Page 29 of Obsession: The Unspoken Sin
In the first five days of being thrown out of the Devil’s Den and separated from Alice, and being told by Dynevor’s men the lady never wished to see him again, he’d sat in this very spot and deliberated over each word and each letter he’d written to Alice.
He pored over the pages. He labored over each sentence he put to paper. He’d read and re-read pages upon pages and then wrinkled them all, determining they were insufficient, only to start all over and send something close to a missive he did not hate.
Each one came back unopened.
Not only that, as salt in the wounds, Dynevor sent one of his hard-faced, merciless guards with a note from Alice.
Each time, Denbigh’s heart leapt with the hope born of an optimism he didn’t know where it came from. He’d had a miserable father. A difficult childhood. And a legacy of ugliness connected with the title he now carried. Even with that, somewhere inside, he’d believed and been so certain one of her letters would be a note with a concession to meet. To just hear him out.
All he needed was time with her. Even as he knew that wasn’t even a sure thing and probably wouldn’t be enough. But at least he’d see her one more time.
At least, at least, at least—
Denbigh’s bloodshot gaze fell to the neatly assembled stack of letters. There were five of them, lovingly stacked and tied with the same turquoise ribbon he’d caught that day she vowedher love. He’d hidden it in his pocket, the lone piece of her that he could keep. Now, there were her letters. Each one saying the same thing, and with the same words.
Five words. Seven if one included his form of address.Please, do not contact me. He opened her notes. She never opened his. And he would continue doing so until he drew his last breath.
Denbigh stared blankly and emptily at today’s first letter.
“Alice, please hear me out.”
“Alice, I am undeserving of your grace—”
“Alice, I implore you, I beg of you, please, please—”
Nothing! Nothing he said mattered because she wouldn’t even open his letters. It didn’t matter what he had to say. The only thing that mattered was what he had done. And what he had done was betray her. It didn’t matter that his intentions had been good. It didn’t matter. He’d had her best intentions, and then her daughter’s. But what mattered was that it had been Denbigh who’d decided what was best for her. He could’ve been forthright with her. He could have explained that he’d initially come because Exmoor had begged him to do so.
He could’ve then gone on to explain that along the way, it had changed. That in seeing how happy she was, and her reasons for staying, he understood and respected and supported it. But then explained she held his entire heart in her hands, and that was the only reason he would take her from this place, if she’d let him. Oh, it would rip him apart to leave her at a place where he knew she wasn’t safe—not truly. Where there was sinning happening and evil blackguards residing and playing with fortunes and drink, danger lurked and could and dangerously might one day find her.
But in his loyalty to Exmoor, he’d destroyed any hope for true happiness and any potential future with Alice. He’d warned him off Alice. Denbigh had complied.
Time and time again, he’d chosen Exmoor because the man had been his friend the longest and like a brother to him. But Alice? Alice was the person Denbigh loved above all others.
Defeated, Denbigh sagged in his chair. Blindly, he reached for the bottle that was always within reach. The stopper had already been removed and spit to the floor days earlier. He sloshed the remaining contents around the crystal bottle. Without looking, he took a long swig, finishing the rest of his brandy.
There came a brief rap at the door.
“Get the hell out!” he shouted, surely at his servant. He didn’t want to be bothered. There was no one he wanted to see. There was no one he wanted to see unless it was—
His eyes slid shut and, desperate for a reprieve from the vicious pain gnawing at his insides, Denbigh tipped the bottle back in search of whatever drops remained clinging to the sides and bottom of the decanter.
The door opened and inside stepped, not his butler or footman or anyone other than…
“Exmoor,” Denbigh mumbled, slowly lowering the bottle to his side. He let it hang uselessly, dangling from his fingertips over the sides of his chair.
Exmoor, who had prided himself on being the perfect son, father, brother, and gentleman, caught a glance of Denbigh and balked.
Shock brought Exmoor’s dark eyebrows climbing high. He didn’t even attempt to feign or conceal his disbelief at discovering Denbigh so.
The other man found his voice. “My God, man. Since when have you begun breaking your fast with brandy?” Then, not allowing a response, Exmoor tightened his mouth. “Look at you, Denbigh. You’re a bloody sight!”
Denbigh had caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror as he’d passed through the halls on his way to his office. He knew precisely what he looked like and just how the other man saw him. His blond hair was tangled and in need of a good comb. His cheeks sported a beard. His eyes were red from exhaustion and drink.
But Denbigh didn’t give a shite what he looked like. Propriety, rules, decency, and decorum all be damned.
Narrowing his eyes into thin, angry slits, he lifted his empty bottle and mockingly toasted Exmoor. “Exmoor, old chap! How very good to see my dearest of friends.”
Exmoor’s jaw moved. His slightly too sharp features indicated he’d heard the jeering quality to Denbigh’s greeting and sensed his anger and resentment.
