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“Do you think you could love again?”
Jane rested her chin on her knees, scarcely breathing in her anticipation of what he might say.
“That seems an impossibility.”
“Then what will you do?”
“I will … continue. I will rise in the morning and go about my day. I will spend time with Tatiana and then return to bed in the evening and remember my dear wife until …”
“Until?”
“Until one day I wake up and this terrible sense of loss has faded, and I can forget how wonderful it was when we were a family. When my silver faerie was at my side … and my child had a mother.”
In the silence that followed, Jane could swear she could hear the gentleman’s heart cracking in two. The discussion had become so intimate, so raw, that there was no possibility of announcing her presence now. Her body was tense with the need to vanish. She barely dared to breathe, terrified they might hear the faint intake of her breath in the deep stillness.
And yet, she could not pull herself away. She wanted to offer comfort, to soothe his grief—do something. Anything.
If she were older, more worldly, had something to offer him … she might find the courage to act. Offer him solace?
But what could a young girl such as she, with no life experience, offer a single father in his thirties, haunted by the ghost of a beloved wife? Jane had never felt so helpless. She would seem an immature flibbertigibbet beside this weary, grieving gentleman.
His mother interrupted the gloom that had descended on the conversation.
“I appreciate you loved Natalya with all your heart, but you understand this cannot continue?”
There was a long pause.
“I … know.”
“So you will make an effort to meet some women at this house party? Ask the earl and his countess to make introductions to eligible women?”
Another pause, deeper and heavier.
“I … suppose … I must … for Tatiana’s sake.”
Chapter Three
"We are all fools in love."
Jane Austen
* * *
Barclay had grown weary of the house party, and it was only the second day. Tatiana and Aurora were having tea with the countess in the family drawing room, but he was unaccustomed to idle days. Idle houseguests made it even worse, drawing him into annoying discussions.
After escaping an inane conversation with a spoilt young beau who had introduced himself as Lord Julius Trafford, Barclay sought the library. Surely anyone he encountered in that venerated room would be inclined to be more intelligent than the pontificating fool—with his insipid poetry—whom he had just left behind in the billiard room?
Barclay relaxed as he entered the room of shelves and books, even considering shutting the door behind him when … when he saw her.
The earl’s son, Ethan, was playing chess. Barclay had met the lad the afternoon before when he had been bullied into his own match with the boy, whose current companion distracted Barclay beyond reason.
She was utterly glorious. A mane of ebony curls poised on her elegant head, smooth, creamy skin to draw the eye, and long limbs.
The young woman finished her move and then sat back in her chair, her ice-blue eyes flickering toward the doorway. She blinked in surprise, gazing at Barclay intently as she nervously tucked a lock of silky hair behind her ear. It was a magical moment, intensity sparking between them in visceral awareness. Something he had not experienced since the first time he had laid eyes on Natalya upon his arrival in St. Petersburg.
The profound connection was abruptly severed when Ethan spoke to her from across the table. Barclay resumed his breathing, blinking several times as the room came back into focus.
“Uncle Bar-clee!”
