He blinked, drinking in the flawless features so close to his: the pert, upturned nose and glowing alabaster skin, the soft sensual mouth, the huge, innocent eyes as turquoise as Osborne Bay at the height of summer. She trusted him. That was a mistake. But in this case it was irrelevant. For she was not the reason he had returned tonight, so no harm would befall her.
The harm he intended was for Baxter Caldwell.
Ariana felt the imperceptible tightening of his hold mere seconds before he turned on his heel and stalked off into the fog, clasping her to his chest.
“I don’t know you,” she burst out after a few moments had passed, desperate to relieve the hard knot of tension that coiled tighter inside her with each step. Nothing had prepared her for a predicament such as this … she, who had never even been alone in a man’s company, much less in his arms.
A hint of a smile was Ariana’s only indication that her rescuer was aware of her discomfort … and its cause. “No, you don’t know me,” he agreed.
“Do you live in Sussex?”
“Not anymore.” His reply was terse, his jaw tightening so fractionally she would never have noticed were she not inches away.
“But you once did?”
“Yes. A long time ago.” He wound his way around a line of hedges, his piercing gaze flicking briefly over her uptilted face. “I suspect you were little more than a child when I left.”
She inclined her head. “Are you so old then?”
Dark memories flashed through his eyes. “Ancient.”
“Funny,” Ariana murmured, half to herself. “I would have thought you to be no more than thirty.”
“Two years more,” he corrected. “And a lifetime.”
It suddenly occurred to her that he was only a year older than Baxter. Could he be an old friend, one she’d never met? “You are here for the betrothal? To take part in the celebration?”
A harsh laugh. “Yes, indeed.” He emerged from the maze, heading toward the manor with long, purposeful strides.
Ariana blinked as the front door was thrown open, the bright lights of the hallway assaulting her eyes after long hours in the murky darkness.
“My lady … are you all right?” The old, haggard Covington butler looked anxiously from Ariana to the formidable man who held her.
“I’m fine,” Ariana assured the servant, waiting for her rescuer to place her on the nearest chair. “Thanks to …” Flushing crimson, she realized she had never asked the man his name. Preparing to rectify her oversight, she turned her face back to his, abruptly recognizing by his steely expression that he had no intention of putting her down. Rather, he was continuing to move, carrying her decisively into the crowded ballroom. “What are you doing?” she demanded, struggling to free herself from his grasp.
“I am returning you to the party, my lady,” he answered, his eyes gleaming with an emotion so dark that Ariana shuddered. “Since I, too, am ready to make an appearance.”
“You cannot just carry me in as blithely as if—”
A sharp cry pierced the air and Ariana found herself accosted by a ballroom of pale, gaping faces.
“Good Lord …” James Covington gasped, echoing his wife’s shriek of a moment before.
A shocked murmur began, grew, vibrated through the crowd.
Ariana closed her eyes, wishing the floor would swallow her up.
Her rescuer seemed more amused than bothered. “Where is your family, misty angel?” he murmured, still holding her fast. “I’ll deliver you into their hands.”
Ariana ignored him, opening her eyes and addressing Mr. and Mrs. Covington with as much dignity as she could muster. “Forgive me,” she began shakily. “I had no intention of making a scene. But I injured my ankle and this kind gentleman …”
A roar of anger exploded through the room as Baxter Caldwell stormed from the rear, blood lust in his eyes.
“Kingsley, you miserable son of a bitch! Put my sister down!”
CHAPTER
2
KINGSLEY?
Ariana’s head snapped around, all the color draining from her face as she met her rescuer’s chilling stare. Kingsley? Trenton Kingsley? It could not be: Trenton Kingsley had disappeared six years before, just after …
Ariana’s lips trembled. No. He didn’t dare return—not after the vile and monstrous act that had shattered her family, forever changed their lives. A cold-blooded animal, a murderer. And she had allowed him to touch her. To hold her so intimately.
Horrified, Ariana began to struggle for freedom, shoving at Trenton’s granite chest and straining against his punishing grip.
