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How mortally wrong he’d been.
Heaven alone knew how many men had been the recipients of that perfect smile. How many she had been willing to whore herself for in exchange for the promise of wealth and a prominent title.
Trenton had both.
Had he been older and more experienced, he would have recognized and dealt with the signs: a beautiful, flirtatious woman, a wastrel brother, unscrupulous morals, failing family businesses—the fundamental elements were all there. Indeed, he’d fed right into them: young, rich, and available, heir to a dukedom.
Oh, she’d played him for the worst kind of fool. But he’d found out just in time—in time to give her a taste of the pain and degradation she’d caused him.
Yes, he’d thwarted Vanessa’s cold blooded manipulations.
But the victory was ultimately hers.
For, ironically, she’d devastated him more thoroughly in death than she ever could in life.
Were you in love with my sister?
Ariana’s question intervened in his reflections, causing a bitter smile to twist his lips. He’d experienced a gamut of emotion when it came to Vanessa: attraction, lust, disgust, repulsion, hatred. But love? Never.
He reread the final pages of the journal, then slammed it shut.
Was she delusional or was he?
He rubbed his temples, trying to recall any minor detail he might have overlooked, any hint he’d provided that would give rise to her groundless fantasies. He could think of none. To the contrary, by mid-Season any enchantment he’d felt had been thoroughly extinguished—ironically, by Vanessa herself.
Discovering her calculated trysts had been pure chance on Trenton’s part.
One April night, he arrived unexpectedly at a ball held in Bath House. As had become his habit that Season, he scanned the room for Vanessa. He spotted her instantly, for her flaming hair commanded attention.
So, this time, did her actions. She was leading the ecstatic, prominent old Earl of Shelford into the moonlight, turning her adoring emerald eyes up to him in silent invitation.
Slipping out before he could be seen, Trenton grappled with the probability that the woman he was fascinated with was a blatant, scheming wanton. It was unthinkable. He must have been mistaken.
He’d almost managed to convince himself when, a week later, the second episode occurred.
Trenton was descending the steps of the Covington bank when, across the street, he spied Vanessa. She was hastening along, looking furtively to the right and to the left, finally halting beside a waiting carriage. Swiftly, she climbed inside—into the ravenous arms of Henri Lenard, a disreputable, womanizing French nobleman, who, rumor had it, was on the verge of inheriting a scandalously large family fortune.
Instantly, denial ceased to be a possibility.
From that moment on, Trenton made it his business to watch Vanessa—covertly. He had to see with his own eyes that his father had been right. And what he saw was a scheming fortune hunter performing her art of seduction on several carefully selected, eligible, rich men.
Barely able to hide his contempt, Trenton’s actions toward Vanessa changed drastically. He became cold and aloof, showing her in all ways but words that he intended to sever whatever tentative ties they had initiated.
His rejection had the opposite effect. Rather than being dissuaded, Vanessa seemed utterly intrigued by Trenton’s spurning. She redoubled her efforts to win him over, gluing herself to his side, making it unquestionably clear that he was her possession: the man she’d ultimately chosen for wedlock.
Quickly, caustically, Trenton set her straight, making no attempt to spare her feelings. He accused her of being promiscuous, told her he never wanted to see her again, and turned his back on her, presumably forever.
But Vanessa Caldwell was a woman who was accustomed to getting what she wanted at any cost. And what she wanted was Trenton. So, ignoring his brutal dismissal, she deliberately went about convincing the world—and herself—that she and Trenton were on the heated verge of matrimony.
Snapping back to the present, Trenton stared broodingly at the closed journal, plagued, as he had been for six years, by the change in Vanessa’s tone from the journal’s onset to its conclusion. The early entries were definitely Vanessa: spoiled, arrogant, selfish. But the last ones, the ones filled with agonized delusions and fear, were totally inconsistent with her character, not to mention radically distorted versions of reality.
Most perplexing of all was her desolation in that final entry.
She hadn’t been desolate that night; at least not when she’d arrived. To the contrary, she’d been the epitome of conciliatory enticement. Until the end.
Trenton could still envision her as she approached him, ever the consummate actress. Her emerald eyes were imploring, damp with tears, her carefully selected silk gown molded to her every curve. Oh, how she’d sworn that she loved him and only him, that there had never been anyone else.
Weeks before, he’d been disgusted.
