Twelfth Night with the Earl

by Anna Bradley

The gossips in London whispered about him—he’d seen the heads turn as he walked by, heard the words brother and murderer repeated in delighted horror behind his back. It ignited a spark of hopeless fury inside him each time, but that cleansing rage never lasted for more than a moment before it faded into numb despair. What could he say to such accusations? He’d lost his voice when he was labeled a murderer, because surely a man who killed his brother wouldn’t draw the line at lying about it.

  But as bad as it was he could endure it, because no one expected him to be anything other than Lord Demon, a man so cold-blooded he’d killed his own brother to gain wealth and a title.

  But Thea . . . when she looked at him she still saw Ethan, that carefree boy who’d run through the woods with her and Andrew, climbing trees and hunting for mistletoe. That boy who’d been one of her dearest friends.

  What had it been like for her after he’d left? Had she been devastated when they’d been separated, as he had been? Thea had always been the one bright spot in the ocean of darkness surrounding Cleves Court. Had he been that for her, or did she only see more darkness when she thought of him now?

  Did she know he’d loved her? Did she know his heart still quickened when he remembered their one kiss, and how her lips had felt under his? His heart had nearly burst out of his chest the night he’d kissed her, all those years ago. The moment his lips had touched hers, he’d believed he could have everything he ever wanted.

  And then it had all fallen apart.

  His mother had died less than a week after that kiss, and he’d been sent away to school soon afterwards, forced to leave Thea and Andrew behind. He hadn’t known at the time it would be ten years before he’d return to Cleves Court. If he had, perhaps he’d have fought harder to stay.

  But he hadn’t, and now he wasn’t that boy anymore. He never could be again, and every time Thea looked at him with those shadows in her beautiful green eyes, it was as if a cold hand had reached into his chest and torn out his heart.

  I never should have come here.

  The ground was hard, frozen, and for a long time as he walked he focused only on the faint crunch of frost under the heavy tread of his boots.

  But after a while he became conscious of another sound—shuffling steps behind him, and something else, like the sound of a stick being dragged across the ground.

  Henry and George Munro.

  Ethan knew it was them without turning back to look. He didn’t slow his steps, but they drew closer and closer, until at last they were just a few paces behind him, and he could hear them whispering to each other.

  “I don’t know, George. Maybe this weren’t such a good idea. Ye never know what them lordships will take it into their ’eads to do.”

  There was a brief silence, then George’s voice, whispering back. “An’ he looks bigger up close, don’t ’e? An’ we know ’e’s strong. He lifted Miss Sheridan right over his head.”

  “He’s strong, and ’e’s wicked. Don’t forget the cursing, George.”

  “Devil, and bloody, and whatnot.” George couldn’t quite hide his relish. “Do ye think ’e knows any other curses?”

  Ethan’s lips twitched in spite of himself. He should be irritated they’d disrupted his solitude, but instead he was strangely relieved. He whirled around suddenly, his eyebrows lowered in his fiercest expression. “Do you two intend to assault me with that stick?”

  The two boys leapt backward, out of his reach, then Henry turned to George, his eyes wide. “Wot did ’e say?”

  “Don’t know.” George took another step backwards, his wary gaze fixed on Ethan. “Something about salt, I think.”

  “Assault. It means to attack. I thought I’d be safe enough on the grounds at Cleves Court, but perhaps I should have brought my pistol out with me this morning.”

  The boys stared at him, then Henry whistled low. “What kind of pistol’s that, then?”

  Ethan shrugged. “Double-barrel flintlock. Manton’s, of course.”

  George glanced at Henry, then took a step forward. “That a dueling pistol?”

  “No, a coach pistol, but I have a set of dueling pistols. Quite nice ones. French, silver-mounted. I didn’t suppose I’d be fighting a duel in Cornwall, though, so I left them in London.”

  “You ever fought a duel?” Henry and George crept closer without seeming to realize they did it.

  “Once, a long time ago, though I came close to fighting a second one just a few months back, with a Captain in his majesty’s service, to defend a lady’s honor.”

