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But it has quite a distance to travel before that can occur.”
    Gazing at Ariana’s serene features, Theresa saw far beyond, with an inborn ability believers called “intuition,” skeptics termed “witchery.” As it sometimes happened, an image appeared clear and unmistakable, a strong, revealing glimpse of what was to be. Rarely, however, was her vision as absolute as this. The last time had been six years before.
    She’d been certain then. She was certain now.
    Ariana’s destiny had found her.

CHAPTER
3
    H IS 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