Page 16

S tanding in the well-lit, since-converted ballroom of his most recently purchased property—an expansive, standalone white stucco townhouse just on the edge of Mayfair—Denbigh rubbed the back of his neck.

He winced.

His muscles ached from having had his head down, positioned in a work posture, for weeks straight.

The venture he’d undertaken had been an ambitious one for a team of gentlemen taking on a project.

It had been even more of an undertaking for a single gentleman who had kept his ambitions and efforts a secret from society.

He’d not done what he had with the expectation or hope he might win Alice back, or, for that matter, even restore her trust in him, or gain forgiveness.

What the art school had given Denbigh, however, was purpose . He’d buried himself in a project that had been conceived with her in mind. In so doing, he had quit wallowing and lamenting and writing useless letters. He’d quit drinking.

He’d found purpose from her and because of her.

He’d gone with little sleep and even less food. He spent hours meeting with solicitors and his man of affairs, finalizing and cementing details.

He’d believed his work completely finished—until receiving a note from his man of affairs indicating Denbigh had one more matter of business to see to.

As such, he’d arrived at the requisite time, only to find himself waiting for his prodigiously efficient and usually punctual servant.

Denbigh consulted his timepiece, then stuffed the gold chain back inside his jacket pocket. He swapped it out instead for the turquoise ribbon that had previously held Alice’s letters together. Rather, his letters to Alice, the ones that had gone unopened and returned.

In the time since his duplicity had caused him a broken heart, a self-inflicted wound so grave as to never be recovered from, he’d actually come to find solace in the blue scrap that was fading with time.

He’d come to appreciate it in more ways than he ever had.

It was a piece of Alice he carried with him still.

As long as he had the scrap from long ago, he’d have something that she’d touched with her own fingers, reverently tied, and affixed to those boisterous curls.

There was solace in this. Having a piece of her still, though it was a small, insignificant material piece, was something of her, and he’d take anything he could get.

In the absence of his tardy man of affairs, Denbigh—ribbon in hand—took a slow walk about the studio, equipped to comfortably allow thirty artists space enough for them to each work on life-size canvases.

There had only been Alice whose advice he wished to have, but in the absence of that, he’d enlisted help from the Baroness Bolingbroke.

At first, when he’d arrived for an audience with the lady and presented himself for a meeting, she’d been coolly distant and rebuffed his attempts at an audience.

Why shouldn’t she have? Through familial connections, she was closely linked with proprietors of not only the Hell and Sin Club but also the Devil’s Den. Dynevor and Wakefield had made it their place to notify anyone they suspected Denbigh would reach out to in support of his suit for Alice.

In underestimating Denbigh’s character, they’d overestimated the lengths he would go to secure a meeting with Alice. And when he’d been adamant and clear that his venture and his role in it was to remain a secret to society, he’d easily secured the help.

The Baroness had provided different avenues for him to consider. She’d provided him with eight options and her opinions on each. Denbigh selected the largest, most elevated structure that was most exorbitant in price but in need of the least work.

He paused at the large north-facing windows and stared out. The property situated at the end of Charles Street, a solitary residence, provided the townhouse with expansive grounds and gardens that stretched for several miles.

The gardeners who tended the space put in by Capability Brown himself meticulously maintained the grounds.

The land possessed a hint of overgrown wildness, but upon closer inspection, the high hedges and carefully manicured London planes and tall English oaks were set off far-enough back and around the perimeter to keep out prying eyes.

There were gardens and graveled paths set off far enough from the property and the trees positioned in a way that did not obstruct sunlight to the residence.

Horse chestnut trees and sweet bays, along with roses and lilac and boxwoods and hydrangea, left the landscape a magnificent, bucolic place with which to provide serenity to thinkers and artists.

This particular art space, positioned at the north-facing windows as it was, allowed sunlight to be diffused and ensured consistent lighting and no impediment of shadows which would hinder artists’ drawings and paintings.

The equally high ceilings were conducive for large easels and canvases.

The open floor was of more than nearly one hundred feet long and some fifty feet wide.

The room had even been fashioned with a central dais, since converted to a model stand.

Alice would love it.

At least, that was what Lady Bolingbroke had assured him. Not the space was a gift, but rather, Alice and any artist would appreciate the room as an ideal art space.

Denbigh took in a shaky breath.

It was done. His venture.

That was if Alice ever opened his letter and decided to take over ownership of the establishment as he offered.

He’d made it clear that he didn’t desire to offer her the academy as a chore, but rather as a choice.

And if she was not interested and instead wished to remain employed by the Devil’s Den and reside there, she had absolutely no obligations to the venture he’d funded.

It would be privately managed by a board comprised of those he trusted and respected; among them would be Exmoor.

He’d sent that note to Alice days ago, and there’d still been no response.

His shoulders sagged.

Nor would there be.

“God, you have always been more headstrong than any girl who ever wore a bonnet,” he said, his voice hoarse from weeks without sleep. His laugh emerged rusty. “But then that is just one of the things I love about…”

Denbigh’s words trailed off as, from through the gleaming crystal windows, his gaze alighted on a delicate figure reflected behind him.

She’d discarded her cloak upon entrance. Whereas Dynevor kept Alice attired in drearily dark fabrics, the lady had arrived in a soft, floral pink-and-yellow patterned gown that put him in mind of a dress she’d worn long ago.

With his heart in his throat, Denbigh turned around slowly. He feared that if he moved too swiftly, she’d vanish like the cool morning mist.

It turned out, Denbigh needn’t move at all.

