Echoes in the Mist Page 12

  Dustin chuckled. “Actually, your memories are charming.”

  “They’re few and far between,” she replied with a sad shrug. “My parents died when I was three. I scarcely remember them.” She turned back to the painstakingly crafted columns. “In any case, Winsham isn’t, nor was it ever, as grand as this.”

  Squinting, Dustin tried to view the room, the entire estate, through Ariana’s untrained eyes. “My father adored Broddington,” he said, his tone rich with his own memories. “This particular estate was not only his home but his greatest achievement.”

  Ariana looked up. “Trenton told me your father designed Broddington … assisted by his two sons.”

  A half-smile played about Dustin’s lips. “Trent told you that, did he? Well, despite my brothers foul temper, he is far too modest. He and my father did the actual designs. I merely provided an occasional suggestion.”

  “Trenton also said your father was a genius.”

  “And he was.”

  “I can see that.” She hesitated. “Will you tell me about him?”

  A gamut of emotions played over Dustin’s face. “Father was a proud and brilliant man. But despite his incredible talent he was, by nature, a traditionalist, devoted to his family and his home.” Dustin stared at the floor. “The Kingsley name meant the world to him.”

  “You’re very fortunate,” Ariana replied softly, leaning against the sturdy column. She studied Dustin’s bowed head, her heart swelling with a compassion that surmounted the questions crowding her mind. “I suppose, being a young child, I was spared the full wrenching impact of losing my parents. While in your case, you were a grown man when your father died. How his loss must have hurt you.”

  “Yes, it hurt me.” Dustin’s voice was raw. “But it nearly killed Trenton.” Everything inside Ariana turned cold. “Dustin …”

  “Come.” Dustin turned away, his firm tone telling her that, for now, the subject was closed. “Let’s go on to the music room.”

  Their tour of the music room, library, and morning room were conducted in near silence, punctuated only by Dustin’s clipped descriptions and the plodding sound of their footsteps sinking into the plush Axminster carpets.

  On the stairway, Ariana halted, turning abruptly and seizing Dustin’s arm. “Please, Dustin. I apologize for asking questions that were none of my business. I only wanted to understand you better … to understand Trenton better,” she added honestly. “I never meant to pry. Forgive me.”

  Dustin’s troubled expression cleared and he kissed Ariana’s cold fingers. “It is I who should be asking your forgiveness. You did nothing wrong. It’s very natural for you to ask questions about your husband’s family. The only excuse I have for my behavior is that our talk made me remember things I haven’t allowed myself to think about for many years.” He hesitated. “As you know, the entire Kingsley family disintegrated when my father died. Nothing’s been the same since.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Sometimes I wonder if it ever will be.”

  “It will.” Ariana had no idea whose strong, determined voice that was, but it appeared to be coming from her mouth. “I’ll make certain it is.”

  Dustin started, then a slow smile curved his lips. “I’m counting on that, sweetheart,” he told her, squeezing her hand. “If ever there was hope for us, you’re it.”

  “‘If a man look sharply, and attentively, he shall see Fortune; for though she be blind, yet she is not invisible,’” Theresa announced, marching by them on her way to the kitchen. “I’ll have tea served on the front lawn this afternoon. You’ll need refreshment after your croquet lesson.” She disappeared around the corner of the first-floor landing.

  Dustin gaped. “Who the … what the … how did she …”

  “Theresa,” Ariana supplied helpfully. “My lady’s maid. She was quoting Sir Francis Bacon for you; he’s her favorite. The only one of your questions I cannot answer is ‘how she.’ I assume you are asking how she knew we would be playing croquet. I assure you she did not eavesdrop. My only explanation is that Theresa knows many things that we don’t. I suggest you not ponder it too deeply; just accept it, for it is the truth.” Ariana grinned. “You can close your mouth now, Dustin.”

  He snapped it shut. “I see.”

  “No, you don’t. But she does.” Ariana continued up the stairs. “Can we visit the second level now?”

  Dustin nodded, still totally at sea, and proceeded to the second-floor landing.

