Andrea Kane (30 page)

Far from a novice at romantic liaisons, Trenton had read her invitation with perfect clarity. Anticipation had coursed through his blood, igniting his primitive male need to physically possess an eager, beautiful woman. It had been some time since he’d wanted one as much as he did Vanessa. Even if she were Baxter Caldwell’s sister.

Indolent and self-centered, rumor had it that Baxter truly cared for only one person other than himself—and that was his resplendent sister Vanessa.

On that March night, as Trenton twirled about the floor, drinking in her provocative beauty and openly carnal gaze, he had understood why.

Lord, what a mesmerized fool he’d been. He’d actually believed that her coy smiles and suggestive glances were rooted purely in passion, and granted only to him. That her professions of longing were sincere.

That she was everything she appeared to be.

Richard Kingsley had seen through Vanessa immediately and warned his son of her questionable ethics. Arrogant and stubborn, Trenton had refused to listen.

How mortally wrong he’d been.

Heaven alone knew how many men had been the recipients of that perfect smile. How many she had been willing to whore herself for in exchange for the promise of wealth and a prominent title.

Trenton had both.

Had he been older and more experienced, he would have recognized and dealt with the signs: a beautiful, flirtatious woman, a wastrel brother, unscrupulous morals, failing family businesses—the fundamental elements were all there. Indeed, he’d fed right into them: young, rich, and available, heir to a dukedom.

Oh, she’d played him for the worst kind of fool. But he’d found out just in time—in time to give her a taste of the pain and degradation she’d caused him.

Yes, he’d thwarted Vanessa’s cold blooded manipulations.

But the victory was ultimately hers.

For, ironically, she’d devastated him more thoroughly in death than she ever could in life.

Were you in love with my sister?

Ariana’s question intervened in his reflections, causing a bitter smile to twist his lips. He’d experienced a gamut of emotion when it came to Vanessa: attraction, lust, disgust, repulsion, hatred. But love? Never.

He reread the final pages of the journal, then slammed it shut.

Was she delusional or was he?

He rubbed his temples, trying to recall any minor detail he might have overlooked, any hint he’d provided that would give rise to her groundless fantasies. He could think of none. To the contrary, by mid-Season any enchantment he’d felt had been thoroughly extinguished—ironically, by Vanessa herself.

Discovering her calculated trysts had been pure chance on Trenton’s part.

One April night, he arrived unexpectedly at a ball held in Bath House. As had become his habit that Season, he scanned the room for Vanessa. He spotted her instantly, for her flaming hair commanded attention.

So, this time, did her actions. She was leading the ecstatic, prominent old Earl of Shelford into the moonlight, turning her adoring emerald eyes up to him in silent invitation.

Slipping out before he could be seen, Trenton grappled with the probability that the woman he was fascinated with was a blatant, scheming wanton. It was unthinkable. He must have been mistaken.

He’d almost managed to convince himself when, a week later, the second episode occurred.

Trenton was descending the steps of the Covington bank when, across the street, he spied Vanessa. She was hastening along, looking furtively to the right and to the left, finally halting beside a waiting carriage. Swiftly, she climbed inside—into the ravenous arms of Henri Lenard, a disreputable, womanizing French nobleman, who, rumor had it, was on the verge of inheriting a scandalously large family fortune.

Instantly, denial ceased to be a possibility.

From that moment on, Trenton made it his business to watch Vanessa—covertly. He had to see with his own eyes that his father had been right. And what he saw was a scheming fortune hunter performing her art of seduction on several carefully selected, eligible,
rich
men.

Barely able to hide his contempt, Trenton’s actions toward Vanessa changed drastically. He became cold and aloof, showing her in all ways but words that he intended to sever whatever tentative ties they had initiated.

His rejection had the opposite effect. Rather than being dissuaded, Vanessa seemed utterly intrigued by Trenton’s spurning. She redoubled her efforts to win him over, gluing herself to his side, making it unquestionably clear that he was her possession: the man she’d ultimately chosen for wedlock.

Quickly, caustically, Trenton set her straight, making no attempt to spare her feelings. He accused her of being promiscuous, told her he never wanted to see her again, and turned his back on her, presumably forever.

