by Anna Bradley
“Hearty’s aw right with some kisses.” Henry gave Thea a sly look. “His lordship says there’s different kinds of kisses, and different kinds of ladies, too, ’cept the hearty kiss kind aren’t really ladies at all, they’re—”
“Don’t you dare, Henry Munro!” Becky snatched the bread out of Henry’s hands and jerked his chair back from the table. “Upstairs, all three of you, this instant. It’s way past your bedtime. Bid Miss Sheridan good night.”
“Good night, Miss Sheridan!” The children raced across the kitchen to bury Thea in hugs and kisses, then Becky led them out of the kitchen, still muttering darkly about “ladies who weren’t really ladies,” as she went.
Thea retreated back behind her work table and took up her bowl again. She’d have to take Henry’s word on Ethan’s opinions about kissing, and every other subject, because Ethan hadn’t spoken to her in two days.
Well, that wasn’t quite true. He did speak to her—each night before he retired to his bedchamber he came into the kitchen, exchanged a few polite words with her and bid her goodnight—but he never stayed for long, and he never came all the way into the kitchen, but hovered by door, as if he thought she’d leap upon him if he came any closer.
She wouldn’t. Just because she couldn’t stop thinking about the night he’d almost kissed her, and just because she kept hearing his low, husky voice whispering to her . . .
So sweet, Thea.
Well, it was nonsense, of course, to imagine it meant anything, or to think about how it would feel if he were to kiss her, and not a tepid kiss, either, or a proper kiss for a proper lady, but one of the hearty ones—
“Have you been baking all day?”
Thea’s heart leapt at the sound of Ethan’s voice, and she jerked her gaze up to find him leaning against the door frame, his arms crossed over his chest, his blue gaze fixed on her face. He’d stripped off his coat and waistcoat. She could trace the lines of his powerful arms and chest through the thin linen of his white shirt, and her gaze caught on the smooth skin of his throat revealed by the open neck.
Dear God, she couldn’t look away. What would it be like to see all of him? To run her fingers over every inch of his golden skin, and touch the tip of her tongue to the pulse beating at the hollow of his throat?
“Thea?”
Thea swallowed as a flush of heat suffused her throat and neck. “Since early afternoon, yes.” She waved a hand at two pans of finished tarts she’d set on a table to cool. There were two more pans baking in the oven, and the rich scent of roasting apples and cinnamon floated through the kitchen.
The truth was, she’d had plenty of time to catch up on her baking, because Ethan hadn’t rung the bell at all, or demanded a thing of her. The morning after that memorable night in the kitchen, she’d been stunned when he’d joined her and the children for an early breakfast, and even more so when he’d asked her permission to teach the boys a few “gentlemanly pursuits.”
She’d agreed at once, and since then he’d appeared at table every morning, and gone off with the boys after breakfast, disappearing for hours at a time. Thea wasn’t sure where they went or what they did, but Ethan had captured the undying devotion of Henry and George, who couldn’t start a sentence these days that didn’t begin with, “His lordship says . . .” or “His lordship told us . . .”
“It’s getting late.” He frowned down at her. “Shouldn’t you be in bed?”
Bed? No, no—it wasn’t a good idea to regale his lordship with details of her bedroom habits. She managed a casual shrug. “The earl demands fresh apple tarts.”
“Does he? The earl sounds like an arse. Tell him to make his own bloody tarts.”
His voice was light, and a smile that made her belly jump twitched at his lips. “Oh, no. I couldn’t do that. One doesn’t argue with a gentleman like Lord Devon.”
“Why the devil not? I imagine it would do him good to serve himself, especially if he’s the type of lord who can’t even fasten his own breeches without assistance. Is he?”
Her bed, his breeches, fastened or, dear God, unfastened . . .
“As to his breeches, I couldn’t say.” Her cheeks heated until she was sure she must be blushing furiously. “I only meant he can be, ah, difficult when he’s thwarted in any way, and the tarts seem to be rather a sore point with him. He has a sweet tooth, you see.”
