Page 41

“Do you have new verses to read to me?”

Barclay’s husky voice was low, intimate, and it wrapped around her like the softest velvet. A shiver traced its way down her spine, settling low in her heart, warm and fluttering. She did not turn right away, savoring the sensation of him behind her, his presence undeniable, his voice still lingering in the air.

“These are private verses,” she whispered back, surprised at how coy she sounded in the silence of the library. Her voice was barely more than a breath, yet it lingered between them, heavy with unspoken meaning.

“This is a private moment,” he responded. His tone was low and intimate, wrapping around her like the brush of velvet. He had come up behind her, his presence warm and solid as he leaned over the back of her chair. Jane’s breath hitched as she felt his lips graze the shell of her ear—a fleeting kiss, barely there, but enough to send a ripple of warmth coursing through her veins. His breath lingered hot against her skin, and her eyes fluttered shut, savoring the exquisite tension that hung between them.

But too soon, he withdrew, stepping around her to take the opposite seat. Her eyes opened, her gaze following his movement, and her heart lifted at the soft affection reflected in his eyes.

“I admit I was quite inspired … by our visit to the grotto.” Her cheeks pinkened, and she bit her lip, a wave of shyness stealing over her. For all the years that gentlemen had gathered around her at social events, displaying their regard with practiced compliments and lingering glances, she had never encountered one who intrigued her as Barclay did.

Perry certainly had his charms, but from the very first moment, it had been clear that Emma was the one he desired. Jane had never envied her sister for it; she and Perry did not share the meeting of minds that he and Emma enjoyed. Their connection had been instant and obvious, as natural as breathing. But what she felt with Barclay … it was something different.

A slow smile spread across Barclay’s face in response to her admission, his eyes bright with understanding. The electricity between them fairly crackled, the air alive with a charged energy that made her skin tingle. It reminded her of the way rubbing wool could make one’s hair stand on end, sparking with tiny shocks. Even now, she felt as though her hair might crackle from the force of his gaze alone.

Barclay was different from other prospective suitors. He seemed genuinely intrigued by her thoughts, her mind, and not merely her appearance. Jane knew she was considered lovely—gentlemen had made no secret of it. Her willowy height, the wave of ebony curls that framed her face, her high cheekbones, and the symmetry of her features were often compared to the portraits of English beauties. She took pride in her fashion sense and her understanding of color; caring for her appearance had always been something of a pastime.

But with Barclay, there was something else. Something new.

Jane had become aware of herself not just as a woman to be admired, but as a person with thoughts worth hearing. Barclay had listened to her poetry with an intensity she had never known from any other, his eyes fixed upon her with genuine interest. When he spoke, it was with the assumption that her words mattered. For the first time, Jane saw herself as more than a pretty face. She was an intellectual. An artist. Someone who composed lines to capture the marvels she observed in the world around her—and Barclay had treated her thoughts as if they held value.

This was the meeting of minds Emma had spoken of before her departure from Saunton Park. An indefinable kinship, a synchronization of thought that made the world sharper and more beautiful when shared. It was exhilarating, and terrifying, and she found herself yearning for more.

At least, she thought with a flutter of anxiety, I hope he is sharing the sentiment. That it is not mere wishful infatuation on my side.

Yet … his presence in the library for the third night in a row suggested otherwise. He would not seek her out, night after night, if he did not feel it too. Would he?

“What do you compose tonight?” Barclay asked, his voice warm and inviting as his gaze flickered to the quill in her hand. Jane blinked, realizing she had been frozen in place, her quill poised above the page since the moment she had heard his footsteps behind her.

“I was inspired by the statue of Hades,” Jane replied, her eyes brightening with enthusiasm. “That such a hard and intimidating god should be so obsessed with a beautiful woman that he abducts her to his dark lair. I like to think he tricked her into eating the pomegranate seeds because he could not … not do it. That perhaps he truly loved her so much that he could not bear the thought of a future without her, so he granted her freedom while ensuring he could remain a part of her life.”

Barclay huffed slightly, his expression bemused. “That is a romantic view of the story,” he replied, leaning back in his chair. “And I admit there are aspects of him for which I have empathy. His world is dark, and he is surrounded by the dead. She must have represented the very light and life which he was no longer part of.” His eyes grew distant, as if picturing the myth in his mind. “But I confess I have difficulty reconciling that statue with the fact that it was the late earl who commissioned the work, considering the misdeeds that surely inspired him to select such an odd subject.” He paused, his lips curving into a wry smile.

Jane chuckled. “Yes, a story can be viewed from many angles depending on the emphasis one places, and I chose to emphasize the love for tonight.”

Barclay’s brows lifted, his gaze thoughtful. “That is insightful to consider.”

Jane’s cheeks warmed under his praise. It struck her again, as it had so many times before, that Barclay spoke to her with genuine interest in her thoughts. Not as if she were a child amusing herself with romantic notions, but as though her perspective mattered. It made her feel mature in his presence—a woman with valuable thoughts and opinions.

Barclay’s hands came up to rest on the table before him, his gaze dropping to study them intently. Jane found herself riveted. She had been fascinated by those hands since the first time she saw them—large, strong palms and long, blunt fingers, the kind that spoke of both power and restraint. She remembered the brush of his calloused fingertips the evening before and had to repress the shiver that rippled through her. The feel of his lips on hers still haunted her at the oddest moments, unbidden and undeniable.

His fingers flexed, and he drew in a breath. “I would …”

Jane leaned forward, her heart skipping a beat as she waited for him to continue. But Barclay merely stared down at his hands, as if the words had caught in his throat. Her pulse thrummed in her ears, and before she could stop herself, she spoke. “Like to court me?”

Barclay chuckled, the sound low and rough, his gaze still fixed on his hands. “When did young women become so direct?”

Jane drew her lips inward, chewing them slightly as she considered her reply. The silence stretched between them, delicate and fragile, until at last she released the breath she had been holding. “I am not usually so forward,” she admitted quietly, her voice softening. “But I find myself …” She trailed off, the words tangled with her thoughts, unspoken yet palpable between them.

The silence fell heavy once more, pressing down upon them until Barclay cleared his throat, his eyes still not meeting hers. “I simply do not know how this new connection with the earl will affect my social standing.” His voice was hushed, almost as though he were confessing a sin. “And you are so young.”

Jane lifted her hand to chew on a nail in agitation, her gaze fixed on his bowed head. “I would like to try,” she whispered, her voice barely above a breath. “I have … met no one like you before.”

His gaze rose to meet hers across the table, his eyes dark and searching. “Nor I you, Jane.” His voice was hushed, almost reverent. “If my wife were still alive … I am convinced you would have been the best of friends.”

A tentative smile touched her lips, but it was edged with uncertainty. She found it difficult to breathe, thinking about it. It was, at once, both a deep honor and a profoundly depressing thought. If his wife were here, and they were the best of friends, would Jane have found herself in the agonizing position of coveting the woman’s husband?

She hoped not. She hoped she would have had the fortitude and honor to simply view him as a man who was unavailable—appreciated, yes, but untouchable. Fortunately, it was a theoretical situation she would never have to experience.