Page 68 of A Virgin for the Duke of Thorns

As she lay there, she thought of the events of the past week—from their very first meeting up to when he pulled her close to him in the ballroom just a few hours earlier.

Mine, he had called her, and it had thrilled her endlessly.

But for all that Ethan told her that she was someone Colin had needed all his life, he had never told her that. He did say he wanted her. He had shown her as much.

But was it enough for him to do the right thing and make their fake betrothal a real one? Alice was not so sure.

All she knew was that this could not carry on any longer. This push and pull between them, this fierce yearning in the face of his cool aloofness—it was simply setting the stage for a great heartache.

She could rush headlong into everything and pray for the best, but she knew that she could not carry on pretending anymore. Lying had never been her strongest suit. She had even told Colin that she was an awful liar.

She sat back up, her hands balling into fists.

No more.

Colin might enjoy this little game between them, but Alice knew that she could not hold on any longer. If he was not going to break this farce between them, then she would.

What if he tells everyone that I was the one who wanted to climb into his bed? That I was the one who sneaked into the Blackthorn Estate?

She shook her head at that. If he had no evidence of that encounter, then she could simply deny it.

Deny, deny, deny.

What she could not deny was the turmoil that she now found herself in—that she had no wish to endure for much longer.

Quietly, she got out of bed and slipped her feet into the silken slippers that had been set aside for her use. She took one of the candles and slowly opened her door. The hallway stretched before her, dark and empty. If she blew out the candle, she would not be able to see much of anything.

Would it be safer, then, to hurry over to Colin under the cover of near-complete darkness?

Her hands were shaking so badly that she nearly dropped her candle as she raised one hand to knock softly on his door. Before her fist could fall on the smooth wood, however, the door suddenly swung open, and she felt herself being pulled inward. In the slight scuffle, the fragile dancing flame of her candle was snuffed out, plunging the hallway into darkness.

“Where have you been, little lamb? I have been waiting for you…”

His voice, warm and dark and rich, slid over her senses, and she shivered a little. She raised her hands up to brace herself and found her palms pressing against his warm, solid chest.

She frowned. “We need to talk.”

He pulled away from her, his dark eyebrows snapping together. His earlier smirk was gone, and in its place, his mouth was pressed into a grim line.

“About what?” he asked flatly.

She shook her head, stepping away from him, away from the maddening effect he had on her. She stretched her arm out, keeping him at a distance, but she knew it was not enough.

It would never be enough.

There was no place far enough from him where she could escape the torment he brought her.

“About our betrothal,” she whispered brokenly. “Our fake betrothal.”

His expression cooled, his eyes becoming like dark chips of ice. “What about it?”

“We have to end it,” she told him. “I… It is only hurting us both, and I cannot stay like this any longer!”

The last few words came out in a rush, bringing with them all the tense longing and unfulfilled wishes of her heart. She looked up at him, and the shuttered look in his eyes stabbed her chest much more painfully than any dagger could.

“You are right,” he said in a cool voice. “We are far too different to suit each other.”

She wanted to yell and contradict him. To tell him that even if they were as different as night and day, she yearned for him as much as the darkness yearned for the light. That she would dance too close to the sun for him if he could reciprocate even a tenth of that longing.

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