  The bedrooms were lavishly decorated and as impressive as the rest of the house. Still, Ariana experienced the same vague sense of inconsistency she had in her own bedroom the night before. For despite the magnificent craftsmanship and detail, the walls were devoid of paintings, the desks barren, the rooms sparsely furnished and cold, austere—a complete contrast to what she would have expected from the late duke.

  Upon entering Trenton’s private sitting room and finding nothing more than a bare desk and an untouched armchair, Ariana could no longer contain her puzzlement.

  “Why is this floor so impersonal and stark?” She gestured toward the empty walls. “I know Broddington has been deserted since … for six years,” she amended, unwilling to bring the late duke’s name back into the conversation and risk upsetting Dustin, “but the ground level seems so rich, so … lovingly crafted. Why are the living quarters so drastically different?”

  Dustin folded his arms across his chest, staring into space as if seeing into the past. “This sitting room belonged to my father … His favorite room in the house. Not aesthetically, but spiritually. He spent long hours alone here, thinking and dreaming. The entire second floor was designed like that, for living as well as sleeping. It looked very different than it does now, filled with all my father’s personal things, paintings of my mother, rare sculptures he’d acquired in his travels, sketches of Broddington long before it was built.” Dustin sighed, leaving the past behind. “Trenton had everything removed when Father died. It ceased to be a home. It hasn’t been one since then.”

  “Where are your father’s things?” Ariana asked, her eyes damp. “Trenton didn’t … They weren’t destroyed, were they?”

  Dustin shook his head. “No. I stored them at Tyreham. All but the paintings of Mother, which are hanging in Broddington’s gallery.”

  “May I see them?”

  He smiled gently. “Of course. We’ll stop there on our way to the chapel.”

  “When did she die?”

  “When Trent and I were boys. Mother was very beautiful, but very delicate. During most of my childhood, she was confined to bed. She died of scarlet fever when I was ten.”

  “Your father obviously loved her a great deal.”

  Again, Dustin smiled. “Unfashionably so. He missed her dreadfully; that I do recall. His work, remaining productive, meant more to him than ever after her death.”

  Ariana inched forward and touched Dustin’s arm. “I’ve done it again, haven’t I? Upset you with my questions?”

  “No, of course not,” he returned warmly. “All this happened a long time ago. I’m quite recovered, honestly.” With a reassuring look, Dustin led her into the hall. “Let’s visit the gallery and the chapel, then move on to what will doubtlessly be your favorite spots.” Seeing Ariana’s perplexed expression, he supplied: “The stables and the gardens.”

  Ariana’s eyes lit up. “And can we go to the conservatory again? I saw it briefly yesterday, but it was so breathtaking. … Do you mind if we stop there for a moment?”

  Dustin chuckled. “How can I resist so lovely a plea? Very well, we shall stop at the conservatory on our way to the gardens. And then”—his eyes twinkled—“you shall learn the proper handling of a croquet mallet.”

  “I can hardly wait!”

  “Those wickets have no openings. It is all an illusion,” Ariana complained two hours later. Sprawled on a lawn chair, sipping her tea, she had all but given up ever learning the proper way to strike the ball so that it went through the wicket rather than crashi
ng into it.

  Dustin threw back his head and laughed. “Trust me, sweetheart, the wickets do indeed have openings. You just have to learn how to find them.”

  Ariana made a face and brushed a loose strand of hair from her damp forehead. “I don’t hold out much hope,” she muttered. “I don’t know why I ever wanted to learn that silly game anyway.”

  “It was only your first lesson,” Dustin pointed out, finishing his third scone and settling comfortably back in his chair. “You’ll improve.”

  She laughed in spite of herself. “I suppose my pride is wounded. I’d assumed I would master the sport on my first attempt and hear nothing but praise from you.”

  “I had no idea praise was required.”

  Trenton’s deep baritone startled them both, and, simultaneously, they jumped in their seats, watching as he strode toward them.

