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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.