Lost Lady Read online

  Chapter 13

  NO MATTER WHAT REGAN’S FIRST IMPRESSION WAS OF HOW difficult it was to run a plantation, she was far from the reality of it. Travis left their bed before the sun rose, and within minutes there were women in her room asking her questions. When she had no idea what answers to give them, she could see the way their eyes slid to one side. Once she overheard a maid mutter something about how a man like Travis could marry a nothing like her.

  And everywhere she heard the name Margo.

  A weaver showed her patterns Margo had given her. A gardener set bulbs from Miss Margo. In the blue room she found dresses that she was told belonged to Miss Margo, because she stayed here so often.

  In the evenings at dinner, she asked Travis about this woman, but Travis only shrugged and said she was a neighbor. After having been away from his plantation so long, he was buried in work. Even during meals he went over papers with his two clerks, computing figures of goods received and goods exported. Regan didn’t have the heart to add to his burdens by telling him her problems.

  And then one day Regan’s world came to a screeching halt. Travis had just returned to a quick dinner, talking to her with his mouth full about the arrival of a new ship from England, when the clatter of a horse’s hoofs on the brick drive outside made him start. The crack of a whip was followed by the shrill scream of a horse, and Travis was at the window instantly.

  “Margo!” he bellowed down. “You strike that horse again, and I’ll use that whip on you.”

  A deep, seductive laugh seemed to fill the dining room. “Better men than you have tried, Travis, my love,” a woman’s voice purred, followed by another crack and another scream from a horse.

  The entire house shook as Travis tore downstairs.

  Regan, her eyes wide, put her napkin on the table and went to the window. Below her was a ravishingly beautiful red-haired woman wearing a tight emerald-green habit over an awesome figure. Her large, jutting breasts, small waist, and round hips made Regan glance down at her own slight curves.

  But in seconds her attention was again on the woman atop her black stallion as it pranced angrily in the courtyard. The woman seemed to be easily in control of the monster of an animal, her eyes on the front of the house, and when Travis appeared she gave that low laugh again and raised her whip.

  Within seconds Travis made a leap, grabbing at the whip in the woman’s upraised hand. He caught it, but she dug her heels into the horse, sending it rearing, and Travis, clutching the pommel, held on. She never seemed to lose balance or confidence as the horse’s front hoofs flailed at the air, and when the animal came down she started to give it another kick.

  But Travis was too fast for her. He grabbed her arm with one hand and the reins with the other. For a moment there was a tug of war, the woman’s laugh filling the air, sounding like moonlight during the day. She was a large, strong woman, and with the added strength of the horse beneath her she gave Travis an excellent fight.

  When at last he pulled her from the horse, she slid down him liquidly, running her breasts across his face and down his chest, and when she was in range she opened her mouth and pressed it to his in a kiss that even from Regan’s position, high above, looked as if it might devour him.

  She wouldn’t have guessed she could fly downstairs as quickly as she did, and when she reached the front stairs the kiss was only just ending.

  “Still planning to use a whip on me?” Margo said huskily but loudly enough for Regan to hear. “Or could I persuade you to use something a little smaller—a very little bit smaller, if I remember correctly,” she added, rubbing her hips meaningfully against his.

  Travis took her arms and set her away from him. “Margo, before you make a complete fool of yourself, I think you should meet someone.” He turned around, seemingly aware of Regan’s exact whereabouts. “This is my wife.”

  Many expressions went across Margo’s classically beautiful face. The arched eyebrows drew together, and the green-gold eyes caught fire. Patrician nostrils flared, and the sensual lips curled. She seemed to start to say something, but no words came out. With one look at Travis she gave him a slap that echoed against the towering house. In another second she was on her horse, jerking savagely at its mouth and already whipping it viciously as she headed east.

  Travis watched her for a moment, muttered something about “No right to treat animals that way,” flexed his injured jaw, and turned back to his wife. “That was Margo Jenkins, our closest neighbor.” With that calm statement he seemed to dismiss the whole episode.

  Regan, stock-still, her body rigid, could see the vivid print of Margo’s hand on his cheek as he bent to kiss her.

  “I’ll see you tonight, and why don’t you take a nap? You look a little pale. We want a healthy baby, remember?” With that, he nodded for his clerk, standing behind Regan, to follow him, and he went toward the west wing of the house where his office was located.

  It took Regan what seemed like an hour before she recovered enough to return to the house. The vision of the haughty, splendidly lovely Margo haunted her all day. Twice she paused before a mirror and looked at her own reflection, at her wide-set eyes, her slim figure, and her overall look of sweetness. There was nothing sweet-looking about Margo Jenkins. Sucking in her cheeks, Regan tried to imagine herself more sophisticated, a superior beauty, but with a giant sigh she gave it up.

  For the next few days she began to listen when Margo’s name was mentioned and found out that it had been understood for years that Travis would marry her. When Travis and Wesley were both away, Margo managed their enormous plantation as well as her own.

  With every word she heard, Regan became a little less sure of herself. Had she broken up this love match when she ran into Travis on the London docks? Why had Travis married her, except because she was going to have a baby? When she tried to ask Travis these questions he just laughed. He was too busy with spring planting to be able to spend much time talking, and when they were alone together his hands on her body made her forget everything else.

  A week after Margo’s visit, Regan was in the East Passage, dreading her journey to the kitchen. It was time to look at the menus for next week—and time to face Malvina, the cook. The old woman had taken an instant dislike to Regan, muttering under her breath constantly. One of the maids mentioned that Malvina was a cousin to the Jenkins family, and of course she had expected, as everyone had, that Travis would marry Margo. Gathering her courage, Regan went through the long passage to the kitchen.

  “I ain’t got time to do nothin’ else now,” Malvina said before Regan could speak. “A shipload of men just come in, and I have to feed ’em.”

  Regan refused to back down. “That’s perfectly all right, I’ll just have a cup of tea, and we can discuss menus some other time.”

  “Ain’t nobody got time to make tea,” the cook snapped, giving warning looks to her three young helpers.

  Straightening her shoulders, Regan walked toward the smelly, smoke-emitting cast-iron stove set along one wall. “I can certainly make my own tea,” she said in what she hoped was a scathing voice, and did not reveal that she had no idea how to make a cup of tea. Turning just slightly to give the cook a lofty look, a deprecating smile on her lips, Regan picked up the tea kettle.

  The smile left instantly as she gave a little scream, dropped the scalding-hot kettle, and then had to jump backward as boiling water splashed to the floor. Behind her, the cook’s malicious chuckle rang out, and all Regan could do was stare helplessly at her burned palm.

  “Here,” said one of the kitchen maids with kindness as she pressed cool butter into Regan’s injured hand. “Leave this on it, and go sit down. I’ll bring you your tea.” This last she said with a whisper, one eye glancing toward the cook.

  Silently, her head down, Regan left the kitchen, with her fingers extended and the butter melting against the throbbing surface. She wanted to go straight to her bedroom, but a young man informed her that a guest waited for her in the parlor. Reg