Chapter 19

December 25, 1822

Clara's breasts gave Atlas life. And a throbbing cock. He woke with Clara's perfect breast cupped in his hand and her perfect arse nestled against his cock. Her shift entirely disarranged. Or gone. And happiness felt like it started somewhere inside him. Not in the sky or in a lock of hair, a pitch-perfect note or a stroke of paint. It bloomed in his gut then traveled through his blood to move his hand against her lovely neck.

He should leave her be. They'd returned to their room late last night, exhausted. The entire evening had been filled with song and games and laughter. His sisters-in-law had quite stolen Clara away, and when he'd gotten her back in the quiet of their room, he'd pleasured her until she'd slipped into a deep and sated sleep.

She slept soundly now, and she deserved her rest.

Just a little caress, a little… appreciation. He squeezed gently, teased her nipple, drew a line down her middle to her navel and back up. She stirred, her lower back arching just the slightest bit, pressing her backside against him. God, what lovely torture. He closed his eyes and breathed her in, and when he opened them again, her shoulder, creamy and round, beckoned to him from beneath loose strands of her hair. Poor thing. It deserved appreciation as well. He kissed it, breathing in again, now that his nose was closer to her skin, his body tightening.

Appreciation. Bone-deep, soul-singing appreciation. That continued up her neck, placing kisses carefully before moving to the delicate curve of her jaw. He anchored his hand on her top hip, fitting her body more searingly close against his and rocked his cock against her arse. He, perhaps, was showing his appreciation too much now. He might wake her. But he could not seem to care. She needed rest. He should let her have it. But he wanted something else, needed to take it for himself. Could not seem to stop.

He smoothed his hand over the top of her hip and rounded belly, explored lower, finding the crisp curls where her legs met and cupping the very center of her. She rolled her body again. This time a small moan escaped her lips. And on the wave of that moan traveled his name. Her hand joined his between her legs, fingers threading with fingers, stroking.

Hell. He nipped at the soft curve where shoulder became neck then licked it, tugged her earlobe between his teeth. Slipped a finger inside her.

Another roll of her hips, another moan of his name. He dragged his cock between the globes of her arse as his thumb teased the little nub that would unravel her. She gave a hiss of pleasure, then all at once, she leapt into wakeful life, turning in his arms, hands flying to his shoulders and pushing him onto his back as she straddled him. She took his cock in her hand, the other hand pinning his shoulder to the mattress, and met his gaze with her own wild-eyed one as she stroked it up and down.

Pleasure wound tight in his gut, and he could not look away from her. Indeed, she demanded his focus, every move and look daring him to tear his gaze away, to close his eyes and block her out. What a fool he'd be to do so. Impossible to do so. She had conquered him with strong grip and talented fingers and—bloody hell—when her other hand cupped his balls, squeezed, just as her thumb flicked over the head of his cock… his skin became too tight to live in. He rolled his hips upward, thrusting against her, and the movement sent ripples through her body. Those beautiful breasts strained against her shift. Damn shift. He ripped it up and off her, producing a pleased smile that did not last long. He swallowed it in a kiss, surging up to wrap his arms around her and cup the back of her head with his hand to hold her tight. To kiss her. To keep her.

His wife.

Who had other ideas than kissing. The flex of her thighs, sleek with muscle, brought her up and then down, sinking onto his cock. She broke the kiss and pushed him away, and he fell to the mattress with a grunt. And gratitude. She followed him down, pinning him, kissing him, as she rode him slowly. He bracketed her hips with his hands, never breaking the kiss, to show her a new rhythm. Faster. Because his needy body demanded it. But she eased him back to a slower speed once more. When he ripped away from the kiss to groan into her neck, she chuckled, her breath whispering against his ear.

And destroying any restraint.

A whisper, so soft and tiny, a breath—the most important thing in the world—and he became a beast. He wrapped his arms around her and flipped them, pressing her back to the mattress, pinning her, his cock still deep inside her, and he claimed her lips once more, need moving his muscles. Fast and faster as her fingernails raked down his back, as she moaned his name, as he stared into her eyes and found them glowing with desire. And determination.

He was determined, too, to make her come, to make her scream. He slipped his hand between their bodies and stroked her curls as he thrust, stroked his tongue into her mouth. She arched and wriggled beneath him.

"Atlas, I can't…"—panting breaths—"Oh, Atlas."

"Fall apart, love. I'm here."

She bit her bottom lip with a groan, eyes closing, and he pressed his thumb against her as he thrust home hard. She gasped, her eyes flying open, her hands claws on his back, hips bucking upward to meet him.

