Twelfth Night with the Earl (The Sutherland Sisters #3)(7)

“Yes, I’m well aware of that, Miss Sheridan. How could I forget? You were a regular little hoyden then, and if what I witnessed tonight is any indication, you haven’t changed.”

Thea smiled over her clenched teeth. “Just what is it you suppose you witnessed that was so shocking? That is, if I may be so bold as to ask a question of your lordship.”

“Let me see. First, there’s the matter of smashed crystal, and the punch spilled all over my boots. They’re ruined, and that’s to say nothing of my breeches.” He stood up and waved a hand in front of his lower body. “Look at me, for God’s sake.”

For one moment Thea let herself linger on the sight of Ethan’s long, muscular thighs in his tight, buff-colored breeches, but then she tore her gaze away. No, it was best for all concerned if she didn’t look at him. He might be as infuriating as every other arrogant earl now, but Ethan had always been the most tempting man she’d ever seen, and that hadn’t changed. Looking into his bright blue eyes was risky enough, and no woman could gaze upon that silky golden hair without itching to run her fingers through it, but as tempting as they were, it was safer than ogling his pelvic region.

She cleared her throat. “It’s a lot of fuss over a pair of boots, if you ask me.”

“I didn’t ask you, but allow me to enlighten you, Miss Sheridan. It’s not possible to make too much of a fuss over a pair of Hoby boots. But let’s move on, shall we? There’s the matter of those two young villains engaged in fisticuffs in the middle of my drawing-room, and then that other one—that tiny chit who nearly set the house aflame with a handful of bloody raisins.”

Oh, for pity’s sake. There’d hardly been a spark, much less a flame. “Fires and fisticuffs, my lord? One would think you’d be used to it by now. Surely such things must happen every day in London.”

“In the rookeries, yes. I’m accustomed to more refined company than that. Still, perhaps Cleves isn’t so different from London, after all. Servants stealing from their masters is quite common in the grand houses there, as well.”

Thea’s cheeks heated with anger. No matter how long it had been since they’d seen each other, he should know better than to suggest such a thing. “Do you truly believe I stole from you?”

She searched his face, looking for any sign of that tender-hearted boy he’d once been in the man standing before her now. For the briefest moment he looked uncertain, but then his face hardened. “You were having a Christmas Eve party at my house, at my expense, without my permission. What do you call that, if not stealing?”

Thea kept her voice calm, even as she imagined beating him about the head with her boughs of holly. “I did have permission.”

“From bloody who? Not me. I thought the damn place had been shut down two years ago, after—” He broke off, cleared his throat. “And it damn well should have been shut down, the very second the family abandoned it for London. Imagine my surprise, Miss Sheridan, when I found out from a friend who’d recently been to Cornwall that my father hadn’t closed the house, after all.”

Thea hesitated. The old earl had his own reasons for his actions, but Ethan wasn’t ready to hear them. “Your father decided to keep it open. Two years ago, before he left for London he set aside a sum of money for the management of Cleves Court, and gave me leave to do as I saw fit with it.”

“Ah. But you see, Miss Sheridan, my dear father is dead, so we’ll have to excuse him on the same grounds we’ve excused poor Mrs. Hastings, or Mrs. Hopkins, or whatever the devil her name was. The question is, why is the house still open now, a year after his death?”

Thea gave him a thin smile. “As to that, I expected every day to receive a letter from you with orders to close the house, but the funds arrived just as always this year. No letter ever came, and of course it’s not my place to question the Earl of Devon.”

“Not your place?” His laugh was incredulous. “Forgive me, Miss Sheridan, but I’ve never known that to stop you before.”

A sharp retort hovered on Thea’s lips, but she hesitated and forced herself to draw a calming breath. It was difficult for Ethan to be here at Cleves Court—she knew that better than anyone—and he looked weary, the lines around his mouth drawn tight with tension. “Let’s not argue, my lord. I’ll see if I can explain it more clearly. Mrs. Hopkins passed away not two months after . . . after Andrew’s accident—”

Before she could say another word he was around the desk, his hands grasping her shoulders. “I will not speak of him, and neither will you. Do you understand me?”

His face was mere inches from hers, and Thea shrank back, away from the pain in his eyes. “Yes, I—I won’t do so again.”

He stared down at her, his blue eyes wild, but after a moment he squeezed them closed and dropped his hands. “I—I beg your pardon. It’s this damn house. I hate the very sight of the cursed place.” He moved to the window and gazed outside for a long time without speaking, his back to her, his shoulders rigid. “I don’t want . . . I shouldn’t be here.”

Thea’s heart sank. This was the only place he should be, but nothing had changed. He still didn’t understand the house wasn’t the trouble.

It never had been.

“Cleves Court is lovely at Christmastime,” she said, to break the silence. “Perhaps while you’re here you’ll remember—”