by Anna Bradley
If he felt a slight twinge of conscience for manipulating her, Ethan managed to dismiss it quickly enough. Why shouldn’t he demand this of her? After all, she’d insisted he stay here, and she’d bloody well gotten her way, just as she always did. If the other servants refused to serve him, then it was only fair she should be the one who was stuck with him.
She was silent for a long moment, but he could see by the way she frowned and bit her lip a battle was raging within. He knew it the moment he won, too, because she heaved a heavy sigh. “Oh, very well. I suppose I can help you. Tomorrow is Boxing Day, in any case, so the servants have a holiday.”
“Oh, no. I couldn’t ask you to do that, Miss Sheridan. Not when you’re so very busy—”
“Hush, before I change my mind and let the mice at the Duke’s Head have you, after all.”
A slow smile spread over his face. Ah, poor Thea. There was a reason he had so many servants at his townhouse in London. He was a notoriously demanding master.
“May I ask what you find so amusing, my lord?”
Ethan’s smile widened. “Why, nothing at all. Just enjoying my tarts.”
She’d find out soon enough. He popped a bite of sweet apple tart into his mouth, savoring the rich taste of butter on his tongue.
Sometimes, it was good to be the earl.
Chapter Four
Boxing Day, 11:00 a.m.
If she had to make one more trip up the stairs, Thea was going to wrap the bell cord around Ethan’s neck and strangle him with it.
He’d rung early this morning for his tea, but when she brought it to him he’d sent her back downstairs at once for more apple tarts. She’d fetched them for him and hastened back to the kitchen to gather her ingredients for a cake, but before she could even lay hands on the flour he’d rung again, demanding clotted cream.
After that it had been a warm blanket for his chilled feet, more hot water for the basin, a cup of chocolate, books from the library to amuse him, then different books from the library, because what the devil did he want with novels? She’d been up and down the stairs so many times her legs had begun to ache, and it wasn’t even noon yet.
They’d had a lovely Christmas dinner last night—just Thea and the children and a few close friends from the village, but Ethan had refused to come down for it, and she hadn’t managed to coax him to take even a step outside his bedchamber door today, either.
He had, however, done a splendid job of cursing, demanding, irritating and teasing her right out of countenance.
He was running her ragged, and driving her mad.
Thea dragged a sack of sugar closer to her work table, but before she could begin to measure, the bell rang again.
“Oh, for pity’s sake. That’s it!” She tore off her apron and threw it across the room. If she could have lifted the sack of sugar over her head, she’d have tossed that, instead. “He’d better be hanging by one fingernail from the bloody window ledge this time, or else I swear I’ll—”
She stopped on her way up the stairs and slapped a hand over her mouth, aghast. Throwing things across the room, cursing, and falling into fits of temper?
Dear God, she was becoming him.
“You will not toss him out the window,” she muttered to herself as she marched up the stairs. “You will not drown him in his water basin. You will give him your sweetest smile, and fetch whatever it is he wants without a word of argument, or else he’ll be off to the Duke’s Head before the day is out.”
No, the trick was to lure him out of that room with a honeyed tongue, not flay him with a barbed one. Thea took a deep, calming breath when she reached his door, pasted her best smile on her face and knocked.
“It’s about bloody time. Come!”
She straightened her shoulders and opened the door. He was sitting in a chair by the window in a dark blue banyan, his feet up on a tufted ottoman, a cup of tea and a plate of half-eaten tarts at his elbow.
“What the devil took you so long? I’m not accustomed to waiting. But you look flushed, Miss Sheridan, and your hair has come loose.” He shook his head with mock regret. “Is something amiss?”
Not a word, unless it’s yes, my lord, or very well, my lord, or of course, my lord.
“Well? Have you had a difficult morning, then? What have you got to say for yourself?”
I’d like to drown you in your water basin.
“How can I help, Lord Devon?”
