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’shim. 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.”
“Afallenangel.”
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 children 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.