And his control snapped as her body shook in orgasm beneath him. As her muscles clenched around him, he fell apart too, almost forgetting to leave her heaven of a body before he spent. Almost. He pulled out and saved them both but left his body in a state of semi-dissatisfaction he had to brush aside. He was protecting her. His most important job to protect her. And that meant he could not risk getting her with child.

He collapsed to the side and brought her with him, wrapping his arms around her tightly as she nestled her head against his chest, their legs tangling. He rested his chin atop her head and felt the curve of her satisfied smile against his skin.

"Happy Christmas," she purred.

He kissed the top of her head and rubbed it with his cheek. "Happy Christmas. My apologies for waking you."

She laughed. "None needed. Wake me more often." She took one hearty inhale and nuzzled her nose against his chest. Content. And warm and soft and…

And the world shifted the tiniest bit, the center of it changing. Not out in the world any longer, but in this bed beside him.

"Did you have bad dreams last night?" she asked, drawing circles into his bare chest.

"No." The truth.

"Would you tell me if you had?"

He hesitated, then told her the truth again. "I don't want you to know."

She kissed his chest. "If what I want is to know, will you?"

"Yes." The third truth of the morning. "If it is what you wish." He kissed the top of her head once more and swung his legs to the floor.

"No," she groaned, reaching for him.

"My family wakes with the sun on Christmas. We'd best be up early, too."

A heavy sigh as she flung her arm over her eyes. "Very well. Alfie will be scratching on that door soon, anyway. No time to luxuriate."

"Is that what we were doing?" He strode to the wardrobe. "Luxuriating?"

"One word for it, I suppose." The elegance had gone from her voice, replaced by a husky playfulness that demanded he stop shifting through his crumpled linen and wool and look back at the bed. Her face shone pale, and the usual generous curve of her lip had disappeared, her red brows pulled low.

"What's wrong?" He took a step toward her.

She picked at the blanket. "Yesterday, Cordelia said…"

His muscles stiffened. "Something wrong in London? At the art school? With her and Theo."

She laughed. "Will you blaze into battle for them if there is?"

"Of course."

Her gaze dropped to her hands. "Of course. Something wrong. Yes." She smiled, a dull expression. "We will discuss it later."

"Or now."

"It will keep." Her voice a bit hollow, though, unsure. "Stay with me, Atlas? Just a little while longer?" She rolled to her side and propped her head up with a bent elbow, her palm a shelf for her ear, and she stretched out, her long legs hidden by the blankets, which were slung low over her hips. Just a hint of curls visible there beneath the sheet's edge. Her torso, her breasts, and a world of creamy skin visible, on brazen offer in the sensuous curve of her body. His cock leapt to attention once more. Mountains wished to be carved as lovingly as she was, each of her curves a rolling feast of pleasure. What man could resist?

He bounded back to the bed and kissed her, loved her once more.

Atlas stayed on the edges of the crowd, happier to observe the chaos than to join it. He and Clara had been late to the family gathering, but no one had seemed to mind, and for once, his mother's attention had been elsewhere—on Drew and Amelia instead of on Atlas and Clara.

And on the baby. Atlas's sister, Maggie, and her husband, Mr. Tobias Blake, had arrived the night before, little Merry, their daughter, grinning in Tobias's arms and darting off on fast little legs as soon as she'd left the coach. Atlas's mother had been chasing after her ever since and sat on the floor with her now, tying a green ribbon around her curly hair. The child shared her mother's dark hair and her father's blue eyes and a disposition as merry as her name. Matilda sat on the floor beside them, hiding her face then showing it again, and eliciting the happiest bubbles of laughter from the child Atlas had ever heard.

Clara had settled herself on the floor as well, right in the happy middle of the chaos, gasping over each gift Alfie received, and playing with him, clapping when others received gifts that delighted them, and making sure everyone's cups were full of brandied wine. Alfie crept increasingly closer to his new little cousin, helping her play, showing her his own Christmas prizes until both children had been gathered under their grandmother's arms, leaning into either side.

A moment of true beauty, this, a moment to fall in love with.

Atlas rubbed his chest. Had they ever had a morning of such beauty before at Briarcliff? Ever experienced a moment where no doubt or shadow or fear hung over them? Yes, but not in a long while.

Alfie jumped to his feet and ran toward Atlas. "Is it time yet?"

He caught the boy's shoulders before he knocked into his legs. "Are you ready, you think, Alfie?"

"Yes!"

"Very well. It's time."

Clara's head tilted. "Time for what?"

