Chapter 12

The impression of an arse on a paint-splattered canvas always drew Clara closer. She stood before it in the hour before dinner, as she did every evening, and studied it. The haphazard painting, had, apparently, won Atlas's younger brother Zander his inheritance. Seemed unlikely, but Franny had explained it had been the unusual method of its creation that made the canvas a masterpiece and not the actual technical difficulty. Which was… none.

"It's an excellent thing," Franny said from across her personal parlor where she stretched out across a small couch, "that Fiona and Zander are in London at the moment. Dear Fee might take issue with your staring at her husband's ar?—"

"Franny." Matilda looked up from the book she read in a corner. "I thought you possessed an aversion to discussions regarding your children's various unmentionable parts." She propped one elbow on a chair, holding her book up before her face. It dipped below her nose now, though, as she considered Franny over its edge. Her other hand settled, as it usually did these days, on her growing belly. In the right gown, she could still hide her condition. Four months with child had not swelled her belly to the same proportions it had for Clara, but when Matilda sat back into a chair, her skirts draped lovingly over the slightly swelling curve.

"I've mounted it on the wall, dear. Zander's backside is now a clear focal point of conversation. Not that we should discuss its size or shape."

Clara tilted her head farther. "Both of which remain unclear. It's more of a blur than anything."

Franny clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth. "You look not with the eyes of love. You best not look at all. Your husband will return home shortly, and he may object as strongly as Fee would."

Atlas and Raph had left to look at the dairy early that morning, and Clara had worked alone all day, focusing on patching and reworking the upholstery for the dower house's furniture. He'd kissed her forehead before leaving the bed, and she'd rolled over into his warm, abandoned spot, inhaling deeply.

She turned away from the painting (which could only loosely be called by that name) and from the others hanging on the wall beside it—all works of art that had won the Bromley brothers their inheritances. A woman's silhouette, a satirical watercolor of a woman and a gargoyle, and a rough drawing of a lady with a design curling up her bare arm. The last had been sketched by Franny from memory in black ink and red paint. Clara had been told it offered an accurate depiction of the "artwork" that had won the marquess his inheritance. He'd drawn his heart on the marchioness's arm.

Clara sat on a small, tufted ottoman and picked up her sewing. Alfie lay on his belly beside her, swinging his legs, playing with the figures Atlas had carved for him during the last few weeks.

"It won't be long," Franny said, swinging her foot, "until Atlas secures a spot on that wall. I've heard him humming. I'm sure he's writing a song to melt the hearts of every man, woman, and child in England."

"Franny," Matilda said, "why haven't you given Atlas his inheritance yet?"

"He can have it when he wishes it." Franny sniffed. "He has only to ask for it."

"He wants to earn it," Clara murmured.

Matilda rolled her eyes. "These men. Gorgeous. Hard as boulders on the outside. And soft as clouds on the inside."

Franny sat upright, leaning toward Matilda. "Oh, clouds are too distant and cold. Men are something much sweeter, I think. They are soft as… pudding."

"Butter?" Matilda offered.

"Right consistency, incorrect taste. Hm." Franny tapped her chin. "Perhaps soft as a bath biscuit?"

"Oh, yes." Matilda closed her book. "But not quite sweet enough still. What about?—"

The door opened, and the bath buns joined them, both men looking rumpled and tired. Raph joined his wife with a kiss, and Alfie jumped to his feet.

He ran to Atlas, crying, "You're back! Can I go with you next time? How many cows are there?" He threw one question after another at Atlas, and the man chuckled, lifted all of Alfie's gangly inches up into the air, swooping him high before setting him back down. With a wince no one seemed to see but Clara.

Atlas flinched, the smallest reaction, as he knelt to Alfie's level and reached into his pocket. "Here. I found this. Thought you might like it."

Alfie took it. "A rock? Oh! It's shaped like a cat!"

"I knew you'd see it." Atlas ruffled Alfie's hair as he stood, the usually soft curve of his lips smoothing flat and tight.

"You're hurt," Clara said, putting her sewing aside to stand and greet him.

He laughed. "Hurt? Of course not." He flashed a glance at his mother, at Raph, then kissed Clara's temple and guided her back to her seat. "What are you working on?" Atlas's voice rolled through her like a summer storm when the air is hot but the rain a cool welcome. She shivered, licked her lips. He was really too good at playing pretend. She, however, had proved quite unskilled. At resisting his charms. Every moment they spent together, she fell more deeply. Yesterday morning, when she'd caught him playing the rhyming game with Alfie, her heart had nearly burst from her chest. She'd never known a body could hold such happiness. Her son, her husband—they were slowly growing a bond.

