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.”
Ariana had a sudden, overwhelming urge to flee: from her husband, from Broddington, and from the hideous past that continued to unravel before her like some horrid, inescapable nightmare.
“Don’t even consider it.”
“Consider… what?” Ariana fought the dizziness that threatened to envelop her.
“Bolting. You won’t get far. And even if you do, I’ll find you.”
Ariana blinked, staring at Trenton as if he were a stranger; and indeed, at that moment, he was. “And what would you do then? Drag me back to Broddington? Beat me? Terrorize me?”
“Murder you?” Trenton suggested, his tone low, ominous.
All the color drained from Ariana’s face. “What kind of a man are you?” she asked in aching disbelief.
“A vengeful, heartless one.” Without warning, Trenton moved toward her, his stride swift, purposeful. His arm swung outward, and, Ariana flinched reflexively, awaiting the oncoming assault.
It never came.
With a mocking simile, Trenton leaned past her and scooped up the journal, snapping it shut with a violent flourish. “You should have heeded my advice. I did warn you not to dredge up the past.”
“What are you going to do with me?” she forced herself to ask.
“Do?” Trenton slid the journal back into the desk drawer. “For the time being, I’m taking you to Spraystone.”
“Spraystone?” Ariana started. “Why?”
“Because I’ll be staying there and, as my wife, so will you.”
“No.” The word was out before she could recall it.
“No?” Trenton repeated, as if the sound were foreign to him.
“I—I really don’t wish to leave Broddington,” Ariana stammered, feeling as if she were drowning. “I’m just becoming accustomed to it.”
“You’ll accustom yourself to Spraystone as well. We leave first thing in the morning.” Trenton raised her chin with his forefinger. “Anything else?”
Ariana kept her gaze averted, studying the hard lines of her husband’s mouth. “Will Dustin be joining us?” she tried.
“No. Dustin is returning to Tyreham at dawn.”
“I see.” Ariana’s heart sank in resignation. “Very well, then. I’ll advise Theresa. We’ll be ready to depart after breakfast.”
“Theresa will be staying at Broddington.”
Now Ariana’s head shot up. “What?”
“You heard me. Spraystone is not designed to accommodate servants. It is modest in size and design. Theresa will remain here.”
“Why are you doing this?” Ariana breathed, searching his face for her answer.
Something brief flashed behind Trenton’s iron mask, then dissipated. “Broddington is my property. Spraystone is my home. I plan to go home. I intend for you to accompany me. I believe that is reasonably clear.”
“Are you punishing me for reading the journal?”
His lips twisted bitterly. “Ariana, if I were punishing you, you’d know it.”
“But you’re forcing me to go with you.”
“Think of it as a wedding trip.” Trenton released her chin, turning to go. “Now I’d suggest you begin packing. Oh, and Ariana?” He paused in the doorway, his voice emanating icy condemnation. “Don’t invade my privacy again.”
Flinching as the door slammed shut, Ariana wrapped her arms about herself to still the trembling that began deep inside. What in heaven’s name had she done? She’d unearthed Vanessa’s journal, yes; but instead of resolving the past it had only succeeded in further complicating the present.
Ariana pressed her lips tightly together, lambasting herself for her stupidity and her helplessness. Intuition told her that this final act had pushed Trenton to the jagged edges of his control. Lord only knew what he intended—or what brutality he was capable of inflicting. For her to accompany him to his isolated retreat would be insane. Yet what choice did she have, with escape a virtual impossibility?
No, like it or not, tomorrow morning she was departing for the secluded isle of Wight. Alone … with Trenton.
“Why are you receiving this news so calmly?” Ariana demanded, flinging two of her gowns to the bed.
Theresa chewed her lip thoughtfully. “I wouldn’t suggest taking those, pet. They’re far too warm for this time of year.”
“What?” Ariana glanced impatiently at the gowns. “I don’t care which bloody gowns I pack, Theresa! Do you understand the ramifications of what I’m telling you?”
Theresa nodded calmly, unsurprised by her mistress’s rare show of temper. “I heard everything you said, Your Grace. And I can well understand your distress.”
Ariana shot Theresa an incredulous look. “My distress? I’m being dragged to an isolated estate by the man who, in all likelihood, killed my sister, and you call that reason for distress?”
“Ah, I see.” Theresa tucked a wiry sprig of hair back into her drooping bun. “You’re doubting your instincts again.”
“My instincts are intangible. Vanessa’s journal is concrete.”
“‘There is nothing makes a man suspect much, more than to know little,’” Theresa quoted Bacon, at the same time continuing to pack. “
The journal’s existence is indeed a fact, but its words are open to interpretation.”
