Andrea Kane (4 page)

“Suitable for whom?”

“Suitable for both of us. And for the bridegroom as well.” He paused, choosing his method of persuasion carefully. “You know I would never force you to wed someone who repels you, sprite. But surely we can find someone who fits both our needs and can also restore some dignity to our family name?”

“Oh, Baxter.” Ariana shook her head in confusion. Despite her decision to remain unyielding, she was affected by her brother’s plea, his obvious desperation. Yet … marriage? Not only hadn’t marriage factored into her immediate plans, she could not even envision herself permanently tied to any of the gentlemen with whom she was presently acquainted. When she did wed, she dreamed of a union born of love, not the culmination of some business arrangement. No … she couldn’t agree to what Baxter wanted of her, but, then again, how could she refuse? He’d relinquished his youthful dreams for her, did she not owe him some of her own in return?

Ariana massaged her temples, trapped in a vortex of conflicting emotions: duty, guilt, remorse, resentment … resignation. “All right, Baxter,” she said in a wooden voice. “I’ll
consider
your suggestion.”

Baxter beamed. “Good girl.” He tapped his leg thoughtfully. “Our main problem is that the London Season is nearly past. Had I known our situation would be thus, I would have officially brought you out, introduced you to all the right people.” He shrugged. “We’ll just have to take advantage of the fall house parties.”

Ariana leaned her head against the carriage’s soft cushion, closing her eyes.

“Don’t look so troubled, sprite. All will be well.” Actually, Baxter felt like whistling, now that he’d convinced Ariana to do his bidding.

“I’m not troubled,” Ariana denied faintly. “It’s only that my ankle is throbbing painfully.”

Baxter glanced down at the discolored, swollen bruise, experiencing a pang of guilt as he realized he’d all but forgotten her injury. “We’re nearly home. Theresa will tend to it as soon as we arrive.”

Ariana’s lashes lifted. “Do you think he will be back?”

“Who?”

“Trenton Kingsley.”

Abruptly, Baxter’s good humor vanished. “Not if he values his life, he won’t.”

Fear gripped Ariana’s heart. “Please don’t talk like that.”

Baxter inhaled sharply, bringing himself under control with great difficulty. “No, I don’t believe we’ll be seeing
His Grace
again. He accomplished what he set out to do and has probably already retreated to his refuge on the Isle of Wight.” Baxter’s brows drew together in a question. “He didn’t hurt you, did he?”

Ariana shook her head. “No. He merely carried me to the house.”

“But he frightened you?”

A prolonged pause. Then Ariana turned her head away, her eyes sliding shut once more. “No,” she whispered. “He didn’t frighten me.” She left the remaining truth unspoken, although she was painfully, shamefully aware of its existence.

Trenton Kingsley had unnerved her dreadfully. But what she had felt in his arms was neither fear nor pain.

What she’d felt was unforgivable.

“It looks worse than it is. Many things do. Except those that look better.” Theresa placed another cool compress on Ariana’s ugly bruise, then tucked a wisp of gray hair back into her own uncooperative bun. “Your ankle will soon be healed, fret not.”

Ariana settled herself on the pillows, the pain in her leg already having subsided to a dull throb. “I’m not fretting, Theresa,” she murmured, staring at the ceiling.

“Your mind aches more than your injury.”

Theresa’s curious observation elicited no response, nor was Ariana taken aback by its accuracy. She’d known Theresa all her life, for the tiny, eccentric old woman with the sharp black eyes, beaklike nose and abrupt movements of a sparrow had raised both Ariana and Vanessa from birth. Many called her daft, but Ariana knew better. Theresa possessed the wisdom of a scholar and a unique prophetic insight that few others were wise enough to perceive, much less understand.

“Yes, my mind aches,” Ariana concurred softly, after a lengthy silence. “A great deal happened tonight, and I am dreadfully confused.”

“Confused … or distressed?”

“Both.”

Theresa adjusted her apron pocket, which bulged with a volume written by the seventeenth-century essayist Sir Francis Bacon, and sat on the edge of the bed. “Confusion can lead to distress … or distress can lead to confusion. Which is it, in this case?”

Ariana thought for a moment. “Partially, the former. And partially, the latter.”

“Which is more severe, the confusion or the distress?”

“The confusion.”

“Then let us discuss the latter first, and dismiss it quickly so we can get to the former.”