Atlas rubbed his thumb up and down the column of her neck, sending twin tendrils of memory and need shooting through her body. Soon her courses would be over, and she could have once more the delicious sensation of him inside her, filling her.

Happiness filled her for now. Alfie played on the rug beside her, his small voice brimming with comfort. Across the room, Matilda and Raph whispered to one another. The fire crackled in the grate, and a warm, large body settled beside her in the chair next to her ottoman. Atlas smelled like mint and cheroot, two scents she'd never again smell without thinking of him, but also of fresh wood and clean, cold air. The chair creaked, then creaked again. She sighed, opening her eyes.

"Atlas?"

"Hm?" His gaze settled on her like the waters of a heated bath. She could immerse herself in them, wash her worries away.

"You're uncomfortable." She kept her voice low.

His brows pulled together, slow as trees bending beneath the weight of a heavy snow. "I'm n?—"

"You are. You can't sit still in the chair. It's too small for your frame." Riding had also worn pain into his body, though he denied it. He always denied it.

He looked at the left arm of the chair, then at the right arm, then he squirmed, once more. His entire body seemed pinched into the tiny confines of the chair. "I'm perfectly fine."

She snorted. "Switch with me. The ottoman will be better for you."

"You chose that seat."

She bounced to her feet. "I will not be able to focus on my sewing with you shifting about. Sit."

He could have crushed the delicate chair arms as he wrapped powerful hands around them to push to standing. He sat on the ottoman, and she stepped toward the chair, but before she could sink into it, his arm found its way around her waist and tugged. She sank, instead, onto his lap. Beneath her, thighs tight and hard with muscle. Behind her, a chest more like a wall than a man. Around her, arms like small trees. And above her, a chin resting on the top of her head. Her entire body sizzled and melted in a moment. She relaxed in his arms.

"Have you seen my new one, Mama?" Alfie rolled from his belly to his backside, sitting up, and holding out a small, carved man for her inspection.

She took it, turning it round in her hands. A bit crude, but she could somehow see its maker in the form. There was a song in the rough-hewn curve of the wood. "It's lovely." She gave it back.

"Atlas is brilliant, isn't he?" Alfie said, his lips shaping a goofy grin.

Atlas rubbed his knuckles across the top of the boy's head. "Not as brilliant as you. Ready for a rhyme?"

Alfie's head bobbed up and down.

Atlas scratched his chin. "Hm. How about… house and pig?"

Alfie flew over to Franny. "I need paper, Grandmama!"

Franny laughed and hauled herself upright, and they escaped across the room to a writing table in the corner.

Atlas watched them with eyes like gems and a smile like love. "I'll miss him when I leave."

"Are you going to the dairy again with Raph tomorrow?"

"No." His voice so low, the word trailed into silence.

Memory slammed into her.

Oh.

Oh no.

He was leaving. Of course he was. He'd always planned to. She knew that. And in a blur of safety and love, she'd let herself forget, let the pretending feel too real.

Her husband planned to leave.

And one day, Alfie would lose his second father.

She shot to her feet but did not feel the weight of her body supported by her legs. Everything numb, numb and humming. She'd been so careless. Lost in the fairy-tale fog of Briarcliff, she'd let herself forget. And possibly, she'd set Alfie up for pain. Her son's heart would break if this man became a father to him. Then left.

Atlas may be able fall in love anew each day without a broken heart, but her son could not. She could not. Like a house of cards, the world crashed down around her.

Atlas tugged on her wrist. "Clara, are you well?"

"Aha!" Alfie cried, rushing to stand before them, waving the paper in his hand above his head. "I've got it. It's grand."

"Well, let's hear it, then." Atlas grinned, just for Alfie, and Clara's heart drowned.

Alfie cleared his throat. "There once was a lovely house. That was home to a terribly large mouse. It wore a wig and ate a pig and made friends with a quite small louse."

Atlas's laughter shook the roof, and Alfie's smile illuminated the growing night beyond the windows. Too late. Oh, she was much too late to save her son's heart.

