Chapter 4

Clara barely felt the fine grain of the door beneath her fingertips as she pushed it open. She slammed it shut and jumped, closing her eyes, popping them back open to stare at the ceiling because there he stood in the darkness of her memory, kissing her, his lips a finer satin than the wood grain. Her heart spun in her chest like a lathe, and she pressed a hand against it to calm it before it shredded her to bits.

Lips lied. With such hellish ease. No need to put his to memory.

"Mama?"

She squeaked, jolted. "Oh! Alfie. Ha ha." A hollow laugh. Hopefully he wouldn't notice. "I didn't see you there."

Her son sprawled on his belly across her bed, legs kicking up behind him, a book open before him. A sunbeam spilled across him, and the shadows she'd carried into the room seemed to dissolve in the bright, warm light.

"Aren't you supposed to be with Miss Williams for violin lessons?" A smooth voice, no lathe heart spinning madly in it. Excellent. Best to focus on the practical bits of the present when the future seemed a void.

Had he truly proposed because he wanted to bed her when she'd wanted only to be hired for her skill? A shiver flew through her. Of desire or fear? She'd leaned into him. He'd tried to scare her off, and she'd melted into him like butter in the sun. Mortifying. She knew better. Her body, apparently, knew something else.

"I don't like violin." Alfie's nose scrunched into an expression she knew well. "Too scratchy."

"On your skin?"

"In my ears."

When she laughed this time, it did not feel forced. Alfie always soothed her. And she would always protect him. "That just means you need more practice."

He sat up right and crossed his legs in front of him. "You look ill. Are you ill?"

She joined him on the bed, stroked his hair. "No, darling. I'm perfectly well." She would be. She had to be. For him. "I'm only slightly irritated you're not with Miss Williams."

"I'm slightly irritated by Miss Williams."

She kissed the top of his head, then wrapped an arm around his shoulders. "Alfie, we may have to set off in a day or two."

"To Briarcliff? Did that man hire you?"

"No." Had she done right? To reject the one thing he'd offered? It would have taken her from London. It would have given her all the protection he'd mentioned. Yet… she would have once more lost her independence, surrendered control to a man she had no reason to trust. Could she conduct the same experiment twice and expect different results? Not likely.

Alfie made a tiny grumbling noise and flailed his legs just a bit. "But you're the best. He should have hired you."

She squeezed him. "Thank you for thinking so."

"It's true. It's unfair."

"Perhaps so, but I cannot make the man do as I wish him to."

"He's a beast."

"He's not." She ruffled his hair. "Do not worry about him, darling."

Alfie twisted his mouth to the side. "I could put frogs in his boots."

"Alfie—"

"No. Where would I get the frogs in London?" He sighed. "I miss the country. Oh! I could put glue in his hair while he sleeps."

"No." He had such lovely, thick hair. Would be a shame to ruin it. "Alf?—"

"I've got a slingshot. I could send a bit of coal flying at his horse's flank right as he mounts, and?—"

"Kill the man? Alfred. No need to exact revenge on Lord Atlas. You leave him be."

He crossed his arms over his chest.

"Promise."

He scowled.

"Promise, Alfred."

If his eyes narrowed any more, they'd be closed. But then they popped open wide. "How about I visit the mews and gather some horse sh?—"

"No!"

"I'll just put it in his boots. Won't kill 'im. Just smell things up a bit." He giggled.

Clara swallowed a laugh, trained her lips into a firm line despite the bouncing smile demanding release. "Promise me you won't."

"I promise," he grumbled.

She wasn't quite sure she believed him, but she stood and pulled him off the bed, set him toward the door. "Now, violin lessons."

"Maaaamaaaa." He dug his heels into the floor, made his body heavy as wet sand.

"Now, Alfred." She opened the door and helped him into the hall.

He serenaded the walls with a sound half groan and half sigh. "But?—"

"No buts. Go, go, go." She shooed him toward the stairs that led to the classrooms, and he went, though his footsteps made heavy thuds with each step.

She returned to her room, closed the door, and collapsed onto her bed. Alfie had not asked her where they would go if not to Briarcliff. She wished she knew. Then she might deserve his trust.

Even if Lord Atlas had hired her, how long would she be able to remain in his employ? Even if she sold the jewels Everette had gifted her on every birthday and holiday, the funds would not last long enough. Besides, she was scared to sell them. She had no intention of returning to whatever pawn shop took them; they'd be sold, and if they were displayed on the well-bosomed bodies of pretty ladies, they might be recognized by her father-in-law. And then he might trace them, find her and Alfie.

Clouds must have moved over the sun. The air hung dismal over the bed, pressed heavy into her. Were she to rise and peek into the looking glass, she'd see herself turned drab.

Gray and lifeless and without hope when not a quarter hour earlier she'd been… alive. Bursting with every color found in the heart of a gentle kiss.

