She turned away from the painting (which could only loosely be called by that name) and from the others hanging on the wall beside it—all works of art that had won the Bromley brothers their inheritances. A woman’s silhouette, a satirical watercolor of a woman and a gargoyle, and a rough drawing of a lady with a design curling up her bare arm. The last had been sketched by Franny from memory in black ink and red paint. Clara had been told it offered an accurate depiction of the “artwork” that had won the marquess his inheritance. He’d drawn his heart on the marchioness’s arm.
Clara sat on a small, tufted ottoman and picked up her sewing. Alfie lay on his belly beside her, swinging his legs, playing with the figures Atlas had carved for him during the last few weeks.
“It won’t be long,” Franny said, swinging her foot, “until Atlas secures a spot on that wall. I’ve heard him humming. I’m surehe’s writing a song to melt the hearts of every man, woman, and child in England.”
“Franny,” Matilda said, “why haven’t you given Atlas his inheritance yet?”
“He can have it when he wishes it.” Franny sniffed. “He has only to ask for it.”
“He wants to earn it,” Clara murmured.
Matilda rolled her eyes. “These men. Gorgeous. Hard as boulders on the outside. And soft as clouds on the inside.”
Franny sat upright, leaning toward Matilda. “Oh, clouds are too distant and cold. Men are something much sweeter, I think. They are soft as… pudding.”
“Butter?” Matilda offered.
“Right consistency, incorrect taste. Hm.” Franny tapped her chin. “Perhaps soft as a bath biscuit?”
“Oh, yes.” Matilda closed her book. “But not quite sweet enough still. What about?—”
The door opened, and the bath buns joined them, both men looking rumpled and tired. Raph joined his wife with a kiss, and Alfie jumped to his feet.
He ran to Atlas, crying, “You’re back! Can I go with you next time? How many cows are there?” He threw one question after another at Atlas, and the man chuckled, lifted all of Alfie’s gangly inches up into the air, swooping him high before setting him back down. With a wince no one seemed to see but Clara.
Atlas flinched, the smallest reaction, as he knelt to Alfie’s level and reached into his pocket. “Here. I found this. Thought you might like it.”
Alfie took it. “A rock? Oh! It’s shaped like a cat!”
“I knew you’d see it.” Atlas ruffled Alfie’s hair as he stood, the usually soft curve of his lips smoothing flat and tight.
“You’re hurt,” Clara said, putting her sewing aside to stand and greet him.
He laughed. “Hurt? Of course not.” He flashed a glance at his mother, at Raph, then kissed Clara’s temple and guided her back to her seat. “What are you working on?” Atlas’s voice rolled through her like a summer storm when the air is hot but the rain a cool welcome. She shivered, licked her lips. He was really too good at playing pretend. She, however, had proved quite unskilled. At resisting his charms. Every moment they spent together, she fell more deeply. Yesterday morning, when she’d caught him playing the rhyming game with Alfie, her heart had nearly burst from her chest. She’d never known a body could hold such happiness. Her son, her husband—they were slowly growing a bond.
Atlas rubbed his thumb up and down the column of her neck, sending twin tendrils of memory and need shooting through her body. Soon her courses would be over, and she could have once more the delicious sensation of him inside her, filling her.
Happiness filled her for now. Alfie played on the rug beside her, his small voice brimming with comfort. Across the room, Matilda and Raph whispered to one another. The fire crackled in the grate, and a warm, large body settled beside her in the chair next to her ottoman. Atlas smelled like mint and cheroot, two scents she’d never again smell without thinking of him, but also of fresh wood and clean, cold air. The chair creaked, then creaked again. She sighed, opening her eyes.
“Atlas?”
“Hm?” His gaze settled on her like the waters of a heated bath. She could immerse herself in them, wash her worries away.
“You’re uncomfortable.” She kept her voice low.
His brows pulled together, slow as trees bending beneath the weight of a heavy snow. “I’m n?—”
“You are. You can’t sit still in the chair. It’s too small for your frame.” Riding had also worn pain into his body, though he denied it. He always denied it.
He looked at the left arm of the chair, then at the right arm, then he squirmed, once more. His entire body seemed pinched into the tiny confines of the chair. “I’m perfectly fine.”
She snorted. “Switch with me. The ottoman will be better for you.”
“You chose that seat.”
She bounced to her feet. “I will not be able to focus on my sewing with you shifting about. Sit.”
He could have crushed the delicate chair arms as he wrapped powerful hands around them to push to standing. He sat on the ottoman, and she stepped toward the chair, but before she could sink into it, his arm found its way around her waist and tugged. She sank, instead, onto his lap. Beneath her, thighs tight and hard with muscle. Behind her, a chest more like a wall than a man. Around her, arms like small trees. And above her, a chin resting on the top of her head. Her entire body sizzled and melted in a moment. She relaxed in his arms.