"Brilliant, my boy," Atlas boomed, reaching for Alfie's head. It lighted there only a moment before his entire body stiffened and he pulled the arm back to his side. "Can I have it? To keep?"

Alfie pushed the paper at his stepfather and ran off once more. Atlas watched him with dreamy eyes, holding the paper, the rhyme, tight between strong fingers.

The bottom dropped out of her world, and she was falling. A never-ending drop that threatened to crush her bones if, when, it ended. She'd been so happy, and so desperate for happiness, that she'd allowed herself to wallow in it with no thought for the practicalities. She'd felt happiness so little in the past years, she'd clung to the present joys with no thought for future aches.

But, oh, there would be aches. For Alfie.

What a selfish mother she'd proven to be after all.

She must do something, anything, to mitigate the mess she'd created. Not too late. She could still salvage… something.

"Atlas, we need to talk."

He stood, frowning. "You're feeling unwell? I'll escort you to our room."

"No, no. Please. A walk. We'll be back for dinner."

He offered her his arm, and she took it, and they made their way outside, began a slow amble across the fields toward the dower house along the same path they took every morning and every evening.

"Clara?" Atlas squeezed her arm to his side. "Is something amiss?"

Where to begin?

With the difficult task of dissection—her body from his, her heart from his unwitting hold. When she slipped from his embrace, he did not question it, merely set his steps to hers and waited.

"We are making good time with the dower house," she said.

"We are."

"And you will be leaving when it is done."

"I will."

"Why, Atlas? Why must you leave?" She stopped, turned to face him, saw so many shadows in his eyes for a flicker of an instant before he slammed a tame mask over them. "I have not asked before because I… I believe I willingly put the eventuality of your leaving away from me. We pretend well, you and I. So much so I've fooled myself these last few weeks." Into believing they would always go on as they had. "But I think I should know why. Will you tell me?"

The sun sank toward the horizon as silence stretched between them.

Atlas stopped to watch it, and she stayed a bit behind him, her gaze focused on his tall, broad form, the dark of his hair and coat disappearing against the nighttime gathering above the sunset.

"I'm going to the Continent," he said. "More specifically to battlefields, places I've already been, places I've blasted to pieces, drenched with blood." He spoke with no intonation.

"You did not enjoy fighting." Oh God, what silly words. Of course he hadn't. Only he was speaking to her now, and she did not want him to close up once more.

"No. It is an honor, I know, to fight for one's country and people. But it left a mark. No matter how worthy the fight, it… scorches the soul."

She swallowed. "Your father must have bought you a commission, then, if you did not desire to fight."

"No. I joined the infantry as an ensign on my own. I"—every muscle in his body seemed to twitch at once and then relax—"thought I might enjoy it. The whole of it—the fellows, the travel, learning new things, the money, and yes, the fighting. At the time, I thought— A man can be wrong." He brought the lightness back to his voice with the last bit. "In the end, I only enjoyed the fellows. And the money. And neither are around anymore to enjoy."

Hell. A handsaw through the gut, that. "I cannot imagine."

He offered her a grin that attempted playfulness. Couldn't succeed with something dark lurking in the corners. "I don't want to imagine. I don't want to remember." He scanned the horizon before them, then pointed. "Look. Just there. See that wild tangled bush marring the smooth line between grass and sky?"

He set his steps toward it, and she followed. Didn't take long to have its leafless branches beneath her touch.

"It's beautiful." His gaze drank it in, as if he would never look away. Hands shoved in pockets. "Quite lovely."

"That? Lovely?" Barren and tangled and thorny. She could not even begin to discern what shape it took or fruit it bore in the spring.

"Yes, look again." He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and guided her closer, pointing at the bush. "See how the branches cross one another?" A hum in his throat. "A fine tangle to catch a man." The words more sung than spoken. "Well-shaped boughs to wrap him up."

And in the tangle of his odd little song, under the warm pressure of his much-muscled arm, she saw it—the beauty. How the branches struck up from the ground in a bunch, all together, then separated as they reached for the sky. But not in straight shoots. Their paths curved and crossed, weaving a wild pattern against the grass. She shivered, and he tugged her closer with a flex of his arm. So easy to settle into the crook of her husband's shoulder. So right.

She pulled away, and his arm dropped like a dead branch, heavy to his side as she circled the bush.