She flopped over with a groan into her pillow. She'd taken leave of her senses. She'd let him kiss her. A man. A strange man. A big man. And most damning of all, a marquess's brother. His brother higher in the ranks than her father-in-law. And hadn't she learned the hard way she'd never be good enough for that lot? Had she accepted, she might have found herself in the exact same position as before—her very existence despised, her body and brain considered a lump of wet clay for their molding.

And yet… she trusted his brother and sister-in-law. They ran this charitable school, and everyone here loved them. The school, and their marriage, had not been tested by time. Both entirely new. Perhaps time would tell the truth and love would wear thin like a linen sleeve rubbing daily over an elbow, revealing what lay beneath.

It was for the best she'd said no.

Though the way he'd held her hand, as if he'd found himself in possession of a fragile work of art, made her wish she'd agreed. He'd tasted of coffee, cheroots. The scent of mint had lingered in his cravat where it rested against his warm neck. He'd given such a gentle kiss, completely at odds with his appearance as a giant. But even with his careful touch, she'd felt the raw power he restrained, the power hinted at with his words.

I cannot hire you because I want to fuck you.

And didn't that just kick all fear—and breath—right out of her body. Even now when only the echo remained. When he'd said it in that rich baritone, the words soaked in the honey of his voice had made her melt. She should have been affronted. While her father's education growing up had taught her to ignore the coarse language and brutish tongues of men (or give back as good she'd gotten), her father-in-law's re-education had insisted she slap any man who insulted her. But she'd not wanted to slap Lord Atlas. She'd wanted to let him fuck her. Right there on the pianoforte.

Good thing she hadn't. He was so big, they'd likely break it.

But… if he lifted her onto its very edge and stepped between her legs, then?—

Holy Hepplewhite. She should be panicking. Not lusting. The fear and anxiety of a life on the run had clearly addled her brain.

She should be angry with Lord Atlas, not aroused.

She swung her feet to the floor, made her way to the small wardrobe where she'd kept her meager belongings since arriving here. She flung the doors open and counted reminders.

One: She'd lusted for her husband once, too, back when he'd seemed kind and strong enough to save her. He'd shielded her from penury but bent beneath the cruel winds at his home, Coledale, leaving her open and vulnerable. She could not expect another man to do any better.

She pulled out her pelisse and shook it free of wrinkles.

Two: Something must be done because London, while big, was not a perfect hiding spot. She needed obscurity, distance.

Donning her pelisse and bonnet, she set her steps out the door and down the hall.

Three: She would do anything for Alfie—to keep him happy, to keep them together.

But what exactly she would do next, she could not fathom. Stepping onto the London street and into a heavy, cold fog, Clara determined to find out.

A narrow escape. And from his own killing blow. Thank God Mrs. Bronwen had refused Atlas's offer of marriage. A moment of clear madness that still sang in his blood. He tore his gaze from the open doorway she'd exited through and sat at the pianoforte. His hands trembled as he hovered them over the keys.

"Bollocks." He clenched then flexed his hands, exorcising the ghostly feel of her hand clasped between his, then setting his fingers to the keys. He could play away the odd matrimonial impulse, the madness. His fingers swept across the keys in a common ballad, one he'd written words for before. He hummed, always the prelude to the creation of new lyrics. He opened his mouth.

But no words came.

Hm. He tried a new tune, hummed, opened his mouth, and—nothing.

He growled and stood, paced away from the instrument, shoving his hands through his hair. Where had the words gone? Didn't matter. They'd return, and he had much to prepare for. He and Mr. Mathews would leave on the morrow.

He stomped out of the room and up the stairs, counting the reasons it was good she'd said no.

One: He planned to leave Briarcliff.

Two: He had no money. Another excellent reason to rejoice at her rejection.

Three: He could be difficult some days, his shadows too heavy, his body too tired. The nightmares…

Atlas opened his door, chest caved in, shoulders heavy. And he rocked back into the hallway, slamming the door shut with a yelp. Had he imagined it? He opened the door once more. No, not a flight of fancy. There really was a young boy sitting upright and solemn in the middle of Atlas's bed.

Atlas flung the door open wider. "Who are you?"

"My mother made me promise not to put horse shit in your boots."

That answered nothing. Produced more questions, actually. "Erm… give her my thanks. Why, exactly, have you been contemplating ruining my boots?"

The boy swung his legs over the edge of the bed and hit the ground with a soft thud. He straightened the lace collar of his skeleton suit and strode toward Atlas, stopping just before him with a chin held proudly high and clasping his hands behind his back. The boy puffed out his chest. "I am Mr. Alfred Simon Bronwen. You may know my mother."

Atlas looked left. Atlas looked right. But the hallways held no sign of the boy's mother. He peeked over Mr. Alfred Simon Bronwen's shoulder to check into the spartan corners of his temporary chamber. Empty.

