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Tatiana remained rigid, her eyes flashing defiantly.

“Please curtsy, Tatiana.” His tone was measured but left no room for argument.

With great reluctance, Tatiana dropped into a slight curtsy, as her grandmother had painstakingly taught her. The movement was executed perfectly but lacked any warmth or grace. “Can we go play chess now?”

Barclay drew himself up, straightening his shoulders. “I am not yet finished playing ninepins with Mrs. Gordon.” His voice was firm, brooking no opposition. It would not do to allow his daughter to control him, particularly in front of an audience. Her behavior was nothing short of shocking, and he felt heat rise to his cheeks at her lack of decorum.

Bother! Had he just defended ninepins? He repressed a groan. There was no help for it now. He had committed to the game, and his word would stand. Rising to his feet, he held out his arm. Mrs. Gordon accepted it with a gracious smile, and together they fell into step, making their way back to where the players were assembled. Ninepins, it is.

From the corner of his eye, he caught sight of Tatiana bolting back toward the manor, her skirts flying behind her. Her face was scrunched, her little fists clenched at her sides, and he thought—though he could not be certain—that there might have been tears in her eyes.

A pang of guilt speared through him, sharp and unyielding. She had spoken often of wanting a new mother, and he was taking steps to fulfill that wish. So why did he feel like a scoundrel now?

Mrs. Gordon chattered pleasantly at his side, but her words barely registered. Barclay moved through the motions, setting up the pins, aligning them with care. He wondered grimly how long an appropriate length of time would be to make his point that he was the adult in their family.

Fortunately, the game passed swiftly. Less than an hour later, he accompanied Mrs. Gordon back to the manor, her arm nestled comfortably in his as they strolled along the gravel path.

Upon reaching the terrace, Mrs. Gordon joined the other guests who had gathered for refreshments and conversation. Barclay's gaze swept the scene, catching sight of Jane speaking animatedly with the countess. A surge of interest flared within him, surprising in its intensity, and he forced himself to look away. He was here to court Mrs. Gordon, not indulge in fancies.

He turned and strode into the house to search for Tatiana, his boots echoing softly against the polished floors. He checked the nursery, the library, even the morning room, but she was nowhere to be found. Her absence pulled a sigh from his lips—she was hiding. Hopefully, she would reappear in time for dinner.

Resigned to the wait, he returned to his chambers with a well-worn volume of The Iliad and took up residence in his armchair, its leather cushions creaking beneath him. He left the door ajar, a silent invitation for his daughter to come find him when she was ready.

When he awoke, the sun was setting. Barclay stretched his arms above his head, blinking against the warm glow of twilight. He marveled at the fact that he had dozed off—something he rarely did, especially in the middle of the day. His usual restlessness had given way to a sense of calm since his arrival at Saunton Park. It was unsettling, almost unfamiliar, to find himself relaxing when there was always an endless list of things to do.

He turned his gaze to the window, where the Somerset sunset stretched out over the manicured lawns and distant tree line, a sight both serene and majestic. The colors deepened as the sun dipped lower, staining the sky with hues of rose and amber. He watched in silence until the creak of the door behind him pulled him from his reverie.

It opened slowly, the hinges groaning in protest, and then closed just as softly. He did not need to turn to know who had entered. The light, measured footsteps padded across the thick carpet.

“Papa?”

Barclay turned his head, his gaze softening as he met her eyes. “Tatiana.”

Her hands twisted in front of her, her eyes downcast. “I am sorry I was rude.”

Barclay set his book aside, his expression gentle. “I thank you for your apology. Will you come sit with me?” He gestured to the spot beside him, the cushions plush and inviting.

She approached, the patter of her feet as light as the treading of angels upon clouds. When she reached his side, Barclay leaned forward and lifted her up, settling her onto his knee with practiced ease. She was getting heavier—growing right before his eyes—but somehow, in his grief, he had failed to truly notice the subtle changes in his young daughter. The lengthening of her limbs, the slight curve of her cheeks losing their baby roundness—it struck him all at once.

Tatiana leaned back, resting her head against his chest as they both gazed out at the dramatic colors painted across the evening sky. Splashes of crimson, violet, and amber streaked the horizon, their brilliance reflected in her wide eyes. For a moment, they sat in companionable silence, watching the firmament slowly deepen as twilight crept in.

“Why were you so upset, little one?” he asked gently, his hand smoothing over her curls.

Tatiana sighed, her tiny shoulders rising and falling. “I want Jane to be my new mother. I do not understand why she was with that Mr. Dunsford fellow, and you were with that Mrs. Gordon.”

Barclay blinked, momentarily taken aback. “Jane is too young to be your mother. I have to find a suitable woman to marry, and I am spending time with Mrs. Gordon so I can get to know her.”

Tatiana twisted slightly to look up at him, her expression fierce with determination. “Mrs. Gordon is the wrong woman. You must court Jane.”

Barclay raised his brows, suppressing a chuckle at her resolute tone. “You understand that I am the parent? I am the one who must decide what is best for us. For you.”

Her lips pressed together stubbornly. “But if Mama were here, she would tell you that Jane is the one who is to be my mother.”

Barclay froze, his heart clenching painfully in his chest. The room seemed to grow still, the air heavy with memories. “If your mother were here, we would not be discussing who should be your new mother.”

Tatiana fell silent, her little hands clasped tightly in her lap. After a moment, she pushed away from him, slipping off his knee and landing lightly on her feet. She walked to the window, her small hands reaching up to toy with the heavy drapes, her back turned to him. Her voice, when she finally spoke, was barely above a whisper. “I do not wish to have Mrs. Gordon as my mother.”

Barclay ran a hand over his face, steeling himself. “If matters progress with Mrs. Gordon, you will grow to like her.”