Twelfth Night with the Earl (The Sutherland Sisters #3)(4)

“At once, Henry, or no raisins for either of you.”

Ethan might have laughed at the chastened expression on the boys’ faces, but he wasn’t looking at them anymore.

He was looking at her.

Miss Sheridan.

He went still, his mind reeling with shock. There had only ever been one Miss Sheridan, and there’d never be another—not for Cleves Court, and not for him.

Thea was here.

Theodosia Sheridan, his childhood playmate, then his dearest friend, and then, when he was fourteen, the year Ethan was sent away from Cleves Court for good, his first love.

His only love, though he couldn’t have known it at the time.

He never thought about her—he wouldn’t let himself think of her, because thinking about Thea was like floating to the surface and sucking in great gulps of air when you hadn’t even realized you were underwater. Once you got that air, once it filled your lungs you realized again how much you needed it, how you couldn’t live without it.

It was so much easier just to drown.

He stiffened as she drew closer, so close he could reach out and catch a handful of her silk skirts in his fist, but he forced his arms to his sides, and she passed by without noticing him.

“Here we are!” She set the large bowl carefully on a wide table that looked as if it had been brought in for that purpose. She touched a cloth to the candle on the table and lit the brandy, then raised her beaming face to the crowd gathered around her. “There are plenty of raisins for everyone this year—too many to count!”

Ethan sucked in a breath as blue flames rose from the bowl and shown full on her face. He could see every graceful line of her features, every curve of her smile . . .

And those eyes.

Wide and green, long-lashed, and still with that touch of cheekiness that drove him mad as a boy, before he was even old enough to understand what it meant to be driven mad by a woman.

Theodosia Sheridan. A termagant, a sharp-tongued hellion, a scapegrace—yes, she was all of those things. Bold and fearless, too, and if her eyes were any indication, she hadn’t changed.

What was she doing here? As far as he knew she’d left Cleves Court two years ago. When had she come back, and why—

Ethan froze as all the pieces snapped into place.

Of course.

Thea was at the bottom of this madness. This was her fault. The music, the guests, the games, and those two fiendish boys—she was responsible for it all. It made such perfect sense he couldn’t imagine why he hadn’t realized it at once. Who else but Thea would dare to take over his house as if she were mistress of it?

She’d brought Cleves Court back from the dead. Instead of the cold, empty house he’d expected, the old place was warm and alive again.

As long as it’s alive, I can’t bury it.

He’d come here to shove Cleves Court as deep into the ground as it would go, to cover it with dirt and bury it forever, and his memories right along with it. It should have been a simple enough thing to do, but now . . .

Now she was here, and nothing was simple anymore.

Thea was a complication waiting to happen—chaos in silk skirts, with a tempting smile and devastating green eyes. No sooner would he have everything in its proper place than she’d sweep in like a hurricane and send it all into disarray with a snap of her pretty fingers.

Simple things had a way of becoming complicated around Thea.

An adolescent flirtation, a single kiss . . . they were simple things, and yet somehow, without him knowing when or how it happened, Thea had become the woman against which every other woman was measured.

All at once, Ethan was furious.

He didn’t stop to think. If he had, perhaps he wouldn’t have done it, but he’d drunk an entire flask of whiskey, and his heart was pounding, and the blue flames were dancing in front of his eyes, and damn it, the geese and the French hens made no sense at all, and what was he supposed to do with eight bloody milkmaids?

Before he’d even made up his mind to move, he was standing in the middle of the drawing-room, bellowing and frothing like an inmate at Bedlam. “What the devil do you think you’re doing with my house, Theodosia Sheridan?”

There was a moment of shocked silence, and then everything happened at once.

Henry and George were in the midst of snatching raisins from the bowl and licking their fingers, but the minute Ethan’s voice rang across the drawing-room, they came to a dead stop.

“He cursed!” Henry nudged his brother. “He said a curse, right ’ere in the drawing-room!”

“He did.” George looked as if he couldn’t decide whether to be impressed or offended by such a thing. “And ’e did it loud, too.”

“Look at ’im, George. A right swell, in’t he? He’s a lordship, ye know.”

“Don’t care if ’e’s a swell, or even a lordship. He shouted at Miss Sheridan.” George took a step toward Ethan, his hands balled into fists. “No one’s s’posed to shout at Miss Sheridan.”

“That swell right there did!” Henry pointed at Ethan, appealing to the rest of the party, all of whom were standing around watching the scene unfold, still mute with shock. “That’s not right, it’s not, but then ’e’s a lordship, and in his cups. That’s what lordships do when they’re in their cups.”

Ethan’s ignored them, his gaze never leaving Thea’s face. “I asked you a question, Miss Sheridan, and I’ll have an answer at once.”