His eyes narrowed at her sweet tone. “If it’s not too much trouble, I’d like more tarts.”
Thea gritted her teeth. He’d eaten half a dozen of them just this morning, for pity’s sake.
“But you look cross, Miss Sheridan. It isn’t too much trouble, is it?”
“Of course not. It’s just . . .” Thea nodded at his plate. “You haven’t finished those yet.”
He gave her an angelic smile. “Those are cold.”
“I’m afraid there aren’t any fresh ones.” She hadn’t had a spare moment to bake, what with running up and down the stairs on his every whim.
“Make more, then.”
Thea pressed her lips together as hard as she could to keep herself from screaming. “Very well, my lord.” She snatched the plate from the table and turned to leave, but he stopped her before she’d taken two steps toward the door. “One moment, if you please.”
When she turned, he was holding up one of the books she’d brought earlier. “Fordyce’s Sermons, Miss Sheridan? In fear for my immortal soul, are you? I’m touched by your concern, but I’m afraid it’s too late for me to mend my wicked ways now.”
She walked back to him and jerked the book from his hand with more force than she’d intended. “Perhaps it would help if you told me what you’d like to read?”
His lips twitched, then, “How about Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure? Surely you have that in the library?”
Oh, the maddening man. Her cheeks went so hot she wanted to stick her own head in the basin, but she forced herself to hold his gaze. “You told me you don’t like novels.”
“It’s not a novel. It’s a memoir.”
Thea snorted. “A courtesan who never catches a disease? It sounds like fiction to me.”
He laughed. “I’m shocked to find you know so much about Fanny Hill’s adventures, Miss Sheridan.”
She crossed her arms over her chest. “I’m certain we don’t have that book in our library.”
“Nonsense. Everyone has that book, whether they choose to admit it or not, and it sounds to me like you’ve read it, so it must be there. I’m sure a thorough search will turn it up. Make sure you check the spine of each and every book until you find it, won’t you? Perhaps I’ll have you up later this afternoon to read it to me.”
Such a pity to disappoint his lordship, but Thea knew beyond a doubt she wouldn’t find that book, no matter how hard she searched.
She dropped a stiff curtsey and turned for the door again.
“Where do you suppose you’re going? I haven’t dismissed you.” He took another bite of the tart, his eyes drifting closed. “One more thing, if you please.”
Dear God in heaven, what now? “Yes?”
“I fancy a bath. Have the footmen bring up the water at once.”
Thea bit her tongue until it bled, but she managed to keep her voice even. “It’s Boxing Day. All the servants have a holiday today, and even if they didn’t, they won’t serve you. The footmen, or the housemaids.”
“That nonsense still? None of them would last a fortnight in London.”
“You mean to say every lord in London is as arrogant and intolerable as—ah, that is . . . I apologize on the servants’ behalf, my lord.”
“No matter. You’ll just have to fetch my bath yourself.”
Blast it. It would take her the rest of the morning to drag the buckets up all those stairs, but it woul
d give him far too much satisfaction if she protested.
“Wouldn’t you rather have a walk, my lord?” She glanced around the darkened bedchamber. He refused to let her open the drapes, and the room was gloomy and stale. “Some fresh air would do you a world of good.”
She had to find a way to get him out of his bedchamber. If he languished in here for his entire visit, she’d never persuade him to fall back in love with Cleves Court.
“I don’t bother with things that do me good.”
Thea blinked in confusion as his words landed with a dull thud in the center of her chest. What did he mean by that? Everything about it felt wrong—
“There’s no fresh air in London, and I see no reason to start inhaling it now. It will only confuse my lungs. In any case, I’m content with where I am.”
Yes, he was content, wasn’t he? Thea’s eyes narrowed as she studied him, lounging in his cozy chair in his banyan, with his plate of sweets at his elbow. All he needed was a pile of tasseled pillows, and he’d look just like a Turkish pasha.
He was rather too content.
