Page 39

Climbing the sloping stone steps, Jane discreetly ventured over to where the countess, the Duchess of Halmesbury, and his mother sat drinking tea around a lace-covered table. Barclay watched her departure with deep regret, unwilling to let the afternoon slip away. Yet, at the same time, he recognized the sense in allowing their time together to end before the prying eyes of society interfered. If he was to explore this unspoken bond between them, it would have to be away from the inquisitive glances of those too eager to pass judgment.

The children hurried over to the refreshment table nearby, Ethan clamoring to know what was set upon it, bouncing on his toes in an attempt to peer over the edge. Tatiana giggled and tugged him forward, the two of them barely able to see the array of cakes and finger sandwiches laid out in abundance. Their laughter drifted back to him, and for a moment, he allowed himself to simply enjoy the sound.

His reverie was abruptly interrupted when Mrs. Gordon appeared at his side, her gloved hand resting lightly on his forearm. Her touch was gentle, her expression warm, but his heart sank. Mrs. Gordon was a lovely woman—elegant, refined, and pleasant in conversation—but now her presence felt intrusive, as if she were encroaching upon something sacred. He wracked his mind, wondering if he had, at any point, indicated that he might pursue her. It would be beyond uncomfortable to explore future possibilities with Jane while engaging with the widow if she was forming expectations.

“Mr. Thompson, I have missed you this afternoon.” Her voice was smooth, her smile polished. “Were you taking a walk with the children?” She gestured subtly toward Jane, who was now seated beside the countess, with an elegant arch of her blonde brow. Anxiety stirred uncomfortably in his gut. Was that how people would see him and Jane? That he was courting a child?

Barclay cleared his throat, his voice coming out a bit rougher than intended. “Miss Davis and I took Ethan and my daughter to visit the grotto.”

“Oh! I have heard from the countess that it is wondrous.” Mrs. Gordon’s eyes sparkled with interest, and she stepped a fraction closer. “I was hoping to see it, but I have never learned the route to reach it. I am hopeless with directions.” Her expression turned expectant, and Barclay felt the implication settle heavily between them. She was prompting him to take her there.

The idea of sharing it—their special place—with anyone but Jane made his hands clench with unease. No matter what the future held, whether Jane and he overcame the many obstacles that lay before them or not, he would always treasure introducing her to that magical place. He could not bring himself to impose on that memory by taking another there. Especially not on the same afternoon.

He straightened slightly, forcing a polite smile. “Perhaps one of the guests will accompany you. Mr. Ridley, I believe, is familiar with the way.”

Her expression faltered, disappointment clear in the downward curve of her lips. Guilt prickled at him, but it was not enough to make him intrude upon what had been a perfect memory with Jane. Casting about for a way to soften the rejection, he inclined his head politely. “Shall we take a turn around the gardens?”

Mrs. Gordon’s smile returned, faint but genuine. “That would be lovely.” She glanced around the terrace, her gaze flitting briefly over the gathering before she leaned in conspiratorially, lowering her voice. “I had a matter I would like to discuss in private.”

He hesitated, then held out his arm. Mrs. Gordon accepted it immediately, grasping him a little more tightly than was comfortable. Her gloved fingers pressed into his forearm with surprising strength, but he did not comment. With practiced civility, he led her down the stone steps, their footsteps soft against the gravel walkway that meandered toward the formal gardens. From the terrace above, guests would have a clear view of their stroll, but he suspected that was precisely what Mrs. Gordon intended. He could not deny that he was curious to hear what she wished to say.

“Mr. Thompson, I do not wish to be forward,” she began as soon as they were out of earshot of the other guests, her voice lowering conspiratorially. “I would like to make my feelings clear.”

Barclay glanced at her, his expression politely guarded. “On what subject, Mrs. Gordon?”

She inhaled deeply, her gaze drifting to the hedgerows and the sculpted topiaries before snapping back to him. “May I be frank, sir?”

He inclined his head, a flicker of wariness settling in his chest. “Of course.”

