Page 25

The duke sighed, his hands folded loosely over his knees. “Unfortunately, it is common amongst the peerage for such disparate ages to exist between a husband and wife.”

Richard’s mouth flattened into a grim line. “Not in our particular set. The man is a good friend, but I find myself quite repelled by the notion, and I do not know how to reply to his letter.” He turned back to face the room, eyes shadowed with indecision. “Jane is lovely and young. She could marry a gentleman with far more in common with her. There is no hurry to marry her off, and I know from Sophia that she is a romantic who wishes to marry for love.”

Guilt twisted and churned in Barclay’s gut, sharp and unrelenting. He was in his thirties. He had a daughter only nine or ten years younger than Jane, and yet he was coveting the young lady like a degenerate old man. Not dissimilar to the late Earl of Satan, in fact. His hands curled into fists in his lap, the knuckles whitening. How had he arrived in this situation, where he sat beside the earl repressing his shameful secret?

He clenched his jaw and forced his gaze to the ceiling, tracing the familiar patterns that his grandfather had designed decades ago. Ornate flourishes and golden-leafed vines wove across the surface, beautiful and endless. The ceiling was safe, distant—far easier to look upon than the reality of his own failings. He reminded himself that a young Aurora had been robbed of her virtue in this very building, her life irrevocably altered. It was why he needed to stay away from Jane Davis, despite his daughter’s encouragement to pursue her. His hands relaxed slightly, his fingers uncurling as he exhaled.

“Perhaps Jane will find a gentleman at this house party, and it will not be necessary to dissuade Lord Lawson’s inquiry?” Halmesbury mused, his voice thoughtful. He picked up his cup again, cradling it between his large hands.

“Blazes, I hope so. This is deuced awkward!” Richard raked a hand through his hair, his composure faltering.

Barclay nearly flinched as his own thoughts from moments ago were echoed out loud. The air in the room felt heavier, thicker somehow. There were so many issues, he did not know which to focus on—setting a young woman up to be rejected by society because she was married to a man born on the wrong side of the sheets, or that she was far too young to foist a nine-year-old child onto. The warmth of the tea he had swallowed earlier now sat uneasily in his stomach, curdling with his thoughts.

And if he had had any thoughts of approaching his brother about the possibility of courting Jane, they had been soundly put to rest. All he knew was that he needed to stay away from her before he gave in to temptation. Her smile, her laughter, the way she lit up a room with her mere presence—it was not for him. It could not be.

If Tatiana needed a new mother, he would need to look elsewhere than the lovely Jane Davis.

Chapter Six

"To begin imperfectly is better than to postpone indefinitely."

Jane Austen

* * *

After dinner, Barclay discreetly signaled to Jane from across the parlor where the guests had gathered for games. Making her excuses, she rose gracefully and followed him out of the room, finding him waiting for her in the hallway. He extended his arm, and she accepted, slipping her hand over his forearm. A warm, roiling sensation of awareness unfurled from her fingertips, winding its way up her arm to ignite a slow-burning flame of yearning in her heart. His powerful forearm was solid beneath her touch, a tangible reminder of his strength and the quiet confidence that marked his every step. She could not deny her fascination with the gentleman, no matter how unattainable he might seem.

He walked beside her in silence, his expression solemn as they made their way down the connecting corridor to the family wing. Jane soaked up every moment of their silent journey, wishing it could last longer. But, alas, all too soon, they reached the door of his mother’s room.

Barclay raised his hand to knock, while Jane, lost in thought, wistfully imagined what it might be like to be his wife. To tuck Tatiana into bed each night. To travel to towns across the realm, just as Tatiana had described with such enthusiasm.

It was disheartening to envy a dead woman, but Jane could not deny that the late Mrs. Thompson had lived the life she herself had always dreamed of—a loving husband, a beautiful child, and the freedom to travel and explore.

The door opened, revealing Tatiana’s grandmother, who smiled warmly. “Miss Davis, this is so generous of you. Tatiana is beside herself with excitement!”

“Please, Miss Thompson, you must call me Jane,” she replied, her smile softening.

The older woman’s eyes brightened with delight. “I would love to! You must do me the honor of calling me by my given name. Aurora.”

“Aurora? That is a beautiful name.”

Aurora inclined her head gracefully. “Thank you, my dear. My mother was Italian,” she explained, a touch of nostalgia coloring her voice.

Barclay, Aurora, and Jane quickly conferred, and it was decided that Aurora would return to the guests in the main house, leaving Barclay to accompany Jane to the little girl’s room. When they entered, Tatiana sat upright in her cot, her silver-blonde curls tumbling over her shoulders. She clapped her hands with delight, her eyes shining with excitement. Jane could not help but smile at the child’s enthusiasm as she crossed the room to sit beside her. The book had been delivered earlier that evening, so she picked it up and settled comfortably before beginning to read aloud.

With four younger brothers and sisters at home, Jane was confident in her storytelling abilities. Oliver and Max, the rambunctious twins, were never shy to criticize her reading, which meant she had long since learned how children preferred their stories told—plenty of expression, with dramatic pauses and just the right inflection to keep them enraptured.

Tatiana was entirely absorbed, her delicate face reflecting every twist and turn of the tale as Jane spoke of the treasure-laden cave and the glittering jewels hidden within. Barclay had taken a seat in an armchair across the room, his presence a steady, watchful silhouette in the dim light. He did not interrupt or draw attention to himself, yet Jane could feel his gaze on her as she read.

As she described Aladdin’s discovery of the magic lamp, Tatiana’s eyes began to flutter closed, her little body curling into the cot as she fought to stay awake. Jane softened her voice, letting it lull the girl toward sleep, and soon enough, a gentle snore escaped Tatiana’s lips—a sound so sweet and innocent that Jane found herself pausing to simply gaze at the child’s peaceful face.

Carefully, she closed the book, her movements light and practiced. With a tender hand, she smoothed the blankets around Tatiana’s shoulders, her heart aching with a longing she had not known she possessed. To have such moments every night, to bring peace and comfort to a child … it stirred something deep within her.

She straightened and turned to Barclay, who rose as well, his expression inscrutable. Together, they moved to the door, Barclay closing it with a soft click. In the quiet hush of the corridor, he turned to her, his eyes searching hers. “Thank you … Jane. It has been a long time since I have seen Tatiana so content. What you did tonight was exceedingly kind.”

Jane looked up at his solemn face, taking in the faint lines at the corners of his eyes and the close-cropped beard that lent him an air of guardedness. Her lips curved into a smile. “It was my great honor, Barclay.”

For a heartbeat, neither spoke. Then he inclined his head and offered his arm once more. She accepted, and he escorted her back to the main house, his stride slow and measured, as if unwilling to rush the moment.