A marriage of convenience. She must not forget that. A difficult task when this house felt like happiness. It tricked her into a deep relaxation she had not felt in years. This man’s family with their grins and teases and hugs and goodwill seemed a promise of her own future joy. And this man with the broadest shoulder and easiest grin made her forget he would leave her one day.
But wasn’t the thoughtless pool of his embrace a lovely reprieve from her previous life? And it would dry up when he left. Why not enjoy it now, let someone care for her so she could rest until she, and Alfie, needed her strength once more.
She peeked at his face. Why would he even contemplate leaving such a home? Did he pursue business? Pleasure? The question rested heavy on her tongue, but she did not release it. His jaw too hard. He spoke of leaving with much finality and little detail. Clearly not a topic of conversation he relished. And did she need to know? He would leave whether she knew or not.
His arms tightened around her, and he kissed her ear.
Trust flooded her like light on a summer morning, silencing every dissenting, cautious, bitter voice. She would hold close what time he gave her, building from every stolen moment, a home of happiness.
Eleven
November 1822
Blood on blades and screams on the wind. Smoke everywhere. Boys so like his brothers—falling, faces pale and immobile, chests frozen by the embrace of bullets.
Atlas woke with a fist clenched as if about the handle of a gun or the pommel of a saber. He rubbed his chest, where the wounds sliced deepest, though they left no mark. Beside him, an auburn curl caressing her cheek, Clara slept. The curve of her jaw, the sweep of her lashes against her skin, the rise and fall of her breathing. They dissipated the nightmare like sunlight cutting through smoke on a battlefield, like a fresh breeze carrying the scent of death far away. He could kiss her, wake her, make love to her, take even more comfort from her touch than he did from watching her slumber.
But she needed sleep. And he’d rather suffer alone than gift her—or anyone—with his demons. Besides, she’d requested a cessation of their bedroom activities for the next several days during her monthly courses.
She was not increasing. They’d succeeded in avoiding it, though they’d not spent a single evening outside of one another’s arms. Left him feeling… curiously empty.
He left the bed without waking her and dressed quickly, quietly, before sitting at his pianoforte behind the curtain that bisected their room. He didn’t let his fingers touch the keys. Merely closed his eyes and pretended to play, humming under his breath ever so slightly.
Until he heard the soft patter of feet coming for him. When he opened his eyes, she stood beside his bench.
“May I sit?” she asked, rubbing the sleep from one eye.
He scooted over. “Did I wake you?”
“No.” More yawn than word. “Are you troubled?”
“Why do you say that?”
“When you were…notplaying, your face looked… blank. But drawn. Is your wound hurting you?”
“No. I am fine.” He kissed the round of her shoulder, smiled.
The bedchamber door burst open. “Mama, Atlas!” Alfie appeared around the corner just after they shifted their bodies away from one another.
The little boy was tousled from sleep but bright-eyed, and he looked as if he’d dressed himself. In a hurry. The coat of his skeleton suit flapped open, and he wore no stockings. He streamed sunlight behind him, and after he’d flung himself into his mother’s arms for a hug quicker than a lightning strike, not a single thread of gloom remained in Atlas’s soul. Even the tenacious bits that tangled in and held firm—always—dissipated right away.
On a wave of laughter, Clara said, “What has you in such high spirits this morning, Alfie love?”
“Grandmama says she’s going to dig out the old toys today. Uncle Raph had an armada of small boats!” He ran circles around the room. “I can have them now.” He stopped, suddenlystiff, and frowned at Atlas. “Can’t I have them? She said they’d belonged to you, too.”
“I can think of no one better to have them,” Atlas said. “They are all yours.”
Alfie’s arms shot skyward, and he launched himself toward the bed, bounced up with a yelp and flipped onto it.
Clara hid her face in Atlas’s chest, her laughter rumbling through every last inch of him as he wound an arm around her back and pulled her closer. He set a kiss atop her head, the world feeling like a circle—complete and perfect.
“He’ll clearly secure at position at Astley’s one day,” Atlas said into her hair.
Alfie scrambled off the bed, threw an arm up in farewell, and disappeared into the hallway, a little-boy blur.
Clara lifted her head and settled her chin on his chest, her eyes shining up at him. “Shall we prepare for the day?”
With a sigh, he released her, watching her rise and move about the room, gathering clothes and humming.
