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L aurence Casterleigh, the Earl of Denbigh, lived a predictable life.

It’d come as something of a surprise to Polite Society, considering he’d been sired by a libertine who treated women of all stations as sport. Though, Denbigh himself briefly entertained a roguish lifestyle, he’d quickly shut the door on such an existence.

Back then, it’d nearly cost Denbigh his friendship with the Marquess of Exmoor who was Denbigh’s brother in everything but blood.

Exmoor followed a strict moral code, and Denbigh had briefly deviated from that path himself. From then on, he’d vowed to live honorably in all regards.

Exmoor was as predictable as Denbigh.

Part of their usual and normal routine included a ride at dawn through Hyde Park.

Today proved no different.

They rode vigorously, shouting to each other sporadically in between. They exchanged pleasantries, caught up on one another’s families, and then rode back to their respectable Mayfair townhouses, with the intention of repeating it all again the next day.

That was, today proved no different, until instead of guiding his chestnut mount back around, Exmoor stopped at the east end of the park.

He doffed his hat and beat it against his leg.

Denbigh took in that movement and frowned. It was the other man’s tell. It indicated this wasn’t a usual morning ride.

This time, Exmoor had brought Denbigh here to discuss something, and whatever that unknown something was had the man troubled. Denbigh’s stallion, Fidelis, sensing the tension within his master, danced nervously back and forth.

Denbigh preferred the predictable. A tumultuous upbringing had that effect on a man, but neither was he one to shy away from those who were distraught or in need. Certainly not Exmoor. He’d give his life for the man.

Something bothered the marquess. Denbigh didn’t need to ask what. He knew Exmoor well enough. He’d share in due time. Exmoor confided everything in Denbigh. They confided in one another.

They—

“Alice isn’t in Scotland,” Exmoor blurted.

Denbigh cocked his head. It was a singularly odd announcement, considering they had just spoken about Alice and the entire family making preparations for the debut of Exmoor’s youngest sister, Elspeth.

“Yes, I believe you said she was returning.” He’d be tortured again with her company. “I take it she has.” Denbigh dreaded the idea, and yet his heart pounded at the thought of seeing her.

Exmoor doffed his hat. “Alice hasn’t been in Scotland for some time now.” This time, the gentleman beat the tan top-hat with such vigor, it was a wonder he didn’t snap the brim. “Alice does not want to return for Elspeth’s debut.”

Denbigh frowned. He’d known Alice Masterson since she’d been a babe. She possessed an obstinacy of spirit to rival a thousand mules. She’d been like a younger sister to him. They’d sparred on every occasion. She possessed a keen wit and a sharper tongue.

Yes, she’d been like a sister to him…until she hadn’t .

Selfishly, even though he’d enjoyed her company—too much—it had been somewhat of a relief when he’d learned the lady had decided to quit London altogether.

She’d retired to Scotland, their family’s favorite country seat, so she could paint and sketch and ride and live freely.

Denbigh had secretly envied her. He’d missed her, but he’d also been ever grateful that she’d gone.

“I need her to come home.”

Exmoor’s pleading voice infringed on those bad best friend thoughts.

The tumult in Exmoor’s eyes bespoke a tortured man, and the glint there set off a frantic sensation in Denbigh’s own gut.

He loved this family. He loved Exmoor. He loved the gentleman’s mother, who’d been like a second mother to him. He loved his sisters.

“I need you to help me bring her home,” Exmoor said, his voice sounded somewhat steadier, though his eyes were still troubled.

Denbigh treaded carefully.

“You know the lady can’t be brought around once she’s made up her mind. So, she quit Scotland and doesn’t want to return to London. You have plenty of other seats. Allow the lady the space she desires.” And as I require .

Denbigh wasn’t a good man. He realized his protestations came from a place of self-preservation. He silently flagellated himself for that betrayal.

“There is more,” Exmoor said tightly. “This isn’t just about obedience. This isn’t just about enjoying her own time in her own space. This is about—”

Denbigh’s ears latched on to the unspoken remainder of his friend’s sentence. He waited in vain for the other man to clarify or explain.

“The lady doesn’t want to attend another dull, boring Season,” Denbigh cajoled. “You and I can both understand and appreciate that.” And I appreciate not having to fight my feelings for her.

The other man didn’t dispute his words.

“She belongs with her family, Denbigh. You know that.”

He did.

Denbigh, however, proved a selfish, coward, because no good could come from her return.

“Exmoor, you’re the most devoted brother there is, and I don’t say that lightly because I consider myself a fairly good and reliable brother to my younger brothers. But you see her for the holidays.” Denbigh paused and corrected himself. “At least most of them.”

It so happened that whenever he spent holidays with the Masterson family, Alice was—not so inconveniently—absent. He’d alternately longed for her company and been grateful for her absence.

“You see her, Exmoor, about as much as I see my brothers.” One was in university. The other newly out. Both were sowing their oats and experimenting with their late father’s title of rogue—as Denbigh once had.

What his own wild days had cost him…

Exmoor turned and looked squarely at him. His gaze pierced Denbigh’s.

For a moment, Denbigh believed the other man knew he stood here silently ruminating over Alice. After Denbigh’s brief stint as a rake, Exmoor made it all too clear—

“She is in London, Denbigh.”

A wave of relief hit him. Exmoor hadn’t caught on. “All the better. So, see her at your own time. She’ll pay you visits. She just doesn’t want to attend the—”

“She’s residing at the Devil’s Den and working there.”

Denbigh’s entire body jerked. His every muscle tautened and recoiled to the point of pain. “The Devil’s Den?”

