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He’s holding a big, sleek white cat, cradling it like a baby. His head snaps up, and he looks every bit as guilty as if I had just caught him in an amorous embrace. The cat impatiently flicks its tail, glaring at me with drowsy yellow eyes.
Seeing him standing there, his big arms enfolding the cat, his head bent low whispering the silly things one says to a pet, compiled with a deep, overwhelming sense of relief that he wasn’t with a woman after all, leaves me light-headed and tipsy. I take a few deep breaths, but it’s no use. Laughter starts to bubble up deep in my throat.
It’s the kind of laugh that makes your eyes water and your whole body shake. The cat, stoic dignity insulted, twists its way violently out of Mr. Barrett’s arm, tearing his shirtsleeve down the middle in the process.
Mr. Barrett lets out a yelp. “Goddamn it! The devil take you and those wretched claws!” Humiliated, the cat streaks past my legs and out of the room.
Pink creeps up his neck past his cravat, his eyebrows stitching closer together into an angry frown. I brace myself for a stern reprimand on trespassing.
“I’m sorry...” I can’t get my words out through my gasps. The longer he stands there, hair disheveled, sleeve torn, with that bewildered look on his face, the harder I laugh.
His lips twitch and I do my best to pull myself together and not further injure his dignity. But instead of yelling, demanding to know just what I think I’m doing barging in unannounced, he smiles.
He smiles with his whole soul. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, John Barrett’s face all lit up, his eyes crinkling at the edges.
“What?” he asks helplessly. “What is it?”
I couldn’t even answer him if I wanted to. He blinks slowly, and then he starts laughing too, soft at first, then rich and throaty, every bit as beautiful as his smile.
“You...” I start again. “The cat’s face...” This sends me into a fresh riot of laughter for no reason.
When we finally come to our senses, there’s a stitch in my side and Mr. Barrett is wiping his brow. His face is still pink, though whether it’s from the exertion of laughing or embarrassment that I caught him sharing a tender moment with his kitty, I can’t tell.
He clears his throat, trying to regain his composure. “Well, Miss Montrose,” he says, trying his best to assume a grave expression, “that’s my favorite shirt ruined. I hope you’re happy with yourself.”
“I am,” I say, wiping away the last of my tears, meaning it.
He flashes me a grin and then unwinds his cravat and starts unbuttoning the torn shirt. “I’ll be sure to tell my housekeeper just whose fault it was that she has to mend it.”
I swallow, my mouth suddenly dry and my face growing hot as I realize he means to change his shirt. Desperate not to look like I’m watching, I lean to inspect a framed print on the wall, nearly knocking a vase off the table behind me in the process.
Mr. Barrett looks around the room as if expecting a spare shirt to be sitting there. Despite my best efforts, he catches my eye before glancing into the hall behind me. “Did you come alone?” His tone is light, but I can’t help but notice the carefully inflected note of hope.
My mouth still too dry to say anything, I nod. I struggle to keep my eyes trained on his, pretending that I don’t notice the open V of his shirt, showing glimpses of smooth, defined chest muscles, and a light feathering of golden hair that trails down his stomach.
He holds my gaze for a drawn-out moment, as if not sure how to respond. If he thinks me rash or uncouth for coming unannounced and unescorted, he doesn’t let it show. Besides, he is the one standing in the middle of the room in partial undress. Coming back to himself, he asks, “Will you have a seat? I’ll be right back.”
I seat myself and watch him leave; he shrugs his shirt the rest of the way off as soon as he’s through the door, and then his footsteps pound up the stairs. I imagine him crossing bare-chested to his wardrobe, pulling out a fresh shirt and sliding it over his broad, muscled shoulders. I can almost feel the cool linen as if it were brushing against my bare flesh. Then, as if he might be able to read my thoughts through the floor, I quickly push the image from my mind.
I take the opportunity to drink in everything in the room. Did he furnish it himself, picking out the expansive mahogany desk? Father’s desk is always buried under stacks of papers and loose receipts, but Mr. Barrett’s is neat and clean, only a writing set, a slim stack of papers and a couple of books on the polished surface.
Over the desk hangs a portrait of a beautiful woman wearing the fashion of decades gone by. There’s no mistaking her identity. She has stormy blue eyes, and instead of the fanciful powdered wigs popular in her day, she wears her own abundance of dark blond hair romantically pinned up on her head. With her faraway gaze and a backdrop of clouds rolling across a hilly landscape, the woman cuts an arresting figure, much different than any Puritan Montrose ancestor hanging in our house. Beside her, looking up at his beautiful mama is a wispy little child in white. He bears a striking resemblance to Mr. Barrett, with his blue-green eyes and amber hair. Maybe it’s because I know about his past that I see a sadness in Mr. Barrett’s eyes that his little brother lacks. Moses instead looks self-assured in his status as favorite child, possessive of their mother.
Mr. Barrett returns buttoning his cuffs, humming under his breath, his hair still sticking up slightly from when he pulled his shirt off. He looks up to see me standing under the painting, studying it, and his face darkens.
“Is that your mother?” I already know the answer, but maybe if I take the first step, if I show him that I understand, then he’ll open up to me.
“Yes,” he says shortly, wrestling with the last button without looking up.
“She was very beautiful.”
“Yes, she was.”
A chill settles in the room. Quickly, I turn away and my eyes alight on an engraving of a bird. “And this one,” I say lightly, “this must be one of your collection?”
“Mmm, a wood duck.” His cuffs are buttoned, his hair smoothed back down, and he looks as composed and unruffled as ever. The chill in the room recedes. “Now,” he says, rubbing his hands together and brightening, “would you like some tea? Coffee? Hannah is just in the back and I’m sure—”
I quickly wave off his offer, though I’m somewhat relieved that his maid is about, that if Catherine asks later I can say I wasn’t completely alone with him. “Oh, no, please don’t put yourself to any trouble. I won’t be staying long.”