Chapter 7

Thank God Alfie had finally fallen asleep. Though he still wore the constant glare he'd sliced toward Lord Atlas the entire ride from London to Briarcliff. Even in sleep he was angry as a bee interrupted at a flower. He'd like to sting, no doubt. But lacked a stinger, poor dear. Scowls and tiny, shaking fists remained his only defenses. Other than his slingshot. And Clara had stoutly ordered him not to resort to such violence.

Almost there. And once there, soon married. In a small village chapel, Clara's betrothed assured her, that was as charming as it was authentic. Clearly a euphemism for falling apart.

Lord Atlas leaned against the squabs on the backward-facing bench of the ill-sprung traveling coach, eyes closed, one ankle propped over the other knee, his free foot swinging to the tune of a gentle hum. He'd been humming since they closed the doors and lurched forward on the muddy London street. Humming while they changed horses, humming while they ate the repast the art school's cook had sent with them. Humming as Alfie glared at him. And humming when Alfie drifted off to sleep. But quieter after that, his constant soft sound Alfie's lullaby.

It should be driving her mad.

Instead, it soothed her. The hum emanated from a strong throat and full lips, and his fingers sometimes danced across his massive thigh as if the keys of a pianoforte grew there.

Looking at him, listening to him—a lovely distraction from the dilapidated conveyance taking them farther from London and closer to safety. A miracle they'd made it so far. She'd certainly felt every single bump along the road. Thankfully, Alfie seemed able to sleep through the worst of it. The roads grew muddier, and the ruts in them deeper the farther from London they traveled.

How very different from her arrival at Coledale, Everette's family seat. That coach pristine, well-sprung, and plush. That ride a cloudy dream. Those roads that swept up to Coledale's front doors smooth and well-maintained. Everywhere the trappings of wealth. Everywhere coldness and disdain.

She pulled her cloak more tightly around her and stared out her window. Alfie's head rested in her lap, and she stroked the fine, too-long hair away from his forehead.

Lord Atlas's greatcoat lay over Alfie, swallowing his thin body whole.

The giant had swept it off and stretched it over her son's form without a word, without meeting Clara's gaze, before sinking back into the squabs, fingers tapping at his thighs, eyes blue and misty and gone somewhere she could not see. Lips, naturally, smiling ever so slightly. The dark folds of the greatcoat flirted with the edges of her rust-colored traveling gown, the same she'd flown in two months ago. And it brought his scent closer to her, soaked it into the weft of her skirts. Mint. And beneath that a hint of smoky cheroot.

Rippled her skin. Taunted the flesh beneath that. Had she told him theirs would not be a physical relationship? Yes, and with good cause; but the journey to Briarcliff, the confined quarters, tested her resolve.

The coach hit a rut, and Clara went flying. She tightened her arms around Alfie as her arse took flight then slammed back down onto the seat. Stuffing flew in all directions and finally Lord Atlas looked her way.

"Hell, I do apologize."

She winced as she wiggled her bum. Oh, she'd have a bruise there. "You're not the driver."

"But I help maintain the roads. And the coach. And neither are likely up to your standards."

She would have laughed. But she didn't want to wake Alfie. "I'm a cabinet?—"

"Maker's daughter. Are you? I'd not heard."

She rolled her eyes. "Lord Atlas."

"Yes?"

"Lord Atlas."

His eyeballs moved only, darting left then right then back to her. "Yes?"

"Lord. Atlas."

"Good God, woman, what?"

"Yesterday I gave you leave to use my Christian name, Lord Atlas."

"Ah. I see. Of course, you may address me as you wish." He returned his gaze out the window.

She pushed hair away from Alfie's temple. "Finally. I've waited more than twenty-four hours for reciprocation. And in the meantime, I've had to use all your syllables."

"My syllables?"

"Yes. Your name is a mouthful."

Those thick brows shot together. "Is not. There are three syllables only."

"It could have been two. All this time." She should not tease him. But she'd not felt this… safe in quite some time. Despite the cushion padding littering her skirts, despite the ruts and the fact they lumbered forward into the gathering dark to greet a collection of people she'd never met before. Despite all that, the bone-deep fear of being caught she'd lived with for the last two months had dissipated. Fog banished beneath a summer morning sun. She was no longer running. She was arriving.

