She flung the front door open wide. “Goodbye, Lord Tefler.”
He tipped his hat and bounded outside.
What a horrid man. He’d just lost a grandson, and yet he hardly cared. As long as the second-in-line had a marquess as a mentor.
“Give my condolences to your son and his wife. I cannot imagine losing a child. I hope they find joy soon.”
“Yes.” Tefler stepped inside the coach but stopped, half hanging out to say, “An heir in the direct line would be preferable.” Then he disappeared into the darkness, and the coachman snapped the door shut. A few seconds later, the coach rumbled away, taking the odious man with it.
And Clara’s strength drained away, straight into the ground. She reached for the doorframe to keep upright. They’d done it. She’d done it. She’d faced the monster of her nightmares, the demon of her past, and she’d won. Not alone. She’d won with a battalion of Bromleys at her side. Her eyes burned, and she let the tears come, let them soak her cheeks. Alfie was safe. Alfie washere. And though they were not free from that odious man’s attentions, they were free from his threats.
“Clara?” Atlas stepped out of the shadows.
She flung herself into his arms, gave herself over to his strength, and let her tears soak his shirt.
His arms, so very gentle, so very strong, wrapped her up tight. His palm, so very big, so very warm, rubbed up and down her spine, coaxing even breaths into her. His voice, deep and familiar and sweet, whispered comfort in her ear.
“He’s gone, Clara. He’s gone. I’m here.” Atlas cupped the back of her head with a trembling hand, pressing her cheek harder against his chest. She shook, too, as his entire body curved round her, offering his heat, his protection, everything he was and would be. “Still crying, love?”
“No.” She pushed away only enough to look up into his face, gave a sniffle, tried a smile.
He wiped a tear from her cheek and wove their hands together and led her upstairs without words. She did not realize where until he pushed a door open, and Alfie jumped to his feet. The nursery. And it had never seemed brighter.
Alfie looked toward the window he’d been sitting at. “He left. I saw him leave.”
She swept him up in her arms as if he were a small child once more and not a long-legged little boy. She buried her face in his neck and the tears returned.
“Yes, he left,” she managed to say. “He left, and we do not have to.” She put him down and hit her knees before him. “Do you understand, Alfie? We are home. Truly. This is home.”
He grinned. “I know, Mama. I know.” His grin tipped up to Atlas standing behind her.
“Let’s celebrate,” Atlas said. “Nurse Daisy, can you ask cook for some… apples and honey?”
“Yes!” Alfie cried.
The nursemaid curtsied and left, and Atlas threw open the window.
“There, fresh air. Lovely. Alfie?” He sat in the window seat and patted the spot beside him. “Teaandcup, please.”
Alfie sat beside his stepfather, kicking his legs, face scrunched up. “Teaandcup. Give me a minute, I’ll think of something. Maybe… There once was some stinky tea, and it made me have to?—”
“Ah, ah, Alfie. There’s a lady present.” Atlas ruffled Alfie’s hair then looked to Clara. She knelt still, but slowly found the strength to stand. Joy had made her weak. He held a hand out to her, and she went to him as easily as breathing, twining her fingers with his as her skirts brushed against his knees while she stepped between his legs and sat on his uninjured thigh.
As Alfie tried to find a word to rhyme with cup—pup, sup, hopefully not tup—Atlas curled around her, offering his heat, his protection.
The threat no longer remained. Lord Tefler had left defeated, and while that made her heart sing with victory bright and pure, it left her hollow, too.
The threat no longer remained. And Atlas was free to leave.
Twenty-Two
May 1, 1823
Atlas had never been in love before.
He knew that now.
Oh, he’d loved things, but in an easy sort of way. The loss of them never hurt. A flower would return next spring. Each morning held a new sunrise.
