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

Chapter Three

"We are all fools in love."

Jane Austen

* * *

B arclay had grown weary of the house party, and it was only the second day. Tatiana and Aurora were having tea with the countess in the family drawing room, but he was unaccustomed to idle days. Idle houseguests made it even worse, drawing him into annoying discussions.

After escaping an inane conversation with a spoilt young beau who had introduced himself as Lord Julius Trafford, Barclay sought the library. Surely anyone he encountered in that venerated room would be inclined to be more intelligent than the pontificating fool—with his insipid poetry—whom he had just left behind in the billiard room?

Barclay relaxed as he entered the room of shelves and books, even considering shutting the door behind him when … when he saw her.

The earl’s son, Ethan, was playing chess. Barclay had met the lad the afternoon before when he had been bullied into his own match with the boy, whose current companion distracted Barclay beyond reason.

She was utterly glorious. A mane of ebony curls poised on her elegant head, smooth, creamy skin to draw the eye, and long limbs.

The young woman finished her move and then sat back in her chair, her ice-blue eyes flickering toward the doorway. She blinked in surprise, gazing at Barclay intently as she nervously tucked a lock of silky hair behind her ear. It was a magical moment, intensity sparking between them in visceral awareness. Something he had not experienced since the first time he had laid eyes on Natalya upon his arrival in St. Petersburg.

The profound connection was abruptly severed when Ethan spoke to her from across the table. Barclay resumed his breathing, blinking several times as the room came back into focus.

“Uncle Bar-clee! ”

The little boy had just noticed his presence, hopping off his chair, careful not to disturb the board, before racing over. He lifted his arms, and Barclay realized the boy wanted him to lift him.

He bent over to scoop the lad up, who embraced him in a hug.

“Are you here to play chess with me? I am in the middle of a game at the moment, so you will have to wait a bit.”

Barclay chuckled. Ethan was unbearably sweet, only four or five years old, but Richard had informed him that the lad had grown up with a large, exuberant family, so he was in his element to have new relations in residence.

“I suppose I might wait my turn. Who is your lovely opponent?”

Ethan wriggled out of his arms as Barclay gently lowered him, racing back across the room.

“Miss Jane Davis, may I present my Uncle Bar-clee Tom … Tom’s son …”

The boy’s face fell at his failed attempt to formally introduce him.

“Thompson.”

Ethan tried again, determined.

“May I present my Uncle Bar-clee Tom-son ?”

The lovely creature he addressed stood up and politely curtsied. “Good afternoon, Mr. Thompson. I am glad we finally meet.”

This was who his daughter had proposed to? She was heavenly. Barclay bowed deeply, deeper than he intended. Blazes, was he nervous about meeting the young woman?

“The pleasure is mine, Miss Davis.”

She laughed, the sound harmonious, like the ringing of one of the perfectly pitched bells his firm had recently arranged to be hung in the spire of St. Michael’s Church in Yorkshire. He remembered the gleaming bronze shimmering in the morning sun as the workmen hoisted it into place. The parishioners had gathered in the square to listen as its first clear peal swept across the dales. That was how her laughter sounded—pure and bright, like a stroke of joy carried on the wind.

“Please, we are all extended family of a sort, so there is no need for formalities.” She frowned slightly, as if that statement made her uncomfortable, before elucidating. “That is, you are Ethan’s uncle on his father’s side of the family, and I am his cousin on his mother’s side.”

Barclay quirked an eyebrow. Was Miss Davis subtly elaborating that they were not blood relations?

“Of course, we are more directly related because my sister married your half-brother, Perry.”

Her face fell at this announcement before she finished her thoughts in defeat.

“You may call me Jane.”

Barclay was having trouble focusing on her words, fascinated by her glowing countenance. There was a vibrancy to her—a spark, like sunlight glancing off glass. He managed to bob his head in a brief bow.

“Please call me Barclay … Jane.”

They stared at each other, wordless, until Ethan broke the crackling tension.

