Page 35

It was such a pity their courtship was not meant to be, for she was very much afraid she had found the man Emma had spoken of—the one with whom she shared a true meeting of minds. If only he could look at her as a woman. As a potential wife.

Her mind had connected with the wrong gentleman, and she feared she would never meet another like Barclay Thompson.

The hands of the clock crept forward, marking the passing of time with merciless precision. Midnight slipped away, and still, he did not come. Her heart sank with each tick of the longcase clock, disappointment settling like a stone in her stomach. She set her quill down with a soft clatter, staring at the empty page in front of her. Tonight, she had no muse. No lines to write.

Pushing back her chair, she gathered her things, smoothing her skirts and closing her journal. A book waited for her in her room—a poor substitute for conversation, but it would have to do. She would let its pages keep her company through her sleepless hours.

Turning toward the library door, she nearly jumped out of her skin.

“Barclay!” she gasped, her hand flying to her chest. He stood there, leaning against the doorframe, his gaze fixed upon her with the strangest expression. Candlelight flickered in the hallway behind him, casting long shadows over his white linen shirt, which hung loosely at the neck, revealing the strong column of his sun-bronzed throat. His hair was slightly tousled, as though he had run his hands through it in frustration.

“I knew you would be here,” he murmured, his voice low and rough-edged.

Jane’s heart thudded in her chest. “I hoped you might join me.”

Silence stretched between them, heavy and charged.

“I tried to stay away,” he admitted at last, his voice gruffer than she remembered. His hand flexed against the doorframe as if to steady himself.

“Why?”

“Because this does not make sense.” Barclay waved a hand between them.

Jane blinked, her brow furrowing. “What does not make sense?”

His gaze locked with hers, his eyes darkening with something she could not quite name. “This attraction.”

Jane’s breath caught. He was admitting he felt it, too? Her pulse quickened, and a delightful shiver raced across her skin, as if she had caught a sudden chill. She turned back to the desk, placing her things down while she tried to gather her thoughts. She must have taken too long, for the next thing she knew, Barclay had come up behind her. The warmth of his presence radiated against her back, a solid reassurance that he was indeed real.

“Since I met you, it is as if I awoke from a deep slumber. The slumber of mourning. And you were the first face I saw when I finally opened my eyes.”

Her breath came quicker, her heart thudding in her chest, barely daring to move in case she shattered the fragile magic of the moment—or woke to find herself in her own bed, with only the memory of yearning to keep her company.

Barclay waited in silence, as if studying her reaction. Jane did not move, frozen with wonder, while her heart fluttered with anticipation. He stepped closer, and she felt the warmth of his breath brush against her nape, teasing the delicate tendrils of her hair. His nearness sent a thrill down her spine, and she closed her eyes as he inhaled deeply near her ear. “You smell of strawberries and almonds again.”

Her eyes drifted shut, and she held her breath. Gently, he leaned down and pressed his lips softly where her neck met her shoulder. A wave of warmth flooded through her, melting any lingering reservations. She tilted her head back, offering him silent permission, and his lips brushed against hers, feather-light and unhurried.

For the first time in her life, she felt the stirring of passion—tender, slow, and all-consuming. His long, muscular arms came up to encircle her waist, turning her to face him with gentle insistence.

Jane looked up at him, her eyes wide with wonder. He gazed back, the emotion in his brown eyes unguarded and genuine. Tentatively, she raised her hand and smoothed back the long strands of hair from his face, her fingertips grazing his cheek with delicate tenderness.

“Jane—” His voice was rough, threaded with longing. He dipped his head, capturing her mouth with his once more. His lips moved gently against hers, exploring, savoring. The rasp of his beard brushed her delicate skin, but she only pressed closer, her heart fluttering wildly in her chest.

The kiss was slow and reverent, a gentle exploration rather than a devouring. There was no rush—only the sweetness of discovery, the warmth of connection. When her lips parted slightly, he deepened the kiss just a fraction, his breath mingling with hers. She clung to him, her hands coming to rest on his shoulders, feeling the strength of him beneath her fingertips. He held her with care, his hands lightly resting on her back as if she were something precious.

After a long, lingering moment, he pulled back, resting his forehead against hers. His hands remained on her shoulders, but he took a steadying breath, his eyes closing briefly.

“You are temptation itself,” he murmured, his voice laced with regret. He straightened, his hands dropping to his sides as he took a step back. “I must step away before I forget myself.”

Their eyes met, a mixture of longing and restraint shimmering between them. “Jane, it is not my place to pursue this … us. You are young, with a promising future. And I … I am illegitimate. Too old for you.”

Jane’s brow furrowed as she processed his words, confusion evident in her eyes. “Are you saying you cannot pursue this because you are illegitimate? Or because of the age difference?”

Barclay released a half-chuckle, shaking his head. “Both, I suppose. But mostly the first. You do not know the repercussions, Jane. You are too young to understand.”

Jane lifted her chin, her gaze steady. “I am willing to find out.”

His expression softened with disbelief and something else—hope, perhaps. “What if I am not willing to put you through that?”