“All right.”

“Yes, I know. I’ve placed the compress there.”

“Pardon me?”

“Your right ankle. I’ve placed the compress there,” Theresa repeated, checking the swelling.

“No, Theresa,” Ariana explained with customary patience. “I meant it’s all right to begin with the latter.”

“The latter?”

“My distress,” Ariana reminded her.

“Yes, I’m waiting for you to speak of it.”

Ariana laced her fingers together and rested them on the quilt. “I’m distressed because Baxter’s betrothal was severed tonight.”

“I cannot feel sadness over a union that did not include your brother’s heart.”

Ariana sighed. “I agree. No, my distress is caused, not by the fact that Baxter will remain unmarried, but by the consequences of his parting with Suzanne … or, rather, the Covingtons. Which, by the way, is integrally related to the real reason why Baxter wanted this marriage to begin with.”

Rather than appearing flustered by Ariana’s muddled explanation, Theresa nodded sagely. “To gain access to the Covington wealth.”

Now Ariana
was
surprised. She raised up on her elbows, staring at Theresa’s impassive expression. “You knew?”

Theresa shrugged. “There are some things one does not need to be told in order to know. Your brother is as he is. ‘It is in life as it is in ways,’” she said soberly, quoting Bacon, “‘the shortest way is commonly the foulest, and surely the fairer way is not much about.’”

“He is a good man, Theresa,” Ariana defended instantly.

“Goodness wears many faces. Who is to say which of them are real?”

“He is afraid. So am I. From what he says, our financial circumstances are quite bleak.”

“It will take the viscount much time to find another wealthy young woman around whom to weave his charming web.”

“He does not intend to find another woman. He intends to find a man … for me.”

Theresa blinked. “He wishes you to marry?”

“Yes.”

“That could be for the best.” Again, Theresa patiently tucked away a stray wisp of hair, immediately dislodging three additional strands, which fell in disarray to her nape.

Ariana sat up straighten “There is no one I care to marry, Theresa. No one I love.”

“Do you know so many gentlemen then?”

“Of course not. It’s just that I’ve never met a single one for whom I could feel anything. …” She broke off, appalled at herself when an image of Trenton Kingsley sprang unbidden to her mind.

“You were saying …” Theresa prompted.

“I don’t remember.”

“That is because you’re confused. Wasn’t that what we were discussing?”

“I don’t know what we were discussing.”

“The former.”

“What?”

“The former. Your confusion. It is time to confront it.”

“Yes.” It was a whisper.

“You are confused over your brother’s reasons for wishing you wed?”

“Of course not. Baxter wants me to marry a wealthy man, someone with enough money and generosity to satisfy all my brother’s debts and restore his respectability.”

Theresa nodded. “Well said. Then what is the cause of your confusion? Has it something to do with your fall?”

“No … yes …” Ariana buried her face in her hands. “I don’t know.”

“The precise definition of confusion.”

Ariana raised her head. “Trenton Kingsley is the man who found me in the maze and brought me back to the party.”

“The duke has returned to Sussex?” Theresa inquired.

“To sever Baxter’s betrothal.”

“I see.”

“That doesn’t stun you?”

“Whether or not it stuns me is not the question. Why his presence confuses you is.”

“My instincts have never failed me so miserably.”

“I have never known your instincts to fail you at all.”

“Then this time is the first.”

Theresa did not answer at once; she only studied Ariana with sharp, unreadable, dark eyes. “The allure must have been overpowering,” she stated at last.

Ariana’s stomach lurched with guilt. “The allure?” she managed.

“The night. The mist. The song of the birds and the scent of the flowers. All that normally beckons you. It must have been overpowering to cause you to wander from your brother’s betrothal party.”

“Oh … yes. It was.”

“It?”

“The allure,” Ariana reiterated.

“The allure.”

“Yes … isn’t that what we were discussing?”

“Were we?” Theresa’s gaze was steady.

Ariana had the sinking feeling that the night’s magic had little to do with this conversation. “I suppose we were not,” she murmured.

“Tell me about him.”

Instantly, Ariana’s heart began to pound. “I should despise him …
I do
despise him.”

“You were attracted to him?”

Ariana’s hands curled into tight fists of denial. “I can’t be.”

“Yet you are.”