“Will you wait for me to finish my game, Uncle Bar-clee? ”

He nodded, following them back to the game they had set up. He took a seat to observe them play, using the opportunity to run his eyes over the fascinating woman. She was beautiful. Her eyes were framed by sooty black lashes, and she was taller than most women, a mere hand shorter than him. Willowy and graceful, she fueled his overpowering desire to sweep her into his arms in a waltz.

His eyes fell to her bow-shaped mouth, soft and unpainted, which was when he realized he was in trouble. He might not have noticed a single woman other than his own wife in ten years, but now he found himself entranced by a young girl who could be no more than eighteen, considering she had not the faintest line on her flawless skin.

She is too young, Barclay. You cannot possibly be thinking there is a possibility of courtship!

He closed his eyes as Jane moved a piece across the board, collecting his wits. When he opened them once more, he focused on the board and the strategy his young nephew was employing. He looked up to find Jane watching him, but her eyes quickly skittered away. It would appear she was just as aware of him—of the frisson of excitement that her presence evoked.

This is horribly inappropriate, Barclay. You need a mature woman who can be a mother for your daughter. Are you your father’s son, to have your head turned by a woman who has not yet reached her majority?

He shivered in repulsion. Jane could not be more than a year or two older than his own mother had been when she had been seduced by his lecherous sire. He needed to seek an appropriate woman of … appropriate years, not have his head turned by a young girl.

And yet … there was something about her. A hint of magic.

It is not magic. It is lust! Latent hereditary impulses.

On the other hand, she seemed just as enamored as he was.

Faith! It is certain that is precisely what the Earl of Satan said to himself just before he seduced Aurora in this very house more than three decades ago.

His chest tightened, and Barclay wished he were back in London to discuss the events of the past day with his grandfather. Tsar was a pragmatic man who could assist Barclay to make sense of all this confusion with Tatiana and now … this … surprising fascination for this radiant new relation who had just made a point of their lack of shared blood.

A few minutes later, Ethan announced his triumph.

“Checkmate!”

“You won,” she replied in her tinkling voice.

Then the boy frowned.

“That was too easy. Did you allow me to win?”

Barclay watched as a delicate blush rose over her neck to color her creamy cheeks, while her lashes fluttered down in her embarrassment, accentuating the high cheekbones.

“Nay, little cousin. I am distracted. We shall play again tomorrow when I shall challenge you more fiercely than today.”

Ethan dropped onto his feet and walked over to peer up at her face. His small hands rested on his hips, his stance as authoritative as a young squire addressing his lady.

“Did you not sleep, Jane?”

Jane flicked a glance at Barclay, looking decidedly uncomfortable at the personal question.

“I slept fine.”

“At what time?”

“I fell asleep at dawn.”

Barclay noted the dark smudges under her eyes, visible evidence of the nocturnal habits his nephew was questioning her about, which did nothing to mar her graceful splendor. Quite the contrary, they lent her an air of mystery—as though she wandered moonlit halls when the rest of the world slumbered.

The boy shook his head in admonishment, his arms akimbo on his chubby waist.

“You are no country lass anymore, Jane!”

Jane lifted her hand to cover a smile. Barclay himself pressed his lips together to restrain a chuckle at the boy’s antics.

“I shall attempt to do better.”

Ethan gave a quick nod of approval, setting his sable locks bouncing about his little head.

“You will stay and drink your cough-ee while I play Uncle Bar-clee ?”

She dropped her hand, inclining her head graciously.

“Of course.”

Rising, Jane took the seat near to Barclay, who now noticed the tray laid out on the table between them as he rose to his feet. She poured out a cup of coffee, just as the boy had suggested. As Barclay took his seat to play with his nephew, he noted her pour cream and stir sugar into the cup with a practiced hand.

The steam curled above the porcelain rim, and Barclay found himself strangely fascinated by the sight. He had never seen a woman drink the beverage before—especially not a refined young woman. Coffee was typically the domain of gentlemen in their clubs or after dinner in their studies. For a young woman of gentle birth to partake so openly spoke of a quiet boldness, a subtle rebellion against expectations.

Did she know of the potential troubles related to drinking coffee? Restlessness, nerves, even melancholia—it was whispered about by some of the more strait-laced matrons in London. Yet there she was, taking a sip with the serene grace of a duchess.

