“No. Where would I get the frogs in London?” He sighed. “I miss the country. Oh! I could put glue in his hair while he sleeps.”
“No.” He had such lovely, thick hair. Would be a shame to ruin it. “Alf?—”
“I’ve got a slingshot. I could send a bit of coal flying at his horse’s flank right as he mounts, and?—”
“Kill the man? Alfred. No need to exact revenge on Lord Atlas. You leave him be.”
He crossed his arms over his chest.
“Promise.”
He scowled.
“Promise, Alfred.”
If his eyes narrowed any more, they’d be closed. But then they popped open wide. “How about I visit the mews and gather some horse sh?—”
“No!”
“I’ll just put it in his boots. Won’t kill ’im. Just smell things up a bit.” He giggled.
Clara swallowed a laugh, trained her lips into a firm line despite the bouncing smile demanding release. “Promise me you won’t.”
“I promise,” he grumbled.
She wasn’t quite sure she believed him, but she stood and pulled him off the bed, set him toward the door. “Now, violin lessons.”
“Maaaamaaaa.” He dug his heels into the floor, made his body heavy as wet sand.
“Now, Alfred.” She opened the door and helped him into the hall.
He serenaded the walls with a sound half groan and half sigh. “But?—”
“No buts. Go, go, go.” She shooed him toward the stairs that led to the classrooms, and he went, though his footsteps made heavy thuds with each step.
She returned to her room, closed the door, and collapsed onto her bed. Alfie had not asked her where they would go if not to Briarcliff. She wished she knew. Then she might deserve his trust.
Even if Lord Atlas had hired her, how long would she be able to remain in his employ? Even if she sold the jewels Everette had gifted her on every birthday and holiday, the funds would not last long enough. Besides, she was scared to sell them. She had no intention of returning to whatever pawn shop took them; they’d be sold, and if they were displayed on the well-bosomed bodies of pretty ladies, they might be recognized by her father-in-law. And then he might trace them, find her and Alfie.
Clouds must have moved over the sun. The air hung dismal over the bed, pressed heavy into her. Were she to rise and peek into the looking glass, she’d see herself turned drab.
Gray and lifeless and without hope when not a quarter hour earlier she’d been…alive. Bursting with every color found in the heart of a gentle kiss.
She flopped over with a groan into her pillow. She’d taken leave of her senses. She’d let him kiss her. A man. A strange man. Abigman. And most damning of all, a marquess’s brother. His brother higher in the ranks than her father-in-law. And hadn’t she learned the hard way she’d never be good enough for that lot? Had she accepted, she might have found herself in the exactsame position as before—her very existence despised, her body and brain considered a lump of wet clay for their molding.
And yet… she trusted his brother and sister-in-law. They ran this charitable school, and everyone here loved them. The school, and their marriage, had not been tested by time. Both entirely new. Perhaps time would tell the truth and love would wear thin like a linen sleeve rubbing daily over an elbow, revealing what lay beneath.
It was for the best she’d said no.
Though the way he’d held her hand, as if he’d found himself in possession of a fragile work of art, made her wish she’d agreed. He’d tasted of coffee, cheroots. The scent of mint had lingered in his cravat where it rested against his warm neck. He’d given such a gentle kiss, completely at odds with his appearance as a giant. But even with his careful touch, she’d felt the raw power he restrained, the power hinted at with his words.
I cannot hire you because I want to fuck you.
And didn’t that just kick all fear—and breath—right out of her body. Even now when only the echo remained. When he’d said it in that rich baritone, the words soaked in the honey of his voice had made her melt. She should have been affronted. While her father’s education growing up had taught her to ignore the coarse language and brutish tongues of men (or give back as good she’d gotten), her father-in-law’s re-education had insisted she slap any man who insulted her. But she’d not wanted to slap Lord Atlas. She’d wanted tolethimfuck her. Right there on the pianoforte.
Good thing she hadn’t. He was so big, they’d likely break it.
But… if he lifted her onto its very edge and stepped between her legs, then?—