"You are quite teasable," she admitted, surprised to feel a happy half grin reshape her face. "Oh, look there. Your eyebrows have actually met in the middle. Become one. A great brown caterpillar."

He tore them apart, and they shot toward his hairline, thick, dark arches over befuddled eyes. "You will fit right in at Briarcliff, I think. My sisters-in-law love to tease. My mother loves to do something like it. They will tease us about this sudden marriage."

But would they tease her with the gentle lovingness of family or with something of a harsher edge? That sank her spirits right good.

But Alfie's cheek was warm beneath her fingers, still round with boyhood. She cupped it, took from it a mother's solace. "How much longer till we arrive?"

"Soon."

The coach tilted in a wide turn as he spoke, and Alfie tilted too, groaned, and blinked to wakefulness. He sat up quickly, rubbing fists into his eyes, which he narrowed at the man sitting across from them.

Atlas leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees to let his hands hang loose between them. "Mr. Bronwen, I've need of two words."

Alfie's brows pulled low. "Two words? Which ones?"

"Any two words you desire." Atlas leaned back once more. "Let's have them, then."

Looking out the window, Alfie tapped a finger against the glass then grinned. "Nose. And… day. What do you need them for?"

"Shh. I need to think now." Atlas closed his eyes. But not for long. They soon popped open, and he said, "There was an old man with a rose. At the very tip of his nose. He sneezed all the day, especially in May, and he always ran out of clothes."

Alfie tilted his head. "Why did he run out of clothes?"

"I can only suppose," Atlas said, the corners of his lips turning up, "because of the outcome of sneezing all day long. Could be quite messy." He flicked a glance at Clara as Alfie burst into laughter.

Clara groaned.

"Another!" Alfie cried. "With… with…" He looked out the window again. "Road and sky."

Atlas nodded, stroked his chin thoughtfully. The grin that overtook his lips this time seemed a bit… naughty, and he leaned forward, beckoned Alfie closer. Her son obliged, and Atlas whispered, perhaps slightly louder than he should, "There once was a perilous road. Where lived a very old toad. He leaped for the sky and farted out pie, that quite odd toad in the road."

Alfie's laughter rang like bells inside the coach. He clutched his belly as he fell over into Clara's lap.

"My lord, I try to discourage such talk."

Atlas chuckled. "Bah. He likely says worse where you can't hear. Or will one day. Trust me."

She put her chin in the air and pursed her lips, but mostly to tamp down the grin growing there. He'd made Alfie laugh, and she could not remember the last time she'd heard that precious sound. She could tolerate a bit of impolite language if it meant belly-aching happiness.

"Do it again!" Alfie cried between hiccups as he recovered. Attempted to recover.

"Your turn," Atlas said. "Just the same rhythm I used with… arse and?—"

"Atlas!" Clara made the name sharp, successfully hid her own hiccup of laughter.

"Gone a bit too far," he said. "Apologies." He bowed, then turned to Alfie. "Don't say that word, lad. How about tree and leg."

Alfie's head became a bobbing chicken pecking at feed for a moment before it slowed, and he sank into wrinkle-faced concentration.

Atlas scooted across his bench to sit directly before Clara. "That should keep him busy for a bit. We're almost there. Just around the next curve. Look." He pulled the frayed curtain back, and they leaned forward, shoulders touching, to peer out of the window together.

A lurch of the coach as it rounded the bend, then there, rising into the navy sky at the end of the revealed road—her destination. A dark-gray edifice loomed large on the horizon. Above it, where the navy bloomed into black, stars woke with a start, hardly sleepy at all. No lazy stretching of the limbs and giant yawns for them. They set to work immediately.

"It's quite big," Clara whispered. The house before her possessed more years and mass than Coledale. Even in the dark, she could tell that. "Alfie, come look."

Her son squeezed between her and Atlas and pressed his face against the glass, his breath fogging it with his warmth. "Who are all the people walking about?"

Atlas hummed, but not the lyrical sound she now knew so well from many hours of travel. "I forgot about that."

"Forgot what?" Clara asked.

"The harvest festival. Last year my brother, the marquess, hosted a bonfire and dance at Briarcliff, planned to do the same this year. Several of Theo's wedding guests were thinking of staying on for it." He collapsed back into the seat. "Has it really been a week?"

Seven days only. And everything transformed.