  “Trent, I didn’t know you’d returned …” Dustin began, shading his eyes, praying that his brother’s early appearance meant his anger had dissipated, that he was ready to spend time with his bride.

  Dustin’s hopes were instantly dashed.

  “Obviously you weren’t expecting me.” Trenton’s tone was frigid, his jaw rigidly clenched. “But I’m pleased to know my bride has been properly entertained during my absence. As far as her mastering a sport on the first attempt …” He turned to Ariana, ruthlessly scrutinizing her relaxed, tousled appearance. “Let me be the first to offer you the praise you so fervently requested.” He gave her a mock bow. “I commend you highly. If you take to all amusements as quickly and proficiently as you did to the one you learned last night, you will garner nothing but compliments and pleas for more.”

  Dustin was on his feet even before Ariana’s shocked gasp reached his ears. “For God’s sake, Trent, are you insane?” he demanded.

  Trenton tore his gaze from Ariana’s white face. Swerving to meet his brother’s fierce stare, he gave a harsh laugh. “Indeed I am! But I thought that was established years ago

  “By the Caldwells.”

  “Don’t, Trent,” Dustin warned, his tone tight, controlled. “You’re obviously drunk. And you don’t know what you’re saying.”

  “I’m as sober as you are,” Trenton contradicted icily. “And I know precisely what I am saying.”

  Shakily, Ariana rose, her lips quivering with embarrassment and hurt. “You’re not insane,” she whispered. “Nor are you drunk. But you are terribly cruel. I don’t know why you feel such anger toward me, but I do know it is directly linked with Vanessa.”

  Trenton’s inadvertent flinch at the mention of Vanessa’s name confirmed Ariana’s suspicions. With as much dignity as she could muster, she gathered up her skirts and smoothed her hair back into place. “When you’re ready to treat me civilly, I shall manage to do the same. Not because I’m afraid of you,” she added candidly, raising her chin a notch, “but because, despite your abominable behavior, I know there is goodness inside you.” Tears glistened on her lashes, but she blinked them away, holding her head high. “However, I won’t be the recipient of your hatred any longer. Remember that … or don’t address me again.”

  With a regal turn, Ariana marched off toward the house.

  Astonishment and respect welled up inside Dustin, and he had to forcibly restrain himself from going after her.

  “I see you’ve taught my bride to forgo reticence in favor of an acidic tongue. … And that, in the process, you’ve become her guardian.”

  Trenton’s caustic comment made Dustin seethe. “Someone has to protect Ariana.”

  “From whom? Me?”

  “Yes, you bloody lunatic. From you.” Dustin faced his brother squarely, fury racing through his veins. “She’s not Vanessa, you damned, stupid fool,” he stated flatly. “When are you going to see that?”

  Trenton’s fists clenched. “Leave it alone, Dustin.”

  “Then leave Ariana alone,” Dustin shot back. “She deserves better than your brutal treatment.” He shook his head, longing to shake some sense into his brother, to make him see the obvious.

  Ariana was not Trenton’s enemy but his salvation.

  Half tempted to blurt out that Trenton needed Ariana to make him whole again, that Ariana was already half in love with her unworthy husband, Dustin fought the urge, painfully aware that it was a realization they would have to arrive at themselves. Frustrated and livid, he threw up his hands. “Open your eyes, you bloody blind man,” he bit out. “Before it’s too late.”

  He turned on his heel and stalked off.

  Dustin’s uncharacteristic assault triggered the familiar battle that raged inside Trenton, and his features contorted with the strain of internal conflict. He could deal with it. He knew he could. He could deal with all of it: the vengeance that ate at his soul, the painful falling out with Dustin, the scars that time refused to heal.

  All but the pain he’d seen on Ariana’s face when she’d walked away from him.

  And the knowledge that he was its cause.

  CHAPTER

  9

  TRENTON WAS CAUGHT IN a tangled web of his own creation.

  Shifting his weight in the chair, he stared moodily through the shadowed room to the bed where Ariana slept peacefully, unaware of his scrutiny … and of the fact that he’d been watching her for hours.

