Clara’s gaze flew to Atlas’s, eyes wide as she made her way to his side. “Is this what you were doing yesterday?”
He slipped his hand into hers. “Yes.”
“Devious.”
“Perhaps.”
“Sweet.”
“Perhaps. Shh.” He held a finger to her lips. “He’s about to start.”
Alfie studied the pianoforte with the seriousness of a master musician, and then he plonked one key down, and then another. And then he sang. “There once was a family named Bromley.Who never did anything calmly. They had an old house and were poor as a mouse but made everyone feel welcome promptly.”
Everyone laughed, and Alfie’s face lit up. He attacked the next verse with more gusto than before. “Grandmama has five sons, every one of them dislike fun. But they married nice ladies and will have lots of babies, so Grandmama finally has won.”
Franny whooped, and with a chuckle, Atlas pulled Clara to the side of the room.
“Did you write those?” she whispered.
“He wrote them mostly. I merely helped. He’s quite clever.”
“He never had a penchant for rhyme until he met you.” She squeezed his hand, and as Alfie finished the song, a grand cheer went up, bouncing off the room and threatening to bring down the walls. Then Atlas’s family threatened to suffocate poor Alfie. Hugs and ruffled hair, pats on the back and warm exclamations, and all the while the boy beamed. He searched the room and found Atlas, ripped from the arms of his admirers and ran to him.
“Did you like it, Mama?” he asked.
Clara hugged him. “It was perfect. Thank you.”
“Did I do well?” he asked Atlas.
“I do not think anyone here could ask for a better Christmas present.” He knelt on one knee, barely feeling the thrum of pain in his thigh, and hugged Alfie.
Hugged his … son.
The boy returned the gesture briefly then bounced away from them, returning to his Grandmama and little Merry.
“Thank you, Atlas.” Clara helped him stand and then fiddled with his cravat. There swam too many emotions across her face for him to clearly read it. “I can never thank you enough. For everything.”
“I do not need your thanks.”
“I give it anyway. You deserve it. Thank you.” She laid her cheek against his chest, and he wrapped his arm around her waist, rested his cheek against the top of her head. Her chuckle tickled him. “Matilda removed most of the mistletoe your mother put up yesterday, but a bit used to hang just over our heads.” She rested her chin on his chest and looked up at him. “Shall we pretend it still does?”
Pretend? He didn’t have to anymore. He dipped to kiss her, and?—
“Atlas,” Maggie called, her voice as merry as her daughter. “Join us. I want to tell you how brilliant you are. And how brilliant your wife and son are.”
“Bollocks,” he said, his lips mere inches from Clara’s lips.
She laughed and pulled him toward his family. Without letting him kiss her.
There was always later, though.
“She is brilliant, isn’t she?” Atlas said. “But which brilliant bit are you speaking of? There are many.”
“I’m speaking of your work on the dower house,” Maggie said. With her brown hair and eyes, she looked very much like her brothers, whose coloring all wavered somewhere in the murky waters between dark brown, dark blond, and blue. But she did not possess her brothers’ height, and her pixie stature had always made them rather protective of her. She did not need them now, though. Her husband, despite his dandy appearance, would fell an entire army to keep her safe. “I toured it early this morning with Tobias. We were both impressed. It is charming.”
Tobias lounged in a chair near his wife, one hand extended to play with a curl poking up from the top of her head. His blond curls waved perfectly back from his forehead, and his blue eyes sparkled above a waistcoat of the same color, pink flowers embroidered throughout. “I’d have included more detail in the molding myself, a bit more whimsy in the wall paintings.Perhaps a stuffed bear head for the study. But there’s still time to make such improvements.”
Maggie swatted his hand away with a grin. “Do be serious, Tobias. You were quite impressed.”
