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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.