Page 1 of Valentine Nook (The Valentine Nook Chronicles #1)

LANDO

T here’s nowhere more beautiful than the English countryside.

Rolling green hills, horses gently grazing in the fields, a brook babbling somewhere in the distance, and the familiar twitter of birds in their nests—it’s the perfect antidote to a few days spent in London.

Every time I arrive back home, I only need to take a deep breath of country air and saddle up my horse, Thunder, for the tension in my shoulders to melt away to nothing.

Not today.

It all started an hour ago as I was driving under the old stone arch—the words amor principum carved into its center.

It marks the threshold to the village of Valentine Nook, one of the oldest villages in Oxfordshire, the heart of the countryside, and has belonged to my family for five hundred years.

Often described as the most beautiful and romantic place in England, it’s believed Valentine Nook is where you will meet your true love.

According to legend, it’s where Cupid was conceived—hence its name.

Cupid’s parents—the gods Venus and Mars—popped down for a tryst near an ancient glen on the outskirts of the village, and nine happy months later, Cupid made his entrance.

The concept of love has never been the same.

Just like my family, the people who live in Valentine Nook have been here for generations too.

There’s Leon & Daughters, the local butcher who used to be Leon & Sons when his grandfather owned the place, but after he married and had four girls, his eldest daughter made him change the name.

Next door is the bakery, where the best sourdough east of San Francisco is made.

People come from miles around to grab the early loaves on a Saturday morning, along with a coffee from the shop across the road.

Two pubs, The Cupid’s Arrow and The One True Love, stand at opposite ends of Valentine High Street, in constant, albeit friendly , competition, usually over who has the biggest blooms on their hanging baskets (Cupid’s Arrow), who makes the best pork pie (The One True Love), and who will win the annual Valentine Nook cricket match (currently 34-29 to The Cupid’s Arrow).

On the opposite side are the vets, where you’ll find my brother Hendricks when he’s not out helping to birth the new season’s cows or locating Mrs. Winston’s runaway goat.

There’s a church with the vicar who’s always running late because he misplaced his glasses, a fishmonger, a beauty salon, and the village store—The Valentine Cook, which stocks everything you could possibly need, plus anything you didn’t realize you needed.

At the other end of the high street, to the stone arch, stands the fountain where year-round visitors come to throw in coins and make a wish that they’ll finally meet their soulmate .

All the money collected from the fountain goes toward paying for the upkeep of the village—keeping the rose bushes and flower beds tidy, the cricket pitch in good shape, and the hedgerows trimmed.

The lampposts, fences, and buildings all receive a regular lick of fresh paint.

It finances the summer fair, taking place in a couple of weeks, the Christmas fair in December, and the Halloween party for all the local children.

It won’t come as any surprise to hear the majority of funds go toward Valentine’s Day. Because Valentine’s Day in Valentine Nook is . . . well, I’m sure you can imagine.

I don’t think you’d find a more perfect village.

It’s my favorite place in the world.

Unfortunately, Valentine Nook is also home to Agatha Chase , a self-proclaimed high witch specializing in the services of love, and like everyone else here, her family has a long-standing history.

She owns Agatha Chase’s Love Emporium, where she brews potions and spells that she believes will summon your soulmate. She gives readings, she hosts full moon parties, and if you’re not careful, she’ll drag you into her store and try to cleanse you with crystals.

If I didn’t think the villagers would riot, I’d have evicted her years ago. But annoyingly, Agatha’s good for the local economy.

Love is a powerful motivator for spending.

The people throwing coins in the fountain are mostly here because they’re visiting Agatha.

Once they’re done, they drink at the pub or grab lunch from Mary’s Sandwich Shop and buy a tea towel or tote bag from the village store that says they came to Cupid’s birthplace.

Sometimes if they’re lucky enough to get a room, there’s Mr. and Mrs. Kilpatrick’s delightful bed-and-breakfast, though it’s always booked up six months in advance, a year if you want to come in February .

I forgot to mention Valentine Nook is the number one place to propose marriage.

But mostly, people come for Agatha.

When my father was alive, he used to think she added a bit of fun. I don’t share his opinion. In fact, after Agatha once told me that I was destined to be alone for the rest of my life, I’ve avoided her at all costs.

