Chapter Eight
January 2, 11:30 p.m.
Ethan stood at the drawing-room door, a small smile curving his lips as the faint scent of singed wool reached his nose.
Six burn holes in the drawing-room carpet. His great-great grandfather, who by all accounts had been a curmudgeonly sort, must be rolling about in his grave. But mishaps were inevitable when one truly lived in a house, weren’t they? Smashed crystal, smeared jam, bedsheets ruined by spilt milk, burned carpets . . .
As recently as two days ago, he wouldn’t have believed it possible he could stand in this doorway and see anything but a room haunted by ghosts and still echoing with past tragedies, but here he stood, a reluctant smile on his lips, and only a single thought was running through his mind.
Raisins. Bloody raisins, of all things.
He still hadn’t made his peace with this house. Forgiveness, redemption—they couldn’t be found in a mere few weeks—maybe not even in a lifetime. He might never be able to look into the music room without seeing his mother at the pianoforte, or stand at the top of the main staircase without thinking of Andrew’s death.
But that wasn’t all he saw. Not anymore.
Fiery raisins, children shrieking, punch spilled all over his boots, and blue flames . . .
Blue flames flickering over the most beautiful face I’ve ever seen.
Twelfth Night was three days away. In four days, the servants would begin gathering up all the pieces of Cleves Court. They’d pack it all into crates, stack the crates in rows in the attics, and cover the furniture with sheets. A handful of days after that, he’d return to London, pick up the broken threads of his life, and it would be as if these few weeks in Cornwall had never happened.
It was what he’d come for—to see the doors of this house locked behind him, never to be opened again. To shroud his memories along with every hulking piece of furniture, and see every silver spoon and crystal goblet packed away, never to be used again. To see this house crumbled into dust, and all his ghosts flattened under the rubble. That was what he’d wanted.
What he still wanted. A part of him was still frantic to escape this place, as much as he ever had been, and yet . . .
He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t walk away. Not because he wanted to stay, but because he couldn’t bear to leave.
For the first in his life, something else was more important to him than escaping.
Someone else.
The truth had been hovering on the edge of his consciousness for days, waiting for him to acknowledge it, and now Ethan let out a long breath, and let it come.
He was still in love with Thea. He’d loved her from the moment his lips met hers when they were fourteen years old, and he’d never stopped.
Neither of them had expected that kiss to happen. It had been early in the morning after one of his mother’s Christmas Eve parties, with the rest of the family still abed, and the house dark and silent. They’d tip-toed downstairs on their way to the kitchen to search for leftover sweets, but they’d never made it.
They’d only made it as far as the kissing ball hanging from the chandelier in the entryway. Ethan had stopped, and without thinking about it or questioning it, he’d rested his hands on Thea’s shoulders, leaned toward her, and touched his lips to hers. She’d tasted of cinnamon and sugar, and he’d felt her lips curve into a smile under his, and that’s when he knew that kiss between them was as inevitable as the sun rising in the sky.
They’d both been waiting for that kiss to happen, holding their breath for it.
It was soft, innocent—sweet in the way only an adolescent kiss could be, but even at that tender age the love between them was boundless, infinite. He’d felt it in every part of his body, deep in his chest, and he’d never been the same.
He loved her still. He couldn’t remember a time when he hadn’t loved her, and Cleves Court and Thea, they were a part of each other. He couldn’t have one without the other, and he wanted her too much to let her go.
She deserved better than him—better than a selfish earl who cursed too much, demanded fresh apple tarts each morning, detested partridges and pear trees, and who’d just yesterday taught two ten-year-old boys the word courtesan.
Thea deserved everything, and God knew he couldn’t offer her that, but he could promise to try and leave his ghosts behind. To be the best man he knew how to be. To love her, always, and for her sake to try and love Cleves Court again.
He couldn’t do it without her. Since he’d arrived here, he’d done everything he could to keep her near, because when Thea was there, there wasn’t as much room for the dark thoughts that threatened to smother him at every moment. The pain and guilt were no match for her smile, her saucy tongue, her vanilla scent that made him want to taste every inch of her sweet skin.
