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Barclay’s jaw tightened with frustration as he led the widow back up the steep stairs to the terrace. Mrs. Gordon’s smile remained bright, her posture graceful, as if she were entirely unaware of his inner turmoil. When they reached the top, she curtsied with practiced elegance and stepped away, her gaze flickering across the terrace until it settled on Aurora, who stood near the balustrade with her hands clasped before her.

Mrs. Gordon wasted no time in approaching, her smile widening as she dipped into another curtsy. Though the widow technically outranked his mother, it seemed she was intent on gaining favor with this show of deference. “Mrs. Thompson,” she gushed, “it would be my utmost pleasure if you would join me for breakfast tomorrow morning. I do so wish to become better acquainted.”

Aurora regarded her with serene composure, her expression unflinching. “That would be lovely, Mrs. Gordon,” she replied in her lightly accented voice. Her mother, Barclay’s grandmama, had been a lively Italian woman, and Aurora had never fully lost the intonations of her youth. The gentle lilt of her speech, softened with age, lent her words a grace that was distinctly hers.

Mrs. Gordon, visibly pleased, gave another polite curtsy before moving off, her skirts swishing elegantly as she went. Aurora watched her departure with mild curiosity before turning back to Barclay, her expression smoothing into relief. She stepped toward him, her gaze softening. “Barclay, I must admit, I am pleased that you are taking our discussion to court seriously.”

Barclay inclined his head, his expression carefully neutral.

Aurora’s gaze lingered on his face, her voice dropping to a more intimate tone. “Son, there is no reason to hurry the process. Please assure me you will be certain before you offer to make a young woman your wife.” She paused, her eyes searching his. “What you had with Natalya was special, and our family enjoys … a pleasant dynamic. It would be ill-advised to disrupt your grandfather’s household with the wrong companion.”

Barclay’s lips curved into a faint smile at Aurora’s transparent attempt to meddle. “Are you saying that Mrs. Gordon is a poor choice?”

“Not at all. Just … be certain. There is no reversing that decision.” Her voice was gentle, but the underlying firmness was unmistakable.

He regarded her thoughtfully, his gaze tracing the delicate lines of her face. “Why did you never marry, Mother? You are a beautiful woman, and I have to think there were some opportunities over the years?”

Aurora shook her head, her black hair gleaming even in the shade of the terrace, twisted into an elegant knot at the nape of her neck. “It is not a son’s place to ask such a question.” Her tone was mild, but he detected the hint of rebuke beneath it.

He shrugged, unbothered. “This has been an unusual trip we have taken. We have spoken on other matters we would not ordinarily broach in London, and I have always wondered.”

Aurora moved to the balustrade, her hands resting lightly on its stone surface as she leaned forward to gaze upon the manicured gardens stretching out below. Afternoon light spilled across the hedgerows, casting shadows over the gravel pathways that wound between rose bushes and flowering shrubs. “Marriage is irreversible, and I never met the right gentleman,” she replied finally, her voice softened with reflection. “One who could accept my situation … accept you … and make me feel like taking the risk was worthwhile.” She paused, her fingers brushing absently over the smooth stone. “Watching you with Natalya over the years—you were exceptionally fortunate to find someone who was your perfect counterpart.”

Barclay felt a touch of melancholy at this reminder. “It was difficult knowing that it had a time limit, but I would never erase my time with Natalya for all the riches in the world.”

Aurora turned back to him, her gaze searching his with a tenderness that was rarely so openly expressed. “I believe you are destined to find such a connection again, Barclay. You have always been fortunate, and it is my dearest hope to see you happy as you once were.” She straightened, smoothing the fabric of her gown. “Assure me you will not settle … that you will be sure before you choose a bride?”

Barclay’s eyes flickered to where Jane sat talking with the countess on the far side of the terrace. The two ladies leaned in close, their heads bent together as Sophia whispered something in Jane’s ear. Jane reached out with gentle familiarity, tucking an errant curl of Sophia’s distinctive red-blonde hair back behind her ear. The countess laughed aloud, her cheeks flushed with good health as she exclaimed that Miss Toussaint would scold her for neglecting her coiffure if her lady’s maid were present to see her in such a state.

