Twelfth Night with the Earl

by Anna Bradley

  And she knew just the way to do it.

  Chapter Five

  December 27, 7:00 p.m.

  “Five golden rings! Four calling birds, three French hens, two turtle doves, and a—”

  No. Not the bloody partridge in the pear tree. Not again.

  Hadn’t he forbidden anyone to play that song in this house?

  Ethan slammed his book closed and banged his forehead into the hard leather binding, but it was too late. It was as if someone had smeared the song into his brain with sticky, jam-covered fingers, and once it was there, even an entire flask of whiskey couldn’t drown it into oblivion. It continued to play in a nauseating loop in his head until he was ready to tear his hair out with frustration.

  Damn it, what kind of fool gifted his true love with geese at Christmas?

  He tossed the book onto the side table, and it hit the tray sitting at his elbow, sending his teacup crashing to the floor. Ethan frowned at the smashed porcelain. At least he hadn’t spilled the tea this time. His cup was empty.

  It had been empty for hours now, and the plate at his elbow barren of tarts. Thea had been to his bedchamber again and again this morning to cater to his many demands, always with a sweet smile on her face, but by late afternoon she’d stopped answering the bell.

  And now here he was again, tartless and bereft of tea.

  It could only mean one thing. Thea had decided it was time for him to leave his bedchamber, and all food, drink and creature comforts of any kind would be denied him until he made an appearance.

  Ethan didn’t bother fighting it this time, but dragged himself from his chair, washed with the cold water in the basin, wandered around his bedchamber until he’d collected enough clean clothes to cover himself, then checked his reflection in the glass.

  Ah, well done. He was the very picture of sophisticated English earl-hood.

  That is, if one didn’t look too closely. He hadn’t any idea where his cravat was, his hair needed cutting, and three days of dark blonde stubble covered his chin. Fenton would be appalled at such savagery, but the valet wasn’t here to fall into hysterics, and anyway, Fenton couldn’t properly appreciate the urgency of the situation.

  He’d never tasted Thea’s apple tarts.

  Ethan closed his bedchamber door behind him and made his way down the hallway to the second floor landing. He could hear the music clearly from here, and it wasn’t Martha’s tedious picking at the keys this time. Same absurd song, of course, but a smooth, rolling string of notes played by someone skilled at the pianoforte. There were voices, as well, and a low murmur of conversation punctuated by laughter and the clink of glasses.

  He should have known something was amiss right then, and much later that night, when he lay sleepless in his bed, he’d wonder why he hadn’t returned to his bedchamber at once. Perhaps it was because he’d never dreamed Thea would go so far.

  Once he reached the lower landing, it was too late to turn back.

  “Oh, Amanda, right there, coming down the stairs! That’s him. Lord Devon. My goodness, he looks quite disheveled, doesn’t he?”

  “My mama says he’s dreadfully wicked, but his face, Bridget! So handsome, like an angel’s.”

  “A fallen angel.”

  The whispers and giggles reached Ethan as clearly as if they’d spoken right into his ears. He stepped down the last few stairs, his eyes narrowed on two chits he’d never seen before who were lingering under the kissing ball hung from the enormous chandelier in the entryway.

  “Good evening, your lordship.” The first sank into a deep curtsey.

  “Good evening, Lord Devon.” The other chit’s cheeks were flushed from too much punch, and though she also dropped into a polite curtsey, she watched him from under her thick lashes, an inviting smile on her lips. “Such a wonderful party! How generous you are.”

  Ethan almost laughed. He wasn’t generous, but Thea apparently was—more generous than she had any right to be. His jaw went rigid with anger, but at the moment there was little he could do but fix a smile on his lips, and sweep into an elegant bow. “Good evening, ladies.”

  Amanda giggled, and her eyes darted upward to the kissing ball.