He couldn’t bear for her to spend another minute believing he would take everything she loved away from her, but as he made his way down the hallway and into the entryway, he found the house dark and silent. It was late, past midnight. She would be in bed by now. He couldn’t just show up outside the door of her bedchamber and beg her to listen to him.
Could he? If he did, would she let him in?
His body leapt to attention at the thought of being alone with Thea in the darkness of her bedchamber, with her in only a dressing-gown, her long dark hair tumbling about her shoulders. He’d bury his face in that fragrant hollow between her breasts, and inhale that delicious scent that clung to her.
Jesus, he could smell it now, vanilla and cinnamon . . .
It took a moment before he realized the scent wasn’t just a fantasy. The delicious aroma of baked apples and cinnamon was wafting into the entryway from the kitchens below.
Thea was still awake, and she was baking.
He took the stairs two at a time, but he approached the kitchen quietly, so he could watch her for a moment before she realized he was there.
But this time she glanced up as soon as he reached the doorway. “Good evening, Lord Devon.”
Lord Devon? Ethan raised an eyebrow at her formal address. Was she angry at him? He hadn’t been down to the kitchens for the past few days, because he couldn’t be near her while he tried to sort through his conflicting feelings about Cleves Court. He couldn’t think when she was close. She was too tempting, and he wanted her too much. He’d needed to make his decision alone, so he could be sure of himself when he came to her.
And now he was.
“Good evening, Miss Sheridan. Up late again, I see.” He tried not to smile when he noticed the smudge of flour on her cheek.
I want to kiss it off.
But Thea didn’t look as if she were in the proper mood to receive a kiss from him, and since he had no intention of leaving this kitchen without kissing her, he’d have to tease her into a better one. “Don’t say that wretched earl has you up this late making tarts?”
He crossed the room, but this time he didn’t keep his distance. He didn’t stop until he was right next to her, facing her with his back against her work table, so close he could reach out, wrap his hands around her waist, pull her to him, and bury his face in her neck.
“No.” She didn’t look up from her work, but she edged toward the other end of the table, putting some distance between them. “I couldn’t sleep, that’s all.”
He followed her. “Ah. Is something on your mind? Perhaps I can help.”
She muttered something under her breath. He didn’t quite catch it, but it was something about infuriating earls who disappear for days on end.
She was angry at him. God, he loved that she’d missed him, and he was more than ready to show her how much he’d missed her. A bit too ready, in fact.
“I beg your pardon, Miss Sheridan. I didn’t hear you.”
“I said it’s nothing that would interest you.”
She turned her back on him, but it didn’t help, because within seconds he was mesmerized by the tiny bow at the small of her back where she’d tied her apron strings. Good Lord, it was the most alluring thing he’d ever seen. All he could think about was tugging it loose.
“Everything you think and do interests me, Miss Sheridan.”
He meant every word, but she snorted as if that were the most ridiculous thing she’d ever heard. “Is that so? Well, I confess I never would have guessed it from your behavior, Lord Devon.”
“It’s to be Lord Devon tonight, is it?” He reached out to tweak her bow, unable to resist. “If I didn’t know myself to be utterly innocent of any wrongdoing, I might suspect you were cross with me, Miss Sheridan.”
“Innocent? Tonight when I tucked him into bed, Henry asked me what a courtesan does. I suppose he pulled that word right out of the air, didn’t he, my lord?”
Ethan smothered a laugh. “Very well, then. I’m not innocent of any wrongdoing. But surely it’s a good thing for the boy to have such a natural curiosity about language?”
Thea slammed the dough she’d been working down onto her work table. “It’s not language he’s curious about!”
“Perhaps not. Did you tell him?”
She frowned. “Tell him what?”
“What a courtesan does, of course.” He teased two fingers into the loop of her bow and tugged again, trying to draw her closer.
She slapped his hand away. “No! I most certainly did not. I told him to go to sleep at once, and do you know what he said to that?”
