?s beauty to attract a husband, one whose wealth would be sufficient to recoup his losses. At the same time, he had yearned to punish Kingsley for his final ruinous act: severing Baxter’s betrothal to Suzanne Covington and leaving the Caldwells destitute. And here fate had presented Baxter with the perfect opportunity to combine both his fondest wishes into one ultimate revenge.
Ariana might become Trenton’s by law, but, ceremony or not, she would always be a Caldwell. Baxter could count on that. Yes, he would have his money … and Trenton Kingsley would be the one to restore it to him.
A fitting finale for a vehement enmity.
Baxter’s thoughts were interrupted by a quiet knock.
“Yes?”
Ariana opened the door and entered. “Baxter … we need to talk.”
A slice of guilt cut through him at the sight of her wet, spiky lashes and flushed cheeks. He forced the feeling away. “Of course, sprite. Come in.”
Ariana crossed the room and stood before her brother, raising her chin to see his face, mincing no words. “Tell me again about Vanessa’s death.”
A dark cloud crossed Baxter’s face and, abruptly, he turned away.
“Please, Baxter … I need to know.”
“You already know everything,” he replied, his head down. “I’ve recounted that hateful day dozens of times. There is nothing left to say on the subject.”
“I’m being forced to marry the man you believe killed our sister!” Ariana burst out. “Of course there is more to say!”
Baxter kept his back to her. “There was no proof of Kingsley’s guilt,” he said evenly, staring intently at the oriental rug. “Besides, Vanessa’s … accident happened six years ago. It has nothing to do with your marriage. You’re quite safe, sprite, believe me.”
Ariana crushed the folds of her gown between trembling fingers. “Is there truly nothing you can do to prevent this marriage? Or merely nothing you wish to do?”
Baxter swerved to face her, his brows arched in surprise. “You’ve changed, little one. You never used to be so outspoken.”
“My future was never at stake.”
He nodded. “All right, then. Both. There is truly nothing I can do and also nothing I wish to do. The Queen has always been partial to the Kingsley family. Lord alone knows why.”
Ariana drew in a sharp breath. “Her edict is binding. But so is marriage, Baxter. So why is there nothing you wish to do?”
Reaching out, he fingered one of her tousled curls. “You will have everything you could ever want, sprite. Everything I can no longer give you.” He saw the look in her eyes and hastily added, “Aside from your romantic notion of love, that is. And as much as you believe otherwise, I hold not a shred of hope that true love actually exists. Therefore, this marriage affords you more than any other I could have arranged.”
“And what exactly does it afford me?” she demanded in a choked voice. “Our family’s most loathsome enemy, possibly a murderer, as my husband?”
Baxter’s jaw set. “He won’t lay a hand on you. I guarantee it. He wouldn’t dare … not after what happened with Vanessa. Remember, Ariana, all of England knew the questionable circumstances surrounding our sister’s death. Rampant whispers circulated throughout the ton labeling Kingsley a murderer. A scandal of that magnitude may lie dormant, but it is never truly forgotten. Should Kingsley do anything to further defame his character, it would totally decimate his beloved family name… something he would rather die than risk.”
Ariana searched his face. “You really believe that, don’t you?”
“Yes,” he answered without hesitation.
She nodded, resigned and, in some small way, relieved. “Thank you for that. At least I know you would only compromise my happiness for money. Not my life.”
“Good Lord, Ariana!” Baxter’s fingers bit into her arms, willing her to understand. “What kind of an ogre do you think I am?”
She smiled faintly. “I don’t think you’re an ogre, Baxter. In fact, perhaps I understand you better than you understand yourself.” She extricated herself from his grasp, walking slowly away. “I shall begin plans for my wedding.” Closing the door behind her, Ariana leaned back against the wall, loneliness clogging her throat. With a wave of intuition, she wondered where she mattered less: here, or at Broddington.
“A wife? Christ, Trenton, when did this happen?”
Dustin Kingsley bolted to his feet, gaping at his older brother who lounged casually in one of Tyreham’s deeply tufted library chairs, a library the two brothers had designed.
Trenton shrugged. “Today.”
“Today,” Dustin repeated inanely. In a customary gesture of agitation, he smoothed his thumb and forefinger over the tapered curve of his mustache, all the while studying Trenton’s face. “All right, Brother. Now tell me the rest of the story.”