He was just about to ask her about it when Ethan broke his reverie with a tug on his sleeve, instructing him to prepare the chessboard for their game.

* * *

Jane was finishing her last sip of coffee, for all appearances watching the chess match between Ethan and his uncle. Surreptitiously, she was using it as an opportunity to observe the gentleman up close.

He was a splendid specimen of manhood. Slim, long-limbed, with olive skin inherited from his mother. His hair was a mane of black waves that brushed his broad shoulders. A close-cropped beard suited his strong but narrow face. Once again, he wore a black coat, which Jane had come to realize was probably a sign of his extended mourning and the deep regard he held for his departed love.

The man needed a wife, which was clear from both the conversation of the night before and his hair, just a little too long. She yearned to brush it back from his cheek.

And he did everything with sincere attention. Even now, matched against the four-year-old Ethan, he paid every attention to the game, deliberating his moves while his nephew squirmed in his chair, his little legs swinging beneath him.

“There you are, Ethan!” The earl walked in and made his way to the board, his stride confident and brisk. “I see you started chess early today?”

The boy tilted his head back quite far to look up at his father.

“I found Jane, and she wanted to play.”

Richard chuckled.

“She wanted to play, or you made her?”

The lad’s face broke into a huge grin.

“I made her.”

“Well, all I can say is it is a pity you are busy, because I was going to teach you to play cricket this afternoon.”

Ethan stood up in riveted surprise.

“Cricket?”

“Have you played?”

“No! Oliver and Max play with the local boys, and Jane and Emma have played with them.”

Jane smiled at Ethan’s mention of her younger brothers, who would wheedle her into playing when they were short of boys for their teams. In a dejected voice, he lamented, “But I was too small to hold a bat.”

Richard raised his brows in theatrical contemplation.

“Hmm … if only there was a bat small enough for a little boy to learn cricket at Saunton Park?”

The earl lifted his arm to reveal what he had carried behind his back. It was a miniature bat—a shortened blade of polished ashwood, with a cloth-wrapped cylindrical handle and a thick edge. The craftsmanship was exquisite, the varnish catching the light from the window as he held it aloft. With his other hand, the earl produced a leather-seamed ball, the stitching pristine against the deep red polished to a gleaming shine.

Her cousin almost launched into the air with his excitement.

“Where did you get that? I have never seen one so small before!”

“I had it made for you in London.”

Ethan had reddened in his excitement, scrambling to join his father and take it reverently in his hands. His little fingers traced the seam of the ball, as if he could scarcely believe it was real.

“We are to play cricket? Together?”

“I will have to help you when it is your turn at the wicket.”

“Do you mind, Uncle Bar-clee ? Can we play chess later?”

Barclay inclined his head, a rare smile touching his features.

“Of course, we shall leave the board set up for when we return.”

Jane stood up and walked over, gathering the pieces with gentle care.

“Shall I place the board on that table? The servants know to leave it alone if it is resting there.”

Ethan nodded vigorously, not able to take his eyes from the specially commissioned club.

“Are you playing with us, Uncle Bar-clee ?”

“Say yes, Barclay, and I promise a full-length bat for you,” Richard joked, his emerald eyes as bright with enthusiasm as his son’s. Jane had never seen the sophisticated earl so eager and boyish. His laughter rang through the room, unrestrained and free.

The gentleman chuckled, running a hand through his slightly unruly hair.

“It has been some time since I played, but I suppose I might rack my memory to recall the rules. Will you play with us, Jane?”

Her breath caught in delight at the invitation. His brown eyes were studying her as he waited for her reply, and Jane had difficulty finding her voice as she became lost in his warm gaze. For all the reasons that made no sense for a match between them, something inexplicably drew her to the man.

“Yes! Do join us, Jane?” Richard spoke from behind Barclay’s shoulder, oblivious to the heat between his half brother and his houseguest. Jane reluctantly turned her gaze to him as he continued. “Sophia is coming to watch, and a few ladies have expressed an interest in joining in. One of them attended that women’s match at Ball’s Pond nearly ten years ago. She claims she is one of the spectators depicted in the drawing by Thomas Rowlandson. We are short players to make a proper match of it.”