Oh, Ethan could imagine. Thea had been right about those children all along—despite their fiendish tendencies, each of them had a sharp intelligence, as well as a certain heathenish charm. “No. Tell me.”
“He said it was no matter whether I told him or not, because if I wouldn’t, he’d just ask his lordship tomorrow morning!”
Ethan didn’t even try to stifle his mirth this time, but threw his head back and laughed. “Is that why you’re cross with me? Because of George and Henry?” It didn’t seem the right time to mention he’d been trying to win Martha over with promises to teach her how to shoot a pistol.
“I’m not cross.” Thea skirted around the side of her work table, careful not to touch him, and went to retrieve a sack of flour by the door. “I can’t imagine why you think I would be, Lord Devon.”
Ethan followed, took the sack of flour from her and brought it to her work table. “Because you keep calling me Lord Devon. I don’t like it. I want you to call me Ethan.”
“Why should I? All the servants call you Lord Devon.”
“Ah, but I don’t think of you as a servant, Miss Sheridan.” She was the woman he was madly in love with, and while there may be some circumstances in which he’d like to hear her whisper your lordship in his ear, this wasn’t one of them.
Yet.
“You’re the only one who calls me Ethan anymore, you know.”
Thea had begun to measure out the flour, but she paused at that. “No one? Not even your friends in London?”
“No, not since I became the earl. They all call me Devon now.”
“Well, you are the earl, my lord, and as you’ve made a point of reminding me of that more than once since your return, I think it’s only proper for me to call you Lord Devon.”
He cocked his head, considering her. “Why does it sound as if you’re trying not to laugh every time you call me by my title?”
She gave a dismissive sniff, but a blush stained her cheeks. “How absurd. I don’t have the faintest idea what you mean . . . Lord Devon.”
She couldn’t quite disguise the trace of laughter in her voice as his title slipped off her tongue, and his lips curved in a wry half-smile “Oh, but I think you do. I think you know precisely what I mean, and I’ll have it at once, even if I have to do something wicked to get it out of you.”
Thea looked into his eyes, and whatever she saw there made hers go wide. “No. I won’t tell you. It may offend your lordship’s dignity.”
He crooked a finger at her. “Come now. I insist on having the reason, Miss Sheridan, and in case you’ve forgotten, I’m a terribly important earl now, and like most earls, I must have my way in all things.”
Her lips twitched with suppressed mirth. “But I’m afraid you won’t like it, my lord. It’s quite shocking.”
“Shocking? That sounds promising.” His gaze dropped to that tiny smile curving her mouth, and his voice lowered to a rasp. “Do you truly think you can shock me, Miss Sheridan? Why don’t we see? Tell me your secret, and I’ll tell you if I’m shocked.”
Thea’s flush deepened, but now she was biting her lip to hide her grin. “You were an incorrigible tease as a boy, too, but very well, since you insist. It, ah . . . well, it involves wet nightclothes, you see, and . . . and bare skin.”
Bare skin? Dear God, he hoped she was referring to her bare skin. “I’m not sure what this has to do with my title, but I no longer care.” He grinned down at her. “Tell me more about the wet nightclothes and the bare skin.”
“Well, it’s just this. I can’t call you Lord Devon with a straight face, because I’ve . . . well, I’ve . . .” She drew a deep breath, and her next words came out in a rush. “I’ve seen your bare bottom.”
Ethan was stunned silent for a moment, but then he let out a roar of laughter. “My bare bottom? Don’t say you’ve been peeking at me while I’m in my dressing closet.”
She planted her hands on her hips and raised her chin. “Certainly not. What a wicked thing to say. No, it was years ago I saw it, and it hardly counts, because I daresay your bottom has changed quite a bit since then . . .” She trailed off, her face as red as a peony.
He laughed and slid a finger down her cheek to feel the heat of her blush. “I daresay it has. Everything in that region has changed rather dramatically, thank God. But there’s more to this story, I think? Do you have any other observations to make about my bare bottom? Please do feel at liberty to comment on any of my other body parts that interest you, as well.”
