Peyton escaped out of the house through a side door. The leaves were beginning to turn from the leafy green of summer to the brilliant oranges and reds of fall. The breeze was light and warm enough that she didn’t need a sweater. Still, it was impossible to ignore the twitter of the trees that sounded as if they were making conversation. Oddly, it was a pleasant sound that resonated deep within her soul.
She meandered along a path that followed a little stream by the name of Chad Brook in the English county of Suffolk. Almost every day, she made the near two-mile trek that took her to a fenced boundary. In the distance was a grand home that sent her fantasies into overdrive.
Like today. She dreamed the man walking up was her prince come to whisk her away and plop her in the lap of love and luxury. He was tall and strong and vibrant, his hair the golden hue of wheat at the height of harvest. His eyes would be an old-world blue—
“Good afternoon,” he said. “I trust you suffered no permanent mishaps from your… mishap at the gallery.”
Peyton’s eyes fell to the full, firm lips speaking, and she couldn’t pull her gaze away. They seemed to quirk into a smirk.
“Are you all right, miss?”
She blinked. Then blinked again. “Er, yes. Yes, thank you.” Flustered, she swiped her palms down her faded jeans. He wore khakis with a collared starched shirt of indeterminate color because she couldn’t break her fascination with the contours of his stern jaw and high forehead, and the halo the sun formed around his head. “You—you were at the showing?”
He smiled, displaying perfect white teeth. “I was indeed. I caught you before you, er, hit your head, as it were.” He tipped his head in a slight incline and held out his hand. “Alistar Spears, Earl of Griston,” he said. “I live in that monstrosity you see in the distance.”
Swallowing hard, Peyton took his hand. It was warm, dry, engulfing, and sent electric currents up her arm. “My goodness, an earl. I’m Peyton. Peyton McKenzie.”
“We earls are not much good for anything but tossing out our titles for unsuspecting tourists.” He released her hand with a self-deprecating smile. Her eyes were playing tricks on her. “Areyou an unsuspecting tourist? If I may be so bold, you sound American.”
She laughed. “Not quite an unsuspecting tourist. I’m staying in the Skerry house.” She didn’t know why she felt inclined not to share the fact that Leander Skerry was her late grandfather. One she’d never met. “And yes, I’m American. I live in a tiny apartment in New York City. A far cry from your”—she flung her hand out in the direction of the castle in the distance—“monstrosity. It looks as large as my entire apartment complex. Bigger perhaps.”
“Oh? What brings you to the English countryside?” His deep resonance vibrated to her bones.
“I’m an art critic. I’m here to do an article on the Centre of Visual Arts’current showing. Then it’s on to London to cover a new up-and-coming contemporary artist at the Tate,” she said, shifting the conversation quickly. She had no desire to discuss her disgust of Jess Aldis with a perfect stranger. “What do you do with your days?” She just realized she had no idea how to address an earl.
Thankfully, he didn’t seem to notice and moved his gaze over the expanse to the house in the distance. “Ah. Well, I don’t do much. Mostly, I wander the halls with the ghosts of the past.” He turned back to her.
“Ghosts of the past? How intriguing, um...”
“Call me Alistar.” His request sounded like a decree. This was a man used to decreeing and people bowing—no questions asked or allowed.
“Alistar,” she said softly. Peyton shook her head. Her skin raised in prickles of awareness. The trees fluttered with a restlessness that was no longer comfortable and unnerved her. She rubbed her hands over her arms. “I should get back. My friend will worry.”
Alistar didn’t turn away until Peyton McKenzie disappeared from sight. She was… pretty. And sweet. And dainty. Shockingly, she was the first thing he’d desired in years. And living in Leander Skerry’s house. The man had been notorious for hating the nobility. Not that Alistar could blame him. Most of his peers were lazy sods bent on lording over others even if it was the twenty-first century.
He turned back toward Griston Hall. With only a week until his thirty-third birthday, it was imperative he locate the diary that appeared in his latest painting. He was certain it was the only way to learn the nature of this damned curse, and with luck, break the invisible war he’d been fighting his entire life.
He let himself in through the back door.
“There you are, my lord,” Peltz said. “Mr. Deeds is awaiting you in the blue parlor.”
Alistar didn’t feel up to dealing with Carson right now. He let out a long-winded sigh and changed direction. “Thank you. Have coffee sent in.”
“She’s living in the Skerry house,” Carson said by way of greeting.
The blue parlor suited Carson immensely in all its old-fashioned decor. His friend came from a long line of baronets. Not that it mattered, and it certainly wouldn’t in another couple of days. “Yes.”
“It’s curious, is it not?”
Very curious. “What about it? The man’s dead. It makes perfect sense for the place to be let.”
“I suppose so.” Peltz entered with the coffee. Carson said, “She’s American.”
“You’ve been busy.”
“She’s hot. Believe I’ll ask her out.”
A shot of visceral fury surged through Alistar, stunning him momentarily. Why should he care if Carson went after Peyton McKenzie? Alistar had only a week. A week before his thirty-third birthday. But thinking of Carson with Peyton made his head feel like it was caught in a vise.