If he were deprived of his tarts, his whiskey and his bath, he’d be far less so, wouldn’t he? He might become so discontented, in fact, he’d venture out of his bedchamber in search of his pleasures—
“What are you plotting, Miss Sheridan?”
Thea jerked her attention back to him. “Why, nothing at all, my lord.”
“You forget how well I know you. I recognize that tiny smirk at the corner of your lips.” A slow grin crossed his face. “But perhaps you’re only imagining me in my bath?”
“No!” Heat surged into Thea’s cheeks. She hadn’t been imagining him in his bath at all, but—blast the man—now she was.
“Because a visit could be arranged.” He took in her red cheeks and the infuriating grin widened. “No need to blush, Miss Sheridan. I’m not suggesting you get into the bath with me. Unless you wish it, of course.”
“I don’t wish it!” Dear God, it felt as if her entire body had burst into flames.
“How disappointing. But as I said, there’s no need join me in the bath. You can rub the wet cloth over my shoulders and back just as easily from outside the tub. Have you ever had someone wash and rinse your back for you, Miss Sheridan? It’s quite soothing.”
Thea bit her lip before she could ask if his marchioness usually rubbed his naked back for him. Why should she care what he did in his bath? He might have a dozen marchionesses rub and wash and rinse him, and it wouldn’t make the least bit of difference to her. Not the least bit at all.
Don’t think about his bare shoulders and back.
“Though now I think on it, soothing isn’t the right word.” His voice had lowered to a husky rasp, and he swept his gaze over her, his blue eyes twinkling with mischief, and something else—something hotter. “Perhaps stirring is a better word, or arouse—”
“Stop it, Ethan!” Oh, no. She’d blurted that out like an embarrassed schoolgirl. Had he noticed how breathless she was? Heat raced down her throat and over her chest. “What I meant to say is, I haven’t the least interest in your bathing habits, Lord Devon.”
“No? Pity.” He stretched his long legs in front of him and settled back in his chair with a contented sigh, as if he hadn’t just said the word arouse to her in that low, husky voice. “I’ll have those tarts now.”
Alas, there would be no tarts for Lord Devon. No bath, either, and certainly no rubbing.
Thea took a deep breath and managed to collect her scattered wits. “If that’s all, my lord?”
“Yes, but do let me know if you change your mind about the bath.”
Thea didn’t stay to answer, but fled the room and hurried down the stairs and back to the kitchen, where she’d left Henry, George, and Martha cutting Christmas decorations out of gold paper. “Get your outdoor things on, children. We’re off on an adventure.”
Martha climbed down from her chair at once. “Are we? What kind of adventure?”
“Why, we’re to search for evergreens and mistletoe to finish decorating the entryway. We haven’t nearly enough yet.”
Henry gave her a dark look and stuck his lip out. “I thought we weren’t going to have any more Christmas doings, on account of that lord.”
“Nonsense, Henry. We always celebrate the twelve days of Christmas at Cleves Court.”
“We won’t next year.” George kicked at the leg of Henry’s chair, a mutinous expression on his face. “That lord’s going to toss everyone out, and close this house down forever. I heard ’im say so.”
Thea blew out a breath. Dash it all. Children always seemed to find out everything. “Lord Devon is not going to close down this house, George. I won’t allow it.”
“But ’e’s a lord, innit he? No one can stop a lord from doing what ’e wants. Them lordships always gets their way in everything.”
“Nonsense.” Thea gave a brisk nod. “I’ll find a way to bring Lord Devon around.”
“Aw, but George is right, Miss Sheridan,” Henry said. “I wish I was a lord. It’d be right nice to always have yer own way.”
“Lord Devon isn’t going to get his way—not this time, because I’m going to do whatever I have to do to keep Cleves Court open, no matter how many lords come.” Thea held out a hand to George. “Now, come along, George. You too, Henry.”
George groaned as he slid off his chair. “There’s not going to be more lords, is there? We don’t even know how to handle the one we got.”
