Twelfth Night with the Earl (The Sutherland Sisters #3)(24)

And Thea—it had been two years since he’d seen her, long enough he’d convinced himself he didn’t still think about her every day. That he didn’t ache for her. How had he stayed away from her for so long, when she was like air to him? How had he breathed every day without her?

But he’d lashed out at her for it. Last night, after the party, he’d wanted to hurt her, and now all he could see was her face, when he’d made her call him Lord Demon.

The gossips in London whispered about him—he’d seen the heads turn as he walked by, heard the words brother and murderer repeated in delighted horror behind his back. It ignited a spark of hopeless fury inside him each time, but that cleansing rage never lasted for more than a moment before it faded into numb despair. What could he say to such accusations? He’d lost his voice when he was labeled a murderer, because surely a man who killed his brother wouldn’t draw the line at lying about it.

But as bad as it was he could endure it, because no one expected him to be anything other than Lord Demon, a man so cold-blooded he’d killed his own brother to gain wealth and a title.

But Thea . . . when she looked at him she still saw Ethan, that carefree boy who’d run through the woods with her and Andrew, climbing trees and hunting for mistletoe. That boy who’d been one of her dearest friends.

What had it been like for her after he’d left? Had she been devastated when they’d been separated, as he had been? Thea had always been the one bright spot in the ocean of darkness surrounding Cleves Court. Had he been that for her, or did she only see more darkness when she thought of him now?

Did she know he’d loved her? Did she know his heart still quickened when he remembered their one kiss, and how her lips had felt under his? His heart had nearly burst out of his chest the night he’d kissed her, all those years ago. The moment his lips had touched hers, he’d believed he could have everything he ever wanted.

And then it had all fallen apart.

His mother had died less than a week after that kiss, and he’d been sent away to school soon afterwards, forced to leave Thea and Andrew behind. He hadn’t known at the time it would be ten years before he’d return to Cleves Court. If he had, perhaps he’d have fought harder to stay.

But he hadn’t, and now he wasn’t that boy anymore. He never could be again, and every time Thea looked at him with those shadows in her beautiful green eyes, it was as if a cold hand had reached into his chest and torn out his heart.

I never should have come here.

The ground was hard, frozen, and for a long time as he walked he focused only on the faint crunch of frost under the heavy tread of his boots.

But after a while he became conscious of another sound—shuffling steps behind him, and something else, like the sound of a stick being dragged across the ground.

Henry and George Munro.

Ethan knew it was them without turning back to look. He didn’t slow his steps, but they drew closer and closer, until at last they were just a few paces behind him, and he could hear them whispering to each other.

“I don’t know, George. Maybe this weren’t such a good idea. Ye never know what them lordships will take it into their ’eads to do.”

There was a brief silence, then George’s voice, whispering back. “An’ he looks bigger up close, don’t ’e? An’ we know ’e’s strong. He lifted Miss Sheridan right over his head.”

“He’s strong, and ’e’s wicked. Don’t forget the cursing, George.”

“Devil, and bloody, and whatnot.” George couldn’t quite hide his relish. “Do ye think ’e knows any other curses?”

Ethan’s lips twitched in spite of himself. He should be irritated they’d disrupted his solitude, but instead he was strangely relieved. He whirled around suddenly, his eyebrows lowered in his fiercest expression. “Do you two intend to assault me with that stick?”

The two boys leapt backward, out of his reach, then Henry turned to George, his eyes wide. “Wot did ’e say?”

“Don’t know.” George took another step backwards, his wary gaze fixed on Ethan. “Something about salt, I think.”

“Assault. It means to attack. I thought I’d be safe enough on the grounds at Cleves Court, but perhaps I should have brought my pistol out with me this morning.”

The boys stared at him, then Henry whistled low. “What kind of pistol’s that, then?”

Ethan shrugged. “Double-barrel flintlock. Manton’s, of course.”

George glanced at Henry, then took a step forward. “That a dueling pistol?”

“No, a coach pistol, but I have a set of dueling pistols. Quite nice ones. French, silver-mounted. I didn’t suppose I’d be fighting a duel in Cornwall, though, so I left them in London.”

“You ever fought a duel?” Henry and George crept closer without seeming to realize they did it.

“Once, a long time ago, though I came close to fighting a second one just a few months back, with a Captain in his majesty’s service, to defend a lady’s honor.”

“That’s gentleman-like, that is,” George breathed. “Wot happened?”

“The lady in question ended up marrying the Captain.” Ethan smiled a little, thinking of Charlotte. He hadn’t objected to marrying a lady he didn’t love, but he’d drawn the line at marrying a lady who loved another man, and for reasons he couldn’t fathom, Charlotte was in love with Captain West.