  Rolling the brandy glass between his palms, Trenton idly studied the swirling amber liquid as he reflected upon the complications the past few days had wrought. His decision to marry Ariana Caldwell had been spontaneous, yet purposeful: a brilliant solution to the vengeance that swelled inside him, a remedy for his unremitting torment.

  Revenge was close at hand; he had only to be patient to achieve it.

  After all, it had been just over a day since the wedding, giving Baxter a scant thirty hours to agonize over his sister’s fate, and only one sleepless night to ponder the best way to acquire the Kingsley fortune.

  With a sardonic smile, Trenton took a deep swallow of his brandy. Evidently, Caldwell took him for a fool. Did the bastard honestly believe Trenton wasn’t aware why he had so easily relinquished his precious little sister into the Duke of Broddington’s murderous hands? That Trenton didn’t know that what the viscount hoped to gain from his sister’s advantageous union was a sizable portion of the Kingsley fortune?

  Trenton drained his glass. He’d always recognized Caldwell’s intentions. So when Baxter summoned Ariana to Winsham to devise the best plan by which to avail himself of the Kingsley funds, Trenton would be ready. Baxter would never see a bloody penny.

  Briefly, Trenton wondered how Ariana would react to whatever conniving plan Baxter had conjured up, and if she would agree to help him. True, she was a Caldwell, but she was the only Caldwell who seemed to possess some sense of honor. Would she stoop to theft and deceit, even for her brother? And, if she refused, would she be strong enough to resist the pressure Baxter would doubtlessly exert? She was far too innocent to suspect what her brother was capable of … or to what extremes Trenton would go to ensure that Baxter failed.

  Inevitably, Ariana would be caught in the crossfire.

  Which brought Trenton back to his unanticipated quandary.

  Unwillingly, his gaze slid to the slumbering angel lying before him. Caldwell or not, she was breathtaking when she slept, more so when she was awake.

  And so incredibly passionate.

  His body still burned with the memories of last night, memories he’d been unable to squelch all day, memories that had driven him from her bed at dawn … and brought him back hours earlier than he’d intended. For despite his vehement struggles to the contrary, Ariana unfurled something raw and warm inside him, tested his control in ways he’d never guessed, bared emotions he’d long since forsaken.

  He remembered the way her eyes had blazed sparks of outrage when she’d stood up to him today, the tears she’d refused to shed. She was a brave little thing, his bride, brave and innocent and principled.

  So unlike Vanessa.

  Bringing his
glass to the nightstand with a thud, Trenton forced himself to face the truth. He could no longer use the Caldwell name to justify his irrational behavior toward Ariana, no longer punish her by pretending she was an exact replica of her despicable older sister.

  In truth, Ariana was the antithesis of Vanessa. And, having already taken away his untainted wife’s childhood, stripped her of her former life and home, why did he still want to strike out at her, to hurt her as he had that afternoon?

  With mounting ambivalence, Trenton contemplated the humiliating cruelty of his verbal assault. What the hell had possessed him to say such a degrading thing? He gritted his teeth. Just because he’d returned to find his bride rumpled and laughing on the front lawn with his brother, chatting as if they were old friends, looking so incredibly happy …

  Unconsciously, Trenton slammed his fist to his knee. He’d never been a jealous man before. Certainly not of Dustin, the one person he knew would never betray him. Yet that’s exactly what he was: jealous, vulnerable … and livid about both.

  The cold truth was, Trenton hated the pull that drew him back to Broddington and his bride, detested the fact that she had barely noticed his absence and gotten along fine without him, loathed the idea that Dustin could make her smile in a way he knew he couldn’t. Damn it to hell! Why did this one woman inspire such emotional upheaval inside him?

  Savagely, Trenton gripped his thighs. He wanted to hate her incessantly.

  He hated to want her incessantly.

  And he couldn’t muster the former, nor master the latter.

  So marriage to Ariana would reap him his vengeance, but it would do nothing to appease his relentless anguish. In fact, it would worsen it, for he’d be trading one type of agony for another.