Twelfth Night with the Earl (The Sutherland Sisters #3)(21)

And now here he was again, tartless and bereft of tea.

It could only mean one thing. Thea had decided it was time for him to leave his bedchamber, and all food, drink and creature comforts of any kind would be denied him until he made an appearance.

Ethan didn’t bother fighting it this time, but dragged himself from his chair, washed with the cold water in the basin, wandered around his bedchamber until he’d collected enough clean clothes to cover himself, then checked his reflection in the glass.

Ah, well done. He was the very picture of sophisticated English earl-hood.

That is, if one didn’t look too closely. He hadn’t any idea where his cravat was, his hair needed cutting, and three days of dark blonde stubble covered his chin. Fenton would be appalled at such savagery, but the valet wasn’t here to fall into hysterics, and anyway, Fenton couldn’t properly appreciate the urgency of the situation.

He’d never tasted Thea’s apple tarts.

Ethan closed his bedchamber door behind him and made his way down the hallway to the second floor landing. He could hear the music clearly from here, and it wasn’t Martha’s tedious picking at the keys this time. Same absurd song, of course, but a smooth, rolling string of notes played by someone skilled at the pianoforte. There were voices, as well, and a low murmur of conversation punctuated by laughter and the clink of glasses.

He should have known something was amiss right then, and much later that night, when he lay sleepless in his bed, he’d wonder why he hadn’t returned to his bedchamber at once. Perhaps it was because he’d never dreamed Thea would go so far.

Once he reached the lower landing, it was too late to turn back.

“Oh, Amanda, right there, coming down the stairs! That’s him. Lord Devon. My goodness, he looks quite disheveled, doesn’t he?”

“My mama says he’s dreadfully wicked, but his face, Bridget! So handsome, like an angel’s.”

“A fallen angel.”

The whispers and giggles reached Ethan as clearly as if they’d spoken right into his ears. He stepped down the last few stairs, his eyes narrowed on two chits he’d never seen before who were lingering under the kissing ball hung from the enormous chandelier in the entryway.

“Good evening, your lordship.” The first sank into a deep curtsey.

“Good evening, Lord Devon.” The other chit’s cheeks were flushed from too much punch, and though she also dropped into a polite curtsey, she watched him from under her thick lashes, an inviting smile on her lips. “Such a wonderful party! How generous you are.”

Ethan almost laughed. He wasn’t generous, but Thea apparently was—more generous than she had any right to be. His jaw went rigid with anger, but at the moment there was little he could do but fix a smile on his lips, and sweep into an elegant bow. “Good evening, ladies.”

Amanda giggled, and her eyes darted upward to the kissing ball.

Ethan ground his teeth. Silly chit. She should know better than to try and entice a dreadfully wicked earl into a kiss. If she did such a thing in London, she’d find herself with her skirts around her neck soon enough. Fortunately for Amanda, she was buried in Cornwall, and she’d stumbled across one of the few wicked earls in England who didn’t make a habit of debauching virgins. He might be as wicked as Martha said, but for all his sins he stayed well clear of innocent chits like these.

He bowed again and took his leave, ignoring the disappointment clouding Amanda’s eyes. At the moment, he had only one woman on his mind, and when he found her, kissing balls would be the least of her worries.

He wandered from the drawing room to the hallway and into the entryway, back and forth. He was waylaid and forced into conversation with every resident of the village of Cleves, but Thea remained suspiciously absent.

He was about to go down to the kitchens when he saw her at last, standing in the entryway, and the moment he laid eyes on her, his breath caught hard in his lungs, and his anger was forgotten.

God, she was beautiful.

Just looking at her made his heart ache with want.

She was wearing a dark green gown, and she’d gathered her heavy curls into a thick coil at the back of her neck. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the soft, bare skin of her shoulders. The light from the chandelier lit her face—that smile, always so quick to grace her lips, and her green eyes, still with that touch of playful wickedness he remembered so well . . .

A hand touched his sleeve. “She reminds me of your mother, you know.”

Ethan looked down at the gnarled fingers wrapped around the sleeve of his shirt, and then into a pair of clear blue eyes with a roadmap of laugh lines fanning out from the corners. He didn’t recognize the lady, but clearly she’d known his mother. “Does she?”

“Oh my, yes, my lord.” She gave his hand a reassuring pat. “I remember your mother well. Who could ever forget her? We used to play together as girls. Miss Sheridan is like her—oh, not the way she looks, mind you. Lady Isabel was fair, of course, but she used to have holiday parties just like this one. Ah, it brings back memories, does it not? Miss Sheridan has your mother’s same giving spirt. It’s dear of her to celebrate your return to Cleves Court this way.”

She patted his hand again, then wandered off toward the hallway. Ethan watched her go, his feet rooted to the floor as his anger from earlier blazed through him again, the sudden fury setting his veins on fire.