Twelfth Night with the Earl (The Sutherland Sisters #3)(13)

He smirked when another blush rose in her cheeks, and she began to slam items onto the tea tray with a vengeance. “Yes, I’ve heard.”

“Oh? What have you heard about me? Something wicked, I imagine. London does like its gossip. Have some of the choicest bits reached Cornwall, then?”

“The truly wicked bits have got much farther than Cornwall, I daresay.”

“There is no place farther than bloody Cornwall.”

She snorted. “Not in England, perhaps, but tales of wicked Lord Devon have likely reached the Scottish highlands by now. I’d wager even the sheep know your name.”

A grin drifted over his lips. God, he’d missed her sharp tongue. He used to tease her like this when they were young, just for the pleasure of seeing her eyes flash and her cheeks redden with anger. She’d always been at her most irresistible when she was in a temper, and no one could send her into one faster than he could.

Was that still true? All at once, nothing seemed more important than finding out.

Unable to resist, he leaned over her work table and took her chin between his fingers to tilt her face up to his. “My, that is a charming blush. You must have heard some scandalous rumors, indeed. Tell me.”

“No.” She jerked her chin away. “I won’t repeat it.”

“Come now.” He fingered a lock of her hair that had come loose from her pins. “It can’t be as wicked as all that.”

“Certainly it can, and it is. Or do you profess to be a saint, my lord?”

“I don’t profess to be anything other than a wicked earl, Miss Sheridan.” He gave her hair a gentle tug. “But come, I’ll have it at once, if you please.”

“All right, then.” Her tone was defiant, but her face had gone scarlet. “I told you before, it was something about a marchioness, and a wager, and . . .”

She trailed off, and he laughed. “And what? Go on, say it. A marchioness, a wager and a whorehouse.”

“Fine,” she hissed. “A whorehouse. Are you satisfied?”

“You’d think I would be, wouldn’t you? But as it happened, my desires were not satisfied by either the whorehouse, or the marchioness.”

“No?” She’d gone a bit breathless. “Perhaps church would succeed where the brothel failed, my lord.”

“Perhaps it would.” He gave a husky laugh as anticipation curled low in his belly. “But who will play the part of the marchioness, Miss Sheridan?”

What would she do if he kissed her? He shouldn’t, of course. It would only complicate things, and yet he found himself hoping she’d take up the question of his unsatisfied desires, so he’d have an excuse to nip at her sharp tongue, but his hunger must have shown in his face, because Thea’s green eyes went huge, and she remained silent.

“I’d like more tea, if you please, and something to eat. I fancy something sweet.” He raised a suggestive eyebrow. “When I do allow interruptions in my bedchamber, it’s always because I crave something sweet. Do you suppose you can satisfy my craving, Miss Sheridan?”

He held his breath, hoping for another blush, but she pulled away from him and crossed to another work table, where something was cooling on a rack. She lifted the cloth up, and the most mouthwatering aroma filled the room. Sugar and cinnamon, and freshly baked apples. “Will these do?”

He drew in a long, slow breath. “Are those . . . are those your apple tarts?”

They were her tarts—they had to be, because no other sweet could make him drool like a bloodhound. Ethan swallowed. Good Lord, who needed church? He could worship right here in Thea’s kitchen.

She’d always loved to bake. From the moment she first arrived at Cleves Court as a child she’d been drawn to the kitchens, and the cook at the time, who’d been a kindly woman, had shown Thea how to make bread and cakes and all manner of sweets.

Like most boys, he and Andrew each had a voracious sweet tooth. They gobbled up all her treats, but her apple tarts in particular had rendered them her willing slaves.

“They are.” Thea fetched the kettle and poured him a cup of tea. “Do try not to throw it across the room this time, won’t you?”

He brought the sweet to his lips. “Dear God,” he moaned with the first bite. “I hope you have dozens more of these. I’ll have them every morning for breakfast from now on. Fresh ones only. I don’t fancy stale tarts.”

“There are no stale tarts at Cleves Court, Lord Devon,” she snapped, looking offended.

“No? How odd. We’ve plenty of stale tarts in London.” He grinned at her irritated expression. “Not in the kitchens, however.”

“Well, my lord, if you want tarts, you’ll have to come down and get them yourself. The servants are terrified of you, and for good reason. I won’t force them to serve you.”

“But you’re not afraid of me. Are you?”

She snorted. “No, but I don’t have the time to run up and down the stairs all day on your every whim.”

“Quite enough time to play hide and seek though, I think?” He placed his tart on his plate with loving fingers, and wiped away the crumbs with a sigh. “Pity. I’ll miss those tarts. I doubt they have such nice ones at the Duke’s Head.”

She’d begun to pile the cooled tarts on a plate, but now she froze. “The Duke’s Head? Why should you care what they have there?”