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L ord help him, Denbigh was going to hell.

And as he made love to Alice’s mouth and ran his hands over her supple frame, learning the feel of her, he couldn’t sort out which was the greatest of his sins.

The woman whom he’d fallen in love with being the sister of his best friend.

Or the fact that he’d come here on a lie to this woman, whom he’d yearned for, and yes, loved, far longer than he should have.

Denbigh slid his fingers through her short gold-blonde curls, teasing the strands, remembering the feel of her, and luxuriating in the feel of them. “God, you are so beautiful, Alice. I have missed you,” he rasped against her mouth.

She answered by moaning softly and opening her mouth for him. He didn’t claim her; he conquered her as he longed to. He thrust his tongue inside, and she was there to boldly thrust and parry against him. Their breaths, ragged and discordant, came in some kind of earthy symphony.

Denbigh dug his fingertips into the soft curve of her hip, sinking them in and massaging. He clenched and unclenched his fingers against her. “I know this is wrong, Alice,” he said between kisses. “But I have always had feelings for you.”

Her eyes, clouded and dazed with passion, struggled to lock on his face.

A question quivered on her full, trembling lips, damp from his attentions and slick from his mouth.

In her heated gaze, she tried to make sense of what it was he was saying.

He’d fought it so long, the truth came tumbling out, and it was as though it set them both free.

He expected he should be more terrified and horrified, but instead, there was a sense of absolute rightness.

He’d fought his longing and love for her so long, he’d convinced himself it was the honorable thing to do.

But what did it cost him? What did it cost both of them?

That is, assuming she feels for you everything you feel for her .

All he knew was that he’d fought it for so long and denied himself that which he’d wanted, the only thing that he wanted—her.

And he’d been miserable for it. It was time for honesty.

And he’d have a future with her if she’d allow him.

Her and her daughter. Yes, he’d come here on a lie.

That would have to be something he owned up to and confessed, but surely, she could forgive him.

He told himself that, all the while he moved a path of kisses down the curve of her jaw.

He moved down to worship her neck in that way he’d learned only just days ago that she so loved.

Denbigh guided the neckline of her dress down, easing the modest blue dress enough so that the tops of her breasts were exposed.

Then he laid gentle, worshipful kisses on those generous swells.

Alice let loose a long, torture-filled moan. Tangling her fingers in his hair, she gripped him hard, anchoring him close, and he learned something new about Alice—how much she enjoyed him teasing, kissing, and playing with that flesh.

Stop this. Stop until all the truths are out.

But Denbigh was the worst of sinners. He ignored his conscience and the voice of reason on his shoulder railing at him to stop. She deserved honesty. She’d not had it with the bounder who’d broken her heart and left her in the most fragile state.

I am different though. I will give her my name. I will give her my heart. I will give her my everything.

Alice tugged the rest of her neckline down, so that her breasts were fully exposed to his worship and gaze.

Then, her head bent down, looking upon him like the queen she was, the most gracious benefactress, she took his head between her hands and guided his mouth to the pebbled peak of her right breast.

I am lost.

His heart hammered, his breathing grew harsher and raspier, and he opened his mouth, then closed his lips around the turgid flesh and suckled.

He sucked and teased and lightly nipped, grazing his teeth along the sensitive flesh.

Alice cried out.

Her legs seemed to give out from under her, and she sank onto the edge of his mattress. He instantly fell at her feet and continued his adulation.

He wanted her more than he’d ever wanted any woman in his life.

He craved her and hungered for her in this moment of passion, more than his lungs craved the very air he breathed.

To stop would be to nearly kill him. But to continue, when not all the truths were known, would absolutely kill him—and certainly shatter her trust in him.

It took every ounce of strength within his body to stop.

But somehow, he found the strength to do so.

With a shuddery, shaky breath, he placed one last kiss upon the peak of each breast. His was a regret-filled apology, as he knew from the way her body quivered and the moans coming from her lips just how badly she craved this.

He looked up. Alice stared up at him with wide, half-crazed, and confused eyes. “Why did you stop?” she whispered, her chest rising and falling so quickly that each great gasping breath she took, drew Denbigh’s scoundrel’s gaze to the creamy white flesh.

Closing his eyes, he fought back a groan. “I can’t do this, Alice,” he said achingly. “We can’t do this.”

Alice’s eyes grew more desperate. “Yes, we can. You’re worried because of my brother.”

No, actually, this was the first time he hadn’t thought of Exmoor.

Reluctantly, he drew her dress back into place.

Alice must have seen something in his eyes.

“What is it?” she asked, running her gaze frantically over his face.

When she tried to stand, he urged her to remain seated and stayed on his knees.

“Alice, I have a confession to make.”

You mean you have two confessions to make. You should start with the obvious one. But you are a coward, and you are a terrible, deplorable gentleman.

And he was. For he took the coward’s way out.

Alice stared at him, then nodded slowly. “Yes?” she said.

“I have wanted you for longer than I can say. Longer than will ever be deemed respectable or appropriate or honorable.” All the words came tumbling from him, the secrets he’d kept from everyone, burying them so deep that he hid them even from himself. No longer.

“I told myself I had no right to you, Alice,” he said gutturally. “You are Exmoor’s sister,” he said. A sharp, pained laugh exploded from his tightly constricted lungs. “I mean, what kind of bastard yearns for his best friend’s younger sister?”