Exmoor nodded.

Denbigh hadn’t even realized he’d spoken aloud.

Surely, Denbigh heard him wrong. Surely, surely, surely.

A thousand different surely’s . For surely , there was some explanation for why he’d heard what he’d heard because Exmoor simply couldn’t have stated that as a fact.

It had been a jest. Yet the gentleman’s deadly serious features confirmed there was no joke at play.

“Say something, Denbigh.”

Denbigh’s stomach churned until he thought he’d be sick. What the hell did Exmoor want him to say? “Working.” His voice emerged, strangled and distant to his own ears. Surely, Alice wasn’t employed at one of the most debauched gaming hells in London. “ Working ?”

Exmoor, as a protective older brother, would never force her into such a state. No, it didn’t make sense.

“She’s been commissioned to restore artwork at the club and create new pieces,” Exmoor said, his voice deadened. “She’s painting portraits of the Killorans and their family.”

All the air left Denbigh on a swift exhale through his tightly clenched teeth. “My God, man, how could you ?”

A flush instantly settled on Exmoor’s cheeks. “This was her choice.”

“Her choice? Her bloody choice?” Denbigh’s voice climbed. He stopped himself just before calling into question the man’s abilities as a brother. Only loyalty, fraternal loyalty, kept him from finishing his thoughts.

The marquess’s face grew even more strained.

“You said yourself that she’s spirited. She is also a grown woman and has made up her mind.

” Exmoor sounded tired, so very tired. “I have tried to convince her to return home. I have sent letters, but I cannot enter the club. Not without raising questions about my presence there. I need you to help me.”

Of course, Denbigh would do so. Surely that wasn’t in doubt?

“Nor am I worried about my reputation,” Exmoor continued. “But in my being there, it’d bring society’s attention to the place Alice currently resides and—”

Denbigh brushed that off. “You needn’t explain further.” He knew Exmoor well enough to know he’d not even let that be a consideration.

His mind still couldn’t fathom sweet, innocent Alice, living and working at that debauched club.

The other man misinterpreted the reason for Denbigh’s silence. “I wouldn’t ask unless—”

He hurried to reassure Exmoor. “I will go today. Immediately . I’ll bring her home. I’ll convince her to return.” And if that didn’t work, he’d throw the minx over his shoulder and haul her off. “You needn’t say anything more.”

Instead of relief, Exmoor’s features grew more strained. “It won’t be that easy.”

Knowing Alice—and know her he did, it certainly wouldn’t.

“She’ll require cajoling and convincing, Denbigh. She won’t be ordered about.”

A long-ago memory slid in; of Denbigh and Alice. One of his mousers had eight kittens. She’d insisted Denbigh not separate the mama from her babes and that he instead make them all pets. He’d laughed and declared he’d do so under no such circumstances.

More than a decade later, he still had all eight of those now-cats, who to this date enjoyed free roam of his country house in Somerset.

Denbigh found his first spot of amusement. “Yes. I’m very familiar with the lady’s stubborn ways,” he said, wistful over his recollection. “I know a thing or two about charming women. Even with your sister, I should have some success.”

His good humor instantly fled.

“…Laurence,” Alice gripped him by his lapels, and lifted pleading eyes to his. “I do not need a Season. I know who I want to marry. I know who I love. It is y—”

Denbigh swiftly closed the door on that always raw memory. He’d been such a fool…

He grunted. “I’ll convince Alice to return, Exmoor. She’ll be home before the night is through.” Guilt stabbed at his conscience. What if she still believed herself in love with him? What if…?

He swiftly thrust aside that irrational fear.

“She is no longer a girl, Denbigh.” Exmoor tortured him with a reminder Denbigh far from needed. Far from it. “She is a grown woman. If you believed her spirited then can you begin to fathom how she’s changed living at a naughty gaming hall? She is…”

As his friend went on to unknowingly torment Denbigh with all the ways Alice had likely been transformed, a long-buried, but still familiar secret came to life.

He yearned for his best friend’s sister.

It’d been a discovery made too late. Whereas Exmoor had followed a straight and narrow path his entire life, Denbigh, during university briefly travelled in his debauched father’s steps.

From drink, to women, to wagering, he’d wanted a taste at what the appeal was for the late earl.

Denbigh had convinced himself all men sowed their oats, but that hadn’t been true.

Exmoor hadn’t.

It mattered not that Denbigh had quickly gotten himself together. By then, the damage had been done.

When two or so years later he’d ‘jokingly’ put forward the idea of courting Alice, Exmoor’s deadly serious response killed that fleeting hope.

After she’d retired to the country, Denbigh convinced himself he’d torched his very own garden of Eden to the ground. Now as he listened to Alice’s brother speak, Denbigh’s hungering for the lady sprung from fertile ashes.

His was a sin far greater than the original one committed by Adam and Eve.

“I will be forever grateful, Denbigh,” Exmoor was saying, pulling Denbigh back to the moment and further twisting that blade of guilt. “There is no friend more loyal and honorable than you.”

The gentleman wouldn’t feel that way if he knew the thoughts filling my head…

Denbigh needed to put an immediate end to the undeserved praise being heaped on him. “Worry not. Yours is an easy ask and an even easier task.”

As obstinate as Alice was, he’d also managed to bring her around, more often than not.

Unlike before, relief had entered the other man’s tortured eyes, but so did a strong dose of skepticism.

Exmoor needn’t be skeptical. Denbigh was beyond certain. He’d have her ready to return home within an hour of their reunion.

And God help him when they were again living in the same world.