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“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.”
