Andrea Kane (23 page)

Not only had he defended his brother vehemently, he’d also implied it was Vanessa who had been the true culprit. What on earth had he meant by that?

And Dustin’s reaction disturbed Ariana for another reason. Despite his love for Trenton, Dustin’s verbal onslaught and irrational partiality were totally inconsistent with his personality. She had spent enough time in his company to recognize his innate objectivity, even when it came to assessing the behavior of those he loved. And yet, in this case, he was adamant in his conviction that Trenton was innocent—in spite of all the tangible evidence he must know. Why?

The answer was simple. Dustin believed in his brother, not with a sense of blind sibling loyalty, but with an absolute certainty that struck Ariana with all the force of a boulder. Because deep inside her she knew that Dustin wouldn’t be so sure if there weren’t a solid basis for his belief.

Pushing herself to a sitting position, Ariana dashed the tears from her cheeks, wondering uneasily what undisclosed details of the past Baxter had neglected to relay to her—and how she could uncover them. She might have learned more from Dustin if Trenton hadn’t broken into the stables like a jealous madman, interrupting their conversation.

One thing she had managed to learn was that the subject of Richard Kingsley evoked great emotion in both brothers and that neither of them seemed willing to discuss the details of his death.

Elbows on her knees, Ariana leaned forward speculatively, resting her chin on her hands. Richard Kingsley had died very shortly after Vanessa. That much she knew. If his death hadn’t been caused by the shock of his elder son’s crime, then what had precipitated his sudden passing? And why did both Trenton and Dustin seem so determined to shroud the circumstances surrounding the late duke’s passing in mystery?

Ariana frowned. She had nowhere to turn for her answers. She’d never resort to questioning outsiders; that would both embarrass and scandalize her husband. So how could she gain more information about Richard Kingsley without alerting Dustin and Trenton to her intent and without resurrecting old wounds that could only hurt the Kingsley name?

Trenton’s sitting room.

The idea sprang into her head, an answer and a challenge. What a perfect starting point! She would go to Trenton’s sitting room, explore a bit … and maybe learn something.

Filled with a sense of purpose, Ariana came to her feet with a thud. She hadn’t the slightest notion of what she hoped to find in a room that was virtually bare, but any shred of Richard Kingsley’s memory, no matter how small, would be well worth an investigation of those barren walls. She’d intended to visit the room anyway to begin planning its redecoration—a feat she was determined to accomplish.

Quickly, Ariana ran a comb through her disheveled hair, the vision of Trenton’s anguished expression when he’d spoken of his aversion to the sitting room, to the pain and loss it elicited, materializing instantly in her mind. Why that picture caused her such pain, considering her own fears and misgivings—not to mention Trenton’s bizarre, contradictory behavior toward her—she couldn’t say. Perhaps it was Dustin’s trust in Trenton, perhaps it was her own instinctual faith. She only knew that she desperately wanted to do this for her husband; that if she could give him nothing else, she would give him this small realm of peace, this place to call his own.

And maybe, in the process, unravel the tangled web of the past.

On silent, bare feet, Ariana slipped into the hallway, glancing furtively right and left. The hall was deserted. She padded down to the sitting room and opened the door.

The room was as she remembered it: stark and empty. She glanced at the neglected armchair, which bespoke long, contented hours of reading and sketching, then hurried past it to the desk. For a long moment she stood, hand hovering over the top drawer. Never in her life had she pried into someone else’s things, and guilt fell heavily upon her, reminding her that what she was about to do was a gross invasion of privacy. Determination swiftly intervened, successfully arguing that her cause was a just one. Just and necessary.

Her decision made, Ariana yanked open the drawer.

A pile of sketches filled the drawer, sketches Ariana quickly recognized as various renovations to Broddington. The notes on each were initialed
R.K.,
so she had no doubt as to who had made them. Lifting the stack of papers, she peered beneath. Nothing.

Undaunted, Ariana replaced the documents and closed the drawer, pulling open the one directly beneath. The contents were few and carefully placed: three gold frames containing three old photographs; a woman and two young boys. Her lips curving upward, Ariana studied them, recognizing the late Duchess of Broddington from the portraits of her that hung in the gallery and the younger, midnight blue-eyed lad with the mischievous grin as Dustin.

