The explosion was deafening. The following silence even more so.
The smoke cleared. Carson lay sprawled on his back, and Peyton was on her knees, the rope an unbecoming necklace hanging loose about her neck.
“God, my head,” Tarron said, tossing down the gun he held.
Alistar crouched before Peyton, lifting the rope over her head, chucking it aside. He pulled her into his arms. “It’s over, darling. All of it.”
Sixteen
T
he wedding was everything Peyton could have dreamed. Her mother and father, the adopted version, had flown in for the ceremony. She and Alistar had even extended their bigheartedness to Peyton’s biological family, Aunt Patricia and Uncle Chad. They’d declined. The Baron Hayter and his wife, Emily, however, had accepted the invitation, along with Peyton’s newfound cousins, Catherine and Carrie.
Currently, Baron Hayter had pulled Peyton aside. They stood beneath tall space heaters on a large terrace off the cavernous ballroom of Griston Hall.
“Your Aunt Patricia never meant you any harm, my dear.”
“I don’t hold her responsible for her children’s actions,” Peyton murmured. She did hold her responsible for treating Carson so horribly as a child. All he’d ever wanted was to be loved by his mother. Peyton had been blessed doubly over. Her biological parents had loved her beyond their own lives. And she knew her adoptive parents did as well.
Uncle Robert patted her hand. “I’m happy for you, my dear. I have every confidence that Lord Griston will take excellent care of you.”
There was no need to tell him she could take perfectly good care of herself. Not only had she been doing so for years, but she’d also inherited a substantial fortune. Carson had been right about that. “Thank you, Baron.”
“You may call me Uncle Robert,” he told her generously. “And if you can see yourself assisting your cousin with her tuition, we would never see fit to turn away your generosity.”
“I would be thrilled to assist Carrie with her tuition costs.”
“Peyton?”
Warmth caressed Peyton’s skin, despite the chill in the air. “We are ready to cut the cake, darling. Will you join me?”
Overwhelming love filled her heart. Alistar stood in the doorway, his eyes narrowed on her uncle. She hid a smile and took his outstretched hand. He pulled her just inside the doors into an alcove. She could have been a character in one of her favorite Regency-era novels.
Tarron had insisted on the long white off-the-shoulder dress and satin elbow-length gloves that she wore. “Certain standards are required,” he’d said. “Even for your own wedding. I didn’t put it past you to show up in faded jeans and a T-shirt.”
Peyton couldn’t have cared less. A bikini in winter. An ’80s cowl-neck oversized sweater in midsummer. It made no difference to her. She was rich beyond words and not just with money. Her memories had returned. As horrifying as they were, they were also nostalgic and full of the love her parents had bestowed upon her. That was worth any price. “I have a new pink sequined tee you would love,” she’d told him.
He’d huffed, sounding remarkably like Aunt Patricia, and walked away, only after making sure not a strand of her updo was out of place.
Best of all? The curse had been broken, though they weren’t quite sure why. But it was now a month past Alistar’s thirty-third birthday. And he was alive. He was well. And they were together.
Her life was complete.
He brushed his lips across hers, then to her neck, to her bare shoulder, and back up. “Happy?”
“I don’t think it’s possible for me to be any happier.”
“I love you.”
“I love you.” She fiddled with a button just above the cummerbund of his tux. “There’s something I need to tell you—”
He cut her off. “You already did. Everything I need to know is in that one statement.”
“I suppose so.”
Tarron pushed aside the leaves of the indoor tree shielding their alcove. “Are you two going to make us wait forever?”
Alistar’s pained sigh sent Peyton into a fit of giggles. “We’re coming.”
