Epilogue

10 years later

When the coach crested a small hill and Briarcliff came into view, Atlas pressed his palms flat against the glass, his heart in his eyes, and Clara fell in love with her husband for the thousandth time. At least. She'd lost count long ago. Difficult to enumerate a thing that happened daily.

"I want to visit the dower house first thing tomorrow." He spoke without tearing his gaze from his home. "Raph's last letter said the current occupants left. It may need some repairs."

"An excellent idea," Clara said. "I'll go with you."

"Papa?" Mary climbed off Clara's lap where she balanced, little face serious as usual, and leaned against her father. "May I come with you?" She liked to watch her father work because he hummed while he did so, and she made up silly songs to go with melodies. Her command of English was excellent, and after their trip to the Continent, her command of French and Italian impressive for a girl of only five years.

Atlas wrapped an arm around her shoulders and kissed the top of her head. "Of course you may. But you might find you'd rather stay and play with your cousins."

She pushed her dark hair away from her face. "I will do that, too."

"I want to go to the lake first." Across the coach from Atlas, her face pressed against the glass as they rolled closer to home, Grace bounced. Closer to the truth to say her entire body vibrated. "And then I want to spend all day in Grandmama's room."

"If Grandmama says you may," Atlas said.

"She will." Grace was not wrong. Franny's personal parlor had become a bit of a second nursery, all the children piled in there daily for drawing lessons and stories and simply to let their grandmother spoil them. "She always does. Kate's last letter says she needs new paints." She raised her blue eyes to Clara. "So our gift is perfect." Turning back to the window, she untied the strings of her bonnet and let it fall behind her. Her auburn hair, so much like Clara's tested the strength of the pins holding it back, as if it knew arriving home meant freedom.

"Do you think she knows?" Alfie leaned back in the squabs across from Clara, his long legs bent and uncomfortable in the small, crowded space. No longer a boy at seventeen, and no longer a lanky youth after their trip to the Continent. The time they'd spent at concerts, in galleries, and on still-healing battlefields, he'd spent in the mountains. When he'd first seen the Alps, his eyes had glowed. He'd given a slight nod as if accepting the challenge, and he'd set to conquering the mountains.

The most horrific days of their trip had been those during which Alfie had disappeared. He'd returned a bit beaten up but with a certain swagger, having, he'd said, conquered Mont Blanc.

Now, he stared across the coach and out the same window as his sisters and father, his restlessness at being confined evident only in the tapping of a single finger against his thigh. "Kate is excellent at keeping secrets, but Henry can't keep a word he hears to himself."

"Henry is no more than seven. Secrets are difficult at that age." For boys who didn't have to hide. No wonder Alfie could not understand his cousin's loose lips. He'd been too grown up for seven years old. Thankfully, the young Viscount Stillman, and future Marquess of Waneborough did not have to hide. Anything. Not even the surprise gathering they'd been planning for his grandmother.

"If he's told Grandmama," Grace said, "I'll kick him in the shins."

"You will not," Clara chided. The two fought quite often, when they weren't plotting something devious.

The coach rolled to a stop, and Atlas opened the door without waiting. He swung Grace to the ground and kept Mary in his arms, humming near her ear. "It's ever good, my dear, to return home." He sang the words and then hitched a brow and looked down at Mary.

She wrinkled her face and tapped her lips for a few moments before her brows shot toward her hairline, and she sang back, "No matter, my dear, how far you roam."

He tapped her nose. "Excellent."

A game they played often, throwing out rhymes for one another. The other children often joined in, even Alfie, but Clara liked to close her eyes and listen. Just listen. To the voices of those she loved raised together in teasing harmony.

As Clara stepped from the carriage, Alfie just behind her, the door opened, and Briarcliff spilled forth its inhabitants—a veritable army of children, several pups with their back ends wagging, two tiny pigs trailing after tiny girls, and Atlas's sister and brother-in-law, his brothers, arms wrapped somehow around their wives, all grinning wide and greeting them so warmly, and loudly, the inhabitants of Fairworth likely looked up from their tasks and shook their heads before resuming once more.

Hugs exchanged until Clara knew not where she ended and the others began. The happy chatter of return the best music. Two babies passed into her arms at one point before Atlas lifted them away for himself.

"Where's Grandmama?" Alfie asked, sidling up to his cousin Kate.

"Napping." Kate looked just like her father—dark hair and a serious profile. But when she smiled, she seemed more impish than that man ever could. Then she resembled no one more than her mother. "Henry's been able to keep quiet. She's no idea you all are arriving today."

Clara found Atlas's side and leaned her head on his shoulder. "Happy to be home?"

He sighed. "Quite." He raised her hand, kissed the knuckles. "Quite. Let's not leave again for a long, long time."

"Did you get what you need?" she asked, a quiet question as she turned her face into her husband's warmth and strength.

"I didn't need it anymore." He kissed the top of her head. "The day I met you, I began to be better. But I'm glad we went. If only for Alfie's sake. How we're going to keep him from returning to those damn mountains, I'll never know."

She laughed. "I don't think we can prevent it if it's what he wants."

"Dangerous," Atlas muttered.

