He ignored Alistar, and the hair on the back of Peyton’s neck raised. “The Aldis works are dark and dire.” She was unaccustomed to defending her impressions. “I write reviews, Mr. Deed—”
“Carson,” he interrupted. “Isn’t that what good art is? An artist painting from the depths of his soul?”
“That’s enough, Carson,” Alistar said sharply. Reinold brought in a tray. “Ah, good. The food. I’m famished.”
The three of them ate, silver tinging against china, without exchanging any words. It was awkward. “Mr. Deeds, Carson. Yes, you are right. There is no denying that Mr. Aldis has talent, and I’ll admit that I go a little over-the-top when I review his work. However you look at it, over the years, my reviews of his work have become a bit of—how should I put it?—a trademark, as it were. My first review of his paintingWithin the Shadowsput both of us on the map.” She wrinkled her nose. “It sort of mushroomed from there.” She wasn’t about to admit to a stranger what she’d told Alistar, regarding that child under the desk. She quelled a shudder.
Beneath the table, Alistar’s hand covered hers and squeezed. She shot him a grateful smile.
“What else is it you like about S. C. Beck?”
Peyton stared out the windows to the green garden, the peacefulness of the scene, losing sight of her surroundings. “Her works fill me with tranquility in a chaotic world. They take me back to my early childhood.”
“Earlychildhood. That is specific,” Carson said, yanking her attention back.
She thought about what she’d said. “Yes. Early childhood.” She spoke slowly, surprised at what she’d revealed, mainly to herself. “I was adopted, you see.” She forked a strawberry and tucked it in her mouth.
He stilled then smiled, a twist of his lips, with sympathy. “Adopted. How interesting,” he said. “Adoption is a fairly new concept in England. Most children are fostered. How old were you at the time? If you don’t mind my asking, that is.”
“I was eight. I have very few memories of my life before that. I was very blessed. Most children that old are never adopted. New parents usually prefer babies.” The silence that followed was less tense, and Peyton let out a slow breath, relieved.
“So, Alistar, old man. Did you mention the curse?”
“I know he’s your friend, Alistar, but is he always so… so insensitive?” Fury was a visible fog around Peyton. Her pace would dig a gulley in the rug of his study.
Alistar couldn’t take his eyes from the fire flashing in hers. “He can be quite blunt.”
“Does he even realize your thirty-third birthday is tomorrow?” She had come to a stop directly in front of him with her hands planted on the hips of her dress, a brilliant shade of teal reflecting an entirely different shade of blue that he couldn’t put a name to. He was never unable to put a name to a shade.
Insanity.
It had taken forever to rid themselves of Carson, and it was now after eleven.Thirteen hours.
Alistar grabbed her wrist and hauled her onto his lap.Thirteen hours.He cupped her jaw and claimed her mouth like a dying man. He was a dying man come midnight. Her tongue brushed his, sending shivers of desire racing through him. It was the cruelest of ravishments she lavished on him. He was the aggressor, but how quickly she’d turned the tables. Her fingers speared his hair at the base of his skull.
Stroke, heat, fire, retreat.
He eased his hand under her dress, up to where soft lace rasped his palm. Groaning with need, he molded her breast. The effect was instant, and her tongue delved deeper, leaving his mouth burning with the hottest of spices.
Stroke, heat, fire, retreat.
This heady sensation had to stop. He needed to get himself under control. He took her by the shoulders and physically yanked her away from him. Lips shiny with his kiss beckoned him back as he grappled with his usually contained discipline. “The journal?” he choked out.
“The journal?” She looked confused, as if he were speaking Greek. She blinked. “Right. The journal. It’s in my bag.”
He set her on her feet, catching her as she swayed. He should call Pelz. Have him take her up and bring her back with the diary. “I’ll walk you up.” Because he didn’t want her out of his sight for every sane moment of the rest of his life. He pointed out various rooms as they passed. “There are fifteen bedchambers, not including the master suites, separated by a shared sitting room. Some of the other bedchambers have been converted for other purposes.”
“Like what?”
“Workout room, cinema room, an upstairs study. The usual.”
“The usual?” She laughed, shaking her head. “I live in a six-hundred-fifty-square-foot closet. The usual for me is a living space that converts to the bedroom by pulling pillows off the couch.” They moved past the closed door of his studio. “What room is that?”
“Just a hobby room.” He quickly guided them another two doors down to the Lilac room.
She walked over to her bag and dug through it. “I wonder if this is the room that once belonged to Lady Cecilia?”
“I doubt it. She was the countess and likely would have occupied the chambers adjoining Winslow’s.”