He stared at her for a moment without answering, his blue eyes burning, then, “He does. An insatiable sweet tooth.”
His low murmur, and the way his gaze dropped to her lips when he said insatiable, as if his mouth was watering . . .
Thea sucked in a deep breath to get her skittering pulse under control. Foolish, to allow her heart to beat with such a wild thumping in her chest. In the next moment he’d bid her goodnight, turn and leave her alone in the kitchen, consumed with thoughts about his breeches.
But he didn’t leave. After a brief hesitation, he walked in, pulled one of the chairs away from the table and dragged it close to where she was working. Not too close—not close enough to touch her, but closer than he’d been in days.
He sat down. “Thea, I want . . . I want you to talk to me about . . . will you talk to me about Andrew?”
Her breath left her lungs in a painful rush. Andrew—oh, she wanted to talk to Ethan about Andrew more than anything, but she hadn’t dared to hope for it. The night he’d arrived, Ethan refused to even say his brother’s name, and he’d warned her not say it, too. He’d sworn he wouldn’t speak of it, but here was an opening, a tiny crack in that stony wall of silence.
“Was he . . .” Ethan swallowed, began again. “After my mother died and I was sent away to school, all those years when you were here with him, did he seem . . . was he happy?”
His voice broke on the last word, and Thea’s heart broke a little along with it. “He was happy, yes. Very happy, I think.”
Ethan gazed into the fire. “I wrote to him, and he said you and he were friends—the best of friends.”
“We were.” It never seemed to matter Andrew was an earl and she was an orphan without name or birth, maybe because they’d known each other as children, or maybe because Lady Isabel, who’d seen how lonely Andrew was, had always encouraged their friendship. Or maybe it was only because it was Cleves Court, and things were different here than they were in other places.
Thea looked down at her work table, not seeing it. “He missed you.” She drew a deep, shaky breath. “We both did.”
She looked up at him then, in time to see his eyes drop closed.
“He missed you, but he never resented you for leaving. Andrew loved this house, Ethan. I know you’ve always felt as though you left him behind, but he didn’t feel that way. He wanted to be here, and he knew it was never your choice to leave.”
He shook his head, but he didn’t meet her eyes. “I did leave him behind. I failed him. I failed both of you. I went off to school and left you here alone, and when I finally came back, I didn’t save him.”
“You couldn’t save him. No one could.” Thea stared at him, an empty ache in her chest. “You didn’t fail anyone, Ethan.”
“I did. You know I did. I should have protected him from our father. I should have done more for him—”
“What could you have done? You were a boy when it started. Just a boy.”
“I wasn’t a boy when it ended. I should have come back for him. It’s not fair, Thea. It’s not bloody fair he should be the one . . .” His hands clenched into fists. “That he should be the one who was ill, while I—I . . .”
Sudden tears burned behind her eyes. There it was, at last. The reason he slept all day, and didn’t care for anything but keeping his flask full of whiskey. He believed he deserved to be punished, because he’d always been healthy, when his brother had been so desperately ill.
Because he’d survived, and Andrew had died.
She went to him then, and took his hands in hers. “It wasn’t your fault you were well, and he wasn’t. Surely you must know it wasn’t your fault. How could it be? None of us get to choose, Ethan—our lives, or our deaths.”
He shook his head, but he gripped her fingers hard, as if he needed something to hold onto. “I should have done something, stopped it somehow—”
“How?” Grief and the old pain made her voice too loud in the quiet room. “He had a fit, fell down the stairs and hit his head on the marble floor. It was over before you even understood what had happened. There was nothing you could have done.”
“I was right there, right beside him—”
“It doesn’t matter. Don’t you see? His fits had become more frequent and more severe long before that fall. He was . . .” Thea choked back a sob. “He was never going to live long. Andrew knew it. He’d known it for a long time, and he’d accepted it.”
