Page 9

A memory rose up of when she’d been sixteen and attempted to teach him how to sketch.

She positioned herself behind him, took his arm, and proceeded to guide him through the motions.

It had been the first time he’d been unable to deny his desire for her, and shortly after, she’d declared her love for him.

It had been unpardonable that he had encouraged her so.

“You always teased me about my sketches and painting,” she chidingly reminded him.

“Oh, yes. We both were very good at that.”

“We still are,” she rejoined.

“May I join you while you paint?”

“You may,” she said.

And with that, she danced over to those art supplies she’d always been a master at manipulating.

Loosening his cravat, he headed to the foot of his bed and sat.

He watched her as she worked. The quiet wasn’t the uncomfortable sort.

There was a gulf of time between them, and so many stories and memories, but the comfortable companionship proved a welcome nest upon which they perched.

Denbigh watched her, and as he did, time slipped by. Seconds turned to minutes and minutes into who knew how long. So, when Alice lowered her palette and brush and reached up to rub the sore muscles of her neck, an hour or a lifetime could have passed.

The glow from the hearth and lit sconces bathed her mesmerizing features in a soft light.

Then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, she came and joined him at the foot of the bed. She plopped herself down gracelessly. And yet as her delicate form bounced slightly, it somehow exuded a grace with it, too.

Denbigh turned his head. There were so many questions he had, but one more important than any other. “What is she like?”

Denbigh possessed an overwhelming urge and need to know about this little human born of Alice, and in her image.

Alice didn’t pretend to misunderstand.

“She loves to be around people. And she is a master at charming all the staff, especially those in the kitchen. They insist on giving Laurel her favorite treats, even when she doesn’t want them.”

Denbigh hung on her every word, swallowing up each intimate detail she imparted like the gifts they were.

“Laurel loves to draw and paint,” Alice said. “and she has a special fondness for depicting animals.”

“Ahh,” he said with a lift of his head. “She a mix of her mama and her aunt.”

“Oh, she is all Elsbeth.” Alice laughed. “Laurel only inherited my love of art.”

He’d spent just a short time with Laurel, but even that’d been enough to realize she was just like her mama.

The happy color faded from her cheeks, and she looked down with somber eyes at her lap.

“You miss your family,” he murmured.

Alice managed a jerky nod. “Of course, I d-do,” she said huskily.

Studying her intently as he did, he easily caught the tear she dusted away with the pad of her thumb.

His heart broke and bled.

“Oh, Alice,” he groaned.

With that, he pulled her into his arms, and it was as though, in holding her, he freed her.

Alice curled herself into him, gripped the front of his shirt, climbed onto his lap, and sobbed. She cried big, noisy, deep, heaving gasps of air, sobbing what must surely be more than a lifetime’s worth of misery and loneliness.

Squeezing his eyes shut tight to keep from joining in, Denbigh buried his nose against the top of her head and clung as hard as he could.

Maybe if he held her tighter, he’d stop from splintering apart.

Her grief was his grief and threatened to upend him.

She cried and cried and through it, he continued to hold her, conferring his warmth.

Giving her the support she’d been so desperately in need of and would have once again, he vowed, until it appeared she’d cried the last of her tears. They faded into a watery hiccough.

Denbigh continued to hold her. He eased away some but retained his grip. All the while he held her, he lightly stroked the back of her head.

“I’ve missed you,” she whispered.

His heart froze. It thumped and not in an uncomfortable way.

“I’ve missed my brother and my sister and my mother. I miss Caroline. I hate that I’ve never met their child or that our children do not know one another.”

He moved his lips against her temple and placed a gentle kiss there.

“Better?” he breathed.

Alice gave a wobbly nod. In his arms, she went still at the exact moment his body became granite.

The air crackled and simmered and sizzled around them, coming alive all at once with a new energy. A volatile one, throbbing with a whisper of desire and the forbidden.

His throat grew suddenly thick. And the reminder of their one almost embrace came to life in his memory. Not an almost embrace. It had been a kiss. He’d blocked it from his remembrances. He wanted to kiss her more than he ever had.

“Alice,” he said.

His voice garbled, he confessed, “I can’t…set you away. I want to…kiss you.”

Alice lifted her head and tipped her eyes back to his. The long ends of her lashes fluttered. The sough of her breath came quick and warm against his lips.

With that, all sense was forgotten.

“I am lost,” he groaned.