  Ethan ground his teeth. Silly chit. She should know better than to try and entice a dreadfully wicked earl into a kiss. If she did such a thing in London, she’d find herself with her skirts around her neck soon enough. Fortunately for Amanda, she was buried in Cornwall, and she’d stumbled across one of the few wicked earls in England who didn’t make a habit of debauching virgins. He might be as wicked as Martha said, but for all his sins he stayed well clear of innocent chits like these.

  He bowed again and took his leave, ignoring the disappointment clouding Amanda’s eyes. At the moment, he had only one woman on his mind, and when he found her, kissing balls would be the least of her worries.

  He wandered from the drawing room to the hallway and into the entryway, back and forth. He was waylaid and forced into conversation with every resident of the village of Cleves, but Thea remained suspiciously absent.

  He was about to go down to the kitchens when he saw her at last, standing in the entryway, and the moment he laid eyes on her, his breath caught hard in his lungs, and his anger was forgotten.

  God, she was beautiful.

  Just looking at her made his heart ache with want.

  She was wearing a dark green gown, and she’d gathered her heavy curls into a thick coil at the back of her neck. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the soft, bare skin of her shoulders. The light from the chandelier lit her face—that smile, always so quick to grace her lips, and her green eyes, still with that touch of playful wickedness he remembered so well . . .

  A hand touched his sleeve. “She reminds me of your mother, you know.”

  Ethan looked down at the gnarled fingers wrapped around the sleeve of his shirt, and then into a pair of clear blue eyes with a roadmap of laugh lines fanning out from the corners. He didn’t recognize the lady, but clearly she’d known his mother. “Does she?”

  “Oh my, yes, my lord.” She gave his hand a reassuring pat. “I remember your mother well. Who could ever forget her? We used to play together as girls. Miss Sheridan is like her—oh, not the way she looks, mind you. Lady Isabel was fair, of course, but she used to have holiday parties just like this one. Ah, it brings back memories, does it not? Miss Sheridan has your mother’s same giving spirt. It’s dear of her to celebrate your return to Cleves Court this way.”

  She patted his hand again, then wandered off toward the hallway. Ethan watched her go, his feet rooted to the floor as his anger from earlier blazed through him again, the sudden fury setting his veins on fire.

  Thea was trying to make him remember.

  She wanted him to remember how it had been before his father left, and his mother died. Before Andrew’s accident, when Cleves Court was still his home. But they’d all slipped through his fingers, and he was left staring down into his empty hands, wondering how it could all vanish in a single breath.

  Did she truly believe he could trade one memory for another? Christ, if only it were that simple. If only he could tear one apart from the next, and simply discard those that broke his heart, as if he were exchanging a pair of soiled gloves for fresh new ones, or tossing unwanted cards across a gaming table.

  How could she think a party would make him forget what had happened to his mother? To Andrew? Ghosts lurked in every corner of this house, but a few kissing balls and a pretty chit here and there would take it all away, wouldn’t it?

  Didn’t Thea understand he’d done everything he could think of to forget? With every step he took in this house, with every breath he drew, he remembered it all. He couldn’t bear to enter the dining room, because when he did he was reminded of every silent meal he’d ever had at that table. He couldn’t look at the pianoforte without seeing his mother, or watch the chi
ldren playing hide-and-seek and Snapdragon without thinking of Andrew.

  And Thea . . .

  She’d been his dearest friend. Even after all these years, she still knew him better than anyone else ever could. Of all the people in his life, she was the only one who could possibly understand what it felt like for him to be at Cleves Court.

  She knew—she had to know how much it hurt him, and yet she was doing everything she could to manipulate him, as if she didn’t know him at all. Did she want him to pretend he was happy here? Because he couldn’t think of anything worse.

  This time, Thea had gone too far.

  * * * *

  “If you believed you could make me forget, then you’re a fool, Thea.”

  Thea gazed up at Ethan and tried to calm the anxious thumping of her heart. The moment the last guest left the party tonight, he’d taken her wrist in a hard grip and dragged her to his study, and now he had her backed against the closed door, his blue eyes blazing down at her as if he wished he could reduce her to ashes at his feet.

