stared at him in the mirror. He paused in the doorway, staring back. Finally he said, “Isn't the gala tonight?”

“Yes, it is.” Her voice was amazingly calm. Was he going to tell her about the visit from Elizabeth Sinclair?

He walked into the room, closing the door behind him. He went straight to the armoire, where his tuxedo, freshly pressed, was hanging on the door. He began to undress. Then, his shirt balled up and clenched in his hand, he faced her. “Aren't you going to say something?”

She looked at him. “About what?”

“About last night.”

“What do you want me to say?”

“I don't know. Something. Anything. Most women would be having a fit, or be in tears, or be in bed with the covers pulled up over their heads, sulking.”

“I'm not most women.”

“Don't I know it.”

She hesitated. “All right, I'm sorry you stayed out last night, sorry and disappointed.”

He winced. “You
would
know how to make me feel even worse.”

“You
should
feel guilty, Slade. If you want to apologize, I would accept.”

“You know what?” he said roughly. “I
am
sorry. Damn, but I'm sorry for everything.”

She was afraid he was not referring to last night, but to their marriage. She found she could not respond.

He turned his back on her to pull off his pants, his movements hard and abrupt.

Dismay crept over her. “Aren't you going to tell me?”

“Tell you what?” He pulled on a dressing gown.

“Aren't you going to tell me about the visitor you had today?”

He froze. “What?”

“Elizabeth Sinclair.”

He moved toward her, meeting her eyes in the mirror. He paused behind her. “How do you know that she came to see me today?”

“I saw her. We met in the elevator, so to speak. I had hoped to have lunch with you, but when I realized who she was…well, I was upset.”

“So you left.”

“Yes.”