  “That’s gentleman-like, that is,” George breathed. “Wot happened?”

  “The lady in question ended up marrying the Captain.” Ethan smiled a little, thinking of Charlotte. He hadn’t objected to marrying a lady he didn’t love, but he’d drawn the line at marrying a lady who loved another man, and for reasons he couldn’t fathom, Charlotte was in love with Captain West.

  George was far more interested in the pistols than the lady or the marriage, however. “Can we see it? Yer pistol, I mean?”

  “See it?” Henry interrupted. “What good’s seeing it?” He gave his brother a disdainful look. “Can we shoot it?”

  Ethan raised an eyebrow. “That depends. Do either of you know how to shoot a pistol?”

  “No.” George kicked at a clump of frozen grass sticking up from the ground. “Don’t know ’ow to use swords, or ’ow to fight, neither.”

  “Will ye show us?” Henry stepped forward, his tone eager. “You done it all, right? Fists and pistols and swords, and the like?”

  Ethan hesitated, surprised they’d asked him, though he supposed he shouldn’t be. Boys needed a man about to teach them masculine pursuits. George and Henry might be wary of him, but it wasn’t as if Cleves Court was overflowing with better options. “Yes, of course. Every gentleman can shoot and fence and box, Henry. But I’m not sure Miss Sheridan will like it if I teach you.”

  “Oh well, as to that . . . we’ll tell Miss Sheridan we done it only after it’s done, ye see?”

  Ethan stifled a laugh. “That’s lying, Henry.”

  “But ye said the other day every boy should know how to use ’is fists. Didn’t ’e say that, George?”

  “He did.” George nodded solemnly. “Ye said it right before ye fell on top of Miss Sheridan.”

  “An’ Miss Sheridan, she’s the forgiving type, innit she? She’s nice like that. She always forgives us when we’re bad, don’t she, George?”

  “’Course she does, even that time we set that fire in the kitchen garden.” George cast an apprehensive glance at Ethan. “It were an accident, yer lordship.”

  But Ethan didn’t hear him.

  He’d been avoiding Thea because he didn’t know what to say to her, how to ask her to forgive him for his hurtful words the other night, but the boys were right. It wasn’t Thea’s way to withhold forgiveness.

  It didn’t matter what he said to her. It only mattered he said something.

  “Yer lordship?”

  Ethan snapped his attention back to Henry and George. “I will teach you, yes, but only if Miss Sheridan agrees to it. We won’t skulk around behind her back, doing wrong and begging for forgiveness afterwards. An honorable gentleman doesn’t behave that way. You do want to be honorable gentlemen, don’t you?”

  Henry and George, who looked rather impressed with this speech, both gave vigorous nods. “Yes, yer lordship.”

  “Good. I’ll speak with her later today. Have you had your breakfast yet? No? Well, then we’d best get back to the house at once, before Miss Sheridan sends Peter after us.”

  * * * *

  He did speak with Thea later that day. Much later.

  He’d intended to spend some time quietly in his bedchamber, to try and get his scattered emotions under control and think about what to say before he went to her, but when he and the boys
returned from their walk and he’d sent them down to the kitchens, instead of going straight up to his bedchamber, he found himself standing in the entryway, staring up at the stairs.

  That night Andrew had fallen . . .

  He’d been right beside his brother, close enough to grab him, but by the time he realized what was happening, his arms had closed on empty air, and the next thing he remembered, Andrew was on the floor below, unmoving, blood pouring from the back of his head.

  Christ, he didn’t want to think about it, didn’t want that picture in his head.

  Go to your bedchamber. Drown yourself in whiskey. Forget.

  But he didn’t.

  For reasons he didn’t understand, his feet took him in the direction of the music room. The door was closed, but he pushed it open and stopped, staring into the darkened space. His mother had been an accomplished musician, but after his father left for London permanently, she’d never played again, and the door to the room was kept closed. They’d closed the doors on the saloon and the billiards room next, until the study, the library and the drawing-room were the only rooms left open on the main floor.