Jane blinked in surprise. She knew the Rowlandson drawing—it had been quite a spectacle, widely talked about for its depiction of women engaging in cricket with unapologetic vigor. The earl’s zeal for the sport was unexpected, and she suddenly wondered if her family, who had just departed after Emma’s wedding, might have relished a match of their own had they known of his fondness for it.

Realizing that Barclay would be there, she inclined her head in assent.

“Of course, it has been a year or two, but I am sure I can manage. I shall go change into my boots. Where are we playing?”

“We have created a playing field on the west lawn to take full advantage of the afternoon sun.”

Ethan grasped his bat, tugging on his father’s sleeve.

“How long will we play? For three days? Must I tell Miss Lovell we will not be doing lessons in the morning?”

Richard and Barclay both burst out laughing. Jane herself pressed her palm against her mouth to keep a giggle back at Ethan’s transparent attempt to evade his governess.

“We are all amateurs,” his father replied. “We shall see if we can even make it last the afternoon.”

Ethan’s face fell.

“Oh. We were going to practice Latin tomorrow morning. I was hoping to tell her I was busy.”

The earl pursed his lips as if giving the matter serious consideration.

“If you learn Latin, we can practice talking to each other. Latin is important, is it not, Barclay?”

Barclay nodded solemnly, his expression the perfect imitation of a master tutor.

“Without my Latin lessons, I would not have been able to visit Florence and Rome and learn to draw plans for important buildings.”

Ethan grumbled but appeared mollified as they departed the library. Jane was too distracted to pay him any mind. She headed to her room to change her shoes, the fabric of her skirts swishing against her legs with each hurried step. Nervous excitement bubbled up within her, quickening her pace as if a gust of wind pushed her down the hall.

It means nothing, you silly chit! He was just being polite.

Yet she could not shake the flutter of anticipation that accompanied the thought of seeing him again so soon.

* * *

When Jane reached the western lawns, she found that most of the houseguests had gathered. The field had been marked off with lines scored into the turf and dusted with lime, and wicker chairs were set up beneath the shade of sprawling oak trees. The smell of freshly cut grass mingled with the scent of flowers from the gardens, lending a sense of idyllic calm to the cheerful chaos of assembling teams.

Because the countess was increasing, she sat on a bench in the shade to watch, lamenting that she also wanted to play. She looked lovely in her blue day gown with her red-blonde hair in a simple chignon, having removed her bonnet to take advantage of a breeze that rustled the verdant leaves above her.

The Duchess of Halmesbury elected to sit with her, though there was envy in her brandy eyes as the teams assembled. Jane thought she might have wanted to play but felt obligated to keep the countess company.

“I suppose it is only fair I sit out if my husband is one of the umpires,” she remarked to Jane before making her way to join Sophia.

Tatiana was standing by to join a team, looking exuberant. Her eyes shone with excitement, and she waved enthusiastically when she spotted Jane. The little girl raced over, grabbing her hand.

“Are you playing, Jane?”

Jane agreed she was, and Tatiana immediately begged to be on her team.

“Please, may we? Then you can show me how it is done!”

The girl’s enthusiasm was infectious, and Jane found herself smiling. How could I refuse her?

When Jane reached the crowd of gathered players, her smile dimmed as she discovered that Barclay had already been assigned to a team that was now full. The organizers had clearly been mindful to balance men, women, and children on each team, and Barclay, Richard, and Ethan were paired together.

She was to play against him.

Jane could not deny the drop in her spirits at this news. It would have been much easier to spend time in his company if they were on the same team, but she could hardly make a fuss without rousing suspicions. No, she would have to endure watching him from a distance—and worse yet, competing against him.

Instead, she found herself grouped with Peregrine Balfour’s friend, Lord Julius Trafford. The foppish heir to the Earl of Stirling had a bizarre thatch of wheat-colored hair at the crown of his head, while the rest of his hair was a deep chocolate color. Jane could not help but suspect the gentleman’s valet was using lemon juice or vinegar to lighten the nobleman’s hair in some sort of fashionable folly, but she considered it to be a silly affectation.