She was twisting her apron between her fingers, but despite her obvious embarrassment, she bravely met his gaze. “Do you remember we used to sneak out at night for forbidden swims in your father’s fishing pond? I must have been about twelve when I began to notice . . . well, when your nightclothes got wet they became transparent, and perhaps I occasionally saw something I oughtn’t. And now . . . well, it’s rather difficult to think of you as a high-and-mighty peer of the realm when I’ve seen your bits and pieces.”
“My bits and pieces?” God, he wanted to kiss her, take that bottom lip she’d trapped between her teeth and bite it himself, then suck it into his mouth and tease it with his tongue. “I’m not sure you’re paying my, ah, parts the deference they deserve with that description.”
His parts seemed to agree, because they’d begun to rise in . . . protest?
Her brow furrowed. “Well, I don’t suppose it’s any better to refer to your bare bottom, is it? One shouldn’t discuss an earl’s bare bottom with him, even if one has seen it.”
He took a step closer to her, backing her against the work bench. “Especially then. But I do remember the pond. Vividly. I couldn’t forget it, since I saw your bare bottom that night, too. It’s even more absurd to observe the formalities now, given our scandalous history.”
His voice had gone hoarse, and he couldn’t tear his gaze away from her neck, at a hint of creamy skin above the high collar of her gown. He wanted to kiss her there. No, he wanted to start there, and then keep going until he’d tasted every inch of her.
“Hardly scandalous, my lord.” Despite her denial, she seemed to be having trouble catching her breath. “We were just children.”
“But we’re not children anymore, are we?” He planted his arms on either side of her, trapping her between the workbench and his body.
“Lord Devon—”
“No. Don’t call me that. No more Lord Devon, and no more Miss Sheridan, Thea.”
As soon as he said her name in that low drawl, something shifted between them, drew taut, and then tighter still until the air hummed with tension. Ethan’s heart pounded against his ribs, and he was so hard for her he couldn’t think of anything but touching her, and taking her lips with his own.
Thea tried for a causal shrug, but her gaze burned into his. “You may call me whatever you wish. I’m only a servant, and you’re the lord of the manor. Aren’t you . . . Ethan?” The last word came out low and breathy.
He touched his fingertips to her chin and raised her face so he could look into her eyes. “I’ve never thought of you as a servant, sweet. When I think of you, when I see you in my mind I see your eyes, and I hear your laugh, and I swear I can taste cinnamon on my tongue.”
She moved her face away from his touch, but her eyelids had gone heavy, and she couldn’t look away from him. “We can’t, that is, I shouldn’t be . . . it’s late, Ethan.”
He gave a slow shake of his head, cupping her face in his palm to still her. “I can’t think of anything but you, and you already know that, don’t you, Thea?”
She shivered in reaction to his words, and her eyes went such a dark green they were almost black, but he saw uncertainty there too, and in the next moment she tried to edge past him. “Let me go, Ethan. I’m fatigued, and I have to finish the tarts before I can retire.”
“I can’t let you go, Thea.” He raised a hand and brushed his fingers against the loose tendrils of hair at her neck. “Can I . . . will you let me help you?”
He held his breath. If she asked him to go, he’d do it—he’d do whatever she wanted—but after what felt like an eternity, she nodded. His breath left his lungs in a heated rush. “Like this.” He turned her gently by the shoulders, wrapped his hands around her waist and eased her back against his chest. “Lean back against me.”
She didn’t speak, and she stiffened when he slid his arms around her, but as the moments drifted one into the next, she let herself sink against him until he was wrapped around her, his heart pounding against her back.
A groan escaped him when her soft body melted into his. “Give me your hands, love.” He laced their fingers, pressed their joined palms into the dough on her work table, and together they began to knead. Her hands felt small under his, her long fingers slender and delicate, but he felt the strength flowing through her as they moved. Thea had always been the stronger of the two of them, in the only place where it meant something to be strong.
In her heart.
She let her head fall back against his shoulder, and he dipped his head and brushed his lips against her neck. She sighed at the gentle kiss, and Ethan felt an echo of that sigh in the deepest recesses of his heart.