“Will you insult a lady to her face?” Franny stood in the door, her once wild locks tamed into a simple chignon low on her neck, wearing a new, entirely respectable gown. This one not rumpled a bit. Fashionable, even. She’d washed the paint from her hands and cheeks, and she swept into the room as regal as a queen, pinning Tefler with a haughty look Clara had never seen her wear before. “While I did not make the choices I should have as a mother, sir, I can assure you I taught my son to respect his station exactly as much as he should. Who are you, sir?”
“I am Simon Bronwen, Baron Tefler.” He bowed low and shot up once more. “And you are, I take it, the Marchioness of Waneborough?”
Franny dipped her chin just a bit toward her chest, her eyes steely.
Tefler took a step toward her. “I am Alfred Bronwen’s grandfather.”
She backed away from him, wrinkling her nose, and sat on a low sofa. She waved her hand dismissively, looking out the window as if the occupants of the room were of no consequence. “And I am his grandmother. Would anyone else like to state their relationship to young Alfred?”
Tefler did not seem to notice that she mocked him. He scuttled across the room to stand before her, palms open wide, fine kid gloves perfectly fit across every finger. “Surely youunderstand the weight of my situation, my lady. One son living, and his wife unable to produce a living heir.” He glanced at Matilda’s rounded belly again.
“Do not look at the marchioness,” Franny snapped. “It is impertinent.”
His gaze jumped back to her. “Apologies, my lady.”
Franny sniffed. “A baron?” She said the word as if she were looking at something nasty on the bottom of her shoe. “Clara, dear, I’d no idea you kept such low company before coming here.”
Clara’s mouth dropped open. So did the mouths of every other person in the room.
Lord Tefler sat beside Franny on the couch, and Franny scooted away.
“It is true,” he said, “that my family’s title is not so esteemed or so old as yours. Seven generations of marquesses according toDebrett’s. And Viscount Stillman as courtesy title.” A sigh as his attention wandered once more to Matilda’s belly.
“Your point, Tefler?” Raph yanked a pillow off a nearby chair and blocked Matilda’s middle with it. A vein bulged in his forehead.
The older man heaved another sigh, dragging his gaze to Raph. “Truly a glorious lineage. My title is not half so ancient.” He turned to Franny, sitting taller. “But we are quality to the very bone, my lady. I assure you. Simon will?—”
“Alfie,” the entire room but Tefler said at once.
The baron cleared his throat. “Yes, well, there are clear signs that my grandson may inherit my title one day. I cannot let a journeyman’s coarse daughter raise him as if he’s of no import. He must live with me and—ack!”
Atlas fisted his hand in the baron’s cravat and hauled him to his feet. Tefler scratched at Atlas’s hand, mouth gaping, lungs gasping.
“Do not insult my wife,” Atlas warned. “And you will not take my son.”
Clara rushed across the room, hands settling on Atlas’s back, his shoulders. “Put him down, Atlas.” They could not anger this man, could not hurt him.
“Atlas, I’ve always appreciated your brutish high spirits, but this is not the place.” Franny sniffed, and Atlas released the man. A bit. More precise to say his muscles loosened as he regarded his mother with wide, shocked eyes. Because it appeared the scandalous dowager could play well the role a haughty society matron.
Atlas’s hand still firm around Tefler’s neck, he said, “Mind your tongue or lose your ability to breathe.”
She wanted to kiss him and kick him in equal measure.
“Yes,” Tefler squeaked. “It was not well done of me. Not at all refined.” He smoothed his hand over his hair though not a strand had wavered out of place despite his near strangulation. And he did not apologize to Clara.
She needed no apology. She needed him to leave. Pushing Atlas behind her, she said, “Alfie will remain here whether your son produces an heir or not.”
“He needs proper training.”
Fanny snorted. “And you’re suggesting a marquess and his family cannot properly train him? How insulting.”
Tefler’s mouth dropped open, then closed, then open and closed again. “No. No, no. No insult meant, my lady. But the boy should be with his family, and?—”
“We are his family.” Matilda scowled, marched forward. “You presume too much, my lord, entering my home and attempting to take away my nephew. Offering insult to my sister and likely straining my poor brother’s arm.”
Tefler blinked, stared at Atlas’s arm, which remained perfectly strong and sturdy despite the heavy lifting it hadrecently done. Tefler rubbed his neck, straightened his crushed cravat as best he could. “Your poor brother has likely bruisedme.”
“Because you hurt his delicate sensibilities. I—Oh.” Matilda’s hand flew to her belly. She blinked, the rest of her body going entirely still.
