Caught. Yes, she must avoidthatat all costs. Stopping before the small window, she brushed the curtain back. Every time she peered down into the street, she expected to see the figure of her father-in-law standing below, scowling up, ready to snatch from her the only thing she had left, the only thing that mattered—her son. She let the curtain drop and leaned her head against the glass, cool in the autumn air.
She would do anything for him, and he’d been so miserable before they’d left in the dead of night, made their way to London, found help—miraculously—at the new art school where she’d been hired to teach cabinetmaking. Everything about him pounded into dust, everything he’d loved dismissed as unworthy. His own mother pushed so entirely to the periphery of his life, he’d come to her crying one evening, after the house had fallen beneath the hush of sleep, terrified they’d send her away one day.
She’d been terrified, too, of the exact same thing. She’d seen it in Baron Tefler’s eyes, the need to exorcise her from their family circle. He’d never approved of his youngest son’s marriage to a cabinetmaker’s daughter. And with that youngest son dead… there’d been no need to keep her around.
When Alfie had begged to leave, she’d been unable to tell him no, had wanted it too. Leaving was the only way to remain together. But every step they took, fear hounded her. Surely Lord Tefler searched for them. Alfie had left a note for the man, saying he was well and not to try to find them. A young boy’shope, scratched so simply, flutily, into fragile paper. Clara did not doubt. Baron Tefler searched for Alfie, no matter the wishes expressed in her son’s farewell epistle. And soon he would find them, no matter how large London. But perhaps in a small village in the middle of nowhere, they might hide a while yet.
Could she make Lord Atlas see all that? Make him understand this was not merely a position for her. It was a necessity, a means of keeping her child. Because after running, surely Lord Tefler would not allow her to keep Alfie. He’d not hesitate to make the final excision and separate them forever.
She strode across the room, taking only a few moments to check her image in the mirror. “Stay put, Alfie.”
“Where are you going?” He blinked over the top edge of his book.
“To have a chat.” She kissed Alfie’s forehead and swept out of the room. And went in search of the honey-tongued giant.
Three
Atlas could think of no rhyme forluckbut for a not-very-elegant one no decent music shop would accept on its shelves. Not even the pianoforte, pristine and perfect beneath his fingers, offered other options. Surely there existed a plethora of appropriate rhymes. Some that… quacked? But they’d all fled, leaving room for only the one.
All Mrs. Clara Bronwen’s fault. After his brief time in her presence, he could think of only that word, that action, and what a pleasure it would be to explore its meaning with her.
Clearly, he’d gone too long since seeking pleasure from a pretty woman. Perhaps he could find a curvy widow with deep auburn hair before returning to Briarcliff. One who did not currently reside in this house…
He plonked out a sad tune on the keys, a funerial dirge to mourn the unexpected loss of his last gentlemanly impulse. Which was why he’d known almost as soon as he’d seen her that she could not, could never under any circumstances, come to Briarcliff. Work daily beside him. Torment him with her voluptuously lovely presence.
He’d fallen in love with numerous things, ideas, in the years following Waterloo, but never a person. That… complicatedmatters. An easy thing to fall in love with, a sunset. They came and went, transitory yet eternal. They asked nothing of him, and he need give nothing to them. To pine for a woman? Sticky path, that.
He propped his elbows on the keys and dropped his face into his hands with a groan that offered a countermelody to the discordant, angry clank of the music his elbows provided. To deny a widowed mother a position performing a skill she’d clearly been trained well for because he doubted his own ability to keep a chaste distance from her—inexcusable.
When had he become such a lothario? He’d always been quite good at keeping his passions in check. But to see a woman and think of kissing her? To hear her speak and then feel the urgent need to know the exact shape and weight of her breasts, the texture of her inner thighs on his palm.
If every man had a weakness, he’d certainly discovered his.
Mrs. Clara Bronwen.
She’d find another position. Shemust. Atlas would make sure of it. Truly, he worried more for his heart than for her virtue. What if the bright flash of attraction and desire he’d felt for her on first sight—that lusty instant bout of love, no matter how superficial—blossomed into something deeper? That mucked everything up, didn’t it? No room for wife and child in his future.
The indistinct plonking of the keys beneath Atlas’s fingers shaped itself into a recognizable tune. Atlas sat upright and closed his eyes, played the bawdy song he’d sung with Gregory the night before that man’s last day on earth. He hummed, mumbling the lyrics. Children were, after all, nearby. This was a school, and he didn’t want to shock anyone.
“I know she’ll say from behind her fan.” The rich, imperfect voice warbled from the doorway in lively step with the notes rising from the pianoforte. Atlas opened his eyes, knowingbefore he saw her. Clara Bronwen, lush and lovely and looking only a tiny bit shy as she sang the next line. “That there’s none can love like an Irishman.” She smiled. “An Irishman.”
She stopped singing and he stopped playing at the exact same moment, and when she took a long step farther into the room, he jolted to his feet, the bench he’d been sitting on crashing over backward.
“Bollocks.” He turned and creaked down at the same time, his thigh aching, lifting the bench back upright, and standing much more slowly than he’d knelt.
She chuckled behind a gloveless hand, her eyes sparkling. “Apologies for interrupting.” But as she dropped her hand to her side, he saw not embarrassment there but determination. She’d meant to interrupt him.
He held his hands out. That felt odd, so he clutched them together behind his back. But that made his waistcoat and formfitting jacket much too tight, so he released them, letting them hang limp at his side. Damn arms. Unless they were doing something, he never knew what todowith them.Embrace her, a rogue bit of his brain suggested. He punched that bit down.
“Can I help you?” he asked.
“Yes, you can, in fact.” She took another step toward him, not at all appearing awkward with her arms. Those looked soft and creamy and yet also strong. Freckles spread up her wrists toward her elbows.
He swallowed hard. “I cannot help you in some ways, you realize.”
Her head tilted. “And what ways are those?”
He tugged at his cravat. “The position.” Hell. What an innocuous word. Yet it had roused, as soon as it had left his lips, a bevy of images—of positions, in the plural, she’d look damn lovely in. With him. He’d like to help her with any and all positions. But one. The least lascivious of them.