The very worst kind. I am the worst. And I don’t even give a shite about Exmoor. I care about all the times I haven’t been honest with Alice—especially now.

Alice’s fingertips lightly caressed his cheek and chin as she guided his face up to hers. “You… yearn for me?” she breathed unsteadily.

He nodded shakily. “I have fought it for so long. That day you told me how you felt? I lied to you. And worse, I lied to myself. I pushed you away, and I have regretted it since. But I want you in my life, Alice. I always have. I am done fighting it.”

With a shattered cry, half-laugh, half-sob, Alice threw her arms around him and squeezed tight. His arms found their way around her, and he gripped her, holding her so close he had to make himself relax his hold so he didn’t hurt her.

“But Alice, there is something—”

“There’s something Denbigh has got to be telling you.”

Denbigh stiffened. This meeting felt all too familiar to the first one the young, cocksure, arrogant bastard had interrupted.

This one, for all the similarities and sameness of the place, and the loathing in the other man’s tone and gaze, felt decidedly more ominous and permanent.

His gaze moved to the man accompanying Dynevor—the Earl of Wakefield.

His stomach sank. No .

“What is it?” Alice asked tremulously, looking from her employer to Lord Wakefield’s unexpected presence and then back to Denbigh.

“Yes,” Dynevor said, confirming he’d spoken aloud.

Please don’t do this. Not here, not like this. Those pleas ran through his head. The look in Wakefield’s eyes told him everything he needed to know.

No, no, please.

“I didn’t like it when you were here, playing games with Alice,” the Earl of Dynevor said in low, warning tones. The young man narrowed his dangerous eyes. “But now you’ve involved the lady’s daughter, and that’s where I draw the bloody line.”

“What is he talking about, Laurence?” Alice asked tremulously, looking around the room.

“Alice.” Denbigh’s voice emerged as a strained croak.

But he couldn’t give her any more than that.

God help him. He was going to lose her. And here he thought he’d never have her, only to find he’d been this close to allowing himself that which he’d always wanted—a future with her.

With his duplicity, with his lack of being forthright and honest with her, he’d lose her. He didn’t doubt it.

His heart was breaking and splintering and making it impossible for him to stand upright, let alone function.

“I brought Wakefield here too because he has something he wants to share or confess.”

Denbigh got to his feet and stood absolutely stiff; his muscles strained so tight they felt on the verge of breaking.

Wakefield’s expression was strained, and the look in his eyes conveyed more of an apology than any words the other men spoke. Not that they were deserved or needed. He did wrong by not being up front and honest with Alice. These sins belonged to Denbigh.

“Tell her, Wakefield,” Dynevor demanded.

The Earl of Wakefield’s features grew strained, and when he began to speak, his voice emerged hesitantly. Reluctantly.

“ Tell her !” Dynevor barked.

Denbigh closed his eyes. “I will,” he said, his voice thick. “If I may have a moment alone with Lady Ali—”

Dynevor snorted. “I don’t think so. You lost that opportunity.”

“Tell me what?” Alice’s voice came weak and distant to his own ears. When no one immediately answered her, she repeated herself in a thready, high-pitch. “Tell me what ?”

Unfortunately, Dynevor spoke for him. “Has Denbigh here happened to mention that your running into him here was no coincidence?”

Denbigh’s eyes slid shut. I’m going to be ill .

The Earl of Dynevor’s damning revelations kept coming.

“That Denbigh coordinated here with my proprietor and partner, Lord Wakefield, to coordinate your running into one another on behalf of—”

No .

“No,” Alice echoed Denbigh’s silent plea.

“The lady’s brother, the Marquess of Exmoor. So that he could convince you to return ‘home to polite society.’”

Alice’s body jerked like she’d been struck. But then in a way, he knew it was certainly greater than any physical blow she could have been dealt. She’d been betrayed by another man. Lied to.

And I have done just that to her .

“Alice,” Denbigh entreated. He took a step closer with his hands held out in supplication.

Alice stared vacantly with empty eyes. “Is this true?” she whispered, her voice quivering with a plea.

“I—”

“Is it true?” Alice repeated, this time her voice rang out as a cry echoing around the room in the walls of his breaking heart.

“Yes, Alice,” he confessed, his voice cracking. “But I need you to know everything else, everything I said here today all these days, was true—” He held out a hand toward her.

Alice slapped it away.

Her rejection hit like a poison arrow that had landed square on his heart. “You lied to me!” she cried.

He flinched. But he didn’t deny it. He couldn’t deny it.

“Get out,” the Earl of Dynevor commanded. “You’re not allowed here. Consider your membership revoked.”

He had wronged her, and yet he couldn’t leave. Not like this. He couldn’t be turned away. If he were, he’d never see her again. It would be the end of them, this time forever.

“Alice, I’m not going. Not unless you’re willing to hear me out. Say you’ll hear me out. I’ll only go, Dynevor, if she orders me gone.”

“What’ll it be, Alice?” the younger earl put to Alice.

Denbigh kept his pleading gaze on Alice, willing her to see his love, willing her to give him those minutes he asked for, just so he could attempt to beg forgiveness.

Alice looked away.

And Denbigh’s soul died inside.

She’d decided.

“You have your answer, Denbigh,” Dynevor said. “Now go.”

He had his answer.

She was lost to him.

This time, forever.