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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.
