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 burned 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.
The gossips in London whispered about him—he’d seen the heads turn as he walked by, heard the wordsbrotherandmurdererrepeated 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.