“But if you’d read it—”
“It would verify what I already know. That Lady Vanessa was plagued and puzzled by your husband, and that the duke is a volatile, intense, and possessive man.”
Ariana gripped Theresa’s arm. “Those were Vanessa’s exact words to describe Trenton.”
“Yes, I know.” Theresa frowned, smoothing her apron. “Where is that lovely peach summer gown? I could have sworn I laundered it.”
“You do know,” Ariana repeated, realization striking her with the force of a thunderbolt. “You’ve seen the journal, haven’t you, Theresa? You’ve read it.”
Theresa inclined her head, regarding Ariana with her keen, birdlike eyes. “I’ve seen it, yes, but I haven’t held it in my hands.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I’ve seen the journal, numerous times, but only in my visions. So have I seen it? Yes … I have. Others, however, would argue that I have not.” She smiled, patting Ariana’s cheek. “Such is the case with Vanessa’s words … and with the duke’s guilt. As I’ve pointed out, appearance is a fascinating thing: changing in accordance with one’s perspective, and often not as believed to be.”
“I’m afraid to go to Spraystone with him,” Ariana confessed, her fingers tightening on Theresa’s arm.
“Had the duke any desire to harm you, his access is equally good at Broddington,” Theresa submitted. “Has he made an attempt to do so?”
Ariana bowed her head, unbidden memories of long, exhilarating hours in Trenton’s arms assailing her. “No,” she admitted. “But why is he so adamant that no one accompany us to Spraystone?”
“Is it so unusual for a newly married man to want time alone with his bride?”
Ariana flushed. “No … of course not.”
“In the words of Sir Francis, ‘A man must make his opportunity, as oft as find it.’ Why not use this trip as a chance to seek the truth, to learn your husband as openly in heart as you have in body?”
Ariana was too intrigued by that possibility to be embarrassed by Theresa’s open reference to the marriage bed. “Do you think Trenton might actually offer me the truth?”
Theresa smoothed Ariana’s copper tresses. “Truth cannot be forced upon us. One can lead us to it, but the choice whether or not to accept it as fact is ultimately ours. The duke is perpetually offering you the truth, pet. It is up to you when to accept it.”
“He’s told me nothing!”
“Hasn’t he?”
Ariana shook her head, totally baffled. “Why is it that you and Dustin can so clearly see things I cannot?”
“That is the easiest question of all to answer. It is because, unlike the marquis and I, you are in love with your husband.”
Sighing, Ariana asked, “Is it so obvious, then?”
“Only if one is looking”
The clock downstairs chimed midnight, and Ariana glanced toward the door, torn between eagerness and apprehension. “I wonder …”
“He won’t come to you tonight,” Theresa supplied.
Disappointment thudded heavily in Ariana’s chest.
“You have much to resolve, pet,” Theresa said quietly, squeezing Ariana’s hand. “You need to clear your head, to free yourself of distractions, to permit nature’s allure to work its magic.”
“To go to Spraystone?” Ariana voiced aloud, fear momentarily held at bay by Theresa’s compelling description. “Is Wight really as beautiful as they say?”
“I hear tell it is a veritable paradise, a picturesque haven with a life all its own.”
“Do you?” A faraway look came into Ariana’s eyes. “It must be a miracle. … An island where the animals run free and the trees climb as tall as the heavens permit.”
“A perfect place to resolve one’s doubts,” Theresa agreed.
Ariana jolted back to reality, her gaze meeting Theresa’s. “I do need to find the truth.”
“Yes … you do.”
A current of communication ran between the two women without a word being spoken. At last, Ariana crossed the room to her wardrobe. “It’s late, Theresa. We’d best finish packing my things.”
Theresa nodded briskly. “Yes … Your Grace. Tomorrow is nearly upon us.”
CHAPTER
14
“HOW BEAUTIFUL!”
Ariana stared, transfixed, as the yacht sailed toward Ryde Pier, the Isle of Wight’s main port. All the anxiety that had accompanied her for the duration of the tense, silent journey from Broddington vanished in a rush, lost in the wake of the Solent’s deepening blue waters and the island’s beckoning greenery.
“What is that building?” Ariana questioned, completely forgetting that she and her husband had not spoken a word since yesterday.
“Trinity Church,” Trenton supplied, following her line of vision. “It’s Ryde’s most graceful structure, enhanced by exquisite gardens and surrounding villas.”
“And that?” Ariana asked eagerly.
“That’s the Club House of the Royal Victoria Yacht Club. The Prince Consort laid the first brick there himself, almost thirty years ago. The architectural design is magnificent. …”
“Do the yachts race?” Ariana interrupted.
