Chapter 3

Atlas could think of no rhyme for luck but for a not-very-elegant one no decent music shop would accept on its shelves. Not even the pianoforte, pristine and perfect beneath his fingers, offered other options. Surely there existed a plethora of appropriate rhymes. Some that… quacked? But they'd all fled, leaving room for only the one.

All Mrs. Clara Bronwen's fault. After his brief time in her presence, he could think of only that word, that action, and what a pleasure it would be to explore its meaning with her.

Clearly, he'd gone too long since seeking pleasure from a pretty woman. Perhaps he could find a curvy widow with deep auburn hair before returning to Briarcliff. One who did not currently reside in this house…

He plonked out a sad tune on the keys, a funerial dirge to mourn the unexpected loss of his last gentlemanly impulse. Which was why he'd known almost as soon as he'd seen her that she could not, could never under any circumstances, come to Briarcliff. Work daily beside him. Torment him with her voluptuously lovely presence.

He'd fallen in love with numerous things, ideas, in the years following Waterloo, but never a person. That… complicated matters. An easy thing to fall in love with, a sunset. They came and went, transitory yet eternal. They asked nothing of him, and he need give nothing to them. To pine for a woman? Sticky path, that.

He propped his elbows on the keys and dropped his face into his hands with a groan that offered a countermelody to the discordant, angry clank of the music his elbows provided. To deny a widowed mother a position performing a skill she'd clearly been trained well for because he doubted his own ability to keep a chaste distance from her—inexcusable.

When had he become such a lothario? He'd always been quite good at keeping his passions in check. But to see a woman and think of kissing her? To hear her speak and then feel the urgent need to know the exact shape and weight of her breasts, the texture of her inner thighs on his palm.

If every man had a weakness, he'd certainly discovered his.

Mrs. Clara Bronwen.

She'd find another position. She must. Atlas would make sure of it. Truly, he worried more for his heart than for her virtue. What if the bright flash of attraction and desire he'd felt for her on first sight—that lusty instant bout of love, no matter how superficial—blossomed into something deeper? That mucked everything up, didn't it? No room for wife and child in his future.

The indistinct plonking of the keys beneath Atlas's fingers shaped itself into a recognizable tune. Atlas sat upright and closed his eyes, played the bawdy song he'd sung with Gregory the night before that man's last day on earth. He hummed, mumbling the lyrics. Children were, after all, nearby. This was a school, and he didn't want to shock anyone.

"I know she'll say from behind her fan." The rich, imperfect voice warbled from the doorway in lively step with the notes rising from the pianoforte. Atlas opened his eyes, knowing before he saw her. Clara Bronwen, lush and lovely and looking only a tiny bit shy as she sang the next line. "That there's none can love like an Irishman." She smiled. "An Irishman."

She stopped singing and he stopped playing at the exact same moment, and when she took a long step farther into the room, he jolted to his feet, the bench he'd been sitting on crashing over backward.

"Bollocks." He turned and creaked down at the same time, his thigh aching, lifting the bench back upright, and standing much more slowly than he'd knelt.

She chuckled behind a gloveless hand, her eyes sparkling. "Apologies for interrupting." But as she dropped her hand to her side, he saw not embarrassment there but determination. She'd meant to interrupt him.

He held his hands out. That felt odd, so he clutched them together behind his back. But that made his waistcoat and formfitting jacket much too tight, so he released them, letting them hang limp at his side. Damn arms. Unless they were doing something, he never knew what to do with them. Embrace her, a rogue bit of his brain suggested. He punched that bit down.

"Can I help you?" he asked.

"Yes, you can, in fact." She took another step toward him, not at all appearing awkward with her arms. Those looked soft and creamy and yet also strong. Freckles spread up her wrists toward her elbows.

He swallowed hard. "I cannot help you in some ways, you realize."

Her head tilted. "And what ways are those?"

He tugged at his cravat. "The position." Hell. What an innocuous word. Yet it had roused, as soon as it had left his lips, a bevy of images—of positions, in the plural, she'd look damn lovely in. With him. He'd like to help her with any and all positions. But one. The least lascivious of them.

"Ah, yes, that. Hm." She floated toward the pianoforte, ran her finger down its edge. "Just consider, my lord." Mrs. Bronwen's voice almost sang with despair. "Consider that I am in great need, and you may save me."

Oh no. Not that. He scratched the back of his neck. Save her. Save everyone. How had she spotted his weakness so easily? "I am not a hero." No matter what the papers had said.

"You do not have to be a hero to hire me. You merely must see my skill. Let me tell you of the work I've done. That is all I ask, and if I am more capable than the others on your list, you must hire me."

"Must?" He grunted. "I must do as I see fit. And technically, you've just asked two things of me."

She flattened her palm against the top of the pianoforte, hanging her head. "I'm desperate." Two words like bullets to his chest.

He rubbed it, put more distance between them until he was entirely across the room, seeking the cozy crackle of the fireplace.

