Page 17 of Obsession: The Unspoken Sin
Judging by the swell of guests surrounding the stage and all the patrons eagerly shooting their hands up, crying out bids for the pretend demure beauty on the stage, the men were crazed with lust. Each fellow fought for the privilege of stealing some young woman’s virtue.
Theirs was a game of pretend, except this game of pretend hit entirely too close to home for Denbigh.
Absently, he toyed with the rim of his also untouched snifter.
He’d suspected the child was hers, based on looks alone. After Alice and Laurel took their leave of him earlier in the day, he’d gotten himself to a rationale place. He’d even convinced himself the child he’d taken for hers was in fact a girl who happened to live in the Devil’s Den; that Denbigh had indulged in a flight of fancy where he’d imagined a beautiful, inquisitive, and smiling daughter born to Alice.
But to have his first inkling confirmed with Alice’s words while they’d been alone at Hyde Park had wrecked him. Utterly, absolutely, and completely destroyed Denbigh.
Seeing her become another man’s wife would have always broken Denbigh, but he could have suffered in silence. Just as long as the man Alice wed consecrated himself to her love, laughter, and every happiness.
He stared emptily into the bottle of spirits he’d ordered but never drank from this night.
To know it was some black-hearted knave who’d stolen her virtue, her heart, and left her in ruin, and with a babe to care for?
Denbigh squeezed his eyes briefly shut. And now Alice and her daughter lived together in a den of iniquity, sin, and danger.
In fairness, how could Denbigh have remained levelheaded? With Alice’s detailed telling, every feral urge had risen up within him so that he’d wanted to toss his head back, roar, and pound his chest like a primal beast.
Denbigh stared from over the top of his snifter at the spectacle on the stage—a virgin auction.
A hard, bitter, empty, grin formed on his lips. How bloody fitting. Such salacity’s would have never earned anything but his disgust. But with his and Alice’s exchange still fresh and raw in his mind, the act at play repulsed him. Nausea churned in his belly.
What gentleman could be driven to desire at the idea of ruining a woman? The stage production hit Denbigh in the face over and over, like a fresh wound scabbed over that continued to be picked and picked and picked, reminding him that Alice’s situation wasn’t a playact. Hers hadn’t been a performance. What had happened to her had been real.
She deserved your calm-headedness, a voice in his head lashed. Alice should have been free to talk without any recrimination on your part.
His features spasmed, and Denbigh’s eyes slid shut.
He grimaced as he downed the rest of his glass, welcoming the fiery trail it burned along his throat. It had been two days since he’d seen her, and only now had he gotten it into his head what to say to her. From the head proprietors’ table, the Earl of Wakefield sat conversing with Lachlan Latimer and the Earl of Dynevor while the club’s action played out. As if he felt Denbigh’s gaze, Wakefield briefly paused in whatever he’d been saying to his partners and looked Denbigh’s way. Just as he’dlooked at the other gentleman countless times since Denbigh arrived at a table, he wanted no part of, Denbigh waited for a signal that he would be able to meet Alice alone.
At long last, a slight nod of confirmation came from the Earl of Wakefield. Purpose-driven and fueled at the prospect of starting over and trying again with Alice, Denbigh took another quick drink and set his glass down. He waited only so long as to be sure Wakefield had his partners’ undivided attention and that there wasn’t a risk that it’d be found out that Wakefield was in cahoots with Denbigh.
Only then did Denbigh stand and excuse himself from the raucous play around him. Not that anyone would notice a gentleman who happened to leave. There was such a crush of bodies and patrons, and all attention was fixed on the dais at the center of the club. Denbigh quickly made his way from the club and headed for the private suites he occupied. At least the ones he occupied so long as Alice lived in this place. And he’d only remain here until she left with him, and if she didn’t? Then this would be his permanent residence forever. His own earldom be damned.
He’d been retiring for the night for atonfunction, at least that was what he’d said, and what he’d worked out with Wakefield, who had allowed Alice to return to painting the canvas in his suite. As he approached his door and proceeded to fetch a key from his front jacket pocket, he knew he didn’t need it. He knew she’d be there. And he felt not the first stab of guilt at all about the ways in which he’d lied to her. It was for her own good and wouldn’t matter when she discovered the truth, which she would when this was said and done. It wouldn’t stay secret forever that he’d come here to restore her to her rightful place with the Mastersons.
Still, prepared as he was to see her at work before that enormous canvas, the sight of her always caught him like he’dspied a shooting star. Fleeting and fast and so faint. A person didn’t know if it had been real or a spark of his imagination. When he entered, she was not at her painting as he’d expected. Rather, she sat at the edge of the bed where he’d lain his head these past two nights. She stared vacantly at the rendering, so very colorful and vivid and real. Her head angled slightly as her gaze moved and found him at the door. There was no surprise there. It was as if her expression said, ‘Of course, you’re here. I knew you’d be here.’
Suddenly uncertain and at a loss, he stood there beating his left hand against his side before he realized what he did. He caught himself from that distracting staccato tap and cleared his throat.
“I’m sorry. I know I’d indicated to the proprietors I would not be staying the night,” he said. “There was a change of plans, and so I’m here,” he finished lamely.
“And so, you are here,” she repeated on a soft murmur.
Alice stood. “I should leave. You’re here for your chambers.”
“Please stay,” he called as she rushed over to gather up her supplies.
Alice stopped in her place.
Denbigh pulled a face.
“May I?” he asked, gesturing behind him.
Alice nodded, giving him permission to close the panel so they were allowed their privacy.
“I would be lying if I didn’t say I was hoping to find you here, Alice.”
