“What is it?” Raph had gone still, too.
She breathed a few heavy breaths, the rest of the room’s attention locked onto her. Tefler eyed her belly as if it might explode. When she shook her head and smiled, the entire room exhaled.
“’Tis nothing, I’m sure. But Lord Tefler must—Oh!” Her other hand shot to her belly.
“It’s not nothing!” Raph dropped the pillow he’d been holding before her, picked her up like a babe, and strode for the door.
“Put me down!” she demanded.
“Bring the doctor!” he boomed to no particular person.
Franny floated to her feet. “The baby is coming. She certainly took her time, didn’t she? Thought herself nice and cozy in there. Should have been out and wailingweeksago. She grinned, clapped her hands. Bromley women will come when they wish.” She flinched as if she meant to follow Raph and Matilda out the door, but then she looked to Clara and sank back down to the sofa.
What had it cost her to stay? And she’d stayed for Clara’s sake.
“My congratulations,” Tefler said to Atlas. “Your family will soon, if God sees fit to bless your brother with a son, know the beauty of a secured succession.”
“I’m hoping for a girl,” Atlas bit out. “There’s been too many stubborn men in this family. And it’s time for you to leave.”
“Not without my grandson.”
“Touch that boy,” Atlas warned, “and I’ll not stop squeezing your neck next time, no matter who asks me to.”
Clara laid a hand on Atlas’s wrist, a brief touch before she stood toe-to-toe with Tefler. “You cannot have him.”
“A woman’s emotions mean nothing in such a situation. Surely you, my lord”—Tefler held his hands out to Atlas, palms up—“understand. She has stolen my potential heir, and?—”
“The only thing I understand is that you are not welcome here, Tefler.” Atlas stood strong by Clara’s side and threaded his hand with hers. “Have a safe journey home.” He clearly did not mean that.
“I will take this to the courts.” Tefler’s refined veneer dropped, breaking into a million tiny bits of glass around his feet. No polished man anymore. A rat ready to bite. “Or you pack him into my coach this very day. The choice is yours. Make the right one, Clara. Think of Simon. You cannot raise him as a future baron. You’ve no idea of what that means with sawdust on your hands.”
Her heart wailed like a wild thing in her chest. She’d do anything to keep her child. Even beg. “Pl?—”
Atlas laughed. “You’re a fool, Tefler, to think you could win Alfie in court. All you’ll do is cost your family money, ruin them. Is that the kind of inheritance you wish to leave your son? Nothing but debt and ignominy? And you think anyone will love you after that? Do you think your son will thank you for buying him an heir in such a way?”
Franny stood. “Let me assure you, he will not. And you will deserve his censure.” She took several smooth steps toward him. “But let us leave behind such unsavory topics. What my son is failing to point out, Lord Tefler”—how did Franny manage to get just the right hint of amused condescension in her voice?—“is that his brother his a marquess, and that marquess’s marchioness is currently in the process of producing, one canhope, an heir. If Alfred remains here, he will be raised alongside Viscount Stillman, will learn what it is to be a peer at a marquess’s feet.” Her lips pulled back a fraction as she studied Tefler from his boots to his hair with slightly bared teeth and a hand curled at her chest. Disgust carved her entire body, whipped a wind that leaned her away from the baron. Her nose wrinkled as if he emitted a strong, unpleasant odor. “’Tis much better than being raised by a baron.”
Franny should have gone on stage. She’d clearly missed her life’s calling. The woman who welcomed everyone into her home, no matter their station in life, pretending to care for titles before a baron? As if she hadn’t just pried into Clara’s dreams over eggs that morning, drawing cards to predict the likelihood of conception that month and painted half a maypole the day before. Clara loved her, wanted to hug her.
The brilliant marchioness knew exactly what to say to keep this baron in his place, and Clara would play the part handed to her as well as she could. If only Atlas would do the same. But he looked ready to throw Tefler through the window, his stance as rigid as stone, his hands fists, ready and willing.
Tefler’s face burned a mottled red, and he tugged as his jacket cuffs, his throat bobbing up and down above his crushed cravat.
A cry from above stairs, followed by a groan. Their heads craned back to look up.
Franny huffed. “I am needed elsewhere. You are welcome to stay, Lord Tefler. My home is open to all”—she turned toward the door, a dismissal—“who are worthy.”
Tefler watched her as she disappeared beyond the doorframe. “I… I…” He exhaled a heavy sigh, his head turning a slow circle as he studied the room. “A fine home you have here, Lord Atlas, quite old.”
Byolddid Tefler mean in poor condition? Because it was. Yet Tefler did not sneer at the chipping paint and worn rugs, the thin curtains and wobbly furniture. His face softened. “A fine, austere place for a potential future baron to grow up. And under the tutelage of a marquess.” He whistled. “Excuse my lack of breeding. But it is a coup, you know. I’d never thought you’d have managed it, Clara… pardon me. Lady Atlas. May I see more of the house? Before I leave?”
She’d rather dump him into his coach and set it aflame. But Franny had showed them the way. And wasn’t that why she’d married Atlas? To use his family’s name and title to her advantage.
Yes.
And no. Even then, there’d been something about the man at her side, something at the very core of him that sang to her. Not merely his ability to protect her. She’d always wanted him, hadn’t she? The man hiding behind the big body and ready offers to help, no matter the problem. The man whose clever fingers sent lovely notes flying high into the air, the man who fell in love every day to keep the shadows away.
“You can’t seem to keep a civil tongue in your head, Tefler,” Atlas growled. “Why would I let you remain in my home longer than?—”