He followed behind her. "See how the view changes with each turn? From each direction, a new thing of beauty to admire. To l—" An L-word. The only one that seemed to exist, a good one to lock up behind teeth. Necessary, to lock up behind teeth. She was glad he'd done it. He swallowed, licked his lips. "'Tis better to seek out beauty in the world than to wallow in the shadows. And that's what I'll be doing when I leave, revisiting those places that give me pain and replacing my memories of them with new ones. Better ones. I want to see those fields healed. So maybe then… I can heal too."

He cleared his throat, looked up, and she wanted to reach out to him, but words pulsed in his clenching throat, fighting for order, and she knew she'd do better to wait, to listen, to let him stand lonely under the white sky.

"I'm going for atonement," he said. "I enlisted to help my family fill the coffers, and I returned wounded, bedridden for months. I can do nothing about that but ignore what pain remains. My soul, though… perhaps I can still salvage that. My family has been through too much to bear that burden, as well. They've risen from their own ashes. I must do the same. Better for me to leave and hope leaving, atonement, brings me peace. Then, perhaps"—he dropped his gaze to her, his eyes soft and deeper than the sea—"only then, can I return."

She wanted to be angry, bitter about him leaving. Enraged by the idea he might never return, might never find a way to rise from his own ashes. But how could she? She knew only the desire to help him any way she could. While not hurting herself. While mitigating the damage done to Alfie.

"You know," she said, "the way you look at the bush, that is how I look at furniture."

He shoved his hands in his pockets and tilted his head just enough for her to know she had his full attention.

"It should be practical. There to serve, to be. Utilitarian. And yet, why can't it be beautiful too?"

"Just so."

"Most do not look at a table, a chair, a stair railing and think, My, how lovely. They think, There's a right good place to sit my arse."

He coughed a deep, rich laugh. "Or I wonder how many porcelain shepherdesses I can fit on that table?"

"Or, if one is Alfie, Can I climb it or slide down it?"

Only playful merriment in his gaze, now, and oh how she wanted to kiss him. No more. No more kisses.

She stepped away and said, "I think we should tell your family the truth. About us. The nature of our marriage. When you leave, they will wonder why a man besotted with his wife would abandon her."

"Ah. Bollocks. I'd not thought of that." Former merriment entirely decimated, replaced by a scowl fierce as a storm cloud. "What about Christmas? My mother has been looking forward to it. She'll be?—"

"She'll be devastated." Clara paced. "Very well. We'll stop pretending after Christmas. But, Atlas, another thing."

He grunted. "Very well. Take aim and fire, Clara Bromley."

"Alfie," she whispered. "You should not make the toys for him. Or"—she swallowed—"spend time with him."

His gaze whipped to her, and she saw the soldier he'd been once, hard and cold-eyed. "Why shouldn't I? I want him to feel welcome here."

"He does. I swear to you he does. But you must not encourage him." Her voice so low he might not have heard her.

"Encourage him to do what?"

"Love you. When you will be leaving him." His eyes closed, and he rocked back onto his heels as if she'd dealt him a physical blow. "What happens if he comes to love you? As a father? He's already lost one father. But when you leave, you will have made a choice to do so. You will have chosen to leave him. I"—she swallowed, the devastation drying her mouth—"do not wish to see such loss in his eyes. Again."

Atlas opened his mouth. His arms hung like dead weight at his sides. She'd seen his face with a variety of expressions in the last few weeks—brow furrowed in contemplation, biting the bottom lip in the throes of creativity, jaw hard when frustrated, the corners of his eyes crinkled with mirth, and his mouth in the well-worn curve of a smile. He wore a placid mask when his wound ached, and he laughed loud when happy.

Now, his face was blank. An entirely new expression for him, different even from the mask he wore to hide his pain.

"Am I simply to ignore him in the following months?" he asked.

"No, of course not. But you must be careful with him."

"Yes. I see the necessity. I did not mean to hurt him."

"I know. You would never."

"Never." His gaze slammed into her, and she pitied any man he'd met on a battlefield. He looked about the landscape, as if unsure where and how to take his next step.

She had one last thing to say, though, and she must hug her courage tight. "Atlas, we must resist. No more…" Making love. "What I mean to say is, from now on, I will sleep in another room."

"We cannot enjoy ourselves even after our pretending is over?"

"No."

His jaw twitched then loosened, and a single step brought him right up next to her. He smoothed the back of his hand down her cheek. He wore the roguish grin that sometimes seemed his most natural expression.

