“Would you tell me if you had?”
He hesitated, then told her the truth again. “I don’t want you to know.”
She kissed his chest. “If what I want is to know, will you?”
“Yes.” The third truth of the morning. “If it is what you wish.” He kissed the top of her head once more and swung his legs to the floor.
“No,” she groaned, reaching for him.
“My family wakes with the sun on Christmas. We’d best be up early, too.”
A heavy sigh as she flung her arm over her eyes. “Very well. Alfie will be scratching on that door soon, anyway. No time to luxuriate.”
“Is that what we were doing?” He strode to the wardrobe. “Luxuriating?”
“One word for it, I suppose.” The elegance had gone from her voice, replaced by a husky playfulness that demanded he stop shifting through his crumpled linen and wool and look back at the bed. Her face shone pale, and the usual generous curve of her lip had disappeared, her red brows pulled low.
“What’s wrong?” He took a step toward her.
She picked at the blanket. “Yesterday, Cordelia said…”
His muscles stiffened. “Something wrong in London? At the art school? With her and Theo.”
She laughed. “Will you blaze into battle for them if there is?”
“Of course.”
Her gaze dropped to her hands. “Of course. Something wrong. Yes.” She smiled, a dull expression. “We will discuss it later.”
“Or now.”
“It will keep.” Her voice a bit hollow, though, unsure. “Stay with me, Atlas? Just a little while longer?” She rolled to herside and propped her head up with a bent elbow, her palm a shelf for her ear, and she stretched out, her long legs hidden by the blankets, which were slung low over her hips. Just a hint of curls visible there beneath the sheet’s edge. Her torso, her breasts, and a world of creamy skin visible, on brazen offer in the sensuous curve of her body. His cock leapt to attention once more. Mountains wished to be carved as lovingly as she was, each of her curves a rolling feast of pleasure. What man could resist?
He bounded back to the bed and kissed her, loved her once more.
Atlas stayed on the edges of the crowd, happier to observe the chaos than to join it. He and Clara had been late to the family gathering, but no one had seemed to mind, and for once, his mother’s attention had been elsewhere—on Drew and Amelia instead of on Atlas and Clara.
And on the baby. Atlas’s sister, Maggie, and her husband, Mr. Tobias Blake, had arrived the night before, little Merry, their daughter, grinning in Tobias’s arms and darting off on fast little legs as soon as she’d left the coach. Atlas’s mother had been chasing after her ever since and sat on the floor with her now, tying a green ribbon around her curly hair. The child shared her mother’s dark hair and her father’s blue eyes and a disposition as merry as her name. Matilda sat on the floor beside them, hiding her face then showing it again, and eliciting the happiest bubbles of laughter from the child Atlas had ever heard.
Clara had settled herself on the floor as well, right in the happy middle of the chaos, gasping over each gift Alfie received, and playing with him, clapping when others received gifts that delighted them, and making sure everyone’s cups were full of brandied wine. Alfie crept increasingly closer to his newlittle cousin, helping her play, showing her his own Christmas prizes until both children had been gathered under their grandmother’s arms, leaning into either side.
A moment of true beauty, this, a moment to fall in love with.
Atlas rubbed his chest. Had they ever had a morning of such beauty before at Briarcliff? Ever experienced a moment where no doubt or shadow or fear hung over them? Yes, but not in a long while.
Alfie jumped to his feet and ran toward Atlas. “Is it time yet?”
He caught the boy’s shoulders before he knocked into his legs. “Are you ready, you think, Alfie?”
“Yes!”
“Very well. It’s time.”
Clara’s head tilted. “Time for what?”
Alfie flew toward the pianoforte in the corner, old and ill-tuned. No matter, though. Alfie could not yet play proficiently. And playing was not the point. Atlas helped him place the bench just right and whispered some reminders then backed away.
Alfie’s legs swung back and forth on the bench behind the pianoforte, and his hands bounced on his thighs. “I don’t have a Christmas gift for everyone, but Atlas helped me write this song.”