Lord Trafford and the duchess’s brother, Mr. Brendan Ridley, were both friends of Perry’s who had remained for the house party after attending his wedding a few days earlier. Jane preferred Mr. Ridley over the spoilt young lord. Despite his reputation for cavorting with widows, Mr. Ridley was an affable young man who had spent a great deal of time doting on his infant nephew, Jasper—the duke’s heir—who shared the same rich chestnut locks as his uncle and mother.

Additional members of her team included a Mr. Adam Dunsford, Mr. Ridley, Tatiana, another child, and several men and women she had not yet become acquainted with.

Mr. Ridley was elected team captain. The duke himself oversaw the coin toss, and Jane’s team won. Two batters strode to the pitch, brandishing their bats with a confident air, while Tatiana and Jane hurried off the field along with the other batters to await their turn.

Barclay, Richard, and Ethan spread across the grassy field while Jane watched Barclay’s long strides intently as he took his place, his dark hair catching the sunlight, his coat flaring slightly as he moved. He looks at home out here, she thought, then scolded herself for noticing.

Determined not to let her thoughts wander too much, Jane found a bat suitable for Tatiana’s height from the collection that had been laid out. She showed her how to grasp and swing it, being mindful of their skirts. Then she explained how to score a run, including how to scarper to the other wicket without tripping over petticoats.

The little girl was brimming with excitement, chattering questions at Jane as they went through the rules. It gladdened her to see the child so animated after their first encounter, when Tatiana had been so sad about her mother. Unable to resist, Jane reached out a hand to smooth the girl’s hair affectionately.

“You are going to be splendid,” she whispered.

Tatiana beamed up at her, cheeks flushed with happiness.

“I am glad you are on my team.”

* * *

Barclay took his place on the field, bemused as he observed Tatiana interacting with Jane across the way. When he had agreed to play, he had not realized Tatiana was participating, or he would have made sure they were on the same team in order to help her learn the game.

By the time he had realized she was there, she had already latched onto the intriguing young woman from the library, and he had been loath to interrupt the bonhomie he saw forming between the two. It had been some time since Tatiana had laughed or chattered as much as she was now, her face lit up as Jane demonstrated how to swing the bat and run while wearing skirts, then smoothed his daughter’s silver-blonde hair with affection.

Jane truly was a unique young woman in how she took such an interest in children, playing with Ethan in the library and now with his daughter. Natalya would have approved of such engagement. His eyes ran over her willowy form with appreciation as his thoughts returned to the notion of courting her.

She is still a child herself! There are no more than ten years between her and your daughter, you degenerate lech!

Barclay grimaced. His thoughts were only on courtship because of his conversation with his mother the night before. He needed to find a woman more suitable and forget about the vivacious girl who was far too young for a man at his stage of life.

Looking about the field, he noticed a blonde glancing his way in admiration.

Mrs. Agnes Gordon.

He searched the archives of his mind and remembered she was the widow of the vicar from the local village. The earl had provided her with a cottage at Saunton Park when her husband had unexpectedly died three years earlier.

Mrs. Gordon flickered a flirtatious smile from under the brim of her bonnet before approaching him while Barclay contemplated her. A woman closer to my own age. A more mature woman who would be of Natalya’s age, if she had still been here with us.

Mrs. Gordon had experience running a household and assisting a vicar—certainly she would make a good wife to a professional man like him.

“Mr. Thompson, I hope I might impose on you to explain the rules of the game?”

Barclay smiled, bowing in acknowledgment. With an appreciative eye, he noted she had a lively manner and was quite comely in her striped muslin dress. Her blonde curls were neatly arranged beneath a wide-brimmed bonnet adorned with pale yellow ribbon, lending her a touch of gracefulness that he had not noticed before.

“Of course, Mrs. Gordon. I would be most happy to oblige.”

She stepped a bit closer, the soft scent of lavender drifting from her as she lifted her eyes to his.

“I must confess, I have watched the matches from a distance, but I have never quite understood how it is played.”

Barclay felt a stirring of satisfaction at her gentle manner.

This is the kind of woman I should pursue.

