Twelfth Night with the Earl (The Sutherland Sisters #3)(45)

“Pheasant.” She did open her eyes, but they were glassy, and she looked confused, as if she didn’t recognize him. “The golden rings around its neck.”

He brought her hand to his lips and pressed a kiss into her palm. “What else, Thea? Are there any other birds in the song?”

“Geese, and swans. Others too, I think.” Her voice was growing stronger.

“French hens, isn’t it?” He caressed her cheek with the back of his hand, going dizzy with relief when her eyes opened wider and focused on him.

“Ethan?” She closed her fingers around his, her grip weak, but growing stronger every moment. “Are you all right? You look tired.”

“Yes, sweetheart. I’m fine now. I’ve been . . .” His voice broke, and he laid his head on her stomach, tears of gratitude burning his eyes. “You had a fall, and I’ve been so worried for you.”

A frown creased her brow, then, “I remember now. I lost my balance on the stairs. I thought . . . were you there? I thought I heard you say my name just before I fell, but . . . oh, no. Oh, Ethan, your mother’s crucifix. I’ve lost it—”

“It’s around your neck.” He lifted her hand to her neck and helped her close her fingers around the fine gold chain. “I found it next to you where you fell. Once we got you to bed, I put it back on you.”

She ran her fingertips over the cross, and her face relaxed. “The letter? I wrote you a letter, too.”

“I know, love. I read it.” He swallowed back the ache in his throat. What did you say to someone who’d torn off a piece of themselves to give it to you? “I don’t know what to say, how to tell you—”

“You don’t have to say anything.” She touched her fingertips to his lips. “Ever since Andrew gave it to me, I’ve thought of it as yours.”

“I can’t take it from you, Thea.” He touched the cross nestled in the hollow of her throat. “My mother would have wanted you to have it, and it looks beautiful on you.”

“No, Ethan—”

“Yes, love.” His tone was gentle, but firm. “I’ll get so much more pleasure from seeing you wear it than I ever could if I kept it for myself. Every time I see it on your neck, I’ll remember . . .”

He stopped and shook his head, and Thea’s brows drew into an anxious frown. “Remember what?”

He drew a deep breath, and held her gaze. “That some things are too precious to lose.”

Her green eyes went softer than he’d ever seen them, and her hand came up to stroke his hair. “Oh, Ethan. It must have been terrible for you to see me at the bottom of the stairs, after Andrew—”

“Shhhh. It’s all right. You’re all right, and that’s what matters to me. You matter to me, Thea, more than anything.” He raised his head and clasped her face in his hands, because he needed to be sure she heard him, and saw the truth in his face. “Last night, those things I said to you. I’m so sorry, sweetheart. I knew the moment I said them they weren’t true, and I should have told you so right away. I love you, Thea. I’ve always loved you.”

She smiled. “And I’ve always loved you. All I ever wanted was you, Ethan.”

“I’m yours. Wherever you are—at Cleves Court, or in London, or even at the Duke’s Head Inn with the damp sheets and the mice—that’s where I want to be. Always, Thea. My heart belongs to you, and my home . . .” He leaned forward to kiss her, and touched his forehead to hers. “My home is wherever you are.”





Epilogue


Five months later


“Henry and George set fire to the drawing-room carpet this evening.”

Thea was relaxing against the mound of pillows propped against the headboard, but at this she straightened with a sigh, and threw her feet over the side of the bed. “Again?”

“Yes. Don’t get up, sweet.” Ethan tossed his coat onto the floor, jumped onto the bed and grabbed her around the waist before she could stand up. “It’s all right now.”

“If it’s all right, then why do I smell smoke?”

He eased her onto her back and stretched out beside her. “Because I used my coat to smother the flames. It’s ruined, of course.”

“Oh, dear. Another ruined coat. Poor Fenton will be hysterical. He still hasn’t recovered from Martha’s last accident with your cravat.”

He shrugged. “I’ve got other coats, and Martha can do no wrong in Fenton’s eyes.”

Fenton and Martha had spent a few weeks circling each other warily when Ethan’s London servants arrived at Cleves Court, but somehow—no one quite knew when, or how it had happened—they’d struck up a curious but fierce friendship.

Thea laid her head on Ethan’s chest, sighing contentedly when he ran his fingers through the loose waves of her hair. “They’re an odd pair, aren’t they?”

“Mmmm.” He tightened his arm around her. “You smell delicious, love.”

Thea gave his chest a distracted pat. “How did the fire start this time?”

He rolled her over onto her back and nuzzled his face into the curve between her shoulder and neck. “Fire? What fire?”

“Henry and George’s fire, of course. I almost don’t want to know, but . . . Ethan? Are you listening to me?”