Twelfth Night with the Earl (The Sutherland Sisters #3)(42)

God, he didn’t want to do this, didn’t want to hurt her or himself this way, but Cleves Court, and Thea, and now his father—they were all tangled in his head, and he didn’t know how to tear them free from each other. He’d been a fool to believe he ever could.

He couldn’t stay here.

“I’m leaving for London tomorrow.” His voice was hoarse, his throat scraped raw. “Alone. I’ll write out instructions for closing the house and leave them with you. I expect you to carry them out. Dismiss all the servants when it’s done.”

“Ethan, please listen to me—”

“No.” He shook his head, but he didn’t look at her—couldn’t look at her, because the stark despair on her face was breaking his heart. “This is over. I’m leaving Cleves Court, and this time, I’m never coming back. Do you know why I’m so sure of that, Thea?”

She didn’t answer, and he turned to face her.

“There won’t be anything left to come back to.”





Chapter Eleven


January 4, 2:00 a.m.

She should go to bed.

Thea sat on a stool and stared down at the spotless surface of her kitchen workbench. She’d scrubbed it earlier, but when she was finished the silence of the house pressed in on her, so she’d scrubbed the dining table, as well, and then the floors, and the hearth . . .

Every inch of the kitchen was gleaming now, but it still wasn’t enough, because once she stopped and silence descended again, all she’d be able to think about was Ethan, alone in his study, the guilt and pain eating away at him while he tried to drown his memories in glass after glass of whiskey.

She should have told him sooner, about the promise she’d made his father, but over and over again she’d convinced herself he wasn’t ready to hear it.

Her mistake was in thinking he’d ever be ready.

She’d always been afraid her love wouldn’t be enough for him to overcome such terrible pain, and now she knew it wasn’t.

She wanted to rail at him—beat her fists against his chest and scream at him so he could see how much he was hurting them both, but . . .

I’m leaving for London tomorrow. Alone.

His face, when he’d said it. His eyes . . .

They’d been empty. Blank. It was too late. Before she’d even walked into the study tonight, it was already too late, and now there was nothing left for her to do but mount the stairs, go to her bedchamber and lose herself in sleep.

For a little while, at least, she could forget this night had ever happened.

But oblivion came with a price. The more time she lost in unconsciousness, the sooner tomorrow would come, and it was true, after all, what she’d told Ethan. You couldn’t run from your pain, no matter how much you might want to. He was leaving, and she couldn’t think of anything more she could do or say to stop it.

That would still be true tomorrow.

But she could do one thing for him, insignificant as it was.

It didn’t matter that Christmas had passed, because the gift she wanted to give him wasn’t a Christmas gift. It was more than that. To her, it was more, and she hoped it would be more to Ethan, too. She couldn’t make him stay at Cleves Court, but she could make sure he took a tiny piece of it with him. If he was ever ready to face his ghosts, maybe it would help him to have it. Years from now, when he looked at her gift, maybe he’d understand she’d loved him, and he’d know that before he’d even left her behind, she’d forgiven him for doing it.

She fetched a bit of the paper she kept in the kitchen for writing recipes and brought it back to her work table, along with a pen and some ink.

A brief letter would do. There wasn’t much to say, after all.

But brief as it was, she sat there for a long time, trying to think of the best way to put her love for him into words.

In the end, she didn’t say much at all, but it was enough.

Dear Ethan,

Andrew found this a month after you left for Eton. It was half-buried in the dirt on the west lawn, where we used to have picnics with your mother. Do you remember those picnics? He gave it to me, but I’ve always thought of it as yours, and from the first I intended for you to have it. I should have sent it to you years ago, but I knew you’d come back to Cleves Court someday, and I wanted to give it to you myself, so I could see your face when you held it. It was selfish of me, I suppose. Forgive me. Your mother’s dearest wish for you was that you’d be happy, Ethan. I hope when you look at this you’ll think of her, and of me, and remember it was always my dearest wish for you, too. Merry Christmas.

Love, Thea

She reached behind her, unclasped the crucifix from around her neck, and held it up to watch the weak firelight play over the gold chain dangling from her fingers.

Ethan’s mother’s crucifix.

Thea couldn’t remember ever seeing Lady Isabel without it. She’d worn it every day, until one day it had slipped from her neck, and she hadn’t realized it was gone. They’d turned the house upside down searching for it, but they’d never found it, and Lady Isabel had been inconsolable at its loss.

Thea closed her fist around the delicate necklace, her throat so tight she couldn’t breathe. She’d worn it every day, too, just as Lady Isabel had, tucked carefully into her shift to keep it safe, and she knew her hand would seek it out long after it was gone. She’d miss it dreadfully, but after a long moment she tore a bit of paper from the bottom of the letter and wrapped the crucifix in it.