  Dear God, she’d known he wouldn’t be pleased about the party tonight, but she hadn’t expected this ice cold fury. “I—forget what? Ethan—”

  “Did you think to have the entire business settled before the end of the evening? Have another party, and by the end of it I’d forget everything and be willing to keep Cleves Court open for the rest of eternity. Isn’t that what you thought would happen?”

  “No! Of course not. I . . .” But Thea’s eyes darted away from his, and she couldn’t quite force the rest of the words from her throat, because part of her had hoped for exactly that.

  “I think you’re lying.” He trapped her against the door with a hand on either side of her head, his arms rigid, and his entire body vibrating with suppressed anger. “I think that’s exactly what you thought would happen.”

  Thea gazed up at him, into the eyes she knew so well, and her heart sank like a stone in her chest. Oh, God. She’d only wanted to help him remember. She’d never willingly hurt Ethan, and yet that was what she saw when she looked into those blue depths. Anger, and hurt.

  The party tonight—it had been a mistake.

  “I—I never thought you’d forget it, Ethan. I know you can’t, but we were happy here once, and I don’t want . . . I can’t let you forget those memories, either.”

  His laugh was bitter. “It’s not what we forget that matters, Thea. It’s what we remember.”

  Thea hesitated. He was so terribly angry, and yet the hurt in his eyes—she’d put those dark shadows there, and now she’d do whatever she could to take them away.

  She reached for him, her hand shaking, and laid her palm against his cheek. “It’s both.” He could make some memories matter more than others. Didn’t he know that? “The things we want to remember—they matter the most. That’s why I remember everything about you, Ethan—because of all the memories I have of Cleves Court, my memories of you matter the most. What do you remember? Tell me.”

  He didn’t answer. For a long time he didn’t even move, but then he turned his head and brushed his lips so softly across her palm she thought for a moment she’d imagined the gentle kiss.

  “I remember you.” Warm fingers touched her chin, and when she looked up, he was looking down at her, his blue eyes soft and fierce at once. “It’s still sweet underneath, isn’t it, Thea? Such a sharp tongue, but underneath, it’s all honey. It always has been.” He trailed his fingers over her cheek, then brushed his thumb over her lower lip. “It was just one kiss, and so many years ago, but I’ve never forgotten it.”

  Thea’s breath caught. “I never have, either.”

  She hadn’t forgotten anything about him. Not his laugh, not his voice. Not his eyes. Even now she still dreamed about his eyes, so changeable, and such remarkable shades of blue—sometimes dark like the sea during a storm, sometimes bright like a summer sky, especially when he smiled.

  But he didn’t smile much. Not anymore.

  “But it’s not enough.” His hand dropped away. “Nothing, not even you, can ever lay the ghosts in this house to rest.”

  It was true. She couldn’t lay his ghosts to rest.

  But he could.

  She curled her fingers into his shirt before he could turn away from her. “The entire village of Cleves came here to see you tonight. Some of them remember you as a boy, and they want to see you, to know you again. They’re your neighbors and friends—they’re your family as much as mine, and this is your home. It is enough, it’s everything—”

  “Christ, you’re naïve.” He laughed, but the sound was bitter. “They didn’t come here to see me because I’m the earl, or the last of the family line, or because they knew me as a boy. They came for another reason altogether.”

  Thea’s body went cold. He could only mean one thing by that, and she couldn’t bear to hear him say it. “No. That’s not why they came. You’re wrong, Ethan.”

  “Do you think this is the first time it’s happened? Everyone is fascinated by me, both here and in London. Can you guess why?”

  Icy fingers of dread clutched at Thea’s throat. “No. You can’t think . . . no one believes that vicious rumor—”

  “What rumor is that? The rumor I murdered my own brother? That I waited at the top of the stairs until he came up, then I shoved him as hard as I could, and watched him fall to his death so I could become Lord Devon and have control of my father’s fortune? Is that the rumor you’re referring to?”

