Opening the package revealed, first, a pile of banknotes. But beneath those rested a small wooden box, simply but elegantly shaped. It opened without difficulty, revealing an opal ring.
Something in its unfathomable depths of milky brilliance mocked him. How could he give a thing that seemed to have no bottom, no end, to a woman he planned to leave one day?
Seven
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 forfalling 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?”
“LordAtlas.”
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,LordAtlas.”
“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?”