But Vanessa Caldwell was a woman who was accustomed to getting what she wanted at any cost. And what she wanted was Trenton. So, ignoring his brutal dismissal, she deliberately went about convincing the world—and herself—that she and Trenton were on the heated verge of matrimony.

Snapping back to the present, Trenton stared broodingly at the closed journal, plagued, as he had been for six years, by the change in Vanessa’s tone from the journal’s onset to its conclusion. The early entries were definitely Vanessa: spoiled, arrogant, selfish. But the last ones, the ones filled with agonized delusions and fear, were totally inconsistent with her character, not to mention radically distorted versions of reality.

Most perplexing of all was her desolation in that final entry.

She hadn’t been desolate that night; at least not when she’d arrived. To the contrary, she’d been the epitome of conciliatory enticement. Until the end.

Trenton could still envision her as she approached him, ever the consummate actress. Her emerald eyes were imploring, damp with tears, her carefully selected silk gown molded to her every curve. Oh, how she’d sworn that she loved him and only him, that there had never been anyone else.

Weeks before, he’d been disgusted.

That night, he was livid.

As of two hours earlier, he had finally learned the extent of her treachery, and he wanted to choke her with his bare hands. It wasn’t enough that she’d played her little game—was still playing it—with him. When that pressure alone hadn’t worked she’d evidently spread rumors throughout the
ton
that Trenton had ruined her, stolen her innocence, promised to marry her. That too was unsuccessful. So she’d embellished further, feeding the gossip-hungry
ton
with the horrid secret that Trenton was mad; he was insanely jealous and possessive; he was unstable. He was a man to be feared, in business and in friendship.

Slowly, the rumors found their mark, and the whispers began. The whispers soon became doubts, the doubts, rebuffs—not only by friends, but by colleagues.

And Richard Kingsley’s health began to plummet as his worst fears were realized.

It was Queen Victoria herself who brought the situation to a head. Having enjoyed a long-standing friendship with Richard Kingsley, she’d taken it upon herself to tell Trenton the reason for his father’s deteriorating health and his family’s growing ostracism. Despite her own dubious opinion of Vanessa’s accusations, she strongly advised Trenton to handle this “unpleasant matter” at once, lest his respected family name be permanently marred.

Her words struck home. Trenton was livid, furiously unwilling to allow one conniving trollop to hurt the people he loved, the reputation they’d built. He had to stop her.

He’d sent an urgent note commanding Vanessa to meet him by the River Arun. Pacing up and down its grassy bank, he waited, drinking himself into oblivion.

By the time Vanessa arrived, Trenton was fuming and soused. Rather than a beautiful woman intent on seduction, he saw only the spiteful bitch who was ruining his life and destroying his father. Vehemently, he plunged into a verbal tirade, enumerating all she had done, from her sexual escapades to her destructive gossip to her vicious lies.

Vanessa’s response was feigned innocence. And Trenton went wild.

Seizing her shoulders, he shook her fiercely, half tempted to beat the truth out of her and then physically expel her from their lives.

Seeing no alternative, Vanessa begged, swearing that she never meant to hurt or deceive him, that she only wanted him to understand how much she loved him.

Trenton was unmoved.

Pleading cast aside, Vanessa flew into a rage, swearing that if she couldn’t have him, she’d malign the Kingsley name so severely that no other woman would want him.

The roar in Trenton’s head became deafening. Beyond thought or reason, he crushed her arms in a punishing grip, bellowing out that she was slowly killing his father.

Vanessa laughed.

And something inside Trenton snapped.

Fiercely, he flung her to the sand, thundering out his vow of vengeance.

She rose, flying at him hysterically, and his fingers closed around her throat, burning to choke the very life from her. Instead, he threw her harder into the slapping waves along the shore, watching as the waters rushed up to her legs.

He threatened to kill her.

But, God help him, he hadn’t.

So how had she died?

Instinct told him that an unfeeling bitch like Vanessa, a woman who loved only herself, would never resort to suicide. Unless she truly was delusional, and she actually believed her own lies. Had she gone over the edge of insanity?

Trenton laced his fingers together, resting his forehead upon them. For himself, it no longer mattered, not about her passing or its cause. The ultimate damage had been done.

But now there was Ariana.