No safety there, though. She straightened and followed, holding her hands out, palms up, as if to beg something of him or show him something. No matter which, he wanted nothing to do with what her upturned palms offered. And he banished rogue thoughts that offered alternative uses for them. Such as smoothing over his shoulders or massaging his aching leg or?—

No! "Mrs. Bronwen." His back pressed against the mantel now, his trousers in danger of catching fire. "I am afraid I cannot help you. I've already made the decision. You waste your time."

She sat in a nearby chair, so close he could reach out and touch her. With the fingers of both hands, she clutched a single chair arm and tilted her face up to him. Yes, there in her green eyes—desperation. Her face a rich tapestry of it, worn thin by habitual use. The fire put blooms in her round cheeks, and her thick lashes rested against her creamy skin as her eyes fluttered closed on a shaky inhalation. When she opened them once more, those green eyes were swimming. She would speak, and Atlas must listen. Though, likely, he would hate what he heard. Because…

Save me.

Bollocks.

"I am running from my husband's family." Her knuckles were bone white, though rose pink crept across the backs of her hands and up her wrists across that sea of freckles.

"That is not my concern." Difficult words to say. "I need a cabinetmaker. Not a fugitive. Whatever your situation is will complicate matters for?—"

"You do not wish to hear what I have to say, but I will say it. I do not wish to. I have pride. But I am willing to toss it into the fire for Alfie." Her child? "My husband died two years ago. His family never approved of me. A journeyman's daughter? For a baron's younger son? Ridiculous, I am well aware. But they were stuck with me. Until Everette died. They were going to send me away, keep Alfie."

The words hovered in the air between them.

"I… I don't know you," Atlas managed to say.

"And you cannot know if separation from me would be better for my son than a continued connection." Her voice had changed, taken on a rough tint as the polished elegance she'd been speaking with slid right off her vowels and consonants. She no longer sounded like an educated lady comfortable in drawing rooms and ballrooms. She sounded like the women from the village near his home, like the maids and the farmers' wives. "I am a nobody, after all. You're a peer, like them. Of course, you would think?—"

"No." His hesitance came not from the difference in their births. He hesitated only because he understood how complicated family could be, how loving yet imperfect. How supportive yet selfish. He swallowed. "Do not speak for me."

She lowered her head, hiding her face. "They would not let me visit family or friends, Lord Atlas. I sat in a room with a woman who taught me how to speak better and walk better. To erase who I was. They dressed me like a doll and moved me about like a doll, too. And when my son was born, they took him away, guarded him with governesses and tutors to ensure my commonness did not rub off on him. Alfie is not even heir to the title…" She bit her lip, looked away for the space of a shaky breath during which her hands turned still as stone. When she returned her attention to him, they fisted in her skirts. "They did not care. Considered me a stain. My husband tried to change it, but he had little power. And when he died, any hope I had of keeping my child with me disappeared. Yet I would have stayed. I would have stayed if it was best for Alfie. But he was miserable. He missed his father and missed me and could not please his grandfather, and?—"

"Enough."

"And I have not seen a soul I grew up with since marrying. Not friends, not family. They refused to let me leave the estate. And I dare not go to my family now. That is where Lord Tefler will look first for me. But in the country, we might hide away for a bit, perhaps save enough money to make a life across the sea and?—"

"Enough!" He'd spoken more loudly than he'd intended, but it was enough to ring silence throughout the room.

She finally lifted her face once more, the vulnerable curve of her neck slowly straightening, her chin rising until he could see her expression. Those green eyes—no longer swimming. They were blazing. Her determination, her courage, made her beauty divine. He'd never seen a more exquisite sight. He needed to reject her. He wanted to drop to his knees and worship her as if he were still the young rogue he'd been before the war—ready to tup any pretty lady who winked his way.

With a ragged sigh, she stood. "I see I've made a mistake. I thought I might make you see. But I should have known." Her steps toward the door dragged as if she carried the weight of a dead man across her shoulders. "Men like you are all the same."

She thought she knew him? She knew nothing, and since she'd shared a bit of herself with him, perhaps he should reciprocate. Before she could wrap her fingers around the door handle, he grabbed her wrist, stopping her, swinging her around with a careful hold sure to show his power without hurting her.

"Do you want to know why I cannot hire you?"

She thrust her chin at him, making no attempt to shake him off. "It is only right."

He would not only tell her, he'd show her. He loosened the grip on her wrist, brushed his thumb gently over her hammering pulse, that petal-soft skin there, and he caught his gaze on her lips, plump and slightly parted, a lovely dark pink. Impossible to look at them and not think of kissing.

He stepped closer, his thumb still soothing her pulse, their bodies now a breath away from touching, and he lowered his head, spoke with his nose beside hers, his lips tantalizingly close.

"I cannot hire you because I want to fuck you. And I am trying very diligently to hold on to my remaining gentlemanly impulse by not doing so. However, if we were to spend every day together. Alone." He licked his lips. "There's a bed in a room on the second floor of the dower house. It's narrow. But that would be no disadvantage. And… who needs a bed anyway." With his free hand, he reached up and brushed a lock of hair away from her neck. "I could hook your lovely legs over my shoulders and press you against the wall, taste that warm, sweet place at your very center." He should not paint such wanton pictures. They shook him to his core. He'd dream of just such fantasies for nights to come. "I cannot hire you, Mrs. Bronwen. Because you need to be saved, and I… I would take advantage of you."