They all had, even the old earl, who’d at last made peace with it all after Andrew’s death. The only one who hadn’t accepted it was Ethan. If his father hadn’t sent Ethan off to school after Lady Isabel died, and then kept him from his brother for all those years, it might have been different, but he had. The old earl insisted his second son spend all his school holidays in London, and when Ethan left Oxford, his father sent him on a two-year tour of the Continent.
For reasons Thea didn’t understand, the old earl had been determined to keep Ethan away from Cleves Court, and away from his brother. Perhaps Ethan’s father blamed Andrew, or perhaps in his ignorance the old earl had believed Ethan would turn “mad” if he spent any time with Andrew, as if his brother’s illness were contagious. Whatever the reason, Ethan had been sent away, and his father had kept him away for ten long years.
And Andrew . . . there’d never been any question of Andrew going to London. His father wouldn’t hear of it. He’d been left behind in Cornwall with an army of servants to tend to him.
Ethan had returned at last, after ten long years, but he’d come back to Cleves Court only to witness his brother die right before his eyes.
They never found out who started the rumor Ethan pushed Andrew down the stairs. When Andrew fell, Ethan must have made some noise—a shout, or a cry, because servants had come pouring into the entryway, and as soon as they saw Andrew lifeless on the floor, chaos erupted. One of the housemaids had screamed, and footmen had rushed forward to help . . .
Later, after Andrew was buried and Ethan had returned to London, Ethan’s father dismissed most of the servants. Perhaps one of them, angry at losing their place, was responsible for the rumor, or perhaps one of them actually believed Ethan had pushed Andrew.
It hardly mattered now. The damage was done.
“Ethan, look at me.”
He’d let his head fall into his hands as if he were suddenly too weary to hold it up. Thea closed her fingers around his wrists and gently brought his hands away from his face, and dear God, the pain in his eyes. She couldn’t bear to look at him.
But she would look at him, and she’d talk to him, because she was the only one who could, and she’d never leave him to suffer such pain alone.
“Your mother used to spend entire afternoons in her garden. Do you remember?” She gripped his hands in hers. “In the summer she’d bring in bunches of her roses, and Mrs. Hopkins would put them in a vase, and no matter where we went on the first floor, we could smell them. Do you remember how sweet they were?”
His gaze was fixed on her face, but he didn’t answer.
“All those Christmases we had here, Ethan? We used to hunt for mistletoe together as children, just as we did the other day, and your mother would make kissing balls for us. We were happy—you, me and Andrew. You must remember.”
“I remember the last Christmas my father ever spent with us,” he whispered, so low she had to lean forward to hear him. “We were to have a Twelfth Night party that year. Andrew must have been anxious to please Father—anxiety and stress always brought on his fits.”
Thea wanted to interrupt him, to stop him from saying it, but she pressed her lips together and remained silent, because he needed to say it.
“Andrew had a fit that night, right in the entryway, minutes before the guests were due to start arriving. They were difficult to watch, his fits—I’m sure you remember that. The convulsions, the jerking limbs, the way he cried out, the sweating. And that night, my father . . . he just stood there, watching, a look of utter disgust on his face, and then he turned and walked away, and left Andrew lying on the floor. He didn’t even try to help him, he . . . he refused to touch him.”
Thea didn’t interrupt him, but touched her palms to his face, and his hands came up to grip her arms. “He was ashamed of Andrew. Ashamed of his own son. He abandoned us after that, left us here in this house alone, went off to London, and never looked back. My mother died here—died of a broken heart, and Andrew . . .”
He released her suddenly, and covered his eyes with one hand, his chest heaving with emotion.
Agony gripped Thea, crushing the breath from her.
Dear God, what would become of him?
If he couldn’t lay his demons to rest, he’d be left with nothing but regrets, just as his father had been. John Fortescue had learned that lesson after years of trying to drown himself in drink, gaming, and one mistress after another, and by the time he realized there was no escape from the pain, it was too late for him. When he returned to Cleves Court at last, Andrew and Lady Isabel were dead, and Ethan . . .
