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“The client mentioned he had recently visited Stourhead near Wiltshire and inquired if we might adjust the foundations to make the building round—like the Temple of Apollo at that grand estate designed by Colen Campbell.”

Her gloved hand flew to her mouth as she giggled. “My word! How far along were the foundations?”

“We had already constructed them and had begun on the first level.”

“That is a ridiculous request to have made! What did the gentleman think you were to do?”

Barclay’s eyes twinkled with amusement. “He asked me if we could simply leave what we had constructed but knock out the corners of the square to form a circle.”

The widow burst out laughing, the sound bright and genuine, her hands coming up to cover her mouth as she shook with mirth. Her bonnet bobbed precariously, the ribbon under her chin fluttering as she tried to compose herself. Barclay could not deny that her absorption in his tale—and her unrestrained laughter—was flattering. It had been some time since he had enjoyed the company of a woman in so leisurely a manner, and Mrs. Gordon evidently found him amusing.

Gasping for breath, she wiped at her eyes with her gloved fingertips. “How did you address his request?”

“I told him, of course, we could do precisely as he requested. I would simply prepare an estimate for the change in specifications and bring it to him that evening.”

“And did you do so?” she asked, her eyes shining with anticipation.

“I did.” Barclay leaned back against the bench, crossing his arms comfortably. “When he saw the cost, he looked as if he might suffer an apoplexy right there on the spot. I asked him if I might commence work on the changes, and he sputtered that he would sleep on it and inform me in the morning.”

Mrs. Gordon’s shoulders shook with glee as she laughed even harder. Her bonnet wobbled precariously with each mirthful shake, and she brought a gloved hand to her lips in a vain attempt to stifle her giggles. “And then?”

Barclay leaned back, crossing his arms comfortably. “Come morning, the gentleman had left me a note stating that he was urgently required elsewhere. He also declared that the Hoares of Stourhead were pretentious tradesmen who knew not their place and that Colen Campbell was naught but an upstart from louse land.”

Mrs. Gordon’s eyes widened. “Louse land?”

Barclay chuckled. “My master builder—a proud Scotsman from Edinburgh—informed me that the contemptible phrase referred to Scotland. The note concluded by directing that I should proceed with the original design of ‘taste and distinguishment’ that he had, in his words, ‘so masterfully conceived.’”

Mrs. Gordon clutched her stomach, practically doubling over with mirth. “What a rude man!” She gasped for breath between peals of laughter. “Well played, Mr. Thompson.”

Barclay grinned back at her, the lines around his eyes softening. “One does not get far as an architect if one does not learn how to manage one’s clients.”

Mrs. Gordon leaned forward conspiratorially, her eyes gleaming with curiosity. “Who was the gentleman in question? Was it someone I would have heard of?”

Barclay shook his head with a chuckle. “I am afraid I cannot speak out of turn. Suffice it to say that he was not quite as distinguished as he claimed.”

Her eyes danced with amusement, and for the first time that afternoon, Barclay found himself fully at ease. The widow had proven to be far more engaging company than he had initially presumed. Perhaps they might form a comfortable companionship? She was attractive, pleasant, and had a sparkling sense of humor.

Not to mention that she is of an appropriate age.

He exhaled in contentment, feeling the tension in his shoulders ease. This might actually lead to something. It occurred to him that he was enjoying himself for the first time since Natalya had died. It was as if he had been locked in stasis these past two years, and this visit to Saunton Park had gently shaken him awake. He still did not sleep through the night, but mayhap once he had a wife in his bed once more, he would recover his ability to rest peacefully.

Certainly, he felt relaxed at this moment.

He had not realized how much tension had coiled through his body until this week—tension that was now unwinding in small, subtle increments. Perhaps by the time he returned to London, he might be engaged in a proper courtship with the handsome widow.

At that moment, movement beyond the shade of the oak caught his eye. A gentleman approached, his gait steady and purposeful, with a small child in tow. Mr. Ridley, upon spotting him beneath the sprawling branches, headed over. Barclay straightened, unexpectedly ashamed as he watched Tatiana skip up alongside him.

“Here is your papa.”

Tatiana pulled her hand away from Mr. Ridley’s grasp, crossing her small arms over her chest. Belligerence was etched in every stubborn line of her posture as she took in Barclay’s proximity to Mrs. Gordon. Her curls shimmered in the sunlight, but her expression was thunderous. “What are you doing?”

Barclay arched a brow at her tone. “I am enjoying a conversation with Mrs. Gordon. What are you doing?”

Tatiana’s frown deepened. “I was playing with the children in the nursery when I came to find you. I thought you would be with Jane, but—” Her sharp gaze swung to Mrs. Gordon, who blinked in surprise before giggling nervously, her gloved hand fluttering to her lips.

Mr. Ridley, observing the tension crackling in the air, raised his brows in mild amusement. He shot a sympathetic glance at Barclay before bowing, tipping his hat politely to Mrs. Gordon. “Mrs. Gordon, Miss Tatiana,” he said with a flourish, and then strode away to join Lord Trafford—the only other gentleman participating in the languid game of ninepins.

Barclay firmed his jaw, leveling his daughter with a steady look. “Mind your manners, little one.” His voice was low but authoritative, a hint of warning threaded through the words. Turning to his companion, he gestured politely. “Mrs. Gordon, may I present my daughter, Tatiana Thompson?”