Their tour of the music room, library, and morning room were conducted in near silence, punctuated only by Dustin’s clipped descriptions and the plodding sound of their footsteps sinking into the plush Axminster carpets.
On the stairway, Ariana halted, turning abruptly and seizing Dustin’s arm. “Please, Dustin. I apologize for asking questions that were none of my business. I only wanted to understand you better … to understand Trenton better,” she added honestly. “I never meant to pry. Forgive me.”
Dustin’s troubled expression cleared and he kissed Ariana’s cold fingers. “It is I who should be asking your forgiveness. You did nothing wrong. It’s very natural for you to ask questions about your husband’s family. The only excuse I have for my behavior is that our talk made me remember things I haven’t allowed myself to think about for many years.” He hesitated. “As you know, the entire Kingsley family disintegrated when my father died. Nothing’s been the same since.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Sometimes I wonder if it ever will be.”
“It will.” Ariana had no idea whose strong, determined voice that was, but it appeared to be coming from her mouth. “I’ll make certain it is.”
Dustin started, then a slow smile curved his lips. “I’m counting on that, sweetheart,” he told her, squeezing her hand. “If ever there was hope for us, you’re it.”
“‘If a man look sharply, and attentively, he shall see Fortune; for though she be blind, yet she is not invisible,’” Theresa announced, marching by them on her way to the kitchen. “I’ll have tea served on the front lawn this afternoon. You’ll need refreshment after your croquet lesson.” She disappeared around the corner of the first-floor landing.
Dustin gaped. “Who the … what the … how did she …”
“Theresa,” Ariana supplied helpfully. “My lady’s maid. She was quoting Sir Francis Bacon for you; he’s her favorite. The only one of your questions I cannot answer is ‘how she.’ I assume you are asking how she knew we would be playing croquet. I assure you she did not eavesdrop. My only explanation is that Theresa knows many things that we don’t. I suggest you not ponder it too deeply; just accept it, for it is the truth.” Ariana grinned. “You can close your mouth now, Dustin.”
He snapped it shut. “I see.”
“No, you don’t. But she does.” Ariana continued up the stairs. “Can we visit the second level now?”
Dustin nodded, still totally at sea, and proceeded to the second-floor landing.
The bedrooms were lavishly decorated and as impressive as the rest of the house. Still, Ariana experienced the same vague sense of inconsistency she had in her own bedroom the night before. For despite the magnificent craftsmanship and detail, the walls were devoid of paintings, the desks barren, the rooms sparsely furnished and cold, austere—a complete contrast to what she would have expected from the late duke.
Upon entering Trenton’s private sitting room and finding nothing more than a bare desk and an untouched armchair, Ariana could no longer contain her puzzlement.
“Why is this floor so impersonal and stark?” She gestured toward the empty walls. “I know Broddington has been deserted since … for six years,” she amended, unwilling to bring the late duke’s name back into the conversation and risk upsetting Dustin, “but the ground level seems so rich, so … lovingly crafted. Why are the living quarters so drastically different?”
Dustin folded his arms across his chest, staring into space as if seeing into the past. “This sitting room belonged to my father … His favorite room in the house. Not aesthetically, but spiritually. He spent long hours alone here, thinking and dreaming. The entire second floor was designed like that, for living as well as sleeping. It looked very different than it does now, filled with all my father’s personal things, paintings of my mother, rare sculptures he’d acquired in his travels, sketches of Broddington long before it was built.” Dustin sighed, leaving the past behind. “Trenton had everything removed when Father died. It ceased to be a home. It hasn’t been one since then.”
“Where are your father’s things?” Ariana asked, her eyes damp. “Trenton didn’t … They weren’t destroyed, were they?”
Dustin shook his head. “No. I stored them at Tyreham. All but the paintings of Mother, which are hanging in Broddington’s gallery.”
“May I see them?”
He smiled gently. “Of course. We’ll stop there on our way to the chapel.”
“When did she die?”
“When Trent and I were boys. Mother was very beautiful, but very delicate. During most of my childhood, she was confined to bed. She died of scarlet fever when I was ten.”
“Your father obviously loved her a great deal.”
Again, Dustin smiled. “Unfashionably so. He missed her dreadfully; that I do recall. His work, remaining productive, meant more to him than ever after her death.”
Ariana inched forward and touched Dustin’s arm. “I’ve done it again, haven’t I? Upset you with my questions?”
“No, of course not,” he returned warmly. “All this happened a long time ago. I’m quite recovered, honestly.” With a reassuring look, Dustin led her into the hall. “Let’s visit the gallery and the chapel, then move on to what will doubtlessly be your favorite spots.” Seeing Ariana’s perplexed expression, he supplied: “The stables and the gardens.”
Ariana’s eyes lit up. “And can we go to the conservatory again? I saw it briefly yesterday, but it was so breathtaking. … Do you mind if we stop there for a moment?”
Dustin chuckled. “How can I resist so lovely a plea? Very well, we shall stop at the conservatory on our way to the gardens. And then”—his eyes twinkled—“you shall learn the proper handling of a croquet mallet.”
“I can hardly wait!”
“Those wickets have no openings. It is all an illusion,” Ariana complained two hours later. Sprawled on a lawn chair, sipping her tea, she had all but given up ever learning the proper way to strike the ball so that it went through the wicket rather than crashi
ng into it.