Alfie flew toward the pianoforte in the corner, old and ill-tuned. No matter, though. Alfie could not yet play proficiently. And playing was not the point. Atlas helped him place the bench just right and whispered some reminders then backed away.

Alfie's legs swung back and forth on the bench behind the pianoforte, and his hands bounced on his thighs. "I don't have a Christmas gift for everyone, but Atlas helped me write this song."

Clara's gaze flew to Atlas's, eyes wide as she made her way to his side. "Is this what you were doing yesterday?"

He slipped his hand into hers. "Yes."

"Devious."

"Perhaps."

"Sweet."

"Perhaps. Shh." He held a finger to her lips. "He's about to start."

Alfie studied the pianoforte with the seriousness of a master musician, and then he plonked one key down, and then another. And then he sang. "There once was a family named Bromley. Who never did anything calmly. They had an old house and were poor as a mouse but made everyone feel welcome promptly."

Everyone laughed, and Alfie's face lit up. He attacked the next verse with more gusto than before. "Grandmama has five sons, every one of them dislike fun. But they married nice ladies and will have lots of babies, so Grandmama finally has won."

Franny whooped, and with a chuckle, Atlas pulled Clara to the side of the room.

"Did you write those?" she whispered.

"He wrote them mostly. I merely helped. He's quite clever."

"He never had a penchant for rhyme until he met you." She squeezed his hand, and as Alfie finished the song, a grand cheer went up, bouncing off the room and threatening to bring down the walls. Then Atlas's family threatened to suffocate poor Alfie. Hugs and ruffled hair, pats on the back and warm exclamations, and all the while the boy beamed. He searched the room and found Atlas, ripped from the arms of his admirers and ran to him.

"Did you like it, Mama?" he asked.

Clara hugged him. "It was perfect. Thank you."

"Did I do well?" he asked Atlas.

"I do not think anyone here could ask for a better Christmas present." He knelt on one knee, barely feeling the thrum of pain in his thigh, and hugged Alfie.

Hugged his … son.

The boy returned the gesture briefly then bounced away from them, returning to his Grandmama and little Merry.

"Thank you, Atlas." Clara helped him stand and then fiddled with his cravat. There swam too many emotions across her face for him to clearly read it. "I can never thank you enough. For everything."

"I do not need your thanks."

"I give it anyway. You deserve it. Thank you." She laid her cheek against his chest, and he wrapped his arm around her waist, rested his cheek against the top of her head. Her chuckle tickled him. "Matilda removed most of the mistletoe your mother put up yesterday, but a bit used to hang just over our heads." She rested her chin on his chest and looked up at him. "Shall we pretend it still does?"

Pretend? He didn't have to anymore. He dipped to kiss her, and?—

"Atlas," Maggie called, her voice as merry as her daughter. "Join us. I want to tell you how brilliant you are. And how brilliant your wife and son are."

"Bollocks," he said, his lips mere inches from Clara's lips.

She laughed and pulled him toward his family. Without letting him kiss her.

There was always later, though.

"She is brilliant, isn't she?" Atlas said. "But which brilliant bit are you speaking of? There are many."

"I'm speaking of your work on the dower house," Maggie said. With her brown hair and eyes, she looked very much like her brothers, whose coloring all wavered somewhere in the murky waters between dark brown, dark blond, and blue. But she did not possess her brothers' height, and her pixie stature had always made them rather protective of her. She did not need them now, though. Her husband, despite his dandy appearance, would fell an entire army to keep her safe. "I toured it early this morning with Tobias. We were both impressed. It is charming."

Tobias lounged in a chair near his wife, one hand extended to play with a curl poking up from the top of her head. His blond curls waved perfectly back from his forehead, and his blue eyes sparkled above a waistcoat of the same color, pink flowers embroidered throughout. "I'd have included more detail in the molding myself, a bit more whimsy in the wall paintings. Perhaps a stuffed bear head for the study. But there's still time to make such improvements."

Maggie swatted his hand away with a grin. "Do be serious, Tobias. You were quite impressed."

He smoothed her curl down, ignoring her swatting hand. "Too true, Mags. But there's always room for hunting trophies."

Raph snorted as he tossed firewood into the flames, making them roar higher. "As if you felled that bear whose head decorates your study wall."

Tobias grinned. "Perhaps not, but I do keep him company in his afterlife. Dear Sebastian would be bored senseless without me. And I without him, truthfully. Only Mags and Merry to keep me company." His lips turned down.

Maggie swatted his hand again, and this time, he let her, only to trail his knuckles down her neck, tweak her earlobe.