Trenton’s whole body went rigid, shock waves vibrating down to his very soul. Reflexively, his grasp tightened, his fingers biting more deeply into the woman’s soft skin, crushing the fine satin of her gown. His pupils dilated, his piercing blue gaze sweeping her features, confirming the truth of Baxter’s words.
How could he not have seen it? Only a fool would have missed the resemblance! It was evident in the fine arch of her brows, in the delicate, high cheekbones, in the unusual, startlingly vivid coloring. Yes, she was every inch a Caldwell. Just like Vanessa.
Fury suddenly replaced shock, etched into every line of his face. “Sister?” he hissed.
His lethal whisper sent cold waves of apprehension down Ariana’s spine.
“Yes, you bloody scoundrel, sister!” Baxter snatched Ariana from Trenton’s arms as if she were a mere parcel, letting her legs drop unceremoniously to the floor.
Ariana whimpered in pain, her ankle giving out beneath her.
“Ariana? My God, what did you do to her?” Baxter caught Ariana’s elbows mere seconds before she crumbled to the floor. “Wasn’t one sister enough for you?”
Black fire smoldered in Trenton’s eyes. “I did nothing to her, Caldwell. She fell … I carried her back. Had I known she was a Caldwell I would have reconsidered.”
Taking in Ariana’s anguished expression and disheveled appearance, Baxter’s mind worked rapidly, acutely aware that a small crowd had gathered around them. “I have no idea why you’ve chosen tonight to reappear, but you’re trespassing, Kingsley,” he proclaimed loudly, twinges of long-forgotten fear awakening inside him. After six years in exile, why the hell had the contemptible bastard chosen now to return?
Ignoring the frantic pounding in his temples, Baxter wrapped one arm tightly about Ariana’s waist, holding her to him with brotherly protectiveness. With his free hand he gestured grandly, summoning a burly footman who stood nearby.
“Yes, my lord?”
“Show the marquis … oh, pardon me, the duke,” Baxter corrected bitterly, “out.” He turned to Trenton with hatred in his eyes. “You’ll forgive me, Your Grace. The last time we saw each other you had not yet acquired the exalted title of the Duke of Broddington.”
Trenton shook off the servant’s hand. “I am not going anywhere.” His jaw clenched with purpose, he turned to James Covington. “Let me suggest that you allow me to have my say, James. Your bank holds too much of my money to risk arousing my wrath.”
After a slight hesitation, Covington nodded, and the footman moved off. “This is my daughter’s betrothal party, Broddington,” Covington said tersely. “So speak your mind and then, please leave.”
“That is precisely what I intended,” the duke replied, ignoring the appalled whispers around him. “I assure you that I loathe being here more than you loathe having me. But you see”—his eyes narrowed—“I cannot allow this mockery of a celebration to continue.”
Icy fingers gripped Baxter’s heart.
“Call off the betrothal, Covington.” Trenton’s voice was an unyielding command, emotionless in its tone, lethal in its determination.
“What?” Covington started.
“You heard me.” Trenton’s quiet order was heard only by those for whom it was meant: the Covingtons … and Caldwell. Both Caldwells, Trenton amended silently, not permitting himself even a brief glance at the pale, tousled beauty w
ho leaned against her brother for support, staring at Trenton with a frightened intensity he could actually feel but refused to acknowledge. Nothing and no one was going to alter his plan.
“Tell everyone in this room that your daughter cannot marry Baxter Caldwell,” he repeated.
“You don’t have to stand here and take this, James,” Baxter choked out. “I’ll have him thrown out.”
“And I’ll have every bloody pound of my money withdrawn from your bank and deposited in your competitor’s,” Trenton threatened softly, his gaze locked with Covington’s. “I’ve already spoken to Willinger. … He is most eager to receive my millions.”
Covington ran his tongue over cold, dry lips. “But why? Why?” he asked, bewildered. He’d held the Kingsley fortune for decades now, since the late duke had been alive. Richard Kingsley had been not only a business associate but a trusted personal friend. Why, the duke had designed this very manor—a rare honor indeed, and a tribute to their friendship, since Richard rarely applied his unique architectural talent to anything save his beloved Broddington.
