She didn’t argue with him. It was the truth, and Thea knew it as well as he did. As long as all was well and the sun was shining, John Fortescue was a loving father and a devoted husband. He’d been so proud of his sons, especially Andrew, his treasured heir, but as soon as Andrew’s fits started, his father had fled to London, leaving his family alone and broken behind him.
“Butyou’renot a coward, Ethan, and it’s not too late for you.”
Ethan looked down into her face, into that beautiful face that would forever haunt his dreams, and God, he wanted so badly to listen to her, to believe everything she’d done was for him, but how could he? She loved this house. It was part of her, and he . . .
He was nothing but the man who’d walked away from her all those years ago, who’d left her here alone to struggle with unspeakable grief.
“I’m just like him, Thea. I’m a coward, too.”
“No, you’re not, and for all his faults, your father knew it.” Her green eyes pleaded with him. “You’re the reason he never closed Cleves Court, Ethan.”
For a moment he simply stared at her, not sure what she meant, but then his throat tightened as suspicion began to claw to the surface. He gripped Thea hard by the shoulders. “He never closed the house because of me? How . . . how do you know that?”
“I should have told you before now.” She drew in a shaky breath and let her forehead fall against his knee. “After Andrew . . . after we buried him, your father didn’t go back to London. You left, but he stayed at Cleves Court.”
“How long?” He tore the words from his throat. “How long did he stay here?”
“A few months. He hoped if he stayed here he’d find a way to accept it, to forgive himself, but in the end he knew it was too late for him, and he returned to London.” She lifted her head to look into his face. “But he never gave up on you, Ethan. He hoped someday you’d realize you couldn’t run, and you’d come back home. He asked me to stay here, and he made me promise . . .”
Ethan didn’t want to hear anymore, but he had to know all of it—every last secret. “What? He made you promise what?”
“To help you.” She looked up at him, her dark lashes wet with tears. “He knew you’d come here to close the house after he died, and he made me promise, when that day came, that I’d do whatever I could to help you find peace.”
For a moment Ethan couldn’t speak, but then he jerked away from her and shot to his feet. “So these few weeks—they were all about fulfilling a promise to my father? Did you promise him you’d let me between your legs, too? Was that part of your agreement?”
Thea staggered to her feet, but she was shaking. “Don’t do this, Ethan.”
God, he didn’t want to do this, didn’t want to hurt her or himself this way, but Cleves Court, and Thea, and now his father—they were all tangled in his head, and he didn’t know how to tear them free from each other. He’d been a fool to believe he ever could.
He couldn’t stay here.
“I’m leaving for London tomorrow.” His voice was hoarse, his throat scraped raw. “Alone. I’ll write out instructions for closing the house and leave them with you. I expect you to carry them out. Dismiss all the servants when it’s done.”
“Ethan, please listen to me—”
“No.” He shook his head, but he didn’t look at her—couldn’t look at her, because the stark despair on her face was breaking his heart. “This is over. I’m leaving Cleves Court, and this time, I’m never coming back. Do you know why I’m so sure of that, Thea?”
She didn’t answer, and he turned to face her.
“There won’t be anything left to come back to.”
Chapter Eleven
January 4, 2:00 a.m.
She should go to bed.
Thea sat on a stool and stared down at the spotless surface of her kitchen workbench. She’d scrubbed it earlier, but when she was finished the silence of the house pressed in on her, so she’d scrubbed the dining table, as well, and then the floors, and the hearth . . .
Every inch of the kitchen was gleaming now, but it still wasn’t enough, because once she stopped and silence descended again, all she’d be able to think about was Ethan, alone in his study, the guilt and pain eating away at him while he tried to drown his memories in glass after glass of whiskey.
She should have told him sooner, about the promise she’d made his father, but over and over again she’d convinced herself he wasn’t ready to hear it.
Her mistake was in thinking he’d ever be ready.
She’d always been afraid her love wouldn’t be enough for him to overcome such terrible pain, and now she knew it wasn’t.
She wanted to rail at him—beat her fists against his chest and scream at him so he could see how much he was hurting them both, but . . .