"I agree about the dower house," Cordelia said. "It's lovely." Clara had taken them on a tour of the house yesterday after they'd arrived. "And so very close to completion."

"Do you still plan to rent it?" Theo asked. He sat next to his wife on a couch, scribbling who knew what nonsense in an open sketchbook. Likely some farcical figure passing gas or the exaggerated profile of a peer or politician whose nose Theo had drawn much bigger than it actually was. No matter what he drew, the printshops would pay well for it. His drawings had increased in value since the one he'd published featuring the Earl of Pentshire earlier that year.

"Yes, we do," Raph said, leaning against the mantel, his arms crossed over his chest. "But… another good harvest this year." A small smile that softened as it landed on his wife. Atlas expected his brother to add something else, but the man seemed to get lost in his gazing.

"How much longer?" Amelia asked. "Until it's done?" She and Drew sat on the edges of the circle in matching chairs, their wrists draped over the chair arms, their fingers playing softly in a tangle between them. "Until it is complete?"

Beside him, Clara inhaled, exhaled, much heavier than before, enough to draw his attention. Her face was pale and turned down to where she'd folded her hands in her lap.

"Another month perhaps," Atlas answered when she did not. He settled his hand atop hers, but she did not look up. "Could be sooner." She flinched.

"And what then?" Drew drawled. "You've spent the last year or so fixing the place up, and Raph can now hire more staff, so you do not have to do as much about the estate. What will you do when your work is done?" Naturally, Drew would fire the most important question right into the bull's-eye with little thought to how the bull's-eye might feel.

Atlas cleared his throat. Here was where he should tell them his plans. "I'll find something to keep me busy." Or not.

"You've still not earned your inheritance," his mother said. "I'm waiting for a song."

Clara unwound her arm from Atlas's. "Excuse me. I need a moment."

Atlas reached for her, but she sailed out of his grasp. "I'll go with?—"

"No. Please stay as you are. I… I'll…" She finished with a smile instead of an explanation and swept out of the room.

No one seemed to notice anything amiss. They continued their conversation, their laughing, as if Clara's spirit had not just drained away entirely.

She'd told him to stay.

He stood and followed her out of the room. No one in the hallway. She must have run once beyond the doorway. But where to? He tried the drawing room across the hall where the privacy screen and chamber pot lived. Empty. He tried the butler's pantry next. Perhaps she'd sought out Mr. Smith to bring more tea. Empty as well, except for a wide-eyed Mr. Smith wanting to know if he could help.

"No," Atlas said. "Go home to your wife and babe. We can manage without you today." Atlas left before the butler could answer, and he found his way upstairs. His bedchamber door was closed, but as he reached for the doorknob, a note pinged through the air, stopping him. She was in there, fussing with his pianoforte. But why?

He opened the door, stepped through, and closed it softly behind him. "Clara? Are you unwell?" Perhaps she'd had too much of the wine. No answer as he made his way toward the curtain that divided the room. "I know you're here. I heard the pianoforte."

An exhale, ragged and raw.

He peeked around the curtain. She sat on the pianoforte bench, her face pale, her gaze hazy and locked onto some point behind him. He crept closer. Something in her posture told him to exercise caution.

"Can I help?" he asked.

She shook her head. Then nodded. Then sighed. "I did not want to burden you today. I've been trying not to worry. I want Alfie to enjoy today with no fear. And I thought we had time. But the conversation downstairs reminded me that time is slowly ticking away, has been since I arrived. And now this…"

What had they been discussing downstairs? He tried to remember the conversation. Gifts and marriage and art and the dower house. Nothing to upset her.

He sat beside her, took her hands in his. "Tell me. Let me fix it."

"You cannot. It's"—her mouth hung open, forming a soft o of uncertainty—"Lord Tefler. Yesterday, Cordelia told me he'd been to the art school. Looking for me." When she pulled her hands from his hold, he realized he'd been squeezing too hard. She ran her fingers through his knuckles, soothing him. When he should be soothing her. "The conversation below. About the dower house. You're leaving when it's done, but… Atlas, I'm scared for you to leave. What if Lord Tefler appears demanding Alfie? I do not wish to keep you from pursuing your dreams, from doing what you need to do. If it is what is best for you, but—" She pressed the heel of her hand hard into her eye. "I am scared. I know, with my intellect, I am certain your family will defend me, defend Alfie. But… they are not you. What will Lord Tefler think when he sees my husband has gone, that I am alone, that?—"

"I'll protect you. You know that."