“You’ve always been contrary,” Alice moaned. “For I am found.”

With that admission, the world melted away and from its remains sprung a long-suppressed desire he’d carried forever for this woman.

Their mouths found each other. Even as Denbigh cupped a hand about her nape and angled her head, she caught him by his neck and drew him closer so their mouths melded as one.

He kissed her over and over. He savored her lips.

He cherished them first with gentle meetings.

She deserved to know the way he’d once wanted to initiate her.

And then, with every breathy moan and soft plea and escaping sigh, he deepened his strokes.

With his opposite hand, he used his thumb and forefinger to coax her lips apart.

And she immediately granted him entry. She greeted him warmly and enthusiastically.

They tangled with their tongues. His flesh and hers, a heated brand that they touched to one another’s, leaving each other’s mark, so this kiss could be imprinted upon, not only their flesh, but their very minds and souls and entire spirits.

“You are so perfect, Alice.”

“ Laurence ,” breathed Alice in between their kiss.

“I have wanted to kiss you forever,” he confessed at long last.

He’d denied that truth from even her.

Alice gasped, moaning. She tipped her head back and bared her neck to his worship. He complied, sliding a trail of light bites and kisses and licks until he found the place where her pulse was pounding for him.

He needed her. He needed her forever. One kiss would never be enough. Panting, Denbigh filled his hand with her lush breast.

She gasped through the fabric of her uniform. He ran his thumb along the pebbled peak of the mound.

Alice gasped. Catching his hand between hers, she pressed his palm against her flesh and anchored him there. Kissing her mouth once more, he massaged and molded the soft, supple flesh, learning the texture and feel of her.

“Oy! Thought you weren’t keeping rooms here.”

Denbigh and Alice broke apart.

Alice, with a gasp—this one of shock and horror—jumped to her feet, leaving Denbigh angrily digesting that the Earl of Dynevor had interrupted a moment that had been forever in the making.

The head of the club glared darkly, not at Alice, but, rightfully so, at Denbigh.

“Alice, see yourself out,” the Earl of Dynevor ordered.

A black curtain of rage fell blindingly across Denbigh’s eyes at the jaded young pup’s familiar use of Alice’s Christian name. At the bastard ordering her about and at the speed with which she hastened off like she was some servant.

“Alice, you’re not going to be ordered about,” Denbigh called after her.

She paused and glanced back. The look in her eyes told a different tale than the book he was reading from.

“I have to go,” she mouthed.

Then without another look back, she departed. The door closed with a slight click, and Denbigh and Dynevor were alone.

It wouldn’t do to anger the irascible earl more than Denbigh already had.

“You needn’t worry, Dynevor,” he said as soon as Alice left. “The lady and I have history together. We are family—”

Dynevor cut him off. “Do ye go about snogging your own sisters and cousins like that?”

Heat climbed Denbigh’s neck. He had no sisters, but the other man’s point was clear.

The younger earl continued with his advantage over an off-balance Denbigh. “And I know who you are. I know your history together.”

Dynevor leveled him with an all-knowing death stare. “Just as I know what brought you here, Denbigh. I’m aware of what’s going on between you and Wakefield.”

The tall, athletically built younger man took a swaggering step closer. “Now, let me share some helpful information with you . Alice has made a life here. And if you ruin it, you’ll not only have her wrath, you’ll have mine as well.”

Denbigh sharpened his gaze on the ruthless proprietor. The street-raised nobleman’s devotion to Alice sent that dark serpent of jealousy slithering down Denbigh’s spine. “You strike me as especially devoted to Lady Alice.”

“I am.” Lord Dynevor flashed a smug grin and Denbigh’s fingers twitched with the hungering to haul back and plant him a bloody facer. That false expression of amusement faded as quick as it’d come. “Make no mistake, Denbigh, I ensure my people are safe…and Alice is one of my people.”

“The hell she is, Dynevor,” he said on an icy whisper.

Dynevor drew his jacket back enough to reveal the jewel-studded dagger sheathed there along with a gun.

“You think I’m afraid of you?” Denbigh sneered. “Because I am not.”

“You should be,” Dynevor snarled. “If you knew what was good for you.”

“I’m here for Alice. I’m here because I care about her, and her family cares about her.”

“If you cared about her, you’d respect and honor her decision. But you know that it’s not about what Alice wants. It’s about what you want and what her family wants.”

And with that unerringly accurate barb leveled, the Earl of Dynevor saw himself out.