Still smiling, Ariana turned her attention to the third photo, her tender sentiments vanishing in a rush as her gaze locked with the penetrating cobalt stare of her husband. Dustin had been right: Even as a boy, Trenton was magnificently compelling, handsome as sin, with only a hint of the devastating charm time had yet to enhance. His youthful face, free of the harsh lines he now bore, together with his dazzling smile, equally as infectious as Ariana had noted in the maze where they’d met, made him almost irresistible in his appeal. And yet, even in boyhood, he seemed almost frighteningly intense, holding Ariana prisoner with his piercing stare. A prickle of fear shot up her spine, and she tore her gaze away, her breath coming in shallow pants.

Abruptly, she dropped the photos back in place and slammed the drawer shut.

The noise echoed through the vacant room and Ariana started, having forgotten the threat of discovery, having forgotten everything as she always did beneath Trenton’s hypnotic stare. Anxiously, she squatted behind the desk, waiting to see if she had alerted the household to her whereabouts.

Long minutes ticked by, accompanied only by the violent pounding of her heart.

At last, she heaved a sigh of relief and rose to continue her search.

The bottom drawer yielded only two old volumes of literature: one Milton, the other Chaucer. Ariana looked through them carefully, hoping to find a note or a letter that had inadvertently been left between the pages. She found nothing.

Disappointed, she slid the books back into the drawer, only to find they no longer fit. With a puzzled frown she removed them and tried again, this time at a different angle, but to no avail. The drawer simply refused to accept both volumes.

Groaning softly, Ariana dropped to her knees, placing both books on the floor beside her. This was a complication she hadn’t expected and intended to correct immediately. While she had thus far managed to disturb nothing of consequence in the room, she harbored not the slightest doubt that Trenton would notice if one of the tomes that was originally within the desk was now atop it. She peered into the drawer and at first saw nothing. She was about to arise when a slight-variation in color caught her eye from the rear of the drawer. It was a subtly lighter hue of brown than the walnut desk, nearly invisible unless one was looking.

And Ariana was looking.

Eagerly, she reached inside, her fingers closing around a slim ledger or pad—one she had apparently upset when she’d removed the books. Pulling it out, she saw that she held a worn, unmarked notebook that housed perhaps thirty pages. Curious, she sat cross-legged on the floor, draping her skirts about her, and folded back the faded cover.

The scent of roses immediately accosted her. Roses: Vanessa’s unmistakable fragrance.

With a terrified cry, Ariana dropped the notebook to the floor, her entire body going rigid with shock. The book she held was Vanessa’s journal.

Trembling, Ariana inhaled sharply, fervently wishing she had never thought of exploring the sitting room. But she had, and now her choices were nil.

Still shaking violently, she reached out a tentative hand and picked up her sister’s journal, staring at the flowing, familiar hand.

She’d wanted the truth. Now she would have it.

Page one was dated April 28, 1869: the spring before Vanessa’s death. Wetting her parched lips, Ariana began to read.

I’ve finally met him. The man I’ve awaited forever. Trenton Kingsley. What a magnificent name. What a magnificent man. He says we have the entire Season to dance in each other’s arms. He makes me dizzy even when we aren’t dancing. I want him—and I intend to get him, just as I’ve gotten everything else I’ve ever wanted.

Ariana swallowed and turned the page.

May 15, 1869

I’m the envy of every woman in London. Trenton is shameless in his intentions and his pursuit. When I’m not beside him, his eyes are always upon me. It’s only a matter of time before our feelings take over and all discretion is cast aside. Then, all I crave will be mine.

A ponderous weight descended on Ariana’s heart, oppressive and aching. She fought it, silently chastising herself for the idiocy of her reaction. The fact that Trenton and Vanessa had been lovers was no new revelation, but one she’d known for years. So why on earth did it agonize her to see a confirmation of the truth?

It’s just the shock of finding Vanessa’s journal,
she assured herself,
together with the jolt of reliving the past through her eyes.