It’s ironic that the grumpy, cynical man doomed to be single forever owns the most romantic village in England, isn’t it?

I used to think it was all nonsense. More recently, I’ve been wondering if she was right because six months ago, on the night before my wedding, I found my fiancée and my best friend in a position they should never have been in . . . with each other.

I’ve spent the time since trying to erase the view of Jeremy’s naked arse and the sound of Caroline’s moans from my brain.

Losing a friend and a fiancée in one night was hard enough to deal with, but as England’s “most eligible bachelor” is back on the market, two further issues have arisen.

One, Agatha Chase has taken to reminding me of her forewarning every chance she gets. Even if she’s correct, I don’t want to hear it. Therefore, I cut her off the second she opens her mouth.

And two, a slightly more exasperating matter, is my mother, who has made it her goal in life to set me up with every single woman in British high society.

I’ve declined them all because I have no intention of dating again any time soon.

Anyway, as I was saying . . . my drive through the village this morning—and subsequently my good mood—was totally ruined.

It began as I passed the fountain and spied a larger-than-usual number of visitors crowded around it.

Not that I count, but I don’t normally have to wait for them to move out of the way and was too deep in thought about what could have caused it to notice the giant moving vans parked outside Bluebell Cottage, where I used to live with Caroline.

I haven’t stepped inside since the night I found them.

Slamming the brakes, I make a sharp turn to avoid hitting a pile of boxes in the middle of the road and stop the car.

Not the best place to leave a pile of boxes, I feel. And then I realize boxes are everywhere. Boxes from the three giant vans take up almost the entire width of the road.

Peering into the open end of the nearest van, I spy several large house plants, furniture covered in movers’ blankets, framed prints .

. . nothing that looks like renovation supplies —the only explanation I’d accept.

But I already know it’s not that. The sixth sense twitching in my gut provides an unnecessary warning.

The cottage was redecorated a few months ago, and it’s been empty since then.

Purposely empty.

Bluebell Cottage is something I’ve filed away under the subject of Things I Don’t Want to Deal With Right Now , which you’ll also find next to Love Life .

“Watch it, mate,” one of the movers yells, shaking me from my darkening mood.

I lower my window, prop an elbow on the doorframe, and lean out. “Could you explain what’s going on here?”

Another couple of movers carrying a large, bubble-wrapped, and heavy—from the way their knees are tensed—object stop and stare at me. Because obviously they’re moving furniture. Moving furniture into my house.

“Wassit look like we’re doin’?”

I point at Bluebell’s front door. “It looks like you’re moving furniture into that cottage.”

“Proper Einstein right here, fellas.” The mover laughs and continues on his way.

In the rearview mirror, I watch the rest of them shaking their heads in amusement as I shift into reverse, maneuver past the boxes, and hit the accelerator, taking off for Burlington Hall, my home.

I might not have the full picture of what’s happening, but I know that somehow my mother is involved in it.

U sually, when I approach Burlington, I like to slow the car and take my time driving through the gates.

I love the way the road sweeps past the fields—currently slightly parched from the summer sun—and the horses grazing high above the valley where the stables and Foxleigh Park, the polo ground, lie.

If Thunder is out, he gallops over to run alongside me, whinnying for a scratch and any possible carrots or Polo mints I might have with me. I’ll stop to oblige him for five minutes.

Farther along, the herd of Aberdeen Angus dots the horizon, and it’s here where the turrets of Burlington Hall appear in the distance, growing larger and larger as the car continues its journey.

Only when you turn the corner and pass through the long line of oak trees standing proudly like sentinels does it fully come into view.

A vast structure of pale Cotswold stone, set in three sides of a square with neat rows of arched windows across two floors. The asymmetrical turrets breaking up the chimneys staggered across the roof make it look ever-so-slightly French.

It’s magnificent.

And my breath catches the first time I see it. Every time. I’m filled with pride and gratitude for this place that’s housed my family for centuries.

Now, however, I’m too annoyed to take it in. I don’t even get to enjoy the perfect June day, where the sun is high in a cloudless kingfisher-blue sky. Instead, screeching to a halt outside the front doors, I sprint out and go in search of answers.