Twelfth Night with the Earl (The Sutherland Sisters #3)(30)

She couldn’t let that happen.

Ethan sighed, a long, slow release of breath, and it was the weariest sound Thea had ever heard. She ran gentle fingers over the dark circles under his eyes.

“Go to bed, Ethan. You look exhausted.”

He nodded and started to pull away, but Thea held on. He was pale, his face ravaged by grief, and she couldn’t bear to send him away with such a burden on his heart.

“Promise me one thing before you go.” She forced her lips into a smile. “Don’t teach George and Henry anything more about kissing, or ladies who aren’t very . . . well, ladylike.”

He choked out a laugh. “I won’t.” For the briefest moment he touched his forehead to hers. “Good night, Thea.”

He rose, and in the next moment he’d disappeared through the kitchen doorway.

“Good night,” she murmured, once he was gone. “Sweet dreams, Ethan.”





Chapter Eight


January 2, 11:30 p.m.

Ethan stood at the drawing-room door, a small smile curving his lips as the faint scent of singed wool reached his nose.

Six burn holes in the drawing-room carpet. His great-great grandfather, who by all accounts had been a curmudgeonly sort, must be rolling about in his grave. But mishaps were inevitable when one truly lived in a house, weren’t they? Smashed crystal, smeared jam, bedsheets ruined by spilt milk, burned carpets . . .

As recently as two days ago, he wouldn’t have believed it possible he could stand in this doorway and see anything but a room haunted by ghosts and still echoing with past tragedies, but here he stood, a reluctant smile on his lips, and only a single thought was running through his mind.

Raisins. Bloody raisins, of all things.

He still hadn’t made his peace with this house. Forgiveness, redemption—they couldn’t be found in a mere few weeks—maybe not even in a lifetime. He might never be able to look into the music room without seeing his mother at the pianoforte, or stand at the top of the main staircase without thinking of Andrew’s death.

But that wasn’t all he saw. Not anymore.

Fiery raisins, children shrieking, punch spilled all over his boots, and blue flames . . .

Blue flames flickering over the most beautiful face I’ve ever seen.

Twelfth Night was three days away. In four days, the servants would begin gathering up all the pieces of Cleves Court. They’d pack it all into crates, stack the crates in rows in the attics, and cover the furniture with sheets. A handful of days after that, he’d return to London, pick up the broken threads of his life, and it would be as if these few weeks in Cornwall had never happened.

It was what he’d come for—to see the doors of this house locked behind him, never to be opened again. To shroud his memories along with every hulking piece of furniture, and see every silver spoon and crystal goblet packed away, never to be used again. To see this house crumbled into dust, and all his ghosts flattened under the rubble. That was what he’d wanted.

What he still wanted. A part of him was still frantic to escape this place, as much as he ever had been, and yet . . .

He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t walk away. Not because he wanted to stay, but because he couldn’t bear to leave.

For the first in his life, something else was more important to him than escaping.

Someone else.

The truth had been hovering on the edge of his consciousness for days, waiting for him to acknowledge it, and now Ethan let out a long breath, and let it come.

He was still in love with Thea. He’d loved her from the moment his lips met hers when they were fourteen years old, and he’d never stopped.

Neither of them had expected that kiss to happen. It had been early in the morning after one of his mother’s Christmas Eve parties, with the rest of the family still abed, and the house dark and silent. They’d tip-toed downstairs on their way to the kitchen to search for leftover sweets, but they’d never made it.

They’d only made it as far as the kissing ball hanging from the chandelier in the entryway. Ethan had stopped, and without thinking about it or questioning it, he’d rested his hands on Thea’s shoulders, leaned toward her, and touched his lips to hers. She’d tasted of cinnamon and sugar, and he’d felt her lips curve into a smile under his, and that’s when he knew that kiss between them was as inevitable as the sun rising in the sky.

They’d both been waiting for that kiss to happen, holding their breath for it.

It was soft, innocent—sweet in the way only an adolescent kiss could be, but even at that tender age the love between them was boundless, infinite. He’d felt it in every part of his body, deep in his chest, and he’d never been the same.

He loved her still. He couldn’t remember a time when he hadn’t loved her, and Cleves Court and Thea, they were a part of each other. He couldn’t have one without the other, and he wanted her too much to let her go.

She deserved better than him—better than a selfish earl who cursed too much, demanded fresh apple tarts each morning, detested partridges and pear trees, and who’d just yesterday taught two ten-year-old boys the word courtesan.

Thea deserved everything, and God knew he couldn’t offer her that, but he could promise to try and leave his ghosts behind. To be the best man he knew how to be. To love her, always, and for her sake to try and love Cleves Court again.