Twelfth Night with the Earl (The Sutherland Sisters #3)(28)

She’d agreed at once, and since then he’d appeared at table every morning, and gone off with the boys after breakfast, disappearing for hours at a time. Thea wasn’t sure where they went or what they did, but Ethan had captured the undying devotion of Henry and George, who couldn’t start a sentence these days that didn’t begin with, “His lordship says . . .” or “His lordship told us . . .”

“It’s getting late.” He frowned down at her. “Shouldn’t you be in bed?”

Bed? No, no—it wasn’t a good idea to regale his lordship with details of her bedroom habits. She managed a casual shrug. “The earl demands fresh apple tarts.”

“Does he? The earl sounds like an arse. Tell him to make his own bloody tarts.”

His voice was light, and a smile that made her belly jump twitched at his lips. “Oh, no. I couldn’t do that. One doesn’t argue with a gentleman like Lord Devon.”

“Why the devil not? I imagine it would do him good to serve himself, especially if he’s the type of lord who can’t even fasten his own breeches without assistance. Is he?”

Her bed, his breeches, fastened or, dear God, unfastened . . .

“As to his breeches, I couldn’t say.” Her cheeks heated until she was sure she must be blushing furiously. “I only meant he can be, ah, difficult when he’s thwarted in any way, and the tarts seem to be rather a sore point with him. He has a sweet tooth, you see.”

He stared at her for a moment without answering, his blue eyes burning, then, “He does. An insatiable sweet tooth.”

His low murmur, and the way his gaze dropped to her lips when he said insatiable, as if his mouth was watering . . .

Thea sucked in a deep breath to get her skittering pulse under control. Foolish, to allow her heart to beat with such a wild thumping in her chest. In the next moment he’d bid her goodnight, turn and leave her alone in the kitchen, consumed with thoughts about his breeches.

But he didn’t leave. After a brief hesitation, he walked in, pulled one of the chairs away from the table and dragged it close to where she was working. Not too close—not close enough to touch her, but closer than he’d been in days.

He sat down. “Thea, I want . . . I want you to talk to me about . . . will you talk to me about Andrew?”

Her breath left her lungs in a painful rush. Andrew—oh, she wanted to talk to Ethan about Andrew more than anything, but she hadn’t dared to hope for it. The night he’d arrived, Ethan refused to even say his brother’s name, and he’d warned her not say it, too. He’d sworn he wouldn’t speak of it, but here was an opening, a tiny crack in that stony wall of silence.

“Was he . . .” Ethan swallowed, began again. “After my mother died and I was sent away to school, all those years when you were here with him, did he seem . . . was he happy?”

His voice broke on the last word, and Thea’s heart broke a little along with it. “He was happy, yes. Very happy, I think.”

Ethan gazed into the fire. “I wrote to him, and he said you and he were friends—the best of friends.”

“We were.” It never seemed to matter Andrew was an earl and she was an orphan without name or birth, maybe because they’d known each other as children, or maybe because Lady Isabel, who’d seen how lonely Andrew was, had always encouraged their friendship. Or maybe it was only because it was Cleves Court, and things were different here than they were in other places.

Thea looked down at her work table, not seeing it. “He missed you.” She drew a deep, shaky breath. “We both did.”

She looked up at him then, in time to see his eyes drop closed.

“He missed you, but he never resented you for leaving. Andrew loved this house, Ethan. I know you’ve always felt as though you left him behind, but he didn’t feel that way. He wanted to be here, and he knew it was never your choice to leave.”

He shook his head, but he didn’t meet her eyes. “I did leave him behind. I failed him. I failed both of you. I went off to school and left you here alone, and when I finally came back, I didn’t save him.”

“You couldn’t save him. No one could.” Thea stared at him, an empty ache in her chest. “You didn’t fail anyone, Ethan.”

“I did. You know I did. I should have protected him from our father. I should have done more for him—”

“What could you have done? You were a boy when it started. Just a boy.”

“I wasn’t a boy when it ended. I should have come back for him. It’s not fair, Thea. It’s not bloody fair he should be the one . . .” His hands clenched into fists. “That he should be the one who was ill, while I—I . . .”

Sudden tears burned behind her eyes. There it was, at last. The reason he slept all day, and didn’t care for anything but keeping his flask full of whiskey. He believed he deserved to be punished, because he’d always been healthy, when his brother had been so desperately ill.

Because he’d survived, and Andrew had died.

She went to him then, and took his hands in hers. “It wasn’t your fault you were well, and he wasn’t. Surely you must know it wasn’t your fault. How could it be? None of us get to choose, Ethan—our lives, or our deaths.”

He shook his head, but he gripped her fingers hard, as if he needed something to hold onto. “I should have done something, stopped it somehow—”