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The gentleman’s regard for his late wife was what first attracted you so!

The recollection of the conversation she had overheard in the library that night drifted back to her—the one where Barclay and Aurora had spoken quietly of his circumstances. The memory served as a consolation. Without that glimpse into his character, he would have been merely an inordinately handsome gentleman attending the house party. Handsome in the same manner as his two brothers—Richard and Peregrine—both of whom she found pleasant enough, but who had never stirred her heart as Barclay did.

“So, what do we do?” she asked softly, her hands clasped together in her lap.

Barclay’s head dropped and his shoulders slumped slightly, tension rippling through his posture. “I do not know,” he confessed, his voice strained. “I need to think on it. This whole situation is so unexpected.” He paused, swallowing hard as if to collect his thoughts. “Just four days ago, I was still in deep mourning for my wife, and now …” His voice cracked slightly, and he stopped, unable to continue.

Jane felt tears prick at the corners of her eyes, her heart aching in sympathy. The enigmatic gentleman had endured a loss so profound that she could scarcely comprehend it. She had only known him for a few days, yet the mere idea of his death was too devastating to consider. Barclay carried a substantial burden, and she would not be the cause of further strain. He needed time—time to reach his conclusions about how to proceed with this unexpected affinity of theirs. She would not rush him. Not now.

“Take your time, Barclay,” she murmured, her voice gentle and sincere.

He looked up, his eyes searching her face. “I appreciate your patience … Jane.”

The sound of her name, spoken in that low, husky tone, sent warmth skittering through her veins. She smiled back, though it was tempered with longing. She wished—oh, how she wished—that she could rise from her chair and step around the table to him. That she could slip her arms around his waist, press her cheek to his chest, and breathe in that familiar scent of spice, leather, and ink.

But she did not. Barclay needed time to reconcile the past with the future, and she would not press him. So she remained seated, her hands folded neatly in her lap, and listened as his footsteps receded down the hall, growing fainter with each step.

Her hand flew to her chest, pressing over her pounding heart. Drat! He was so fascinating, so compelling, that she nearly wanted to chase him down the corridor and fling herself into his arms lest he slip away entirely.

Chapter Ten

"There is, I believe, in every disposition a tendency to some particular evil—a natural defect, which not even the best education can overcome."

Jane Austen

* * *

Barclay knocked firmly on the earl’s study door early the next morning. From within, he heard his brother’s voice call out for him to enter. Squaring his shoulders, he opened the door and stepped inside, hesitating on the threshold. He was not entirely certain what he wanted to say, but he knew he needed to talk to someone about his predicament. It was imperative he obtain a man’s perspective on this minor crisis, and with Tsar at least two days away in London, Richard seemed the logical choice.

“Barclay, please come in.” Richard’s voice was warm, and he gestured to the seating area overlooking the sprawling park. “Would you like some coffee? I just had some delivered a few moments ago.”

Barclay nodded gratefully, closing the door behind him with a soft click. He noted the quirk of Richard’s eyebrow as he secured the latch—a subtle indication of curiosity. Barclay crossed the room to join him, lowering himself into the chair opposite his brother. The scent of fresh coffee mingled with the faint aroma of leather and old parchment, and he accepted the cup Richard poured for him with a murmur of thanks.

Richard leaned back, cradling his own cup in his hands. “Did you have something to discuss?” he asked, his tone careful, almost apprehensive, as if steeling himself for bad news.

Barclay took a steadying breath, his gaze dropping to his hands, which were clasped in his lap. “I need some advice,” he admitted, his voice a touch rougher than usual. “I find myself without a confidant.”

Richard straightened in his chair, his expression sharpening with interest. There was something almost boyish about the way his eyes lit up—clearly flattered that Barclay had sought him out. It was rather endearing, this eagerness to be included as a valued family member.

Barclay stared down at his hands, the tips of his fingers pressed tightly together. This is deuced awkward, he thought, but with Tsar in London, he was at a loss. He supposed he could confide in Aurora, but somehow, the idea did not sit well with him. What he needed was the perspective of a steady man—someone who understood the responsibilities of being a husband, a father, and a protector within the framework of their society.

Moreover, perhaps this was an opportunity to strengthen his bond with Richard. After all, the earl had shown him vulnerability concerning Ethan’s future. It seemed only fair to reciprocate. And there was a certain comfort in knowing that the duke was out riding, leaving him with only one newly acquired relative to reveal his thoughts to this morning.

Barclay took another breath and squared his shoulders. “My mother impressed upon me the importance of moving on. It has been two years … since my wife died.” His voice roughened, the words heavy with memory. “We were very close.”

Richard’s gaze remained steady, his hands resting comfortably on his knees as he leaned forward slightly, giving Barclay his full attention. The room fell silent save for the faint ticking of the mantel clock.

“I regret I shall never meet Tatiana’s mother.” Richard’s voice was soft with sincerity. “She must have been an exceptional woman to have captured the heart of such an intelligent artiste.”

Barclay nodded, his expression reflective. “You would have liked her very much. And she was breathtaking.”

Richard pulled a face of sympathy, his gaze dropping briefly to his hands. “I cannot imagine how I would cope if anything ever happened to Sophia.”

A grimace twisted Barclay’s features as he smoothed his hands over his breeches, the fabric soft beneath his palms. The mere thought of such a loss was enough to make his chest tighten. He would never wish that sort of anguish upon another man.

“Tatiana has made a request,” he continued, his voice softening. “She wishes to have a new mother, something Natalya made me promise I would take care of once she was gone. Tatiana is to grow up loved by two parents, and I am afraid …” He paused, drawing in a steadying breath. “I allowed my grief to prevent my fulfillment of that promise.”

Richard leaned forward, his brow knitting with understanding. He reached for the coffeepot, pouring a fresh cup and handing it to Barclay before filling his own. “It seems a topic that requires some fortitude,” he remarked by way of explanation when Barclay raised a quizzical brow at the gesture.