Page 15 of Miss Davis and the Architect (Dazzling Debutantes #4)

Barclay had just returned to the manor from the stables. He did not frequently have the pleasure of riding, so before he could be recruited into another game of ninepins or shuttlecock—or any other of the inane amusements favored by many of the female guests—he had seized the opportunity to ride with the earl.

Jane was never to be seen at those frivolous games, and his prior observations suggested she occupied herself with more worthwhile activities, such as chess. Perhaps she had played bowls that day he had tried to persuade Mrs. Gordon to join him. She certainly had not made an appearance for ninepins.

He and his brother had toured the park, the estate's grandeur revealing itself at every turn. Barclay had the opportunity to appreciate Tsar’s brilliance in selecting the location of the manor. Of course, the late Earl of Saunton would have agreed to the advice from his architect, but he knew Tsar was excellent at persuasion and would have steered and cajoled the earl into making the right decision.

After the brisk ride, Barclay’s inner thighs ached in the pleasurable manner of a man who had exerted himself. Days of idle revelry at a nobleman’s house party were far outside his usual daily activities. It had indeed been an escape to feel the power of the beast beneath him, the reins taut in his hands, and the wind sweeping through his hair as they galloped across the estate. For those precious hours, he could forget about ninepins and polite conversation and simply exist.

As he entered the hall, Jane appeared in the doorway of the family breakfast room, and the sight of her stopped him mid-stride. He could not help himself—his eyes swept over her form with a hunger that bordered on desperation. She was loveliness incarnate, her dark hair framing her delicate features, her eyes brightening with what he dared to imagine was joy at the sight of him.

But then, as swiftly as it had arrived, the light in her eyes faded, as if a shadow had been cast across her spirit. Her gaze dropped, her lashes sweeping down to conceal the expression in her eyes, and she turned away, her skirts whispering around her ankles as she walked down the hall, each step taking her farther from him.

Barclay stood rooted to the spot, every fiber of his being urging him to follow her. Talk to her. Explain. Apologize. Anything to stop the desolate expression that had crossed her lovely face. But if he were alone with her—if they were to share even a single moment of solitude—he feared all his best intentions would fly out the window like birds escaping a cage, desperate for freedom. He would haul her into his arms, crush her to his chest, and sip from her strawberry-sweet lips until neither of them could remember why it was forbidden.

But he did not move. He watched her turn a corner in the corridor, disappearing from view, and the spell finally broke. He blinked slowly, exhaling a breath he had not known he was holding. It was only then that he realized Aurora had taken Jane’s place in the doorway. She was watching him intently, her brow creased with inquisitive concern.

Barclay squared his shoulders, praying she had not witnessed him mooning after Jane like a green boy fresh out of school. “Mother,” he greeted her, his voice steady.

“Barclay,” she acknowledged, but the curiosity etched into her features did not fade. Barclay’s spine stiffened under her scrutiny, and he worried he had given himself away. He dipped his head in a hasty nod before striding off, eager to escape his mother’s perceptive gaze before she pressed him with questions he could not—would not—answer.

Mrs. Gordon was on the terrace, engaged in that infernal game of shuttlecock—or battledore—or was it jeu de volant ? He could not keep track of the ridiculous names they gave to the child’s game. Feathered corks flitted back and forth in the air, propelled by delicate wooden rackets, and the ladies tittered with delight each time one fell to the ground.

Zounds , it would be far more entertaining if the feathered device were used for its intended purpose—falconry, with a hawk diving from the heavens to snatch it midair. At least then, there would be some sense of purpose to it, rather than this insipid flapping about with rackets, as if they were little children amusing themselves.

As predicted, the day passed at a glacial pace once he joined Mrs. Gordon. The ladies she played with chattered ceaselessly, their giggles punctuating every light volley. When the shuttlecock fell to the ground, they squealed and swatted at it as if it might come to life and fly off of its own accord. Barclay forced a smile, nodding politely, while his thoughts wandered far afield.

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.

He stood and crossed the room to the basin, splashing cool water on his face as if to cleanse away the thoughts that clung stubbornly to his mind. It would not do to dwell on what could not be. He must press forward and decide whether he could tolerate Mrs. Gordon as a wife to aid their family respectability.

It would be better if he did not engage his heart in his second marriage. He had already found and lost the love of his life, and a man did not get a second chance to love so deeply. It was foolishness to imagine otherwise. He was fortunate to have loved at all, and it would be greedy—reckless—to think he could feel that again. Deep down, he knew that if he allowed himself to love and lose once more, it might be more than his heart could bear.