Her hand tightened almost imperceptibly on his arm, and Barclay suppressed the urge to shift away. What is this about? A niggling suspicion crept into his thoughts—had he unintentionally created expectations? Had he overstepped in some way? The very notion set his teeth on edge.

“I am aware of your family circumstances … of your mother and the late Earl of Saunton.”

Barclay halted mid-step, turning to face the petite widow fully. She stood several inches shorter than Jane, her stature dainty and precise, her golden curls perfectly arranged beneath her bonnet. He could not help but compare the two women—Jane, willowy and full of life, her laughter as unrestrained as her opinions, and Mrs. Gordon, polished and practiced, with every gesture measured. His thoughts flickered back to the library, to the way Jane’s freckles had dotted her creamy skin like a constellation—a perfect imperfection that had nearly undone him.

He blinked to clear his thoughts, realizing belatedly that Mrs. Gordon had raised the question of his illegitimacy. It was shockingly forward—especially in such an open setting where prying eyes could easily witness their exchange.

Mrs. Gordon noted his blink and, misinterpreting its cause, hurried to press her case. “I wanted to assure you that, as a good Christian woman, I would never blame the child for the behavior of the parents.” She tilted her chin up with a proud sort of magnanimity. “I think it is lamentable that society treats upstanding men like you poorly for something that is entirely beyond your control.”

Barclay’s brow furrowed, and he took a moment to digest her words. It was abundantly clear that Mrs. Gordon wished to convey her receptiveness to courtship, but the manner in which she had chosen to express it unsettled him. There was something in her tone, a faint sense of condescension that he could not entirely ignore.

He cocked his head, carefully choosing his words to remain polite but firm. “I appreciate your sentiment, Mrs. Gordon. I assure you, however, that my mother, Aurora Thompson, was but a child when she met the Earl of Saunton. He took advantage of a young girl who had not yet achieved her majority, and there was naught she or my grandfather could do to set it right.” His voice remained steady, though there was a sharpness beneath the surface. “She has paid the price dearly, while the late earl dealt with none of the consequences of their association.”

His gaze held hers, unflinching, waiting for her reaction. The wind rustled through the hedges, carrying the scent of summer blooms, but the moment between them felt strangely brittle.

The widow’s face fell in alarm, her eyes widening. “I did not wish to offend. It is … admirable that Miss Thompson kept her child and raised him. Very commendable. Of course, as you say, she was merely a child herself when the incident happened.”

Barely a year or two year younger than Jane.

Barclay’s discomfort rose, the muscles in his shoulders tightening. “My mother is a fine woman of quiet distinguishment,” he replied, his tone firm.

“Of course she is. The whole situation is quite lamentable. It is deplorable how some members of the nobility behave, blithely aware of their own superiority.” Mrs. Gordon shook her head with a disapproving cluck of her tongue. “I shall ensure I make your mother’s acquaintance forthwith. I am … hoping that our own … companionship will continue to blossom, and your mother is an important aspect of your life. I am certain that a connection with the widow of a respected vicar will assist her to claim … an increased element of respectability.”

Barclay stiffened at the implication, but he kept his expression smooth. He had had similar thoughts of his own, but it was his situation to consider and the widow was overstepping by pointing it out. “That would be appreciated, Mrs. Gordon,” he said, inclining his head with a politeness that was more reflex than sincerity.

They completed their walk in near silence, the cheerful birdcalls and rustling hedgerows doing little to alleviate the tension that coiled within him. The feeling of contentment he had enjoyed in the woods—his first taste of genuine happiness since Natalya’s death—now scattered like so many ashes upon the wind.

A knot persisted in his stomach, twisting tighter as he considered the consequences. How could he proceed with a courtship of Jane without becoming an irredeemable cad in the eyes of decent society? The age difference alone gave him pause, and whispers of his illegitimacy would undoubtedly follow. If he were to witness a man of his circumstances pursuing a Jane, would he not have similar thoughts? How much simpler it would all be if Mrs. Gordon were the one I could not stop thinking of.