"Seems impossible."

His gaze flickered to her, his hands still for the first time all day, his attention entirely on her. "We should have spent the hours preparing you. What we shall tell my family."

"What shall we tell them?"

"The truth, though…" The creases of his face softened. "My mother will not like it."

"Will not like me?"

"Convenience is what she will dislike. The agreement between us. You, she'll adore."

"How can you be sure?"

The coach lurched to a stop.

And Atlas grinned. Again. After seeing it so often, it should be commonplace, but it hit her like a punch, like the blade that had taken half her finger. Because this time a dimple appeared in his cheek, a companion for the ever-present one in his chin. How had she not noticed it before? Perhaps he'd not given her his true grin before now. He saved that one, apparently, for coming home.

She snorted. "Hardly fair."

"What?" He cocked his head to one side, the cheek dimple disappearing.

"That you have two dimples"—she tapped her chin, her cheek—"when most mere mortals have none."

That grin again. Holy Hepplewhite, would she ever become used to it? "You have a teasing little birthmark. Just there." His gaze dipped a bit, lingered on the patch of skin just beneath her right eye where that little black dot lived its daily life.

"And what of it?" she asked, breath turning to honey in her lungs.

"Unfair."

"And why's that?" And why did his gaze never waver? Why did her throat go so dry? Difficult to speak even three small words.

"Calls to a man's fingertips."

His words brushed the ghosts of those very fingertips against her skin, just below her eye, exploding that little beauty mark's daily life into a revelation of dullness. Into a revelation of denial, because the way he curled his hands atop his thighs sent a message as firm as those appendages—she wanted those fingertips everywhere on her they'd never been before.

She'd decided no bodies in this marriage.

Her decision seemed fragile, easy to break, like a thin layer of ice over a pail of water on a winter morning.

The coach door flew open, and Alfie flew out. "Fire!"

The word filled Clara's lungs with a rush of air, and she vaulted toward the opening, would have hit the ground in a mad rush, but strong fingers wrapped around her upper arms, held her still.

"It's just the bonfire," Atlas said, shiveringly close. "Remember?"

"I don't want him to get lost."

A small, deep chuckle, then he slipped past her, jumped to the ground, sending the coach rocking. For a moment, he remained bent, his eyes closed, his jaw tight. He straightened slowly, shifting his jaw back and forth as if chewing through discomfort. His hand settled on his thigh, right where he'd told her he'd been wounded.

"Are you well?" she whispered from the confines of the coach. Should she… help in some way? "Does traveling make you stiff?"

"No. Not at all. I'm quite well." He popped upright, wearing another smile. This one without the cheek dimple. He held out a hand. She took it and made a careful exit, trying her best not to put any weight into his embrace. Trying also to appear as elegant as possible. Who knew who was watching, judging, as she made her descent. He kept telling her she need not worry, but how could she not? She must put on her mask once more, her fine, porcelain manners. Until she discovered otherwise.

"Alfie?" she called and quickly felt a small, warm hand slip into her own.

"Here, Mama." He leaned in close. "This place is dark. And big."

Wrapping an arm around his shoulders, she squeezed. "It will seem less so in the morning. With the sun."

On one side of the house, between the drive and the woods, flames leapt into the sky, sent sparks flying. And everywhere, people milled about, chatting and drinking and singing songs. Several men stopped to slam palms into Atlas's back, and ladies winked at him as they passed by. At his side, no one seemed to notice her and Alfie. But that invisibility felt easier, more natural, than the frost she'd shivered through when she'd met Everette's family. The servants had lined up at noon beneath a blazing sun, his father stark in black and white, wearing nothing else but a silver watch chain and a thin-lipped frown. No, this was nothing like her arrival at Coledale. A good omen or?—

A cry wavered through the night, wrapping up the darkness and setting the stars to twinkling. "Atlas! You're home!" A small body careened into Atlas, a flurry of skirts and falling cap and hair.

Clara bent to retrieve the woman's cap, its lace worn thin. She could tell just through touch, without the help of light.

"Mother." Atlas pried the woman from his neck and shoulders and set her before him on her own two feet. He laughed. "It's been but a week."

"And still I missed you, as mothers are wont to do."

"I've brought a few guests with me." He stepped aside, ushering Clara forward. "This is Mrs. Clara Bronwen. Clara, meet my mother, the dowager Marchioness of Waneborough."

