Twelfth Night with the Earl (The Sutherland Sisters #3)(46)

“Mmmm.” He nibbled on her neck, then pressed a dozen light, open-mouthed kisses to her throat. “Did you say something, love?”

She had, hadn’t she? Yes, something about . . . oh! “The fire. How did it start?”

He let out a low laugh. “We were playing hide and seek, but when I left the room to hide, Henry and George took a sudden interest in the fireplace poker. By the time I got back to the drawing-room, they’d rolled a burning log out of the grate.”

“What?” Thea had been arching her neck for his kisses, but now she pushed against his chest and sat up. “Why, those naughty boys! Whatever would possess them to do something so foolish?”

He chuckled. “I couldn’t say, sweetheart, but we’ve run out of settees to hide the burn marks.”

“Do you find this amusing, my lord?”

“They’re ten-year-old boys, love. They’re curious.”

“Curious, indeed. They’re naughty rascals, and you know it as well as I do, Ethan.”

“They are.” Ethan tried to frown, but he couldn’t quite disguise the pride in his voice. “Heathens, the both of them. Martha too, come to that. Three little demonic imps, and not a moment of bloody peace to be had while any of them are about. Let’s have them come live with us here forever.”

Thea blinked at him, certain she hadn’t heard him right. The children spent nearly all their time here, but they were still wards of the parish, and Ethan hadn’t said a word about taking them in permanently.

But before she could reply, he eased her backwards against the bed, then slid his leg between hers to hold her there. “How it is that I find even your nose enticing?” He dropped a kiss onto the tip of her nose.

“When you say you want them to live here, do you mean—?”

“Your lips, too.” A low growl rose from his chest as he pressed a kiss to one corner of her mouth, then the other. “I can’t look at your lips without wanting to ravish you.”

“Ethan! You said—”

“Your throat, and your neck, and your breasts . . .” His voice lowered to a throaty rasp. He plucked at the neck of her nightdress, sliding it off one shoulder. “Show them to me, love.”

“But . . . the children . . .”

He skimmed his mouth over the tops of her breasts. “They’re not invited.”

Oh, dear God, his lips were so firm, and yet so soft.

She wrapped her arms around his neck, and was one kiss away from succumbing to his seductive touch when she remembered the children. “Ethan, wait.” She sank her fingers into his hair and tugged his head up so he’d look at her. “You want the children to come live with us forever?”

He was quiet for a moment, then. “I do. What do you think?”

“I think,” Thea said slowly, a smile curving her lips, “you were telling the truth when you said you don’t like your great-great grandfather’s Aubusson carpet. It won’t survive another month with Henry and George in the house.”

He laughed softly, but then he sobered as he held her gaze. “A few burn marks, some spilled jam . . . those things mean a family lives here. The boys remind me of myself and Andrew, and Martha, with that sharp tongue and those wild dark curls—she reminds me of you when you were a child, Thea. Having them here feels right.”

Thea’s heart swelled in her chest as she looked up into his perfect face. She’d never thought him more beautiful than she did right now. “I know just what you mean.”

“My mother . . .” he traced his fingertip over the crucifix resting in the hollow of her throat. “I think she’d be pleased with the idea if she were here. Don’t you?”

“I think she’d be proud.” She brought his face down to hers and kissed him, her lips soft and tender against his. “So proud of you, Ethan.”

He gathered her close against him, so close she could feel his heartbeat inside her own chest. “With all of us here together, Cleves Court isn’t just a house anymore, Thea. It’s a home. Our home.”





Author’s Note

Ethan’s brother Andrew was an epileptic, a condition which, during the Regency era, was unfortunately still regarded as a mental disease akin to insanity rather than a neurological condition. It wasn’t until the mid-nineteenth century that neurology emerged as a separate medical science from psychiatry, and at that time there was a shift away from an insanity diagnosis and into a clearer understanding of epilepsy as a brain disorder.

Andrew would have been born too early to benefit from the more humanitarian approach, however, and would have been kept out of the public eye as a result of his disease. As a member of an aristocratic family who would have wished to conceal his affliction, Andrew might have escaped being institutionalized in a madhouse, but he would not have been permitted by his father to take his proper place as the heir to a wealthy and powerful earldom. He would not have attended university, but would have spent his life at Cleves Court, hidden from society, and Ethan would have been groomed to supplant Andrew as the Earl of Devon.

In 1857 the medical community discovered bromide to be an effective anti-epileptic treatment, but Andrew’s condition would likely have been left untreated throughout his life. In the novella, his tragic death is the result of a head injury from a fall down the stairs triggered by a seizure.