Page 90 of The Lord Who Adored Her and Other Love Songs

“Stay just a moment,” he said, “here with me.”

She did, and he gathered her into his arms, gaze turned toward the house he’d grown up in, the house they’d rolled away from three months ago and returned to now.

“Happy to be home?” she asked.

“More than I can say. Do you think Mary really does have prophetic dreams?”

Clara laughed. “I doubt it. She’s there as often as she can be with you, fixing things. It was likely a dream of longing.”

He fiddled with a curl that had escaped her coiffure. “For home. I’ve always felt… ownership of the dower house.”

“You should. I’m proud of you for accepting it so easily. You say what you want and need more easily now than when we met.”

He laughed, kissed her temple. “I’ve been telling you from the beginning what I want from you. Because my heart’s been telling me.”

“You proposed to save me.”

“To save myself.” He pulled her in close and pressed his lips to hers. Sweeter than the spring, their kiss, and in his feather-touch, the truth of his desire.

“Yuck!” A small voice carried down to them, and when they both looked up, an impish face peered down.

“Is that Merry?” Clara asked, cupping her hand over her eyes to see better. “Or is it Kate? They look terribly alike.”

Another face joined the first, then another, then a whole crowd of children peered down at them.

“What?” one asked.

“They were kissing,” Merry or Kate said.

“Oh, that?” this voice belonged to Alfie, standing tall above the rest. “Father is always kissing Mama.”

“Mine, too.” The voice belonged to Henry.

The rest of the voices agreed. Too much kissing occurred at Briarcliff.

Atlas and Clara entered the house, adding their laughter to that which already echoed down its halls, and as they joined the family in Franny’s parlor, Clara found herself drawn to the same bit of wall that always called to her.

A bit of silk with wildflowers.

A lady with red painted up her arm.

A canvas with the imprint of an arse.

A drawing of ink and watercolor.

A silhouette.

And a song.

Relics of their lives and hearts. She turned from them and joined the man who made her heart sing, joined the family who had long since become master artists of love.