14 July 1832
I’m so, so, so sad. I haven’t seen Winslow once since he kissed me. I’m devasted he thinks me an easy trollop now. I should never have allowed him such a liberty. How could I be so stupid?
That certainly explained his rush out. Alistar likely read ahead a couple of entries, quickly ascertaining Lady Cecilia’s nature as a romantic. Well, Peyton could relate. Wasn’t she more than half in love with the man herself? She shoved out those thoughts, groaning. They would have nothing if they didn’t learn the nature of the curse. And Peyton feared the curse was definitely alive and well.
18 July 1832
Winslow showed up today. I was so excited, I threw myself in his arms. He kissed me again. And this was no soft brush of the lips. I can hardly countenance what happened. I certainly have no one I can talk to about such intimacies. Irene acts more of a mother than Mama. He put his tongue in my mouth. It was the most extraordinary sensation. And addictive. I wanted it to go on forever and ever. I felt as if I was floating. He spun me around. I’m elated. His feelings for me weren’t all my imagination.
11 August 1832
’Tis been the loveliest summer, but I fear our time is coming to an end. We’ve received notice of Mama and Papa returning on the morrow. Irene has accepted a proposal from the Faulk heir. This was Winslow’s and my last opportunity to see one another. Sadly, James sent a note relaying Winslow’s indisposition. He was suffering from one of his bedridden headaches…
Peyton rubbed her eyes. Some of the text was smudged as if Cecilia had a shed a tear in her writings. She could hardly stay awake but couldn’t make herself close the journal either and plowed on.
12 April 1833
I was presented at court yesterday. Mama and Papa were right there. It was the most exciting moment of my life, well, except for meeting Winslow. And kissing Winslow. He’s truly special. I wish he would come to London and join the festivities. It is my most fervent hope.
One more entry, Peyton promised herself. Then she would set it aside.
15 April 1833
My first ball. It was the most magical feeling in the world. I stood at the top of the balustrade like Cinderella—only I’m not poor, nor do I have to scrub floors—and my heart dropped all the way to the bottom step. Right at the feet of Winslow Spears, the sixth Earl of Griston.
Bleary-eyed, Peyton read through the night. She read of Cecilia’s fabulous season. Her marriage to Winslow Spears. It brought tears to Peyton’s eyes. The birth of their son had her heart pounding in her chest. Forest, who was a viscount in his own right.
Peyton couldn’t begin to figure out the nobility titles and such. They would likely have her brain exploding. She felt as if she were standing at the precipice of an active volcano as it was.
Eight
A
door slammed, shaking the rafters, jerking Peyton upright and awake. Light streamed through the window, hitting her in the eyes. It was morning. She squinted against the brightness and glanced down. She still wore the dress from dinner the night before with Alistar, but she’d kicked off her shoes. The journal lay open.
2 May 1850
I visited Winslow today. I fear my husband is not long for this world. It is past time to confess to Forrest regarding his fate. Confess my own part in Winslow’s downfall. I don’t know the nature of that blasted curse. No one does, I fear. My fault lies in not taking it seriously for the longest time. And how in all this passing time, I could have tried to learn and possibly save my beloved husband. I’ve been ill of late. ’Tis growing worse. I fear must I put the safekeeping of my journal in my son’s hands. The dowager, Winslow’s grandmother, will destroy it if she learns of its existence. I will be forever grateful for having Winslow in my life. And, Forrest. My dear, dear son. Whatever your future holds, know that I remain with you. Always in your heart. I love you, my son. Lastly, believe it. The curse is real. I’ve no other knowledge for you, but it lives. And it destroys. I love you, my son.
Peyton swiped the tears from her face. The cursewasreal, and Alistar’s thirty-third birthday was tomorrow.
“Peyton!” Tarron’s voice rang out, but the room beneath the stairs muted the sound.
She rose from the chair, her neck stiff, and rocked her head to each shoulder, stretching the muscles. She went to the door. “In here, Tarron.” She rubbed her eyes, then shaded them against the pink sheen of Tarron’s suit. “What on earth are you wearing? What time is it?”
“I have a lunch date, and it’s—” He glanced at his wrist. “Six fifteen.”
“Good God. You haven’t been home all night, have you? Never mind.” She took off for the stairs. “Close that door behind you when you leave,” she called out. “Leander must have had a reason for not advertising the fact that room is there.”
She was late. Alistar tested the cinch on Paladia. She had a smooth gait, and from the look on Peyton’s face the night before, it would be the only way he would get her on a horse. He took the reins for both Paladia and Warrior and led them from the stable toward the drive. He would miss Warrior. His stallion was of sturdy stock and loyal to boot.
A car tore up the drive, a pale yellow Vauxhall Corsa skidding around the last turn. He let out a held breath, relieved to see the bobbing dark curls behind the wheel. He sauntered to a post and tied off the horses to wait. The car screeched to a stop and Peyton emerged, enticing in her faded jeans and light-gray tee.
She caught sight of him, then her eyes moved to the horses behind him. She froze. She held a dark clutch to her chest. The sight replaced what felt like century-long ice in his veins with syrup warmed by a summer sun though it was fall. For once, the sound in the trees were a source of comfort, familiarity. It was an odd sensation.
“You don’t truly expect me to… to climb up on one of those things, do you?” The tremor in her voice strengthened to impatience. “We have one day. One day to—”
He’d reached her by this time. Took her by the shoulders and slanted his mouth over hers. How could he not know he—they—had only one day? He was the one scheduled for Bedlam, wasn’t he?