Ariana’s shoulders sagged. She’d never lied to herself before, and she wouldn’t begin now. The true cause of her immediate distress had nothing to do with Vanessa’s death and everything to do with her life. Quite simply, the thought of Vanessa in Trenton’s arms, the image of her in his bed, made Ariana ill.

Because, unthinkable as it was, she was still in love with her husband.

A sharp sting made Ariana wince. She hadn’t realized she was gripping the journal so tightly. Slowly, she uncurled her fingers, watching a rivulet of blood redden her thumb where the paper had pierced it. Instinctively, she raised the injured finger to her lips, soothing the cut with the tip of her tongue—but not before a tiny bit of blood had trickled onto the open journal.

Uneasily, Ariana stared at the smudge of red that slowly stained the next page of Vanessa’s words, feeling a disturbing sense of foreboding seep inside her as she returned to her reading.

June 17, 1869

I belong to you, Trenton, as we both knew I would. Nothing can undo what we have forged between us. And yet, you’re restless, angry. When you should feel assurance, you feel only doubt. Your inner demons frighten me. Don’t you believe you’re all I want? You say you do, yet you strike out, again and again. Everyone fears you. I fear you. Your intensity burns me, inside and out. You’re so volatile, so savagely intense, so possessive. It’s as if you want something more than I have to give. Oh, Trenton, I can’t lose you. But I can’t hold you. You thrill me. You scare me. And I know there’s no escape.

Ariana raised her head and struggled for control. There was truth to Vanessa’s words: enough truth to terrify her. Trenton
was
every one of those things: volatile, intense, possessive. Frightening.

Dear God, what had he done?

Her head spinning, Ariana skipped ahead to the last few journal entries.

July 2, 1869

Why do you refuse to believe me, Trenton? I’ve never betrayed you. Yet you keep lashing out at me, hurting me again and again. I’m no match for your strength, your physical domination. When we love it’s as if you want to punish me, to destroy me and absorb me all at once. There’s madness in your eyes. I see it, and I want to run. But there’s nowhere I can hide where you won’t find me. You’ve made me realize that. So I must endure whatever pain you choose to inflict.

Pain? Ariana fought back a wave of nausea, focusing on the journal’s final page.

July 25, 1869

It’s over. Us, life—I can sense the finality, the futility, as I prepare to meet you. The wind outside is wild and relentless, but it pales beside the storm that rages within you, a storm that cannot be silenced. Within me lies only emptiness. There’s nothing left, Trenton, not even pain. You’ve killed it all, and now only a shell remains. Do with me what you will. It no longer matters. Nothing matters. I’ll join you where you await me. And at the water’s edge, we’ll say our good-byes.

With a strangled cry, Ariana slammed the journal shut, the words she’d just read forever engraved in her mind. She jammed her fist into her mouth, trying desperately to suppress the choked sobs that refused to be silenced. At the same time, the conversation she’d had with Trenton yesterday—in this very spot—replayed itself in her mind.

“Let’s say I have no affinity for this room. I associate it with pain and loss.”

“I understand.”

“I wonder if you do.”

At the time, Ariana had assumed Trenton referred to the painful loss of his father. Dear God, had he meant Vanessa? Was it
her
loss he’d alluded to?

Tears streamed down Ariana’s face, unchecked and unnoticed. Was this the sanctuary Trenton sought to think about Vanessa, to write to her, to plot how to keep her?

Ariana squeezed her eyes shut, unable to suppress the ugly speculations besieging her.

Had Trenton forced Vanessa to make love to him in this very sitting room? Was that why he loathed spending time within these walls? Had he buried Vanessa’s memory here alongside her journal? And was it her loss or the part he’d played in inciting it that tormented him?

“So … have you found what you were looking for?”

The journal hit the floor with a thud and Ariana leapt to her feet, terror knotting her stomach at the sight of Trenton looming in the open doorway.

“From the horrified look on your face, I’ll assume the answer to my question is yes.” Trenton closed the door, leaning back against it. “How much did you read?”

She could scarcely get out the words. “All of it,” she whispered.

Menacing shadows descended on Trenton’s face, and condemnation blazed in his eyes. “I hope to God you know what you’ve done.”