James mopped his brow, fervently wishing Richard were alive and vital, still in control of the Kingsley funds.
But he wasn’t.
And while both his sons had inherited their father’s wealth and flair for design, it was his elder, Trenton, who’d acquired Richard’s keen business mind as well as his architectural genius. During Richard’s declining years, Trenton masterfully designed numerous acclaimed churches and homes, while at the same time he assumed the running of Broddington from his aging father, tripling the enormous family fortune in the last years of Richard’s life.
And every pound of that fortune had been deposited in the Covington bank. Where it had remained—until now.
James met Trenton’s unwavering stare, ugly questions crowding his mind. “Why do you want the betrothal severed?” he repeated weakly.
“You know why.”
Covington closed his eyes, remembering the horrid sequence of events that had preceded Trenton’s self-imposed exile to Spraystone, his Isle of Wight retreat. “It’s been six years, Trenton.”
“Yes. And I’ve suffered every one of them for just this moment.” Trenton refused to look at Baxter, knowing if he did he would kill him. “I mean you no harm, James. You are merely a vehicle needed to ensure the viscount’s downfall. In fact, I’m doing you a favor. This parasite doesn’t want your daughter, he wants your money. Believe me or disbelieve me; it makes no difference. Just call off the wedding. Or my solicitor will contact you tomorrow regarding the withdrawal of my funds. Every last penny. Now, is acquiring a title for Suzanne really worth total financial ruin?”
“Why you miserable …” Baxter lunged forward, releasing Ariana, who fell against Covington, clutching his arm for support.
In one lightning move, Trenton caught Baxter by the collar, dragging him up by the throat until his own knuckles turned white. “I wouldn’t suggest it, Caldwell,” he got out between clenched teeth, hearing the appalled gasps around him. “I’d like nothing better than to tear you limb from limb.”
“Then do it, you bastard,” Baxter spat back. “At least this time we’d have evidence of your crime.”
For a moment, Ariana was certain that her brother had breathed his last. Then, slowly, Trenton relaxed his hold, shoving Baxter away as if he were a hideous viper. “I wouldn’t give you the satisfaction,” he hissed. He jerked around to face Covington, who cowered beneath Trent’s, brutal stare. “Your answer?”
James swallowed, feeling an unnatural silence permeate the room. Despite their attempts to remain discreet, the three of them had put on quite a show for his curious guests. Whatever he did now would be witnessed by a roomful of influential people. He weighed his decision carefully, trying not to hear the quiet, heart-wrenching sobs of his precious Suzanne, who was openly weeping in her mother’s arms. For while her happiness meant the world to him, there were other things to consider: his own position in society, his standard of living, his entire future. In the end, there was no choice to be made.
“All right, Kingsley, I’ll do as you ask. But only out of respect to your father’s memory,” he hastened to add, feeling hundreds of censuring eyes bore into him. “You have your answer. Now get out before I have you thrown out.”
Trenton nodded. “Done.” He cast a scathing look at Baxter, who had turned chalk white, his expression dazed. “I suggest you tend to your sister, Caldwell.” For the first time he allowed his gaze to shift to Ariana, taking in her ruined gown, tear-streaked cheeks, and contorted stance. “Her ankle is badly sprained.”
“Get out,” Ariana whispered. “Just … get out.”
Trenton gave her a mock salute, his features grim. “I shan’t trouble you again, my lady.” He turned on his heels and was gone.
Ariana watched him leave, feeling a sharp pain that had nothing to do with her ankle. Was this truly the compassionate stranger who had so gently examined her injury? How could she have been so wrong about someone?
“James … you can’t really mean to—” Baxter was saying.
“You’d best take your leave as well, Baxter,” Covington interrupted him. “I’ll see to the guests.”
Ariana acted, seizing her brother’s taut, trembling forearm. “Please, Baxter. We’ve provided enough gossip for one night Please … let’s go home.”