Alice glided towards him. More she floated like a benevolent specter; her steps as graceful and elegant and languid as the light steps of a delicate reel.

Then she stopped.

A ray of sunlight bathed the cherished lines of her delicate face. “You were saying?” Alice softly asked.

Denbigh tried to figure out what he’d been thinking before he’d caught her visage in the windowpanes, but came up empty.

Alice cocked her head. “That is one of the things you love about …?” she murmured.

“ Alice .” Her name came out all strangled.

My God, it was truly her.

“That is one of the things you love about Alice ?” She ventured with a teasing but also hopeful look in her eyes.

No. Surely, he merely saw the emotion he wished to see.

“Alice,” he breathed again, nothing more than her name.

He was more than half afraid he’d conjured her from his greatest dream, and in this plane, he wanted to exist forever, here and now.

The slight smile at the corners of her lips eased.

She is real. This is real.

Denbigh belatedly recalled what she’d said. Hers. It had been a greeting.

He found himself speaking quickly. “Your name…it was a greeting . Of sorts. On account of…” His words all rolled together into one. “My surprise at discovering you here, because I wasn’t expecting you.”

Denbigh grimaced. Bloody hell, here is where he wished he possessed a smooth tongue like the Dukes of Argyle, Rothesby and all the other rogues.

He rushed to explain, “Not that I wasn’t excited to see you, Alice, because I am. Very much so, just surprised…”

Alice touched a single gloveless index finger against his mouth.

“I was teasing, Laurence.” Her eyes and voice were so tender, so gentle, so… loving ? Or did he imagine that because he wanted to hear that emotion so desperately from her? For him .

Denbigh’s throat worked spasmodically. “I wasn’t sure if we were in a place where we’d tease one another ever again.”

His voice was as raspy as when he’d suffered a vicious throat infection as a child. There had been talks amongst his doctor and his father that he’d register while stirring in the throes of his illness, suspicions that he’d not make the night and would die, a mere lad of ten. His mother had wept.

His father had been perturbed but grateful that he had two other sons to fill his place.

As for Denbigh? He’d been so very fearful about dying and missing the rest of his life. Now, with Alice before him, Denbigh appreciated just how tragic it would’ve been to depart this earth without ever having known her .

They spoke at the same time.

“I—”

“I—”

Filled with arrestive desperation, Denbigh didn’t even attempt to do the gentlemanly thing and let her go first.

“But it was true, Alice. Your indomitable spirit is one of those things I love about you. There are so many of them.” He murmured that last part to himself.

She’d come here for a reason that likely wasn’t him waxing on about her. It suggested he was attempting to sway her and persuade her to forgive him and give him a chance to love her.

“Forgive me, you clearly came for a reason. I take it you read my note.”

That could be the only way that she was here at this very place even now.

Alice nodded in confirmation.

“I was expecting my man of affairs.”

“Yes, I know,” she murmured. “I asked him to arrange a meeting for us here.”

His loyal man of affairs had carefully left out that important detail. Then it hit him…

Denbigh quietly cursed. “Forgive me.”

Alice stared at him askance.

“I’d made it clear to Bishop that he was to deal directly with you were you to ever contact him. I will speak with him about the transgression and make sure it will never happen again.”

His chest aching, Denbigh took a hasty step to leave. He’d made it less than half a pace when Alice inserted herself directly in his path.

“I didn’t come here to see Bishop,” she said frantically. “I came to see you.”

“Me,” he repeated.

The lump in his throat moved up and down wildly again. He held himself motionless, awaiting the confirmation of something to be true.

Alice nodded.

And as he’d spent far too much time talking and failing to listen, he respected her right to speak.

Except, she didn’t speak. Alice, drifted close, leaned up on tiptoe, wrapped her arms about his neck, and kissed him. While she kissed him, tenderly touching her mouth to his, he hovered with his arms outstretched on either side of him, in prayer, in supplication, in surrender.

“I love you, Laurence. I always have,” she breathed against his lips.

A sheen misted his eyes. He waited for her to speak—only… she stared expectantly at him.

“Is there a but in there?” Fear lent a warbly quality to his halting query.

Alice dusted a tear from his cheek. He’d never cried before now. And he didn’t care. He’d have her see all of him. He’d never again hide his emotions from her.

“I was furious that you were not honest with me,” she said softly.

“I kn—” His voice broke. “I know,” he said when he was able to fully speak.

Then he groaned and buried his mouth against hers, kissing her with all he was and all the love he’d carried for her.

“I love you,” he rasped.

Panting, Alice returned his kisses with a matched passion. “You love me?”

“How could you not know?” he asked.

He brought a hand up between them for her to see.

Alice’s eyes went to the turquoise ribbon. Her lush lips wet from his kiss parted. Her passion-filled gaze moved from Denbigh to the old scrap and then back again to him.

Her breathy exhalations of desire blended with joyous wonder. “My ribbon,” she whispered.

Denbigh joined their fingers around the satin strip. “I have fought myself for so long, denying what I want, but you are like breath, air to my lungs. You are the reason my heart beats and the blood flows in my veins.”

Moaning his name, Alice gripped Denbigh hard by his nape, and attempted to force his mouth to hers.

It took every bit of restraint, but he managed to turn from her volatile kiss.

Alice cried out. “Why did you stop?”

Denbigh dropped to his knees and lovingly took her hands in his and brought them to his mouth. He dropped a kiss upon the tops of each knuckle, lifting his gaze to her slightly dazed one, and asked her the only question he wanted, putting one final plea to her.

“Please, marry me, Alice. Let me spend every single moment of every single day making you smile and laugh and making Laurel happy too.”