Echoes in the Mist (Kingsleys in Love 1)

“As you know, I haven’t been at Broddington for years. “And when I was …” Trenton shoved his hands in his pockets, averting his face. “Let’s say I have no affinity for this room. I associate it with pain and loss.”

“I understand,” Ariana answered softly. Lines of stress were etched on every plane of her husband’s handsome face, and his bitterness was a palpable entity.

He stared off, his expression tormented. “I wonder if you do.”

The urge to go to Trenton at that moment was almost beyond bearing, but Ariana fought it, reminding herself that he would not welcome her comfort nor her compassion. For now, all he would accept from her was her body.

She surveyed the room, imagining how it must have looked years ago, alive with memories, vibrant with Richard Kingsley’s personal touches; paintings, sketches, intricately designed furnishings and rugs. She could visualize it all: a fire burning merrily in the fireplace, fresh flowers—violets and marigolds and hawthorn, perhaps—decorating the room, permeating it with their sweet perfume. There would be a sweeping mahogany desk at the window, sunlight illuminating its polished surface; and at the desk, Trenton, his dark brow furrowed as he contemplated the series of designs he was developing. The image was so real, it was almost as if …

The idea exploded in her head like crashing thunder, so vivid that Ariana had to keep herself from shouting in exaltation. She might not be able to wipe out Trenton’s past, but she could alleviate its pain by offering him a present, something to build on other than dark memories.

She smiled, a secret smile, anticipating how she would begin. Within these very bare, unlived-in walls, she would create the actual room she had just imagined, present Trenton with a private refuge that was all his, one that would offer him the solace he sought at Spraystone, yet be far more meaningful, for it would encompass a glowing tribute to Richard Kingsley within a glorious domain that was Trenton’s alone.

And it would be a giant step in Ariana’s plan to make Broddington a home.

“P-p-pardon me, Your Grace.” Jennings, the Broddington butler, hovered in the doorway. Smoothing a hand over his cap of red hair, he peered nervously at Trenton over a long, needlelike nose, requiring only a tree trunk beside him to complete Ariana’s vivid image of a tiny, terrified woodpecker.

“What is it, Jennings?” Trenton snapped.

Jennings quaked at the duke’s sharp, impatient tone. “I have a message for the duchess.” He inclined his head in Ariana’s direction. “It appears to be important, so I thought …”

“I’ll take it.” Trenton strode forward and snatched the note from Jennings’s bony fingers. “That will be all for now.”

“Y-y-yes, Your Grace.”

No woodpecker had ever taken flight that rapidly.

“He’s petrified of you,” Ariana said, chewing her lip in distress.

Trenton scowled. “He is new and totally unsure of himself. I had no choice but to hire him; none of my other estates could part with their butlers, and I didn’t have adequate time to interview properly.”

“What about Spraystone?”

“Spraystone has no butler, there is no need for one. There is only myself, my manservant, and his wife. Gilbert assists me on the estate and Clara helps with the meals and the cleaning. The majority of the work is mine.” Trenton awaited his wife’s inevitable distaste and surprise at her first hint of Spraystone’s unpampered lifestyle.

All he encountered was the surprise. “Truly?” Ariana had heard enough about Spraystone from Dustin to know that the estate was not of diminutive size. “That must be a staggering responsibility!”

“Not really … I’ve had an inordinate amount of free time these past years,” Trenton responded dryly. “And physical labor keeps many ghosts at bay. So I’ve learned to be tireless.”

“But not overly kind.”

His appraisal was cool. “What does that mean?”

“Give Jennings a chance, Trenton,” Ariana urged him. “You’re a very forbidding man. Don’t intimidate him. He means well.”

Trenton shook his head in amazement. Always they came back to the same thing: feelings. His new bride was governed by them, he was incapable of them, “You’re hopelessly tender-hearted, misty angel.”

“Yes I am … hopelessly,” she admitted with a shy shrug.

A jolt of desire shot through him: desire mixed with a curious swell of protectiveness. “How did you ever survive eighteen years without losing such unheard-of innocence?” Trenton asked in husky disbelief.

“I thought you preferred my innocence?” Ariana baited softly, giving him an engaging smile.

“I did.” His eyes darkened, consuming her with their intensity. “I also preferred being its recipient.”

“I’m glad,” she said simply, wetting her lips with the tip of her tongue.

With a muffled curse, Trenton moved toward her, reaching forward to drag her against him.