Page 54

Once again, Lord Trafford was there, pretending the dreary game was delightful. Barclay was not fooled; he saw the way the man’s gaze wandered restlessly, his smiles a touch too strained. But Trafford’s motive was clear—he was wooing a widow considerably older than himself. Barclay assumed it was not marriage that Trafford had in mind, but rather …other, less noble pursuits.

And yet, here Barclay stood—pretending as Trafford did—enduring this nonsense for the sake of politeness. For the sake of duty. For the sake of Tatiana, Aurora, and all those who depended on him to make the proper choice.

The hours crept by, each one stretching interminably, and then it was time for dinner. As arranged, he once again sat beside Mrs. Gordon, the seating order having been quietly adjusted at his request. His conscience pricked him with the knowledge that Jane had been pushed farther down the table. He had caught sight of her, seated next to Mr. Dunsford, laughing and chatting animatedly, her eyes sparkling with mirth.

Barclay swallowed hard and forced himself to look away. At least she seemed happy, he told himself. Perhaps she had found a man more appropriate for her age, a man who could give her the future she deserved. It was better this way. Safer. She could grow fond of Dunsford and forget all about those stolen moments in the library. Forget him.

But the thought grated against his heart like jagged glass. Had she forgotten him so quickly? Was it that simple for her?

He squashed the notion with ruthless determination. If he would not pursue her, the young lady had every right to seek her happiness elsewhere. It was proper. It was right. And still, the sight of Dunsford’s gaze dipping to her bodice sent jealousy coiling through his gut with a fierceness that left him breathless.

When the evening finally ended, Barclay trudged back to his room, the weight of his choices pressing on his shoulders. He settled on the ledge of the window, the chill of the glass seeping through his shirt as he stared unseeingly into the darkness. The stars blinked back at him indifferently, their cold light a mockery of the warmth he had found in Jane’s company.

Natalya would no longer visit him in his dreams—he knew that now. She had faded, her spectral presence dissipating since he had met Jane. But there was no solace to be found in that revelation. He could no longer visit the library at midnight to share whispers and stolen kisses.

He had hoped, foolishly, that his newfound ability to sleep had returned for good, but the truth was undeniable. He had paced his room the night before, back and forth over the same creaking floorboards, longing to see Jane. The yearning had barred him from slumber, and it would continue to do so.

When the first light touched the horizon, stretching pale fingers of dawn over the estate, Barclay finally surrendered to his bed. He stared at the cornices, memorizing the whorls and carvings as if they might grant him peace. And at long last, when the room began to fade into shadow, sleep claimed him—not as a comfort, but as a reluctant captor.

He was in the library, but he did not know how he had arrived there. This was not supposed to be! He was meant to stay in his bedroom, no matter how tempting it was to walk the corridor to the main manor to find Jane. Yet here he was, and the firelight flickered warmly over the familiar spines of books, casting shadows that danced along the walls.

Before him, a woman sat at the table, her head bent over a page as she wrote, the feather of her quill catching the light with each graceful stroke. She did not stir as he approached, though his footsteps sounded loudly in the silence, his breath unsteady with anticipation. As he drew nearer, his heart quickened, and the world seemed to narrow until it was only her—Jane—with her ebony curls tumbling loosely down her back.

Reaching out, he took a silky lock between his fingers. The strands slipped through his hand like liquid midnight, and he brought it to his face, inhaling the scent of strawberries and almonds. His heart twisted with longing, his entire soul aching with the need to simply be near her.

Jane turned in her chair, her face lighting up when she saw it was him. “You came!” she exclaimed, her voice soft and warm, threaded with joy.

“How could I stay away?” he murmured, his own voice thick with longing.

Her lashes lowered as she blushed prettily, and Barclay's hands itched to trace the path of that blush, to feel the warmth of her skin beneath his fingertips. He offered his hand, and she accepted it without hesitation, rising to her feet with a grace that made his breath catch. He pulled her close, his arms circling her as if she belonged there, as if she had always belonged there.

“Jane,” he whispered. Her eyes glimmered with trust and something deeper that he dared not name.

He dipped his head and captured her mouth with his own, and it was like coming home. Her lips were soft, yielding to him with a tenderness that made his heart lurch painfully. She tasted of strawberries and sunshine, and he was lost. He traced the curve of her cheek with his fingertips, memorizing the sensation of her satin skin beneath his touch.

“You are so soft,” he whispered, brushing a kiss against her brow.

Her hands came up to cup his face, and she smiled up at him, her eyes shining with unspoken emotion. “And you are so gentle,” she whispered back.

They stood like that, wrapped in each other’s arms, the fire crackling gently in the hearth. Barclay’s heart swelled with a joy he had not known in years, a peace that settled over him as he held her close. He imagined more of this—many more moments stolen away in the quiet corners of libraries or sun-drenched gardens, the two of them laughing and talking as if the world had shrunk to just the two of them.

He imagined Tatiana running up to join them, her silver-blonde curls bouncing as she demanded Jane read to her again from Aladdin, and Jane laughing as she pulled the girl onto her lap to do just that. He imagined evenings spent by the fire, Jane’s head resting on his shoulder as he read aloud to her, the feeling of family and peace wrapping around him like a long-forgotten comfort.

Jane tilted her face up to his, drawing him from his thoughts. “What are you thinking about?” she asked, her eyes searching his.

“That I would like to spend every evening like this,” he replied without hesitation. “Here, with you.”

Her smile widened, and she leaned up to kiss him again, her lips soft and warm, and full of promise. Barclay gathered her closer, holding her as if she were the most precious thing in the world, and for him, she was.

And when she rested her head against his chest, he closed his eyes and simply breathed her in, his heart filled with the hope that perhaps dreams like this did come true after all.

Barclay started awake to find morning light streaming through the curtains, the soft glow spilling across the room. His heart pounded, his breathing uneven as he tried to gather his scattered thoughts. He ran a hand through his hair, blinking away the remnants of sleep, and sighed heavily. Dreams of Jane had filled his slumber—visions of her smile, her laughter, the gentle touch of her hand in his. It had been so vivid, so achingly real that waking up alone left a hollow ache in his chest.

It is merely a reflection of your desires reawakening, he told himself sternly. It does not mean you are meant to be with Jane.

Still, the dreams lingered. The way she had looked at him in the library, her eyes warm with trust and affection. The sensation of holding her close, her hair soft against his cheek, her laughter ringing out like music. He had not dreamt of such tenderness since Natalya, and the depth of it shook him to his core.

Barclay sat up, rubbing his face with his hands as he tried to steady himself. What was happening to him? For ten years, his heart had been bound up in memories of his late wife, and he had assumed it would remain so. He had not entertained the notion of feeling anything for another woman—certainly not with such intensity.