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CHAPTER
1
Sussex, England
July 1873
GREAT WHITE WINGS ILLUMINATED the sky. Piercing the heavens the owl soared, majesty of his domain, as regal in his splendor as a mountain peak splitting the night.
Ariana leaned, spellbound, against the balcony rail, taking in the grace of his motions, the abandoned freedom of his flight. Already this summer she’d sighted several owls in her savored explorations, but never in all her eighteen years had she found one this pure in color. His bold downy feathers, stark as a snow bank, were bathed in the soft golden glow cast by twin gas lamps heralding his path.
A burst of laughter from within the crowded ballroom pricked at Ariana’s conscience, pressuring her to return to the betrothal party. She owed that much to Baxter. And she had been enjoying herself most thoroughly all evening. After all, seldom did she have the opportunity to attend so grand a ball, to chat with hundreds of equally grand people, to dance until her feet barely touched the floor. The experience was glorious.
But it paled in comparison to this awesome spectacle.
So when the owl’s haunting call beckoned her, thoughts of all else had vanished.
Her breath caught in her throat as the magnificent bird alit in the walnut tree before her, close enough to touch. He leveled his fiery topaz stare in her direction, holding her captive with his probing intensity. Ariana gazed back, praying that the evening mist would delay its descent a few moments longer, delay concealing nature’s priceless treasure from view.
For a time, the mist complied with her unspoken request, hovering just above the tree, and Ariana lingered, silently vowing to retrace her steps through the open French doors … in just a minute.
At last the mist lost patience, settling over the vast estate like a milky blanket. The owl blinked once, then raised his great head, solemnly contemplating the heavens. With a resounding cry, he spread his wings and took flight.
“Wait!” Ariana called, grasping the air as if that action alone could summon him back. For an instant, she followed him with her eyes. Then she acted.
Gathering the full skirt of her mauve satin ball gown, she hastened down the winding steps that led to the gardens and raced off in pursuit.
The labyrinthine maze loomed ahead, stretching its wealth of manicured hedges as far as the eye could see. She reached the opening in time to see the flash of white soar inside.
She didn’t hesitate.
She ran in after him.
Engulfed in fog, the owl disappeared in scant seconds, with only a reverberating call in his wake. Relentlessly, Ariana dodged through the winding paths, determined to find him.
A quarter hour later, two realizations occurred.
The owl was lost.
So was she.
Dark, forbidding, the man stared through the imposing iron gates toward the barely visible mansion, his eyes burning with hatred, his soul burning with anticipation.
Six years.
Six years of exile, of scorching hatred spawned by the crime of another. Six years to plan the perfect revenge. At last it was time. Within the hour, his lordship, Baxter Caldwell, the eminent Viscount Winsham, would solidify his fate. … But the outcome would not be the one the bastard expected.
Lifting the glowing cheroot to his lips, the man inhaled slowly, then blew out, watching the wisps of smoke swirl above him and vanish into the engulfing fog.
A sudden burst of cheers and applause split the hush of night, audible even from this great distance.
A toast, no doubt, the man deduced. To the happy couple.