Ethan was broken.
Broken, and running from it, just as his father had. If he went back to London next week, he’d never come back here again. She knew it, as surely as she knew he’d spend the rest of his life trying to escape the ghosts that haunted him.
She couldn’t let that happen.
Ethan sighed, a long, slow release of breath, and it was the weariest sound Thea had ever heard. She ran gentle fingers over the dark circles under his eyes.
“Go to bed, Ethan. You look exhausted.”
He nodded and started to pull away, but Thea held on. He was pale, his face ravaged by grief, and she couldn’t bear to send him away with such a burden on his heart.
“Promise me one thing before you go.” She forced her lips into a smile. “Don’t teach George and Henry anything more about kissing, or ladies who aren’t very . . . well, ladylike.”
He choked out a laugh. “I won’t.” For the briefest moment he touched his forehead to hers. “Good night, Thea.”
He rose, and in the next moment he’d disappeared through the kitchen doorway.
“Good night,” she murmured, once he was gone. “Sweet dreams, Ethan.”
Chapter Eight
January 2, 11:30 p.m.
Ethan stood at the drawing-room door, a small smile curving his lips as the faint scent of singed wool reached his nose.
Six burn holes in the drawing-room carpet. His great-great grandfather, who by all accounts had been a curmudgeonly sort, must be rolling about in his grave. But mishaps were inevitable when one truly lived in a house, weren’t they? Smashed crystal, smeared jam, bedsheets ruined by spilt milk, burned carpets . . .
As recently as two days ago, he wouldn’t have believed it possible he could stand in this doorway and see anything but a room haunted by ghosts and still echoing with past tragedies, but here he stood, a reluctant smile on his lips, and only a single thought was running through his mind.
Raisins. Bloody raisins, of all things.
He still hadn’t made his peace with this house. Forgiveness, redemption—they couldn’t be found in a mere few weeks—maybe not even in a lifetime. He might never be able to look into the music room without seeing his mother at the pianoforte, or stand at the top of the main staircase without thinking of Andrew’s death.
But that wasn’t all he saw. Not anymore.
Fiery raisins, children shrieking, punch spilled all over his boots, and blue flames . . .
Blue flames flickering over the most beautiful face I’ve ever seen.
Twelfth Night was three days away. In four days, the servants would begin gathering up all the pieces of Cleves Court. They’d pack it all into crates, stack the crates in rows in the attics, and cover the furniture with sheets. A handful of days after that, he’d return to London, pick up the broken threads of his life, and it would be as if these few weeks in Cornwall had never happened.
It was what he’d come for—to see the doors of this house locked behind him, never to be opened again. To shroud his memories along with every hulking piece of furniture, and see every silver spoon and crystal goblet packed away, never to be used again. To see this house crumbled into dust, and all his ghosts flattened under the rubble. That was what he’d wanted.
What he still wanted. A part of him was still frantic to escape this place, as much as he ever had been, and yet . . .
He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t walk away. Not because he wanted to stay, but because he couldn’t bear to leave.
For the first in his life, something else was more important to him than escaping.
Someone else.
The truth had been hovering on the edge of his consciousness for days, waiting for him to acknowledge it, and now Ethan let out a long breath, and let it come.
He was still in love with Thea. He’d loved her from the moment his lips met hers when they were fourteen years old, and he’d never stopped.
Neither of them had expected that kiss to happen. It had been early in the morning after one of his mother’s Christmas Eve parties, with the rest of the family still abed, and the house dark and silent. They’d tip-toed downstairs on their way to the kitchen to search for leftover sweets, but they’d never made it.
They’d only made it as far as the kissing ball hanging from the chandelier in the entryway. Ethan had stopped, and without thinking about it or questioning it, he’d rested his hands on Thea’s shoulders, leaned toward her, and touched his lips to hers. She’d tasted of cinnamon and sugar, and he’d felt her lips curve into a smile under his, and that’s when he knew that kiss between them was as inevitable as the sun rising in the sky.