Twelfth Night with the Earl (The Sutherland Sisters #3)(14)

“Well, if the servants here won’t tend to me, then I’m off to the Duke’s Head, after all.” He let out a mournful sigh. “I don’t fancy mice in my bedchamber, but I suppose it can’t be helped.”

If he felt a slight twinge of conscience for manipulating her, Ethan managed to dismiss it quickly enough. Why shouldn’t he demand this of her? After all, she’d insisted he stay here, and she’d bloody well gotten her way, just as she always did. If the other servants refused to serve him, then it was only fair she should be the one who was stuck with him.

She was silent for a long moment, but he could see by the way she frowned and bit her lip a battle was raging within. He knew it the moment he won, too, because she heaved a heavy sigh. “Oh, very well. I suppose I can help you. Tomorrow is Boxing Day, in any case, so the servants have a holiday.”

“Oh, no. I couldn’t ask you to do that, Miss Sheridan. Not when you’re so very busy—”

“Hush, before I change my mind and let the mice at the Duke’s Head have you, after all.”

A slow smile spread over his face. Ah, poor Thea. There was a reason he had so many servants at his townhouse in London. He was a notoriously demanding master.

“May I ask what you find so amusing, my lord?”

Ethan’s smile widened. “Why, nothing at all. Just enjoying my tarts.”

She’d find out soon enough. He popped a bite of sweet apple tart into his mouth, savoring the rich taste of butter on his tongue.

Sometimes, it was good to be the earl.





Chapter Four


Boxing Day, 11:00 a.m.

If she had to make one more trip up the stairs, Thea was going to wrap the bell cord around Ethan’s neck and strangle him with it.

He’d rung early this morning for his tea, but when she brought it to him he’d sent her back downstairs at once for more apple tarts. She’d fetched them for him and hastened back to the kitchen to gather her ingredients for a cake, but before she could even lay hands on the flour he’d rung again, demanding clotted cream.

After that it had been a warm blanket for his chilled feet, more hot water for the basin, a cup of chocolate, books from the library to amuse him, then different books from the library, because what the devil did he want with novels? She’d been up and down the stairs so many times her legs had begun to ache, and it wasn’t even noon yet.

They’d had a lovely Christmas dinner last night—just Thea and the children and a few close friends from the village, but Ethan had refused to come down for it, and she hadn’t managed to coax him to take even a step outside his bedchamber door today, either.

He had, however, done a splendid job of cursing, demanding, irritating and teasing her right out of countenance.

He was running her ragged, and driving her mad.

Thea dragged a sack of sugar closer to her work table, but before she could begin to measure, the bell rang again.

“Oh, for pity’s sake. That’s it!” She tore off her apron and threw it across the room. If she could have lifted the sack of sugar over her head, she’d have tossed that, instead. “He’d better be hanging by one fingernail from the bloody window ledge this time, or else I swear I’ll—”

She stopped on her way up the stairs and slapped a hand over her mouth, aghast. Throwing things across the room, cursing, and falling into fits of temper?

Dear God, she was becoming him.

“You will not toss him out the window,” she muttered to herself as she marched up the stairs. “You will not drown him in his water basin. You will give him your sweetest smile, and fetch whatever it is he wants without a word of argument, or else he’ll be off to the Duke’s Head before the day is out.”

No, the trick was to lure him out of that room with a honeyed tongue, not flay him with a barbed one. Thea took a deep, calming breath when she reached his door, pasted her best smile on her face and knocked.

“It’s about bloody time. Come!”

She straightened her shoulders and opened the door. He was sitting in a chair by the window in a dark blue banyan, his feet up on a tufted ottoman, a cup of tea and a plate of half-eaten tarts at his elbow.

“What the devil took you so long? I’m not accustomed to waiting. But you look flushed, Miss Sheridan, and your hair has come loose.” He shook his head with mock regret. “Is something amiss?”

Not a word, unless it’s yes, my lord, or very well, my lord, or of course, my lord.

“Well? Have you had a difficult morning, then? What have you got to say for yourself?”

I’d like to drown you in your water basin.

“How can I help, Lord Devon?”

His eyes narrowed at her sweet tone. “If it’s not too much trouble, I’d like more tarts.”

Thea gritted her teeth. He’d eaten half a dozen of them just this morning, for pity’s sake.

“But you look cross, Miss Sheridan. It isn’t too much trouble, is it?”

“Of course not. It’s just . . .” Thea nodded at his plate. “You haven’t finished those yet.”

He gave her an angelic smile. “Those are cold.”

“I’m afraid there aren’t any fresh ones.” She hadn’t had a spare moment to bake, what with running up and down the stairs on his every whim.