“She dares to wear Levi’s to my ta-bel?” he sputtered.
Seriously?“If it makes you feel any better, they are Lucky’s.” Peyton’s quip was reflexive.
“You forget yourself, Reinold. It’smytable. We would like crepes with strawberries and cream. And coffee.”
Reinold left the room, muttering under his breath.
“Would you care to freshen up? Riding can be dirty and sweaty,” Alistar told her. “Pelz.”
“Sir.”
The butler’s sudden appearance startled a squeak from her.
“Pelz, show Ms. McKenzie to the Lilac room.” Alistar turned to her. “You should find everything you require in the adjoining bath. When you are ready to come down, press the intercom and someone will come for you. It’s quite easy to get lost in this godforsaken fortress.”
“Thank you.” Peyton followed the extremely quiet butler out of the room and up a grand stairway. It was a scene straight out of a Jane Austen novel. Except for the electricity, she could be walking through a house from the Georgian or Regency era.
“The Lilac room, miss.”
Peyton stepped through another moment in time. Had this been Lady Cecilia’s bedchamber? She would have to ask Alistar. The room had been updated with a poufy duvet of lavender with darker purple embroidered flowers and green leaves. The walls were whitewashed, not a speck of wallpaper to be seen. That was a surprise. The furniture was truer to the Regency, or what Peyton imagined for the time. The bed was a heavy fourposter, complete with canopy and sheer linings tied back to the posts. Her backpack and clutch were sitting on a small settee that faced a large unlit hearth. An old clock on the mantel was the only decoration. “It’s lovely,” she breathed.
“The bath is through the sitting room,” Pelz told her. “If you should require anything”—he pointed to an intercom next to the light switch—“press the button. Do not hesitate to ask.”
“Thank you.”
The man disappeared as quietly as he’d appeared. It was unnerving.
Peyton opened her backpack and pulled out a jersey knit dress. She traveled enough to have a wardrobe conducive to living fairly wrinkle-free.
As much as she longed to linger in the wonderful bath, she forced herself to keep cognizant of the time. As she made her way back down—choosing not to use the intercom—she was at the bottom of the stairs, wondering where the hell the morning room was. She had no need to worry.
The noiseless butler was suddenly there. “This way, Ms. McKenzie.”
Peyton followed him out of the cavernous foyer down a hall toward the back of the house to an elongated room with an elegantly set round table in the corner with windows on two sides, a table that was set for three.Three?She spun around.
Alistar stood at the other end, his hair damp, next to a man she recognized but couldn’t place. “Peyton McKenzie, this is Carson Deeds. A close friend. He is joining us for breakfast.” He didn’t sound happy.
“A pleasure, Ms. McKenzie.” Carson Deeds was classically good-looking, in a Kit Harrington sort of way, with his dark hair, blue eyes thickly fringed with black lashes, killer designer stubble, and thin mustache.
She took his outstretched hand to shake it. He brought her knuckles up to his lips in a dry brush. It was old-fashioned, debonair, and ridiculously embarrassing. She tugged her hand away, knowing her face was on fire and having no way to hide it with all the windows and sunshine filling the room. Alistar handed her a mimosa-filled flute, his jaw clamped tight. That was a good sign, wasn’t it? “The same, Mr. Deeds. I feel as if we’ve met before.”
A look passed between Alistar and his friend that she couldn’t get a read on. “Indeed,” he confirmed. “I was at the gallery opening with Alistar here.”
“Oh. Of course, that must be it.”
Alistar guided her to the small table and pulled out a chair that gave her a lovely view of the garden. Once Alistar and Mr. Deeds were seated, Mr. Deeds said, “I’ve read some of your reviews, Ms. McKenzie.”
“Call me Peyton.”
“Peyton, then. You seem to favor S. C. Beck’s work.”
“I love her work. Her sculptures have an unusual sensuality. The brilliance of color in her abstracts? I don’t know they… touch my heart somehow.”
Carson poured coffee from the pot in the middle of the table. “Unlike, say, Jess Aldis? You seem to disdain his talent profusely.”
Iron banded her chest. “Yes.”
“Carson,” Alistar bit out.