Lady Waneborough turned from whirlwind to statue, her pale face tilted toward Clara. "Mrs. Clara Bronwen. Excellent to meet you." Her lips spread in a grin that could crack stone.

"And," Atlas said, "this is her son, Mr. Alfred Simon Bronwen."

Lady Waneborough knelt with a chuckle and crack of bone and tendon. "Oof. Not so easy as when I was a few years younger. You, Mr. Alfred."

"Yes?" Alfie replied.

"Do your knees make unsuitable noises?"

Alfie lifted one leg and bent it and straightened it over and over again, his lower leg hinging on that quite mute knee. "No, they do not."

"Ah. Silent knees are wasted on the young." She pushed her palms into her thighs to stand. "Welcome, Mr. and Mrs. Bronwen. I am delighted to have guests but shocked it's Atlas who has brought them."

The fire crackled in the distance, voices hummed around them. All air seemed to dissolve.

"Clara and I," Atlas said, "are engaged to be married." Said during a lull in the festive noise. Surely everyone heard him say he'd brought a stranger here to wed.

Clara steeled her spine, squeezed Alfie's hand tighter, and lifted her chin. She would act as if she belonged.

Lady Waneborough produced a high, keening sound accompanied by Atlas's low curse and the furtive crunch of boots against gravel, growing louder.

"What the hell's wrong now?" a masculine voice said from behind the wailing woman. A few steps of crunching gravel closer, and the man came into view, tall and well-built like Atlas, but inches shorter. A less brutish version of her betrothed. Behind him appeared a lady with dark hair streaming down her back. She wore a red gown and crown of flowers in her hair, a cream shawl around her shoulders, and a suppressed grin on her lips. She clung to the man's arm, peering at Lady Waneborough.

"Welcome back, Atlas," the woman said. "What have you done to Franny?"

"I've just told Mother some news." Atlas shifted from foot to foot.

The woman asked, "What news?"

Atlas seemed to grate a sigh to nothing with a grumble in his throat. "This"—he held a hand out to Clara and Alfie—"is Mrs. Clara Bronwen and her son, Alfred. Clara, may I introduce my eldest brother, Lord Waneborough. And his wife"—he nodded to the woman in red—"Lady Waneborough. Clara and I are?—"

"Engaged to be wed!" The dowager marchioness's keening shaped itself into words.

Clara leaned over to Atlas, hissed into his ear. "I do not know what to do."

"Wait until she stops wailing," he hissed back. "Cover your ears if you must."

"What kind of wail is it?" Clara whispered. "Happy or?—"

"Married." The younger marchioness sounded breathless. She abandoned her husband's arm to step closer to Clara. In the light of the rising moon, her eyes seemed a dark brown. With her long, wavy hair loose around her shoulders, she looked like some sort of fairy maiden. But earthy. A bit puckish. The type of woman one picked up a sword in defense of.

Clara dropped a curtsy. "Pleasure to meet you. I know this is sudden."

The dowager appeared at her daughter-in-law's side. "The best love stories are."

"Franny," the marchioness warned at the same time two male voices cried, "Mother!"

And before the final syllable of that word had finished ringing in the air, the dowager flew at Clara, wrapping her in the first hug she'd had from anyone but Alfie in two years. Oh. Oh. How could she not? She hugged the woman back.

"Mother." Said in male unison once more.

Atlas's hands on Clara's back, her shoulder, trying to dislodge his mother.

"No, no." Clara waved him away. "This is fine." It was perfect. It took every one of her fears and smashed them to bits like teacups on a ballroom floor. "Thank you," she whispered in the dowager's ear. "Thank you, Lady Waneborough."

The woman held her at arm's length. "Call me Franny. You must. Now, when shall you wed?"

"We have a license," Atlas said. "We will wed as soon as Mr. Thornwell can be prepared to marry us."

"Oh." The dowager clapped her hands. "Immediately. And Theo and Cordelia are here. Out at the bonfire right now with Fee and Zander. Everyone present but for Drew and his secretary." More of her sons and their wives. A large family, and chaotic, apparently. "Are they still in London?"

"No," Atlas said. "Left for Manchester a few days ago. We cannot wait for them. We must marry as soon as can be."

"Tomorrow, if possible," Clara added.

