“Several times.”
“Perhaps it’s the show of violence Mrs. Dart objects to,” Atlas said.
“She watched me do it for several punches, without a single objection.” The painting demanded his entire attention. It should be burning a hole through the bed. It certainly burned one through his brain. No need to unwrap it. He wasn’t going to keep it after all. Zander would help him find a wealthy buyer. “She should have accepted my proposal. It was not mercenary. I meant her no harm.” The exact opposite, in fact. “It was a practical matter.”
“Ah.” Raph winced. “I too, as you know, contemplated the benefits of a marriage of convenience. But I would never have suggested such a thing to Matilda.”
“Matilda had no money,” Drew pointed out.
“That is not the point. Even if she’d had London’s largest dowry, I never would have mentioned money to her during a proposal.”
“Ah, Raph.” Atlas braced both elbows on his thighs, leaning over and lifting his head to arch a thick brow at his brother. “You did mention money to Matilda as you revealed you would never marry her.”
“That is not the point,” Raph grumbled.
“And what is?” Drew tired of this.
“The point is that IloveMatilda, you dunce.” He smacked his hand into the back of Drew’s head.
“Ow!” He slapped his brother’s hand away. “It was a sensible solution.”
Atlas and Raph blinked at him.
“Atlas clearly married for wealth.” Drew threw a hand out toward that brother. “I do not see why it matters.”
“Because Mrs. Dart is not just some woman with a dowry she’s willing to exchange for a title. Those women?—”
“Their fathers most likely,” Atlas mumbled.
“They know the arrangement they’re entering into. Your Mrs. Dart did not wish, it seems, since she is not here with you now, for such an arrangement.”
That was true. Perfectly true. She handed her entire pay each month to various charities in Manchester and lived a life of labor in exchange for companionship, fellowship with friends, and a purpose. She owned a castle and refused to live there.
She didn’t value her own money. Why would she want to be valued for it? But hedidn’tvalue her only for her money. He valued her mind and her body. He valued her humor. And her heart.
Yet what he’d offered her… the first thing out of his mouth after the proposal… money. An exchange. He’d not even mentioned the partnership he loved to remind her of.
Partnership. Such a clinical word. All wrong for her. For how he felt about her.
He bolted to his feet. “Bloody hell.”
“I think he’s got it,” Raph said, slapping his thighs and pushing off the wall. “Let’s go, Atlas. He likely needs some time alone to come to terms with the life-changing truth that he’s in love.”
“Finally, he sees it.” Atlas rolled his eyes and followed Raph out the door.
Drew found himself at the window before the door clicked closed. Love? Did he? She’d said she loved him, and he’d said… nothing at all. Nothing, though his gut had twisted with every emotion ever discovered by man. Jealousy and rage, fear and sorrow, elation that she loved him and…
Love for her in return.
He rested his forehead against the glass. He’d never wanted love. Of all the emotions, it was the most volatile, the most dangerous. It was why he’d swung his fists at his father. Had he loved the man less, he’d not have felt betrayed to the very bone. He’d not have felt so ashamed of having hit him. He’d not have stayed away for over a decade, letting the man die without a single word from him after that fit of violence.
All the grief he’d dammed up for years flooded him in an instant, brought him to his knees. Cold wood bit into bone, and he cried. All the ice in him melted and poured out. “Bloody hell.” He wiped the tears away, but he wore no gloves to soak them up. Wouldn’t Amelia love to see him brought so low.
No, she wouldn’t. She’d put herself into Tidsdale’s hands to keep his dream alive.
He would not pay her back with weakness. He lifted to his feet. Outside, Atlas stood in the field between the stable and the house. A woman stood with him, and the boy from before ran toward them. The woman’s auburn hair glowed in the light of the setting sun, and she tilted her face up to Atlas. Mrs. Bronwen. No, Lady Atlas Bromley. A fourth and final sister-in-law. She reached up, flicked a strand of hair away from Atlas’s face, and it seemed as if Atlas might touch her in return. His arm twitched, but then the boy fell, disappeared in the grass, and his mother ran after him. Reached him second, though. Atlas arrived first, lifted the boy to his feet, knelt on both knees, and ran his hands over the boy’s head, his shoulders. Searching for a wound? The boy shook his head and shook away his stepfather’s hands, thenturned to his mother. She took his hand and led him back toward the house, leaving Atlas towering over the tall grass, alone.
Drew left the window to look at the painting on his bed. Still wrapped in cloth and twine. Atlas had chosen money over love. And Atlas, gentle soldier and writer of love songs about cows and sunsets, stood alone.