"Where is your mother?" he asked. "Does she know you're here? Why are you here? And why the, erm, betrayal of my boots?" Knowing who the boy was now, the reason for that became more apparent.

The boy's eyes narrowed. He stepped forward so that his little chest was almost bumping into Atlas's legs. "You should have hired my mama. You should hire her now."

"Ah." Atlas tugged his cravat. He admired the little fellow. Had a backbone like his mother—seemingly unbreakable. He hated to disappoint him, but… "I see. There are reasons you may not be able to understand, Mr. Bronwen."

"I understand." He poked Atlas in the gut. "And I promise you I won't be any trouble. I'll stay all day in a room and do my studies." His face scrunched up. "Promise."

"That would not be fair to you. Young boys need air. We can't just lock you up."

"Well, if you don't, my grandfather will, and?—"

"What?" Atlas pushed past the boy and into his chamber, shutting the door behind him and hiking the fellow up under one arm.

"Hey!" Young Mr. Bronwen thrashed and kicked, a pup wiggling about. "Put me down!"

Atlas did, setting him onto a chair near the fireplace and kneeling before him. "Your grandfather locked you up?"

The boy fisted his hands at his sides and glared. "I'm not a package. Or a cat. You can't haul me around."

"Apologies. Now tell me about your grandfather." Something violent rumbled through Atlas that he hadn't felt since Waterloo, a sense of fate striking like lightning. And the accompanying need to wrestle that fate to his own designs no matter the means.

The boy's hands loosened, and he bit his lip. "He wasn't mean about it. He just wouldn't let me go anywhere if I might see Mama. But I escaped one night." He grinned. "That's how we got here. We ran. And if you don't hire Mama, we'll have to run again, but Mama doesn't know where."

Atlas rocked back on his heels, his body so heavy he almost rolled right back onto his arse. He knew most of what the boy spoke of already, but to hear it from the boy's lips—such facts faced with such casual certitude from such an innocent face—seemed a heavier thing. Darker. The child did not run blindly at his mother's side. The child knew, and he fought as well as he could.

"I've got a slingshot."

"Pardon?"

The boy rolled his eyes. "I've got a slingshot. I took it with us when we ran, and I know how to use it."

"Is that a threat?"

"Might be."

"I see. I'll keep that in mind. You're an admirable lad. A clever one." The boy was a warrior, but Mr. Alfred Simon Bronwen should not have to fight. No child should.

"She's good," the boy said. "With wood and such. Very good. Better than anyone. The table she's working on is in the stables, and she helped with the molding in the breakfast room. You should go look at them." He crossed his arms over his chest. "You're a horse's arse if you don't hire her."

Should he chide the child for such language? Like mother like son, apparently. Both possessed foul mouths when it suited them. And both… both had charmed him.

"I would like to help you." But even if he offered to hire her now, she'd be wary of his extended hand. She likely wouldn't take it. He'd ruined any chance of helping her with that mad proposal. He should have hired her to begin with and promised to keep his cock in his pants. What a mess he'd made of things. He bunched his muscles to rise, and the wound on his thigh wailed. He ignored the scream of pain as he stood. It would dissipate soon enough. "But perhaps your plight is better addressed by any one of the numerous charitable souls residing in this house. My brother and sister-in-law can find you a new home. The woman who owns this house, Baroness Balantine—she will help, I know it. I can ask my mother to find your mother a position. Or?—"

"Bah. You might be a coward." Mr. Alfred bounced to his feet and strode across the room. "We don't need your help." He opened the door and slammed it behind him in one smooth jerk.

Atlas scrubbed his palms across his face. He growled, an irritation like sandpaper rising up his throat. He'd certainly acted cowardly toward Mrs. Bronwen, denying her a position because he was afraid of his own reaction to her.

Atlas tore out of the room. Few steps, it seemed, took him to the mews behind the house, to a large stable, perhaps two combined, outfitted to a be a sort of carpentry shop. In the middle of the space a pedestal table. Dark wood. Mahogany? Elegant, certainly, the central spire well crafted and sanded to a satiny sheen, a pretty bit of art. Delicate. Yet sturdy.

A chair in the corner with an empty seat. An arm appeared to be broken, but she was clearly fixing it. The back fanned out in a shield design. She'd mentioned Hepplewhite, and the chair screamed his influence. When she finished, it would be good as new. Better. He returned to the house, to the breakfast room, and craned his neck back. Damn it all. The molding up there fitted with more finesse than anything the dower house at Briarcliff had ever known. Delicate, too, many-layered, and it ringed the room like a king's crown.

Perhaps he should make that offer after all. The proper one, the one she'd wanted—a position as cabinetmaker, not the many positions he could find for her in his bed. As his wife.

Otherwise, he might end up with shit in his boots and a rock sling-shotted into an eye.

More burdensome, he'd harbor a mountain of guilt in his heart, and he knew better than most no doubt, how difficult guilt made it to live.