Someone practical, with experience in managing a household, and with the poise of a widow who understood both loss and survival.

“It is quite simple,” he began, gesturing toward the field. “The bowler attempts to hit the wicket with the ball, while the batter attempts to send the ball across the field. Scoring is achieved by running between the two wickets while the fielders attempt to return the ball to the bowler.”

Mrs. Gordon nodded, her attention fixed on him as he spoke.

“Would you like me to show you?” he offered.

Her smile brightened, and she inclined her head. “I would be delighted.”

* * *

Mr. Adam Dunsford, the sole heir to a local Somerset landowner, had just been bowled out. Rambling over, he sank down beside Jane beneath the shade of the great oak, its branches swaying gently above them. The whisper of leaves provided a soothing backdrop to the lively shouts from the cricket field. After a nod of greeting, they both turned their gazes back to the field where Tatiana held her bat aloft proudly as she walked away to take his place at the crease.

Mr Dunsford was a handsome young man, with a mop of curling brown waves that must have taken his valet endless time each morning to perfect into looking effortlessly unaffected. It was flattering that he picked the seat next to her, an obvious compliment considering the other alternatives to watching the match.

“You played rather well for a woman, Miss Davis. Twenty runs, was it?”

Jane smiled in return, while wishing she had had more sleep the night before because all the sunshine and activity were making her drowsy. It was not the most effusive compliment— for a woman? —but it was well intended, and the gentleman had such a warm manner, it was difficult to take offense.

“Yes. Thank you, Mr. Dunsford.”

“I am afraid I batted rather poorly. Barely made twelve runs before a child bowled me out. They are getting more and more talented each year. It has nothing to do with my deplorable talents, I assure you.”

She chuckled in response. His self-deprecation was endearing as he threaded his fingers together and pulled a slight face, leaning forward on his elbows to observe the game. Jane had been watching Barclay with Mrs. Gordon across the field, but now she averted her eyes to watch the bowling.

“Have you known the earl for long, Mr. Dunsford?”

“Yes, but I must admit, not very well. It is his brother, Peregrine Balfour, with whom I attended Oxford.”

“Oh? Perry just wed my sister a few days ago!”

“I heard he had just wed. Your sister must be a lovely woman if she is related to you.”

Jane warmed at the compliment. The admiration of a charming young man was almost enough to take her attention off the intriguing architect across the field who was currently demonstrating how to bowl to the lovely Mrs. Gordon before she took her turn at the pitch.

Almost.

Jane had the sinking feeling that she had lost an opportunity when she left his side to find her boots. Now he and Mrs. Gordon were making a connection. All the times she had encountered Barclay, he had been so serious. Now he was laughing while Mrs. Gordon attempted to mimic his bowling demonstration, and the widow was laughing with him.

You are too young for him. He could never take you seriously when he has achieved so much and you have done so little.

It was disappointing. It was the first time she felt a genuine attraction for a man, and he would have to be someone unattainable. If only she had anything to offer a man who had been through so much, but she was merely a country lass who was away from her immediate family for the first time in her brief life.

What could she possibly offer such a gentleman? She could play the pianoforte. She was excellent with a needle and thread. But, despite her fascination for the handsome widower, she had no experience with the kind of loss the Thompsons were recovering from.

Are you going to embroider his heart back together?

Jane sighed and turned her attentions to Mr. Dunsford, sitting up straight to force some energy into her tired limbs. She wished … she could sleep a full night and consider her future with a fresh mind.

Failing that, the architect was beyond her reach and she needed to set her sights on a gentleman interested in pursuing her. What had she said to Emma last week? A landowner who was young and fun? Mr. Dunsford fit the bill rather well.

Emma’s advice to pursue a gentleman with whom she shared a connection of the minds seemed a poor option in the bright sunlight when a young man was at her side to exhibit his regard, and the object of her desire flirted with an eminently suitable widow who had all the right qualifications to be a wife and mother to his daughter.

Jane was well disposed to be the spouse of a young gentleman of the gentry, such as Mr. Dunsford, and she need never feel gauche or awkward with such a safe choice.

Perhaps she should discover how deep the young man’s interest ran?