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The most affluent man in Sussexshire.
That realization brought Baxter’s conjecturing to a dead halt, as greed reared its ugly head. Pride intervened, warring with greed, determined to prevail. But need pride be sacrificed? If he and Ariana found a way to outwit the blackhearted snake, couldn’t Baxter retain his pride and usurp Kingsley’s fortune? Wouldn’t that be the ultimate form of vengeance?
A twinge of guilt pricked Baxter’s conscience. This was Ariana’s life he was toying with. Wasn’t she entitled to more than an empty life with a husband who despised her?
No, he corrected himself. It wasn’t Ariana who Kingsley despised; it was he. And Baxter knew Trenton well enough to know that, no matter what else he was capable of, he wouldn’t abuse an innocent girl.
As for Ariana, well, she would prevail. Despite her diminutive size, his sister was a survivor. She could withstand a life with Trenton Kingsley … especially if it meant partaking in his vast fortune.
And sharing the wealth with her brother.
“Let me see the edict,” Baxter heard himself say.
Stiffly, Trenton extended his arm, clearly unwilling to take even one compromising step in Baxter’s direction.
Ignoring the blatant insult, Baxter strode over and seized the paper, wondering how Trenton had managed to gain Her Majesty’s cooperation. Despite her fondness for the Kingsley family, Victoria had never interfered on their behalf. At least until now.
Suspiciously, Baxter studied the mandate to make certain it was what Kingsley claimed it to be. But the decree was genuine, the Queen’s signature authentic.
Baxter raised compassionate eyes to Ariana. “I’m sorry, sprite.” He winced at her agonized expression. “There’s nothing I can do.” He ignored the triumph on Trenton’s face, reminding himself that it was temporary.
Ariana’s eyes filled with tears. “This is barbaric!”
“My lady.” Undetected, Theresa had descended the stairs. Now she took Ariana’s arm gently. “You are overwrought. Come. I’ll take you to your room.”
“It’s settled, then,” Trenton concluded, satisfaction gleaming in his eyes. “The wedding will take place on August 5th. The reception will be held at Broddington. Hundreds of guests will attend to see the Viscount Winsham’s little sister become the Duchess of Broddington.”
Ariana stared at him, numb with increasing rage and shock. “I hate you,” she said in a fierce whisper.
His lips twisted into a cynical smile. “Do you, misty angel? Well, I look forward to seeing how much.”
CHAPTER
5
ARIANA WAS DRAINED.
Pushing herself into a sitting position, she blinked at the small walnut clock on her nightstand. Three o’clock … more than two hours since she’d fled to the sanctuary of her four-poster bed. Her tears had long since dried, her resistance dwindled to despair. She had to face her dilemma … alone.
For the first time in her life Ariana had refused both Theresa’s comfort and company, dismissing her the instant they reached the bedroom door. Overcome with emotion, she’d then flung herself across the bed, sobbing violently into her pillow. Shock, outrage, hurt, humiliation: all the emotions she had anticipated and held at bay poured out in a rush. She wept for the act of vengeance that had decided her fate, for her helplessness to alter the outcome, for Baxter’s indifference to her plight. She wept for every reason she had expected to weep.
Harder still for the one she hadn’t expected.
She could deny it no longer: She was drawn to Trenton Kingsley.
Pondering the silent admission, Ariana’s hands balled into fists of self-loathing, pressing heavily into the soft feather pillow. How could she? cried her conscience, immediately providing her with every heinous act the man had committed.
But she was.
She could label it curiosity, fascination, bewilderment; but whatever name she gave it, the pull was there. She felt it. Worse still, so did he.
Her traitorous heart thudded as she recalled the explicit, knowing look in the duke’s probing eyes. She might be a total innocent when it came to men, but her body understood his message nonetheless—and responded with a will of its own, caring nothing for the dictates of her conscience.
Coupled with her disturbing physical reaction was the small but insistent voice of some deeply submerged instinct, which refused to be silenced, negating all the evidence her reason presented, reminding her instead of the glimpses of compassion she’d seen beyond the duke’s iron mask, both today and when he’d rescued her from the Covington maze.
And yet the final emotion she’d seen gleaming in his eyes just before she’d fled was vengeance and triumph, telling her that she was no more than a pawn in some sick attempt at retribution.
Or was it resurrection?
