Echoes in the Mist (Kingsleys in Love 1)

Disappointed, she slid the books back into the drawer, only to find they no longer fit. With a puzzled frown she removed them and tried again, this time at a different angle, but to no avail. The drawer simply refused to accept both volumes.

Groaning softly, Ariana dropped to her knees, placing both books on the floor beside her. This was a complication she hadn’t expected and intended to correct immediately. While she had thus far managed to disturb nothing of consequence in the room, she harbored not the slightest doubt that Trenton would notice if one of the tomes that was originally within the desk was now atop it. She peered into the drawer and at first saw nothing. She was about to arise when a slight-variation in color caught her eye from the rear of the drawer. It was a subtly lighter hue of brown than the walnut desk, nearly invisible unless one was looking.

And Ariana was looking.

Eagerly, she reached inside, her fingers closing around a slim ledger or pad—one she had apparently upset when she’d removed the books. Pulling it out, she saw that she held a worn, unmarked notebook that housed perhaps thirty pages. Curious, she sat cross-legged on the floor, draping her skirts about her, and folded back the faded cover.

The scent of roses immediately accosted her. Roses: Vanessa’s unmistakable fragrance.

With a terrified cry, Ariana dropped the notebook to the floor, her entire body going rigid with shock. The book she held was Vanessa’s journal.

Trembling, Ariana inhaled sharply, fervently wishing she had never thought of exploring the sitting room. But she had, and now her choices were nil.

Still shaking violently, she reached out a tentative hand and picked up her sister’s journal, staring at the flowing, familiar hand.

She’d wanted the truth. Now she would have it.

Page one was dated April 28, 1869: the spring before Vanessa’s death. Wetting her parched lips, Ariana began to read.

I’ve finally met him. The man I’ve awaited forever. Trenton Kingsley. What a magnificent name. What a magnificent man. He says we have the entire Season to dance in each other’s arms. He makes me dizzy even when we aren’t dancing. I want him—and I intend to get him, just as I’ve gotten everything else I’ve ever wanted.

Ariana swallowed and turned the page.

May 15, 1869

I’m the envy of every woman in London. Trenton is shameless in his intentions and his pursuit. When I’m not beside him, his eyes are always upon me. It’s only a matter of time before our feelings take over and all discretion is cast aside. Then, all I crave will be mine.

A ponderous weight descended on Ariana’s heart, oppressive and aching. She fought it, silently chastising herself for the idiocy of her reaction. The fact that Trenton and Vanessa had been lovers was no new revelation, but one she’d known for years. So why on earth did it agonize her to see a confirmation of the truth?

It’s just the shock of finding Vanessa’s journal, she assured herself, together with the jolt of reliving the past through her eyes.

Ariana’s shoulders sagged. She’d never lied to herself b

efore, and she wouldn’t begin now. The true cause of her immediate distress had nothing to do with Vanessa’s death and everything to do with her life. Quite simply, the thought of Vanessa in Trenton’s arms, the image of her in his bed, made Ariana ill.

Because, unthinkable as it was, she was still in love with her husband.

A sharp sting made Ariana wince. She hadn’t realized she was gripping the journal so tightly. Slowly, she uncurled her fingers, watching a rivulet of blood redden her thumb where the paper had pierced it. Instinctively, she raised the injured finger to her lips, soothing the cut with the tip of her tongue—but not before a tiny bit of blood had trickled onto the open journal.

Uneasily, Ariana stared at the smudge of red that slowly stained the next page of Vanessa’s words, feeling a disturbing sense of foreboding seep inside her as she returned to her reading.

June 17, 1869

I belong to you, Trenton, as we both knew I would. Nothing can undo what we have forged between us. And yet, you’re restless, angry. When you should feel assurance, you feel only doubt. Your inner demons frighten me. Don’t you believe you’re all I want? You say you do, yet you strike out, again and again. Everyone fears you. I fear you. Your intensity burns me, inside and out. You’re so volatile, so savagely intense, so possessive. It’s as if you want something more than I have to give. Oh, Trenton, I can’t lose you. But I can’t hold you. You thrill me. You scare me. And I know there’s no escape.

Ariana raised her head and struggled for control. There was truth to Vanessa’s words: enough truth to terrify her. Trenton was every one of those things: volatile, intense, possessive. Frightening.

Dear God, what had he done?

Her head spinning, Ariana skipped ahead to the last few journal entries.

July 2, 1869

Why do you refuse to believe me, Trenton? I’ve never betrayed you. Yet you keep lashing out at me, hurting me again and again. I’m no match for your strength, your physical domination. When we love it’s as if you want to punish me, to destroy me and absorb me all at once. There’s madness in your eyes. I see it, and I want to run. But there’s nowhere I can hide where you won’t find me. You’ve made me realize that. So I must endure whatever pain you choose to inflict.

Pain? Ariana fought back a wave of nausea, focusing on the journal’s final page.

July 25, 1869