  “Don’t, Ethan.”

  But he didn’t seem to be able to stop. He moved closer and cradled her face in his palms, his hands gentle even as his eyes had gone as dark blue as an ocean tempest. “Oh, I assure you they do believe it, because it’s far more titillating than the truth, especially for a certain kind of lady. At least one useful thing has come of it. I never lack for bed partners in London.”

  Thea shook her head to drown out the hateful words. “Stop it! Let go of me, Ethan. I don’t want to hear any more of this.”

  He held her fast. “Tell me, Thea. Did any other gossip about me reach you here at Cleves Court? I have the most amusing nickname in London. Perhaps you’ve heard it? Ah, I can see from your face you have. Tell me what it is.”

  She stared up at him, but she didn’t say a word.

  “Say it, Thea.”

  “No. I won’t.” She clawed at his fingers, desperate to get away from him. “It doesn’t matter what anyone thinks—”

  “Now. Say it.”

  “No! It’s not true, and that’s all that matters—”

  “My God, you truly are naïve, aren’t you? No one cares about the truth. They care only about being entertained, and a murderous earl is damned good entertainment. Come now, Thea.” He leaned closer to croon into her ear. “Say it for me, sweetheart. Lord . . .”

  Something in his voice, an underlying note of despair, made her stop struggling, and she sagged against him, defeated. “Demon. Lord Demon.”

  He released her so abruptly she stumbled backward. “That’s right, Thea. Lord Demon. Clever, isn’t it? And you can be sure I didn’t get it because of a whorehouse wager.”

  She clutched at his arm. “Ethan—”

  “Get out.” He yanked his arm out of her grip and walked to the other end of the room to stare out the window.

  “Ethan, please—”

  He didn’t look at her. “I said, get out.”

  Chapter Six

  December 29, 8:00 a.m.

  The days leading up to Twelfth Night came and went, each of them indistinguishable from any other day of the year.

  He hadn’t talked to Thea in nearly two days—not since the scene in his study after the party. He’d sat staring into the fire for a long time after she left, his body frozen with pain, even as the bright flames seared his eyes.

  Much later that night, after the fire had burne
d down to embers, he’d gone to the sideboard to fill his flask with whiskey. More and more often he needed it to sleep. He’d brought the flask to his lips again and again, until he’d drunk enough to collapse into his bed, and let his memories give way to oblivion.

  But he’d woken before dawn the next morning and stumbled to the window, before the sun had risen. He’d thought he heard something—Thea’s voice, maybe, but when he’d looked out, there’d been no one there.

  Ethan pulled the collar of his greatcoat higher around his neck. It was cold this morning, the sky a gloomy gray above his head, but it was better out here. He needed to be away from the house, where it was only a matter of time before the walls closed in on him.

  He walked and walked, careless of the direction, but careful, so careful . . .

  To make certain he thought of nothing.

  That never quite worked, though, did it? The moment you imagined your mind was blank at last, all those thoughts you believed you’d buried crept out of their hiding places, and you found you’d been fooling yourself—that you’d been thinking about them all along.

  He stuffed his hands into his greatcoat pockets, his fingers curled into tight fists. God, why had she made him think about Andrew? He never talked about his brother. He never said Andrew’s name aloud—didn’t even allow himself to picture his brother’s face. It had taken years for him to bury every memory, and now, with just a few words, she’d brought it all back.

  And Thea—it had been two years since he’d seen her, long enough he’d convinced himself he didn’t still think about her every day. That he didn’t ache for her. How had he stayed away from her for so long, when she was like air to him? How had he breathed every day without her?

  But he’d lashed out at her for it. Last night, after the party, he’d wanted to hurt her, and now all he could see was her face, when he’d made her call him Lord Demon.