“Yes, of course.”
“Can we watch?”
Trenton’s lips twitched. “It can be arranged.”
“Oh, Trenton, what is that impressive structure over there?” Her eyes widened, and she answered her own question before Trenton could open his mouth. “Is that the Queen’s Osborne House?”
“It is. If we were closer, you could see the bustle of activity that accompanies all of Victoria’s visits to Wight. By summer’s end, she will depart for Balmoral, and Osborne will grow quiet until Her Majesty returns in the fall.”
Ariana inhaled sharply. “Honeysuckle,” she breathed reverently. “And jasmine and poppies.” She raised her face to the skies, studying the heavens and listening intently. “A pair of white-throats,” she said, breaking into a smile. “Not very pleased with one another, judging from their argumentative tone. And a group of swallows, probably searching for food. I expect they shan’t be disappointed.” She cast a quizzical look at Trenton. “Are there many song thrush at Spraystone? Their tune … as well as that of the robin … are the most wonderful melodies to awaken to.”
“I suppose so … I couldn’t say.” Trenton squinted into the sunshine, locating the squawking white-throats. “Are there actually recognizable differences between birds, besides, of course, their sizes and hues?”
Ariana blinked. “Of course! That’s like wondering if all people are alike, other than their height and hair color!”
Amusement flickered in Trenton’s eyes, and, unconsciously, his mouth curved into the devastating smile that made Ariana’s heart lurch. “Forgive my ignorance. … I admit that birds are not my area of expertise. However, I’ve been awakened often enough by their twittering to assure you that a multitude of them are available at Spraystone for your exploration. Not to mention a bevy of other creatures.”
“You have animals?”
“Enough to satisfy even you,” he confirmed. “If you’d like, we can go directly to the barn so you can see for yourself.”
“Is Spraystone far from here?”
Trenton shook his head, coming to stand beside her and pointing down the island’s eastern coast. “Spraystone adjoins Bembridge, just several miles from Ryde Pier. A ferry will take us directly there.”
“The island has ferries?” Ariana looked surprised.
“Yes, Ariana,” he returned wryly. “Ferries … and coaches, as well. Contrary to your perception of a vast, deserted wilderness, thousands of people make their home on Wight.”
“I see.” Ariana digested that information carefully.
“Feeling more secure?” he taunted, his breath ruffling her hair. “Don’t be. Spraystone itself is every bit as isolated as you fear.”
/> Ariana’s eyes slid shut, a shiver going up her spine as she absorbed the implication of Trenton’s veiled threat. Their journey was ending; in a matter of hours she would be totally at her husband’s mercy.
The scandalous truth, Ariana admitted to herself, was that her trembling reaction to Trenton’s mocking reminder was not caused by fear alone. Equally as powerful as the dread that constricted her chest and made her knees quake was the staggering surge of desire that accompanied it.
She licked her dry lips, heady with the impact of her warring emotions. What’s happening to me? she wondered, nearly giddy from the sensation of the hot sun against her face, her closed lids. We haven’t even docked yet. Can the island’s magic truly be as potent as Theresa suggested?
Trenton’s fingers brushed the tingling skin of her forearm. “Welcome to Wight, misty angel,” he murmured. “Ryde Pier is just ahead.”
Ariana’s eyes flew open and she shook her head in an effort to clear it. Still somewhat dazed, she gazed about, taking in her new surroundings. The yacht was gracefully gliding toward a dock, away from which led a broad street, dotted with people and an occasional traveling coach, and lined with buildings of various sizes and stature. Off to the west, the shore curved gracefully, thick with trees at times, divided here and there by an isolated creek or cove, culminating in the regal walls of Osborne House.
To the east, the land pitched more sharply, ascending to a commanding cluster of Elizabethan turrets, followed by dramatic cliffs and green banks that stretched endlessly as far as the eye could see.
“Spraystone is beyond those cliffs,” Trenton informed Ariana, helping her disembark. His hands lingered on her waist. “Are you all right?”
Ariana felt Trenton’s fingers scorch her skin, searing through the layers of her gown and petticoats. “Yes,” she managed, forcing herself to focus on the impressive buildings housed within the manicured gardens and trees that defined the hillside of Ryde. “But I had no idea Ryde was so … big,” she finished lamely.
Trenton stroked his thumbs idly over her waist. “Union Street has schools, a post office, two banks, and a wonderful theatre,” he told her in a husky voice. “Sections of the Isle are quite sophisticated, although the pace is slower, the air fresher, more vibrant. Other sections are very rural, with isolated estates that have nothing surrounding them for miles and miles.” He paused. “Estates like Spraystone.”