He wouldn't. Would he? He certainly hoped not. He saved her now, did he not, in scaring her away? He should be scared away by the need coursing through him. He'd slept with women since his injury, but not often. More likely to take himself in hand. No need to bother a woman with his bulk, his wounds. But he suddenly needed her lips against his like he needed water when parched.

He dipped lower, his lips lightly brushing hers. She gave a throaty gasp. A song in that sound. He flicked his gaze to her eyes. They'd closed, thin lids hiding emeralds. She waited, her body swaying toward him. For a kiss.

He'd disappointed her once already today. He would not, could not disappoint her in this.

He kissed her. A soft meeting, a gentle press, the merest taste of… apple? A bad omen, that. Back home there was a superstition about apples and true love. And the way she'd rocked forward to lean against his body, the way her full breasts pressed against his chest, and her hands, released from his hold, settled atop his shoulders. Behind his own closed eyes, her every touch illuminated the dark in vibrant explosions of pink and green and red.

Curves and color and apple.

He fell in love with her a third time. First had been for the beauty of her body. Second for the fire of her spirit. And now for the taste of her lips.

Against which he whispered words that shocked him from the core they rose from. "Marry me."

She'd been like water beneath him, languid and pourable. Now she became stone, hard and stiff. "Pardon me?"

He should retract the nonsensical question, claim she'd misheard him. He'd said something else. He'd said… carry me. Or perhaps parry me. As if they were fencing? Bollocks.

"Marry me," he repeated, somehow withholding a groan. He was a right nodcock. Felt one as he straightened away from her, tugging at his cravat. "It makes sense." Perhaps, if one squinted at it. "You need a protector. I can protect you. I have no money, but I have a home, family. A husband can protect you and your child more than an employer could. And I'm—erm." He tugged harder at the cravat, trying to scratch at the hot red surely creeping up his neck. "I'm considered a hero by many. If I say you're a good mother to… Alfie, was it? If I say you're good, they'll believe me."

She pressed her back against the door, her eyes slits of blinding green. "And if I'm your wife you can fuck me anytime you wish."

"Yes, I suppose so, but—" Oh. Oh no. Shouldn't have said that. Those slits became pools looking for a victim to drown, and they lashed lightning in his direction. He stepped back. "Forget I said that." Where were his honeyed lyrics now? Where were his sweet love songs? I've fallen for you three times today. Please marry me. That's what he should have said. If he truly wished to marry her. And surely he did not.

Bloody hell.

Her hands curled like claws around the door handle. "Do you know why I married my first husband?"

"Love?" he offered hopefully.

"Convenience. He asked, and my father had recently passed. And he'd always been so nice to me, and yes, I wanted to"—she swallowed hard, spoke through sharp teeth—"fuck him."

Atlas winced. He'd used the cursed word, and now it seemed to have control of the both of them. "I didn't mean?—"

"Now here I am, in another desperate situation, being offered much the same solution. Why is it men only want to help a woman if it gets her in his bed?"

He held up his hands, palms first. "No bed required." Just let me save you. She snorted. "It's true. I would not force myself on you. Or expect anything from you. Despite what I said earlier."

Her brow arched a slow path up her forehead. "That's new. Why then? Why offer marriage but not a position working for your family? If you marry me, it's till death do us part. A position is temporary. And if there are no benefits to be had in bed… You can see where my confusion lies."

Hell if he knew. It had been an unconscious offer likely prompted by that daft part of himself that fell in love daily. "All those other reasons I gave. My reputation, my title. They are of more use to you wedded to me than employed by me. In fact, your father-in-law may use your occupation at my family's estate as a reason to take your son from you. He could claim you're…" Didn't want to say it.

"Loose."

He nodded.

"Mad."

He gave another nod.

"Immoral." She sighed, and her gaze floated toward their feet like a leaf in the wind, slow and meandering. "I cannot marry you. I must not expect the same madness to go differently when repeated. Th-thank you for the offer."

"Mrs. Bronwen." He stepped toward her.

But she dissolved from the room before he could reach her side, opening the door and slipping through it in one fluid movement. Water spilling between his fingers.

Bollocks.

He clicked the door closed and returned to the fireplace, rubbing the backs of his fingers over his lips. Inexplicably, they missed the warmth of her breath. A narrow escape, that. What a damnably foolish impulse. Marry me, indeed. Perhaps more foolish, his attempt to scare off, to tell her the truth no gentleman spoke to a lady. His body wanted hers. Some truths should never be given sound, some tunes never given lyrics. He'd insulted her, scared her. Good. Her fear had driven her refusal of his inexplicable proposal.

Yet a part of him waited for her to return, to tell him he had the right of it, marriage was the best option after all.

But she did not, and each second ticked away on the nearby clock left him more alone than before.

But for the crackling fire.

And the pianoforte, the only true love he should ever covet.