“He was so gentle, Theresa, so caring.” Small curls of warmth unfurled inside Ariana’s chest. “He made his way through the maze until he found me and then carried me all the way back to the manor.” She swallowed. “I could sense his anger, yet somehow I knew it wasn’t directed at me. Or at least it wasn’t, until he learned I was a Caldwell.”

“I imagine that information didn’t please him,” Theresa agreed. “Nor you. But why are you confused?”

“He killed Vanessa!” Ariana exclaimed, tears filling her eyes. “Or at the very least he was responsible for her suicide!”

“It did appear that way.”

“Then how can you ask why I’m confused?”

“Your instincts are at war with your principles.”

“My instincts are wrong.”

“Perhaps. Then again, perhaps not. Your emotions are intruding, preventing you from drawing an objective conclusion,” Theresa reasoned.

“I cannot be objective about the man who murdered my sister!” Ariana said brokenly, accosted by the vivid memory of Vanessa’s blood-stained gown the day it washed up on the Sussex shore, her body submerged forever in its watery grave.

“No, I would think not,” Theresa agreed. She removed the compress from Ariana’s ankle and checked the swelling carefully. Satisfied that the ankle was healing properly, she tucked it beneath the quilt. “Appearance is a fascinating thing,” she commented. “It changes depending upon one’s perspective and is often not as one believes it to be.”

“I never want to see him again.”

Theresa rose, smiling, and eased Ariana against the pillows, smoothing the quilt about her shoulders. “We’ve talked enough. I want you to rest, my lady.”

Ariana complied, feeling abruptly and unbearably weary. “My head aches,” she whispered, closing her eyes.

“Far more than your injury,” Theresa agreed, drawing the curtains closed. “Yet sleep will come, for your heart is at peace.”

Ariana didn’t hear Theresa’s last words, for she was already drifting into slumber.

Tenderly, Theresa stroked her lovely, troubled mistress’s hair. “Your mind will know peace as well, my lady. But it has quite a distance to travel before that can occur.”

Gazing at Ariana’s serene features, Theresa saw far beyond, with an inborn ability believers called “intuition,” skeptics termed “witchery.” As it sometimes happened, an image appeared clear and unmistakable, a strong, revealing glimpse of what was to be. Rarely, however, was her vision as absolute as this. The last time had been six years before.

She’d been certain then. She was certain now.

Ariana’s destiny had found her.

H
IS TRIUMPH AND ELATION
vanished by dawn.

Never breaking stride, Trenton leaned over and scooped up a handful of wet sand, crushing it in his palm until his skin burned from the abrasive contact.

He barely felt the sting, so great was the turmoil raging inside him.

Merely a day after the Covington ball and, rather than a pervading sense of euphoria from the outcome of his grand exhibition, all he knew was inexplicable fury and gnawing restlessness.

Damn Caldwell to hell.

Violently, Trenton hurled his arm out, casting the molded mass of sand toward the brilliant waters of Osborne Bay. He stalked onward, driven by demons, kicking a line of stones from his path. The action aggravated his already taut, aching leg muscles, reminding him of the great distance he’d traveled.

He’d been walking for hours. Bembridge, the small village that adjoined his beloved Spraystone, was nestled in the Isle of Wight’s spectacular Chalk Cliffs over ten miles south of the Queen’s Osborne House. Yet he’d hardly noticed the change in terrain, nor the passage of time. He’d simply walked, seeking a semblance of peace customarily offered him by the breathtaking Solent Sea, the narrow channel that separated Wight from the English coast.

He slowed his step, idly watching the graceful yachts as they glided past the island’s shore, heading for the Royal Yacht Club in West Cowes. The vast number of billowing sails approaching at once came as no surprise, for the wind had picked up a bit this hour, and the waves, in turn, were slapping their foam on the sand with escalating intensity. One of Wight’s exotic summer storms was brewing, promising its turbulent arrival by dusk.

Trenton wasn’t worried, for he knew he had hours before the storm struck. Wiping spray from his forehead, he gazed expectantly out over the bay, awaiting that wondrous sense of tranquility to pervade his soul.

It never came.

What the hell was wrong with him?

Trenton walked toward the water’s edge, brutally analyzing his dark humor. The night before his plan had come to fruition and the obsession that consumed him these long years had been fulfilled. At last, Baxter Caldwell was destitute.