"What were you like?" she asked, "before the wars?"

He rubbed his thumb across her bottom lip. "Like any young man. A bit wild. A bit randy."

"Were you ever in love?"

"There were several I made love to. A woman's kiss—no greater thing of beauty in the world."

"You had no trouble acquiring them."

His grin turned cocky as he leaned low, their noses almost touching. "So you must believe me when I say your kisses are the finest of that art form. Clara, I will abide by your wishes, but there's enough of the young rogue left in me to take something for myself first." A lock of dark hair fell into his eye. Oh, what a look he wore, sizzling and bright and needy. A wolf's grin, that. A wolf's demand, too. "One final kiss, Clara."

And why not? She'd miss those kisses.

His arms circled her waist, those hands of his settling like perfection at the small of her back. Hard muscle everywhere, holding her tight, his firm mouth slanting across hers, opening to take her bottom lip between his teeth. She opened, too, lust already pooling low in her belly, making her legs weak and shaky.

A kiss that seemed to burn with a slowness that meant the fire between them would last as long as the world did. She could etch a design into wood with a controlled heat, hot and smoldering enough to leave a mark but low enough to keep it whole. She'd never tried it, only seen it done. Until now. Surely he scorched his marks on her skin. Surely she marked him right back.

He was leaving. This kiss changed nothing.

She ripped away from him. Because she wanted him too badly.

"When we stop pretending for your family," she said, "you should move to a different room. Or, no, I will move. Your pianoforte…" He took off down the path, away from Briarcliff. "Where are you going?" she called after him.

"To work at the dower house."

"But it's late. Dark. Atlas, please?—"

"I'm fine. Do not worry for me, and do not wait up for me. You should continue to sleep in our room. I'll figure out other sleeping arrangements." Then he disappeared over a rise.

On their first night as man and wife, Atlas had called her a brave sort of mother, a woman who did what she must for her son. If that were true at any time, it would be true now.

But how would she keep pretending with the shards of her heart piercing her so?

The same way she'd survived every other hardship—for Alfie.

Thank God for a full moon. It lit the upstairs chamber he'd been working on in the dower house like a cloudy day. Not entirely well. Shadows shifted about the walls. But it offered more than enough light for Atlas to see the gaping hole in the floor. He'd been ripping the ruined boards up for the past few weeks.

Time to fill them in. Time to finish the job he'd promised to do.

And leave.

He hadn't spoken aloud about his time in the army in years. Didn't want anyone to see, to know. But she saw too much. His every flinch of pain or hitch of breath in his sleep. She saw it all. And now she knew, too, because he'd told her, just how broken he was. The only way to sew himself back up was to leave home and find peace.

Hopefully.

That hole in the floor a bit like himself. He raised his face to the dying light and found his tools. Not entirely safe to work in the shadows. But not entirely safe to return and attend dinner and pretend love with a woman who saw more of him than anyone else, to return later to a bedchamber smelling of soap and paint and Clara, to a bed he could no longer share with her.

Their last kiss, their final kiss still echoed on his lips. She brought his youth screaming back to life. He felt more himself than he had in years when she teased the thoughtless rogue he used to be back into existence.

Thoughtless. Still that, apparently.

She was right to warn him.

Why did it hurt him so bad? Why did it feel like he'd been slashed right down the middle, left gaping and lifeless? He'd married the woman to save her. And her son. He'd done that. He admired her beauty. Loved her no more than he loved a beautiful bloom on a sunny day. Loved her as a thing he knew would fade and be replaced by something else. He'd learned the knack of loving dying things.

Losing sunsets, flowers, spring weather, respect for a father… None of that had felt like this before.

Did this hurt worse because he'd done harm this time? He'd been wrong to reach out to Alfie as he had—wanting to make a father's impression on the boy—when he didn't plan to be a father. Best to keep things with Alfie light, friendly but distant. He'd only hurt him worse in the end otherwise.

Atlas's hands became hammers, thick and fisted, and needing something to slam into. For a second only. He forced an exhale, then an inhale, and forced the muscles in his hands, tough as nails, to open.

So he could grab an actual hammer, lug a smooth board across the room, and set it in place.Soon he'd be done. Perhaps, even, tonight. No more putting off the inevitable. He must finish the house and leave. As soon as possible so he did not magnify the carnage he'd already be leaving in his wake.