Sophia’s hand settled over her rounded belly, and Barclay’s gaze lingered there for a moment, thoughtful. An heir for the earl. A safeguard for the family holdings. His mind drifted, unbidden, to the image of Jane in a similar state—her hand resting protectively over the swell of her stomach, her expression alight with joy. The thought took him by surprise, slipping past his guard and settling deep within him.

Her love of children was evident. He had seen it countless times in her tender interactions with Ethan and Tatiana. Jane would make a wonderful mother; he was certain of it. His heart clenched at the thought of her with a babe in her arms, her laughter ringing through their household. And though he tried to banish it, he could not help but imagine himself at her side—her husband and partner, watching their family grow.

But would it be fair to expect her to mother a child of Tatiana’s age? He felt a pang of uncertainty twist in his chest. Jane was so young, barely older than his mother had been when she found herself in trouble with the Earl of Saunton. How would Aurora react if and when he revealed that he might have found a true affinity with a young woman of such tender years?

He exhaled slowly, resolving his thoughts with careful deliberation. “I shall endeavor to think the matter through thoroughly before making my decision.” His tone was even, though the words carried more weight than Aurora could know.

Aurora nodded approvingly, her smile soft and relieved. “That is all I ask, my dear.”

* * *

Jane wrote furiously, her quill racing across the page in the dim light of the library. The scratch of the nib against the paper filled the quiet room, punctuated only by her shallow breaths and the soft crackle of the fire burning low in the grate. She paused, her hand stilling, and frowned at the dull edge of her quill. Not now, she thought with a surge of impatience. Grabbing her penknife, she sharpened it swiftly, brushing the stray bits of feather from her lap before dipping it into the inkwell. The interruption grated at her nerves. She needed to get the lines out of her head before they evaporated like mist in the morning sun.

Bending over her notebook, she scribbled as her inspiration spilled across the page in looping script. Her hand moved swiftly, the ink flowing freely as if driven by the urgency of her thoughts.

The afternoon had been an utter delight. Time with Barclay—having him show her the magic of the grotto, existing in that bubble of time and space far from the real world—had been nothing short of a revelation. Her cheeks still flushed with the memory of it, the laughter of the children, the cool shadows of the cavern, and Barclay’s presence beside her, steady and unyielding.

But she was uncertain where matters stood. Barclay had stated no intentions—yet she hoped. Oh, how she hoped that their connection would blossom into something more. There had never been such an attraction with any other gentleman of her acquaintance, and her heart was in jeopardy of tumbling head over heels before she even understood what this was … or where it might lead.

Could Barclay be my Darcy?

The thought sent a thrill through her, and she bit her lip to suppress the smile that threatened to bloom. Jane could now understand the troubles Emma had faced during her strange courtship with Perry. She had encouraged her sister to pursue the relationship, but Emma had balked. At the time, Jane had not grasped her hesitation. But now, now that her own affections were at risk, she knew what it was to want a man, to yearn for him, yet be uncertain of his regard.

Barclay had raised concerns about the possibility of a courtship. Their difference in age, his lamentable status within society as a by-blow—these were not small matters. But Jane wanted to brush them aside, to leap into his arms and declare that none of it mattered. Yet Emma’s voice lingered in her thoughts. Her sister had pointed out that marriage was a commitment that could not be undone and had advised her to be cautious.

Jane now acknowledged that Emma’s advice had been wise. She could not simply race headlong into her emotions, not knowing the gentleman’s thoughts on the matter. Though her heart clamored for action, her mind, tempered by her sister’s warnings, urged restraint.

As she finished the last line with a flourish, the ink pooling neatly at the end of her sentence, she heard footsteps behind her. Her breath caught, and she straightened in her chair, smoothing her skirts with trembling hands.