Atlas's gaze slammed into her. "Tomorrow."

The dowager squealed. "How beautiful. Love at first sight." The squeal softened into a sigh.

"It's been a long journey. I forgot the bonfire was tonight." He offered his arm to Clara. "Would you like to settle in or join the revelry?"

"Both. I think," she said. "Can we go inside first? See to our trunks?"

"Yes. Of course." He pulled her close to his side, and she pulled Alfie to hers, and the three of them entered the house, Atlas's mother rushing beside and behind them. The dowager flew past them and disappeared down a hallway flickering with sparse candlelight.

"Do you always keep it so dark inside?" Clara asked.

"Raph, my brother, the marquess, likes to be economical where candles are concerned. But Matilda, his wife, has insisted on a bit more light in the evenings of late. It's better than it used to be. I know this is not what you're used to. Those jewels… your husband's family must be quite wealthy. We are not so?—"

"In here, my dears!" A door at the end of the hallway was flung wide, and the firelight leapt onto the dark walls in a tangle of gold, orange, and shadows.

Clara patted Alfie's back. "Go on. We'll be there shortly." Her hand on Atlas's forearm stayed him, and once Alfie and the others had left them alone, she spoke once more. "Do not apologize. When I became a Bronwen, I acquired much wealth and little love. And from the few moments I've been here, I've experienced more acceptance than in all the years I lived at Coledale. Blast." She pressed her fingers under her eyes. "I will not cry. Ridiculous."

"Not ridiculous. I'm glad you feel welcome. I want you to feel safe here. Happy."

She did. Yet… shadows remained. Worries. She'd been hugged by a woman she didn't know because she was there to marry that woman's son. Because the woman thought them in love with one another. She'd not been a disappointment to the dowager because she brought love with her. But Clara didn't really bring love with her, did she?

"Atlas, what will she do? When she discovers why we're truly marrying?"

"Pout a bit, likely. Refuse to believe us. Attempt to make us fall in love."

"Will she be disappointed?"

"Yes. But it will not?—"

"Then don't tell her." Mad thought, indeed, but impossible to suppress it, seemed a tether to those things Atlas said he wanted for her here—safety, happiness. "Let her believe we're in love."

"As if she won't find us out?" His voice had lowered, and he bent closer to her, his large body bowing over hers. "My mother has evidence of couples in love all around her, Clara. Madly in love. As she was with her husband. She'll know. But she won't?—"

"Please, Atlas." She hated begging, but it came so easily to her after daily pleading with Lord Tefler to let her see her son, just for a moment. Never again, she'd promised herself. Yet here she was. This, too, for Alfie. What would happen if the dowager discovered Clara and Atlas weren't in love? What would Clara and Alfie do if the woman's warmth froze over?

Atlas straightened and thrust a hand through his hair with a ragged sigh. "Very well. We'll simply… not challenge her assumptions."

"Thank you." She popped up on toe and kissed his cheek. She shouldn't, for her own sake. Because the coach ride had taught her the limits of her own body when faced with temptation. But he'd given her comfort at his own expense. She owed him something, had nothing to give but a kiss, short and sweet and likely hurting her more than it rewarded him.

He jerked away, his eyes hot coals of blue, sparking, as if she'd scorched him with her tiny bit of a kiss. But then, on a half breath, the fire of his gaze poured languid throughout his body, and his face slid into a picture of hard determination, then he rolled his body into hers, captured her with his large hands.

He slid them down her back, so low he flirted with impropriety as he held her tight. As he took her lips with his own. A kiss. He pulled her bottom lip softly between his teeth, his warmth stealing her breath. The kiss rocked her and steadied her, melted every thought, every shadow, every sound so nothing existed but his lips and hers. His hands, inching lower over the curve of her arse, thumb stroking the beginning curve of it. And hers, cupping the rough, stubbled jaw, thumb dipping into that delectable dimple. His heart and hers, both beating with an ever-increasing rhythm.

Until he pulled away just enough to say, "Like that, Clara? Is that how we pretend?"

Holy Hepplewhite, that was pretending? Heaven help her if he ever kissed her for real.

"I… yes. That works… quite well." She smiled, breathless, patted his chest, and bounced into the room.

She'd done the right thing. Anything for Alfie. Including lying about being in love to protect her position in this house.