She bit her lip. "I've been thinking since yesterday of ways I can keep you here, of how I can convince you to stay, but you deserve happiness, and?—"

"What do you need, Clara? Right now? If I deserve happiness, then tell me that, because giving you what you need will bring me the most joy. I'll?—"

"Distraction. As you needed the other night." She slipped off the bench and dropped to her knees before him. "The taste of you on my tongue."

He tried to pull her back up beside him, but she wedged her shoulders between his legs, her fingers flying to his fall. Clever fingers. They flicked open his buttons before he could drag her back onto the bench, and once they'd done that, freeing his cock, no way in hell could he tell her no. He hissed in a breath and wrapped his hands hard around the edge of the bench, letting his legs fall as wide open as they could. Her fingertips on him tightened his skin, his every muscle. They dragged up and down before wrapping around, squeezing gently. Bloody hell. He was going to spend before she'd even… Would she, though? Or?—

She did, wrapping her lips around his cock and taking him into her mouth. Hell, what sweet heaven she'd flung him to. He needed to touch her, the desire visceral and painful until he sank his hands into the cool silk of her hair. His ardor not cooled. Far from it. He strained not to tighten his hands into fists and tug her hair as she dragged her teeth lightly up his length, swept her tongue over the tip.

She knelt before him, yet she possessed complete control. Surely this did not distract her, surely he should?—

No. He threw all such notions of self-sacrifice out the window behind him and fisted his hand in her hair, guided her, showed her the rhythm he wanted. Hot and wet, sparks like fireworks behind his closed eyes. Her hands stroked up and down his thighs, kneading his muscle, soothing the ache always just slightly present where his scar wound around his leg, marking him forever. No, maybe not forever. Her touch remade him there, reshaped that old wound, replacing the constant hum of pain with the sweet prick of pleasure. She marked him forever with her little sucks and licks and squeezes. And then, when the pressure built too high, the pleasure wound too tight, he thrust hard, finding his release.

After a moment, she rose and sat in his lap, folding her body into his, winding her arms around his neck, resting her head on his shoulder.

"You," he panted, "you next, love."

She shook her head.

He held her tight, squeezed, inhaled to fill his body with the scent of her. "I'll protect you."

"I know."

His heart thumped loudly in his chest, and hers did, too, two drums beating madly next to each other, creating a new rhythm.

"I mean… Clara, I mean that I will not leave yet. I won't leave at all?—"

She froze, her body turning to stone in his arms. Not even breath left or entered her body. "I cannot ask that of you. I can't trap you."

He pushed a wisp of hair off her forehead. "Trap me? There's still much to be done at the dower house. I grossly underestimated the completion date. We'll be working several months more. At least." He kissed her temple, something like joy blooming in his heart, something like hope. Before meeting Clara, his only hope had been in the prospect of leaving one day. Only the thought of somewhere else had held salvation. "I will not leave until we are sure of your safety. And Alfie's. Until we are sure Lord Tefler cannot separate you." That more important than any sort of pilgrimage he'd previously planned.

How odd. But how right.

"Until." There was her exhalation, whooshing her body back into life. "Until." A sorrowful little word. "Thank you." Somehow those words sounded sadder.

God, his throat felt tight. He dropped his head back, thinking to release a sigh. A song came out instead. "Until the morrow comes, until the sun shines bright, until the winds cease wailing, my love, I'll hold you tight."

She burrowed her face into his chest and cried.

Snow fell from a midnight-black sky when Atlas left the house. The flakes looked like stars falling from the heavens, and they gathered like little constellations on the shoulders of his greatcoat for just a moment before melting into the wool. He'd left Clara sleeping soundly in their bed, and he'd left without giving much thought to his actions.

One leg in front of the other while the cold world slept until he reached the dower house. He shivered when he stepped inside, shaking icy water droplets from the folds of his coat and tossing his hat onto a table. Darker here, colder, too, without the banked fires and sleeping bodies at Briarcliff. He made a circle round the room as his eyesight acclimated to the dark. The door had creaked when he opened it. Needed oil. And… did that last step creak, too, beneath his boot? He'd need to ensure the floor was sound. Tear it up if he had to. Replace it. The window stuck, and… perhaps Tobias had the right of it, the ornamentation in this room needed further attention. Renters would want the pomp of a dower house owned by a marquess.

He made his way upstairs to the room he'd finished earlier that week in a bout of moonlit madness. Wrong, all of it wrong. A space between the molding and the ceiling, tiny, but visible. He should have done it in the daylight, done it right.

He still had time.

Atlas dragged the ladder to the wall, grabbed a crowbar from the hallway, and stripped it all down.