Baxter stared down at her with unseeing eyes. Then he turned abruptly and stalked from the room.
Ariana blinked after him, wondering what she should do. Her brother’s reaction didn’t particularly surprise her, for it was typically Baxter. No, her dilemma was not born of emotional distress but of simple pragmatism: She didn’t think she could make her way to the front door unassisted.
Easing forward gingerly, she attempted to hobble, then whimpered at the pressure it exerted on her ankle.
“I’ll accompany you to your carriage, my dear,” James Covington offered. “Come.”
Ariana had no choice but to accept his assistance, though she was not at all certain she forgave his severing Baxter’s betrothal. Silently, she leaned against him, allowing him to escort her to the Caldwell carriage, where Baxter sat slumped and brooding.
“Oh … Ariana … did I leave you there?” he muttered, affording her a mere cursory glance.
“It doesn’t matter,” she replied, sliding onto the seat and nodding her thanks to Covington.
With a helpless shrug, the older man moved aside and gestured for their driver to commence.
The ride home was agonizingly quiet.
“Baxter …” Ariana tried at last.
“What do you want, Ariana?”
“Why would he return after all these years?”
“To ruin me; why else? He killed Vanessa, nearly destroyed our family, and now he intends to complete the task.” Baxter leaned back, throwing his arm across his eyes.
Ariana winced. Since the age of twelve she’d listened to the sinister recounting of how Trenton Kingsley had charmed her older sister Vanessa: courting her with gifts and promises, leading her to believe they had a wondrous future together, compelling her to fall deeply in love with him.
And then … terrifying her with his bizarre possessiveness and violent threats, stripping her of joy and laughter and finally her will to live.
Forcing her to take her own life.
Or taking it himself.
The accusations were never proven and no charges were brought. But Baxter still believed, despite the passage of time, that Trenton Kingsley was, unequivocally, a murderer.
Ariana clenched the folds of her rumpled gown, wishing for the hundredth time that she could recall more details of the months prior to Vanessa’s death. Perhaps then she could separate actual facts from exaggerations born of rage and grief. But as a mere child of twelve, she had hardly been her older sister’s confidante. In truth, they rarely even saw each other. For while Ariana had been engrossed in learning the names of all the flowers that filled Winsham’s gardens
, Vanessa had been perpetually out, swept up in a storm of fervent suitors, each vying for her elusive hand.
And who could blame them? At two and twenty years of age, Vanessa had been extraordinarily beautiful, in love with life, eager to experience it all. With scores of avid escorts, settling down seemed the farthest thing from her mind. And with both parents succumbing to a fever in 1858, Vanessa had savored her freedom, answering only to Baxter, who was three years her senior and ever indulgent of his charming sister.
So despite Ariana’s deep love and admiration for Vanessa, her memories were dim and few: quick good-night pecks on her cheek amid a flurry of dressing and the lingering scent of roses. And a vague but endless flow of handsome, earnest gentlemen callers.
Until Trenton Kingsley.
Vanessa had whispered his name to Ariana, implied that he was different, special. She would slip out mysteriously each night, staying away until dawn. Ariana could remember overhearing arguments between Vanessa and Baxter … the first they’d ever had. From what Ariana had understood, Baxter vehemently objected to Vanessa’s new suitor, and Vanessa deeply resented Baxter’s interference.
Ariana could recall nothing more, other than the shock and grief of that final nightmarish day and the lethal accusations that had followed in its wake.
But while she wasn’t quite certain what had occurred the night Vanessa died, of one thing she was certain: She had never seen Trenton Kingsley before this night. For the turbulent Duke of Broddington, with his steely blue eyes and disturbing, feral sensuality, was a man she would never have forgotten.
With a shiver, Ariana recalled the penetrating intensity of his stare—as hypnotic as her white owl’s—and the hatred that had blazed within when he learned she was a Caldwell.
Why in God’s name did he hate them? If anything, it should be they who hated …
Baxter’s groan interrupted her troubled thoughts, yanked her from her musings.