  What do you remember, Ethan?

  Thea wanted him to remember the happy times in this house, so Ethan shut his eyes and tried to picture what it had been like before everything fell apart, but everywhere he went, he saw only empty rooms, each one colder than the last. It didn’t matter how hard Thea tried to remind him—he’d never be able to see Cleves Court as his home again.

  He wasn’t sure how long he wandered from room to room, but by the time he reached the kitchens it was early evening, and he was so twisted and jagged inside he was afraid of what he’d do, what he’d say to Thea.

  He shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t see her at all tonight.

  And yet he was there at the kitchen before he could turn back, and the moment he saw her, all the warring emotions inside him began to calm, as if he’d been starved of oxygen, and was finally able to draw a deep breath.

  He waited for the pain to come, to drag him under, but as he stood in the kitchen door watching her, the terrible and the beautiful memories began to bleed together, become part of each other. The darkness was there still, but it no longer swallowed the light.

  It was because of Thea.

  He opened his mouth to say her name, but closed it again without speaking, and stood for a while, his hip against the door frame, watching her. He was invading her privacy, but he was unable to tear his gaze away.

  She’d rolled her sleeves to her elbows and was kneading the dough. Occasionally she ran a bare forearm across her forehead, leaving streaks of flour.

  “You’ve got flour in your hair.” His voice was soft.

  She went still when he spoke, but she didn’t look at him or answer, and after a moment she went back to working the dough.

  “On your face, too.” His boots made a muffled thump against the stone floor as he crossed the room to stand in front of her. “Just here.” He brushed his fingertips over the loose tendrils of hair near her hairline. “And here.” He trailed the fingers down her cheek.

  She nodded, but she kept her gaze on her task, her hands never ceasing their movements.

  “Thea. Look at me.” He touched a gentle fingertip to her chin, but when she raised her face to his at last, her green eyes were swimming with tears.

  It was like a fist slamming into his stomach. He cradled the back of her head in his hand and pulled her against his chest. “Don’t cry, sweetheart. I’m sorry. I never should have said what I did. I never should have told you to get out.”

  She nodded against his chest, but her tears continued to fall fast, wetting the front of his shirt. He ran his hands over her back in long strokes while he murmured to her in a low, soothing voice until she stopped crying and raised her tear-streaked face to his.

  “It’s not just what you said. It’s all of it. Your mother, and Andrew.” She dried her tears with a corner of her apron. “Cleves Court is my home, but not all of my memories here are happy ones, just as yours aren’t.”

  “I know, sweetheart. I know they’re not.”

  But he hadn’t been behaving as if he knew. Since he’d arrived he’d been so wrapped up in his own pain, he’d forgotten she’d been through the same nightmare he had, but when he looked into those green eyes he loved so well, he could no longer hide from the truth.

  None of them had escaped without scars.

  The night Andrew died, Ethan had been in shock, and his memories of that awful moment were blurred around the edges, but he remembered Thea as clearly as if he could see her now, kneeling on the floor next to Andrew, touching a hand to his brother’s cheek. When she’d looked up at Ethan, her face had been whiter than he’d ever seen it, and he’d known Andrew was gone . . .

  It had been as hard on her as it was on him—no, it had been harder for her, because he’d left her here to bear it alone. “I’m sorry, Thea. I wish . . .”

  I wish I was stronger.

  In that moment he wanted more than anything to tell her he wouldn’t close the house, and that she might stay here in this place she cherished, the only home she’d ever known. But he didn’t say it, because he wasn’t certain it wouldn’t be a lie by tomorrow. The old ghosts would be waiting for him when he woke. They always were, and he’d be just as desperate to escape them as he always was. He wouldn’t make her a promise he couldn’t keep.

  But he could make another promise. He could stop running, stop drowning himself in whiskey, and instead do everything he could to try and make peace with this house.

  Not just for Thea, but for himself.

