“Or. Definitely or. But that…” His hand fluttered to his thigh, covered her hand where it still rested there. “But this… I like this.”
“Did it help?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
“You’ll let me do it again?”
“Yes.” He squeezed her hand, nudged the side of her nose with the side of his.
“You’ll tell me when it aches?”
A pause, the life in his eyes darkening, leaving. Then he blinked and returned to her, inhaled, exhaled, kissed her cheek. “Yes. I will.”
A rare gift, that concession. She’d treasure it and ensure he kept his end of the bargain. This man protected her with hisname and pleasured her with his body. He protected everyone as well as he could, even with his silence. She would do the same for him.
Eighteen
Clara had been told to go away, to make herself busy with the mistletoe and the greenery and the decorations, the preparations for Christmas currently occupying Franny and Matilda. But as soon as Alfie and Atlas had closed the door to the room that the marquess oddly called the Purgatorial Painting Parlor, she crept out of her hiding place and pressed her ear against it.
Whispers, low chuckles, short joyous whoops. She heard a long moment where Alfie sounded like he was rolling on the floor laughing as if he would never stop. Then the plonk of pianoforte keys badly played.
What were they doing? And why was she not allowed?
She knocked. “Atlas? Alfie?”
Silence inside, and then the door flung open. Alfie appeared. “Go away, Mama.” The door slammed closed.
“Well.” Clara knocked again. “What is going on in there?”
Silence, then the door flung open a second time. Atlas appeared, hands on hips, one eyebrow raised. “I’m afraid, Clara, you will have to go away.” Softly, he shut the door.
She knocked one more time because really this was enough.
Silence, except for the rumblings of movements, and then the door opened a third time. She looked up, up, up at her son sitting on her husband’s shoulders.
“Go away,” they said together. Atlas gave her a pointed look and closed the door.
“Fine,” she grumbled. “I’ll just do something fun without you.”
“Good,” they said together.
Easy for a mother to feel replaced, but she did not. She would miss this when he left. And no matter how stout and brave Alfie sounded, he would miss it, too. But they would survive, and Atlas would return. She must remind herself of that.
She rested her forehead against the door.
She should not have fallen in love with him. Had not given a single thought to it when they’d married, what with the circumstances and all. Everything Atlas was and did had simply landed upon her like snowflake after snowflake until she stood in a drift, a snow bank of love.
She chuckled as she wandered down the hall looking for Franny and Matilda. Snow not a good metaphor. Perhaps she stood in a pile of feathers or next to a well-tended fire, something softer and warmer for how Atlas made her feel. Protected, safe, loved. The second time she’d fallen in love. Hopefully this time turned out better.
Atlas fell in love all the time, by his own admission. It was not a momentous thing for him. Perhaps he thought of her and Alfie as he thought of the sunset—something he enjoyed now but that would fade. He would move on to some other beautiful thing to admire after that.
No. His love for his family remained steadfast. But did he feel for her, for Alfie, a temporary type of love or a forever one? That question settled like a midnight monster in her chest, scratching at her ribs. Because if they were a temporary love, would heremember to come back? He would for his family, but would he still possess the easy playfulness he shared with Alfie, the heated passion he expressed for her?
Voices from downstairs dragged her toward them, and when she entered the family drawing room, she stifled a gasp with a palm flying over her mouth.
Matilda saw her first. And with hands on her hips, she said, “Tell Franny it’s too much.”
“Franny,” Clara said, “it’s too much.”