It was, but?—

A wail ripped through the air. But not the sad kind. Through the years, Clara had tried to find another word to describe that particular tone of Franny's. Wail seemed too sad a thing for it. But it was not a holler, nor could it be called a shout or a cry. It wavered through the air too long for that. Perhaps it could be defined as a squeal, but it never squeaked high enough for that. So even though it lacked the mournful quality of a true wail, Clara could think of it as nothing else. Franny simply wailed when she was happy, loud and long, and everyone assembled on the drive in the spring sun cupped hands over their ears.

Franny dove through the crowd, parting it with ease, and flung herself at Atlas. "You've come home! I knew you would. I had a dream last night. And the night before." She pushed out of her son's arms and hugged Clara then she looked around the crowd. "Where is my boy? Ah!" She darted toward Alfie, hugged him tight. He hugged her back, but not for long. Mary and Grace threw themselves at their grandmother's legs, almost toppling her.

Atlas pulled Mary back by the ribbon tied round her waist. "Careful, love."

"No need for caution," Franny scoffed. She clapped her hands. "What a beautiful birthday present. Which one of you planned this?"

"You weren't supposed to find out." Kate huffed. "Not till later. There's to be a dinner tonight."

"Then I shall pretend I know nothing. But you cannot keep secrets from a woman like me. My mind grows keener with age."

"I had a dream last night, Grandmama." Mary tugged her grandmother's skirts.

"And what was it about?"

"A house. The dower house."

Franny's mouth parted slightly, and she shared a glance with Raph. He scowled, but Franny grinned. "I knew you had the sight. Merry does, too, of course, and Henry and the twins." Drew's identical twin daughters shared a look, shrugged. "But you'll listen to it, won't you?"

Mary nodded then furrowed her brow. "If it's the sight, how can I hear it?"

Franny laughed. "I suppose there's no keeping my secret anymore."

"Would someone tell me what you're talking about?" Atlas demanded.

"I was going to tell you tomorrow," Raph said, "but I don't see why we can't tell you now. Would you like to, Mother?"

She shook her head, looked on with shining eyes.

Raph sighed. "The dower house is yours."

"What?" Clara supplied the word of incredulity because Atlas seemed unable to.

"If you want it. The previous tenant left while you were away, and we all agreed—we don't need the money anymore. And you've put so much of yourself into the place… it's yours. You've put so much of yourself into us, all of us, you deserve it."

When Atlas opened his mouth, Clara feared he'd refuse the gift, but he shaped those kissable lips into a grin, and said, "I'll take it."

Franny tugged him down to her height and kissed his cheek. "What a sensible son I have. Now!" She raised to her full height. "Everyone inside! I'd like to start celebrating my life now, if you please."

The children laughed and tumbled inside beside their parents, but when Clara moved to join them, Atlas held her back.

"Stay just a moment," he said, "here with me."

She did, and he gathered her into his arms, gaze turned toward the house he'd grown up in, the house they'd rolled away from three months ago and returned to now.

"Happy to be home?" she asked.

"More than I can say. Do you think Mary really does have prophetic dreams?"

Clara laughed. "I doubt it. She's there as often as she can be with you, fixing things. It was likely a dream of longing."

He fiddled with a curl that had escaped her coiffure. "For home. I've always felt… ownership of the dower house."

"You should. I'm proud of you for accepting it so easily. You say what you want and need more easily now than when we met."

He laughed, kissed her temple. "I've been telling you from the beginning what I want from you. Because my heart's been telling me."

"You proposed to save me."

"To save myself." He pulled her in close and pressed his lips to hers. Sweeter than the spring, their kiss, and in his feather-touch, the truth of his desire.

"Yuck!" A small voice carried down to them, and when they both looked up, an impish face peered down.

"Is that Merry?" Clara asked, cupping her hand over her eyes to see better. "Or is it Kate? They look terribly alike."

Another face joined the first, then another, then a whole crowd of children peered down at them.

"What?" one asked.

"They were kissing," Merry or Kate said.

"Oh, that?" this voice belonged to Alfie, standing tall above the rest. "Father is always kissing Mama."

"Mine, too." The voice belonged to Henry.

The rest of the voices agreed. Too much kissing occurred at Briarcliff.

Atlas and Clara entered the house, adding their laughter to that which already echoed down its halls, and as they joined the family in Franny's parlor, Clara found herself drawn to the same bit of wall that always called to her.

A bit of silk with wildflowers.

A lady with red painted up her arm.

A canvas with the imprint of an arse.

A drawing of ink and watercolor.

A silhouette.

And a song.

Relics of their lives and hearts. She turned from them and joined the man who made her heart sing, joined the family who had long since become master artists of love.

Thank you so much for reading The Lord Who Adored Her and for reading the Art of Love series! Both have been labors of my heart, and I'm sad to see them go.

If you're wondering what's up next, you might check out my other current series with Wolf Publishing, The Gentleman's Guide to Courtship. The Duke of Clearford has five marriageable sisters, and none of them are wed. But his Gentleman"s Guide to Courtship will ensure success for any suitor... unless his sisters refuse to be wooed. Unless their secret reason for refusing proves too scandalous.