“I do!” Martha cried, her face lit up with glee.
“Ye don’t either, Martha.” Henry gave his sister the kind of scathing look only a big brother could manage. “Ye don’t know nothing about managing no fancy lords.”
“Don’t know anything,” Thea said. “You don’t know anything about managing any fancy lords.”
“See?” Henry scowled at Martha. “Even Miss Sheridan says so!”
“I wasn’t agreeing with you, Henry. I was correcting—”
“I do too know about ’em!” Martha stuck her little nose in the air. “I know they don’t like milk in their laps.”
“Martha! You didn’t!” Thea covered her mouth with her hand, not sure if she should be shocked or amused. My goodness, Ethan had been telling the truth. Martha really had assaulted him in his bed.
“Oh yes, I did. Ate all ’is jam, too. Ye should a’ heard him curse.”
“That was very naughty of you, Martha,” Thea said, trying not to laugh. Perhaps she’d use the milk pitcher on him the next time he teased her about his bath. “You’ll have to beg his lordship’s pardon. Not now, though, because now we’re going in search of mistletoe.”
She hurried the children into their winter things and then led them outdoors and around the side of the house where Ethan’s bedchamber was. She glanced up to his window on the third floor, but the sun’s angle prevented her from seeing anything, and he likely still had the drapes drawn.
But if he did happen to peek out the window and look down, he’d see the three of them quite clearly, and just in case he didn’t . . .
“On the first day of Christmas, my true love gave to me,” Thea sang, and the children joined in at once, shouting, “A partridge in a pear tree!”
They disappeared into the trees at the far edge of the lawn, their booted feet crunching against the frosty ground, the cold air ringing with true loves and turtle doves, and echoes of childish laughter.
* * * *
Where the bloody hell did she think she was going?
Ethan yanked the drapes back across the window and threw himself into his chair with a curse so wicked even he thought twice before uttering it aloud.
He’d been ringing the bell for the better part of twenty minutes, wondering where the devil his tarts and bath had got to, and now there she went off into the woods, as cool as you please, with those
three unholy sprites on her heels.
The littlest one had been skipping. Skipping!
It didn’t look to Ethan as though Martha had received the thrashing she deserved.
Damnation. Now here he was, alone in his bedchamber again, with no tarts and no bath, no Thea to distract him, and no filthy memoirs to keep him amused.
What the devil was he to do now?
He could venture out and fetch his own book and tarts, he supposed, but he wasn’t going to do it. It was the principle of the thing.
Ethan paced back and forth across his bedchamber for another hour, fuming and muttering darkly to himself. Why his father had appointed Thea housekeeper at Cleves Court, Ethan couldn’t imagine. She was far too uppity to be a servant. Why, he had a mind to go after her and bring her back here at once—
Go after her, and bring her back here at once.
He’d thrown his shirt over his head, fastened his breeches—by himself, mind you—and had one arm in his coat before he came to a halt in the middle of his bedchamber.
Dear God, she’d done it again.
He was doing precisely what Thea wanted, just as if he were dangling from a string on her fingertips. Thea might be uppity, but she was damn clever, too. She’d lure him outdoors today, then she’d coax him into going to church next Sunday, and the next thing he knew he’d be loitering under a kissing ball, humming the Twelve Days of bloody Christmas.
Well, it wouldn’t work.
No one managed the earl, for God’s sake. He’d never wanted the title, but now he was stuck with it, it had to be good for bloody something, didn’t it?
He threw himself back into his chair, took up the book Thea had left, and settled in to wait her out. She couldn’t ignore him forever. If he refused to come down, she’d have to send someone up eventually before he froze or starved to death, and even Thea wouldn’t take it that far.
Would she?
No, no. She might be prickly and stubborn, but underneath the nerve and impudence she had a tender heart, and anyway, no one wanted a dead earl on their hands. The live ones were trouble enough.
