But the creak never came, and she’d slept soundly since then, trusting him. He’d left her alone. He blushed when flustered. He stooped more often than stood straight, especially any time they happened to pass one another in the halls. He was no wolf. Not sure what he was, but she could trust him not to hurt her. She had, after all, felt safe in his arms during that short kiss.
Clara stopped at a corner, inhaling the soggy air. Just down the street, she’d find Lord Tefler’s London townhouse. She passed it often, whenever she was out and about. A risk, yes. She could be recognized. But necessary as well. She needed to know if—when—he arrived in town. So she could toss Alfie over her shoulder and run.
She approached the house now, at an address just on the line between respectable and… not. Lord Tefler disliked the address. Reminded him he wasn’t a duke but a baron. The dukes knew it. Tefler knew it. Even his address knew it. So he made up for it in other ways, cultivating an image of pristine breeding and manners, a production only brought low by the stain of her own existence. Good thing she’d loved his son, or she would not have been able to stomach all the rest.
She ducked her head and thanked heaven for the wide brim of her bonnet as she crossed the street and turned the corner. She was daring, but not enough so to pass the man’s door without an entire street between her and it.
The door called to her, felt like a current sweeping her in its direction. Though she glanced at it sideways only, head down, it seemed like a chain about her. She knew exactly its position in regard to her own slowly moving form at all times.
And when that door swung open, her heart near exploded.Run!her legs cried, but she managed to keep their stride smooth and steady. With dread pooling in every muscle, she turned her head, just an inch. Who had opened the door? She had to know? A servant or…
Her brother-in-law, his wife hanging onto his winged arm. And behind him, Lord Tefler, his steel-gray hair hidden by his tall hat. The season had ended already. Why had they come with parliament no longer in session? The fashionable ton had already migrated back to the country, yet heretheywere. Only one thing could bring them here when the ton had already left—her.
It had finally happened. Not two months after they’d ran in the middle of a dark, starless night, carrying nothing but a single valise between them, an advertisement for a woodworking specialist to teach at a London art school pressed tight between her stays and shift.
She wanted to run. She couldn’t, not at least until she rounded the corner and stepped out of their sight. She strolled forward as if the world were not crumbling around her. Where would they go? They could no longer stay here. London was large, but her father-in-law cunning. He knew by what means she could support herself, and that knowledge would soon bring him to the Waneborough Charitable School of Art’s doorstep.
She no longer felt her feet. Didn’t matter. Bells clanged in her brain, ringing out truths. Over and done with. She’d never see Alfie again. A suffocating sob tangled with silenced cries in her throat. When had the air gotten so thick? Impossible to breathe.
Were they always to run? If she’d been offered the position at Briarcliff, she would already be safe. Lord Atlas would leave tomorrow, taking Mr. Mathews with him. Why couldn’t it be her? Why had she not said yes? She lived by one faultless truth—she’d do anything for her son.
But she’d proven that a lie. She’d not marry for him. A sound like a wild wail slipped through her teeth, and the world blurred around her.
She should give in. Lord Tefler had arrived, and one might call it a sign. Surely Alfie would not thrive in constant flight. Lord Tefler seemed to want to smother Alfie’s soul, and certainly sought to separate him from Clara, but perhaps that was a reasonable exchange to make for stability and comfort.
Failed. Utterly. Failed in the one thing most important to her—protecting Alfie. She clutched her hands in her skirts, because she could do nothing useful with them, and swallowed a knot of tears.
Then walked right into a wall. She bounced off it, fell backward, and landed not on the hard ground but into the hard cradle of a muscled arm. A minty scent. Coffee and cheroots. Now the knot she swallowed was not sorrow but immediate, tingling desire. She looked up. Up. And still up, though she was a tall woman. Until she met Lord Atlas’s concerned blue eyes.
“Steady, Mrs. Bronwen?” he asked, setting her outside of his embrace in front of, apparently, the art school. When had she arrived? If the wall of his body had not stopped her, she would have walked right past it. “Steady?”
She must have nodded for he continued. “I was looking for you. I wished to speak with you.” One of his large handsswallowed her shoulder. He ducked down, peered into her face. “You’re crying. What’s happened?” That hand tightened, steadied her.
Her body buzzed. What had he asked? How should she answer? She must get to Alfie. They must flee. His arm crept around her shoulder, and he pulled her toward the door, and under the wing of his muscle, she felt so very safe. For the first time in months. Her muscles loosened, draped against him.
He led her down the hall, but she saw what she must do now.
Let him lead her down the church aisle.
“Does your offer remain, Lord Atlas?” He froze, blinked, then blinked again. She grabbed his wrist and hauled him into the nearby music room. Back here again, were they? Very well. Fitting. She shut the door and pressed her back against it, regarding him with what must be eyes as wide as the moon. “Does your offer of marriage still stand?”
He turned and wandered away from her, one hand cuffing the back of his neck. “I was looking for you to ask you to join me at Briarcliff, not as a bride, but as a cabinetmaker. I’ve seen your work, and it’s excellent. I’d be a fool to leave you in London. I am gentleman enough to keep my hands from you. I swear it. You need fear nothing from me.”
“I know.”
He swung around, blinking. “You do?”
“If you really wanted me, you’d have found me in the last five days, taken advantage in the mews or anywhere else in this school. There have been opportunities. But I will find no opportunity like a marriage to you.” She paced toward him. “You were correct. Marriage is the safer option, and marriage to a man like you, whom others trust, it will only be good for Alfie. No fucking, though.”
“Hell.” He ducked away from her, circling around the edge of the room, stumbling over a harp and knocking over a stand of music sheets until the pianoforte stood between them.
“I apologize for shocking you, Lord Atlas. I grew up over a pub in a part of town you’ve likely never visited, and though my late husband’s family spent considerable time and money attempting to wipe the gutter from my tongue, I’m afraid they did not entirely succeed.” She strolled toward him, stopping at the instrument across from him, leaning into it. “Besides, surely you remember… you used the word first.” She felt wild now, unable to stop the words dropping from her mouth like nails into a coffin.
“I was attempting to scare you off. Mostly.”
She straightened away from the pianoforte. “Then you should not have proposed marriage to me after that.”
He groaned, his face flushed a deep red. “Mrs. Bronwen, I appreciate you feel your circumstances are dire, and perhaps they are, but?—”
