The Venetians by Mary Elizabeth Braddon

Vansittart had made up his mind. Were that which he accounted but a dark suspicion to be made absolute certainty he meant still to cleave to the girl whom he had chosen for his wife, and who had given him her whole heart. He would marry her, even although his hand had shed her brother's blood, that brother whom of all her kindred she loved best, with the romantic affection which clings round the image of a friend lost in childhood, when the feelings are warmest, and when love asks no questions.

Once, in the little room in Bruton Street, between two stolen kisses, he said to her, "You pretend to be very fond of me, Eve. I wonder whom you love next best?"