What could he tell her? That he despised her sister, that he hadn’t killed her, but often wished he had? That the Vanessa he knew was either totally unscrupulous or completely mad?

And when his warm-hearted wife was still reeling from the impact, would he then have to tell her the truth about Baxter? About the journal and exactly how it had passed from Baxter’s hands to his?

Would she even believe him? And if she did, would she prefer the ugly knowledge to blissful ignorance?

I love you, Trenton…. You really are a wonderful man. … I believe you.

Trenton’s head came up abruptly.

Ariana trusted him. Despite everything he was putting her through, she trusted him. His answer was as simple as that.

Snatching up the journal, Trenton stalked out of the room and down the hall, rapping purposefully on his wife’s door.

“Yes?”

He found Ariana brushing her hair at the dressing table. Seeing the spontaneous joy that flashed across her face, he felt a stab of guilt. This was the first time he’d sought her out since their return to Broddington—except each night, when he fused their bodies in an urgent attempt to bury his pain along with his seed, to lose himself inside this miraculous woman who loved him.

Shoving the door shut, Trenton tossed the journal onto her bed. “Vanessa and I were never lovers.”

Slowly, Ariana placed her brush down. “I see.” She stood, walking over to him. “I’m glad.”

“You believe me?”

“If you tell me you and Vanessa weren’t lovers, then, yes, I believe you.”

“Despite what you read in the journal?”

Ariana tipped her head back to look up at him. “Vanessa’s words can’t alter what I’ve learned about you this past month. You’re an ethical, principled man. Seduction is not something you would treat lightly.”

“I’ve told you I’m not a hero, Ariana,” he warned quietly. “Nor was I so terribly noble when it came to women. I’ve had my share.… Your sister just didn’t happen to be one of them.”

A spark of amusement flickered in Ariana’s eyes. “So I gathered from Dustin. Plus, don’t forget I’ve experienced your … proficiency first hand. So I assure you I’m not surprised to learn I wasn’t the first woman in your bed.”

Trenton stared down at her, unsmiling. “There was a time when I was greatly drawn to Vanessa. If I hadn’t happened upon the truth when I did, things might have been different.”

“What truth?”

He inhaled sharply. “I have a lot to tell you. None of it is very pretty.”

“I’m listening.”

Without giving himself time to reconsider, Trenton related the whole story. He spoke of his first meeting with Vanessa, her faithlessness, her obsession to wed him, her ultimate treachery. Last, he recounted the night she’d died.

“I did threaten to kill her,” he admitted harshly. “I wanted to kill her.”

“But you didn’t kill her.” Ariana’s face was white, her eyes wide and stunned by all she was ingesting.

“Nor did she kill herself.” Trenton shook his head adamantly. “Not unless she’d gone totally mad. You didn’t know her, Ariana. Not really. I did. In her right mind, Vanessa would never have taken her own life.”

“She was my sister, Trenton!”

“But you were a child. You didn’t know what she was capable of … what they were both capable of.”

“Both?” Ariana looked ill. “This involves my brother, doesn’t it?”

“If you don’t want to hear it, stop me now.” Trenton cupped her chin. “I detest hurting you any more than I already have, misty angel.”

“Tell me,” she whispered.

“Baxter apprised you of the fact that I had Vanessa’s journal. Did he mention how I got it?”

“He said you threatened him and our family; that he had no choice but to give it to you.” Her voice trailed off. “He was lying, wasn’t he?”

“Yes.” Trenton wanted to brutalize Baxter at that moment; not for what he’d done to the Kingsleys, but for what he was doing to Ariana. “Your brother sent for me immediately after Vanessa’s death. He accused me of killing her. I denied it. He produced the journal, read me portions of it. I was shocked and sickened by Vanessa’s warped interpretation of our relationship. But Caldwell wanted more than my reaction, even more man my humiliation. He wanted my money.”

Ariana clutched at Trenton’s forearms. “He blackmailed you?”

“Repulsive as it sounds, yes. He showed me Vanessa’s suicide note, said the choice was mine. His precious sister was gone and nothing could bring her back. He wanted compensation … and he wanted it now. In short, he was either going to quietly mourn Vanessa and go on with his life, or furnish the journal, and implicate me as a murder suspect. It was as simple as that.”