  She let him hold her for another moment, but then she pushed gently against his chest. “I beg your pardon, for . . . I don’t usually lose control like this. I suppose I’m tired. It’s been a long day. It’s just . . . I miss them, so much. Lady Isabel, and Andrew, I mean, and I’m going to miss—”

  “Cleves Court.” He knew she wouldn’t say it, so he said it for her. “You’re going to miss Cleves Court.”

  She hesitated. “I will miss Cleves Court, yes, but that’s not what I meant.” She looked down at her hands. “I was going to say I’ll miss you, Ethan.”

  She started to slide past him, but everything inside him screamed in protest at losing her. He braced his hands on either side of the work table to stop her. “Wait, Thea. I—don’t go. I know it’s late, but I can’t . . .”

  I can’t bear to let you go without touching you.

  He dropped his forehead to hers. Just one innocent touch, and then he’d release her . . .

  A soft groan rose from his chest as her rich, warm scent of vanilla enveloped him, and before he could stop himself he’d buried his face in her hair. Dear God, her scent drove him mad. He wanted to drown in her. He dropped a dozen tiny kisses against her temple before trailing his mouth down her cheek to nuzzle her jaw.

  “So sweet, Thea.”

  She didn’t reply, but she let out a breathless sigh and pressed her hands to his chest. He brushed his lips over the soft skin behind her ear to taste her there, and felt her pulse flutter wildly against his tongue.

  God, he wanted her mouth. He wanted to slide between her lips and wrap his tongue in her sweetness, but she’d begun to tremble against him, and once he tasted her, he wouldn’t be able to let her go.

  You can’t have her. Not now, and not like this.

  In less than two weeks he’d be gone. He wouldn’t kiss her, and then leave her here alone. He’d never hurt her that way—not again.

  He forced himself to lift his head and ease her back before he could pull her into his arms again. “Go to bed, sweetheart.”

  She didn’t move, but stared at him as if she expected him to say something else, but then her gaze darted away from his, and she took a stumbling step away. “Yes, I . . . good night, Lord Devon.”

 
Ethan flinched at her use of his title, but he managed not to grab her and drag her back against him as she passed him on her way to the door. “Good night.”

  In the next breath she was gone, and he was left alone, leaning against her work table with a thousand different emotions in his heart, and his body aching with desire.

  Chapter Seven

  December 31, 7:00 p.m.

  “Watch this, Miss Sheridan!”

  Thea was dipping slices of stale bread into a pan of milk for a bread and butter pudding while the children had a late-evening snack at the kitchen table. She looked up to see George push his chair back, and pull Martha to her feet.

  “His lordship says this is ’ow a proper gentleman greets a lady.” George took a giggling Martha by the shoulders and arranged her so she stood across from him. “First, some other cove’s got to introduce ye to ’er, ye see, and then—”

  “Martha’s not a lady.” Henry tore a piece of bread in half and stuffed it in his mouth. “She climbs trees, and she screeches, and her pinafores are dirty. She doesn’t act proper like a lady should.”

  “I am too a lady!” Martha turned a furious glare on her brother. “Ye take that back, Henry!”

  “Oh, that’s going to be a brawl, that is.” George watched with interest as Martha advanced on Henry, her little hands curled into fists. “Go on, Martha. Draw ’is cork.”

  “That’s enough, miss.” Becky, who was serving at table, grabbed Martha by the shoulders, stopping her before she could leap upon her brother.

  “A lady doesn’t engage in fisticuffs, Martha.” Thea set aside her bowl and came around her work table. “And a gentleman, Henry, never casts aspersions on a lady’s character.”

  Henry pointed an accusing finger at George. “He doesn’t tell her to draw a person’s cork, neither!”

  Thea hid a smile. “That’s true enough. But carry on, George. How does a proper gentleman greet a lady?”

  “Well, ’is lordship says if ’e’s got a hat, ’e touches it, or tips it, like this, and ’e bows, too.” George doffed a pretend hat, then bent at the waist in front of Martha. “He can kiss ’er hand, if ’e likes,” he added, taking Martha’s hand, “but not too hearty-like, ye see, ’cause hearty isn’t proper when it comes to kisses.”