Page 31 of Obsession: The Unspoken Sin
Exmoor winced.
The other man felt guilty about Denbigh sporting a black eye? The sting left by the once respectable Malric Mauley, the Marquess of Thornwick—now one of Dynevor’s goons—may aswell have been the brush of a gnat compared to the vicious agony of Alice’s rejection.
“She is stubborn, Denbigh,” Exmoor said. “In time—”
A sound of frustration left Denbigh. “It is not that simple. I deceived her, and Alice was—” Viciously betrayed before. He caught himself. She’d made that confession to Denbigh. He’d keep her confidence.
The marquess narrowed his gaze. “Alice was ‘what’?”
“She was hurt,” he said instead. “And she needs to be able to trus…” His words trailed off.
Alice needs…
“Denbigh? Exmoor prodded.
Denbigh, however, remained lost in a realization.
How often and how much had Alice been told what sheneeded? By her family. By her brother. By Denbigh. Hell, even Dynevor was making choices for her. But Alice hadn’t ever really had a choice. The Devil’s Den was as close as she came to it. Telling her what she needed was a sin. Lady Alice was a strong, spirited, intelligent woman, who didn’t need men making false promises or secretly manipulating her and her life, which is precisely what he’d done.
He had wronged her. Words, the ones he was writing over and over again in letters, were futile.
Alice didn’t need to be told anything…
He stilled. “My God,” he whispered. “Of course. Why didn’t I think of that?” He exhaled that query on a fading breath.
“What?” Exmoor urgently prodded.
Yes, he didn’t need to tell Alice anything. She had made her decision, and that included her decision about him. If she didn’t want to see him or take his letters, he owed it to her to respect that decision. What he would do was show her the ways in which he was sorry.
Perhaps she could forgive him. That would be the best and all that he could hope for.
Chapter 13
It had been a fortnight.
Fourteen days had passed since Laurence had taken her in his arms, professed his feelings, and spoken about his want of her. It had been the singular dream she’d longed to have come true. Not just since they’d been reunited. No, since she’d become a young woman and seen him with a woman’s eyes.
And then that dream, like so many others in her life, had been quickly shattered with the arrival of the Earl of Dynevor and Lord Wakefield. Reality had come crashing in and charges had been made against Laurence. He’d been accused of lying to her and coming to the Devil’s Den under false pretenses.
He’d not denied it. As much as she’d wanted him to, as much as she would have believed him, first and foremost before Lords Dynevor and Wakefield. Because she knew Laurence. Because she loved him. Because she trusted him.
Except he hadn’t denied it.
He’d acknowledged what truly brought him back into her life. He’d come as a favor to Alice’s brother. He’d only ever seen her as an extension of the Marquess of Exmoor.
And that he’d positioned himself here, on behalf of Wynn, all the while pretending he was a patron but planning to convince her to return to polite society.
There was nothing fraternal in the way he touched you. The passion of their embrace, the hot vitality of his hands he’d scraped over her body as if learning and memorizing the feel of her, hadn’t been fraternal. No sense of devotion to Exmoor had been involved there.
Can that not possibly mean those two things could be true?her inner voice nudged. Maybe he had come here on behalf ofWynn but had been so overwhelmed in his feelings for Alice that he’d finally capitulated and—
“You aren’t painting, Mama.” Blinking slowly, Alice tugged her sightless gaze from the latest piece commissioned by the Duke and Duchess of Somerset and put it on her daughter.
Positioned next to Alice and in a matching outfit with a white apron over her dress, Laurel stood before her own smaller canvas. She was Alice’s exact image at work.
With one exception being the full colorful brush strokes of the Earl of Dynevor’s stables. Alice’s daughter had been far more engrossed and more productive than Alice.
“Are you still sad, Mama?”
