She’d been certain then. She was certain now.
Ariana’s destiny had found her.
CHAPTER
3
HIS TRIUMPH AND ELATION vanished by dawn.
Never breaking stride, Trenton leaned over and scooped up a handful of wet sand, crushing it in his palm until his skin burned from the abrasive contact.
He barely felt the sting, so great was the turmoil raging inside him.
Merely a day after the Covington ball and, rather than a pervading sense of euphoria from the outcome of his grand exhibition, all he knew was inexplicable fury and gnawing restlessness.
Damn Caldwell to hell.
Violently, Trenton hurled his arm out, casting the molded mass of sand toward the brilliant waters of Osborne Bay. He stalked onward, driven by demons, kicking a line of stones from his path. The action aggravated his already taut, aching leg muscles, reminding him of the great distance he’d traveled.
He’d been walking for hours. Bembridge, the small village that adjoined his beloved Spraystone, was nestled in the Isle of Wight’s spectacular Chalk Cliffs over ten miles south of the Queen’s Osborne House. Yet he’d hardly noticed the change in terrain, nor the passage of time. He’d simply walked, seeking a semblance of peace customarily offered him by the breathtaking Solent Sea, the narrow channel that separated Wight from the English coast.
He slowed his step, idly watching the graceful yachts as they glided past the island’s shore, heading for the Royal Yacht Club in West Cowes. The vast number of billowing sails approaching at once came as no surprise, for the wind had picked up a bit this hour, and the waves, in turn, were slapping their foam on the sand with escalating intensity. One of Wight’s exotic summer storms was brewing, promising its turbulent arrival by dusk.
Trenton wasn’t worried, for he knew he had hours before the storm struck. Wiping spray from his forehead, he gazed expectantly out over the bay, awaiting that wondrous sense of tranquility to pervade his soul.
It never came.
What the hell was wrong with him?
Trenton walked toward the water’s edge, brutally analyzing his dark humor. The night before his plan had come to fruition and the obsession that consumed him these long years had been fulfilled. At last, Baxter Caldwell was destitute.
If Trenton’s painstakingly acquired research hadn’t convinced him of the viscount’s dire straits, the look on Caldwell’s face when Covington conceded to Trenton’s demand most assuredly did. Without Suzanne’s dowry, Caldwell was penniless. And, to a coldhearted bastard like Caldwell, poverty was a more heinous condition to endure than the most lethal of diseases.
So where was the exalted sense of vindication Trenton had expected to feel?
Lowering himself to the ground, Trenton braced his weight on his hands, disregarding the icy tide that washed up around him, soaking his trousers and boots. He stared, unseeing, toward England’s distant shore, instantly conjuring up an image of the one surprise last night had spawned.
His vague sense of familiarity had been immediate; he’d just been unable to place it. Although God only knew how he could have overlooked it, given that his arrival, his purpose, the very essence of his vengeful thoughts sprang from the Caldwells. And the resemblance was striking.
Still, he’d never met her, for six years before she’d been a child and he’d been consumed by her sister. That being the case, he’d simply forgotten her existence.
Squinting, he recalled the delicate features and waves of coppery hair, the turquoise eyes regarding him so solemnly as he approached her in the contorted maze. No, it was not so surprising that he’d missed the likeness, at that. The small, artlessly beautiful fairy-tale creature he’d rescued last night was but a subtle replica of her dazzling older sister. For he, better than anyone, knew that no one could equal Vanessa.
Fiery, turbulent Vanessa, with a flaming mane of red-gold hair that flowed down her back like a raging sunset, and the hypnotic scent of roses clinging to her skin. Lush, seductive, bold, deliberate … No, there had been nothing subtle about Vanessa Caldwell. And no man was immune to the hypnotic effects of her tantalizing spell.
Lord, how he despised her.
Trenton’s face set in a fierce expression, hard waves slapping against his saturated clothing. God help me, he thought silently, but I cannot feel regret for what I did. Perhaps at one time I could have. But that time is long gone, buried beneath the unalterable consequences wrought by Caldwell hate.
He dug his fingers into the sand, the irony of the situation striking home yet again. He had caused Vanessa’s death, but she had prevailed nonetheless, and the ultimate victory was hers. For the punishment she’d extracted was far crueler than death could ever be. So despite their pain and grief, the Caldwells had won.
And last night’s triumph paled in comparison.
The constriction in his chest told Trenton he had just unearthed the root of his foul humor and utter discontent. He had still not taken all he must from Baxter Caldwell.
But what more could he take from a man who loved nothing but money and no one but himself? Aside, of course, from Vanessa.
Trenton could still recall how totally shattered and agonized Baxter had been when he discovered that his precious sister was forever lost. Could he truly have cared so deeply for that heartless bitch? Obviously, the answer was yes. For nothing short of bottomless grief and rage would compel a man to commit so conscienceless an act as the one Baxter had committed.