Twelfth Night with the Earl (The Sutherland Sisters #3)(17)

The littlest one had been skipping. Skipping!

It didn’t look to Ethan as though Martha had received the thrashing she deserved.

Damnation. Now here he was, alone in his bedchamber again, with no tarts and no bath, no Thea to distract him, and no filthy memoirs to keep him amused.

What the devil was he to do now?

He could venture out and fetch his own book and tarts, he supposed, but he wasn’t going to do it. It was the principle of the thing.

Ethan paced back and forth across his bedchamber for another hour, fuming and muttering darkly to himself. Why his father had appointed Thea housekeeper at Cleves Court, Ethan couldn’t imagine. She was far too uppity to be a servant. Why, he had a mind to go after her and bring her back here at once—

Go after her, and bring her back here at once.

He’d thrown his shirt over his head, fastened his breeches—by himself, mind you—and had one arm in his coat before he came to a halt in the middle of his bedchamber.

Dear God, she’d done it again.

He was doing precisely what Thea wanted, just as if he were dangling from a string on her fingertips. Thea might be uppity, but she was damn clever, too. She’d lure him outdoors today, then she’d coax him into going to church next Sunday, and the next thing he knew he’d be loitering under a kissing ball, humming the Twelve Days of bloody Christmas.

Well, it wouldn’t work.

No one managed the earl, for God’s sake. He’d never wanted the title, but now he was stuck with it, it had to be good for bloody something, didn’t it?

He threw himself back into his chair, took up the book Thea had left, and settled in to wait her out. She couldn’t ignore him forever. If he refused to come down, she’d have to send someone up eventually before he froze or starved to death, and even Thea wouldn’t take it that far.

Would she?

No, no. She might be prickly and stubborn, but underneath the nerve and impudence she had a tender heart, and anyway, no one wanted a dead earl on their hands. The live ones were trouble enough.

Ethan opened his book to a random page. He’d simply sit here and enjoy this diverting book about . . .

He glanced down at the page. “On Female Virtue.”

Christ. He’d forgotten. She’d brought him Fordyce’s bloody Sermons to Young Women. Very well. He’d see what Fordyce had to say about female virtue, then. It couldn’t be that tedious.

“What shall we say of certain books, which we are assured (for we have not read them) are in their nature so shameful . . . that she who can bear to peruse them must in her soul be a prostitute—”

He slammed the book closed. It was that tedious.

Fine. He’d have a nap, then. By the time he awoke, Thea would have returned to the house.

But he didn’t sleep, and she didn’t return.

The sun dropped below the horizon, and it began to grow colder by the minute. Where the devil had they got to? They’d been gone for ages.

Damn it. He wasn’t going after them.

He struggled through another half hour, but still there was no sign of Thea or the children. What if something had gone wrong? What if they’d somehow gotten lost, or someone was hurt—

Nonsense. No one was hurt. He wasn’t bloody going after them.

But how would she manage three children in the dark? And now he thought of it, none of the four of them had been dressed properly for such cold weather.

He rose from his chair and shoved the drapes aside. Surely they’d be on the path back to the house by now, or at least at the edge of the wood, or visible from the top of the—

Oh, no. Was that a snowflake? For God’s sake, why didn’t Thea come? Couldn’t she see a blizzard was about to descend on them?

Damn it. He was going after them.

He shoved his feet into his boots, threw on his greatcoat and hurried out the door, cursing Thea’s stubbornness the entire way. He didn’t realize he was running until he reached the stone terrace that led into the grounds and came to a halt, his lungs burning as he panted for breath.

He had no idea where to go next. They could be anywhere by now. He hesitated, then walked around to the far side of the house toward the last place he’d seen them, and followed the path they’d taken into the woods.

He walked for a long time, listening for a voice or a shout or a bit of that maddening Christmas carol to guide him, but aside from the gentle rustlings of small animals in the brush, he heard nothing.

He and Andrew had walked through the grounds like this when they were young, and his brother had always marveled at how oddly silent the woods were, even as life teemed all about them. Ethan smiled a little, thinking about it. Andrew had loved the outdoors. If he’d ever had the chance to go to university, Andrew would have studied the natural sciences, or perhaps botany.

Of course, they never ventured far from the house, because if Andrew had one of his fits when they were out here alone . . .

Ethan’s throat closed, thinking about it. The old, familiar fury and despair came at him, and his hands clenched into fists. God, he hated this. It wasn’t fair, damn it. It wasn’t bloody fair—

“Use the stick, Miss Sheridan!”

Ethan’s feet stilled on the path at his feet. The voice was faint, but he knew at once it was one of Thea’s hellions. He turned and began to walk in the direction from which it had come.