Jonathan and Amy

by Grace Burrowes

  “Your room looks commodious.”

  Amy’s employer was trying to make small talk, but coming up against a reality that emerged whenever people of different stations attempted to move beyond civilities: they had, in truth, little in common.

  “My room is lovely. Are you concerned that Lord Deene will charm his way into Georgina’s heart?”

  Mr. Dolan let out a bark of laughter. “He’ll have to wedge past his marchioness to accomplish that, and he’s too besotted to manage such a thing. The woman rides like a demon, you see, and Georgina has been pestering me for a pony since she could gallop across the playroom. Her mother loved to ride.”

  The last observation was offered contemplatively, as if being around Lord Deene stirred a bereavement Mr. Dolan hadn’t anticipated.

  “Are you missing your late wife, sir?”

  He paused with her on the steps of the back terrace. “I miss her every day, of course, though the first time I realized I’d gone a day without thinking of her specifically, I wondered if…” His gave traveled over the back gardens, which were sporting their full, colorful summer glory. “I did not come out here to discuss my status as a widower, not directly in any case.”

  A retreat from such a painful topic ought to be allowed, though Amy couldn’t help but think of how he might have finished the sentence.

  “When I began to get over the loss of my parents, I wondered if letting them go wasn’t somehow disloyal.”

  He walked along beside her in silence for a few moments, past bobbing daisies, on to fragrant red roses. “Just so, but then you recall the departed bestirring themselves in their last hours to admonish you sternly to be happy, to love again, and it is that topic I wished to broach with you.”

  Mr. Dolan spoke in such calm, reasonable tones that the content of his comments took a moment to sort itself out in Amy’s mind.

  He wanted to speak to her of love?

  “About Lord Deene, sir. You must not worry that he could ever replace you in Georgina’s affections. You are her papa, her only parent, and she adores you.”

  “She adored me the day I got her that dam—that dratted dog. When I insist she learn French and refuse her a pony in Town, she is not at all convinced of my value. I suspect she is in want of a mother. Shall we sit?”

  Amy liked very much that Mr. Dolan’s view of his daughter was unsentimental, but she liked even more that he loved the child as fiercely as he did. She took her seat beside him and made no objection when he rested an arm along the back of the bench.

  His arm wasn’t around her, exactly, but when she sat back, she could pretend Mr. Dolan’s posture was one of affection.

  “What exactly are we out here to discuss, Mr. Dolan?”

  “They are lovely gardens, are they not?”

  The roses were in quite good form, including some heavily scented damask beds a few yards away. Pansies enjoyed a shady corner, and beyond those, poppies grew, and something tall and purple—foxglove?

  “Whitley’s gardens are much like these. A treat for the nose, the eyes, and the soul.” She’d spent enough summers with Georgina at the Dolan country property to recall every corner of the expansive gardens. “Will we go there this summer?”

  “Very possibly, though I will procure a pony first if I treasure my daughter’s happiness, which I do. But let me tell you now, Miss Ingraham, while we have some privacy, that I am feeling very much betrayed by your recent attempts to instruct me.”

  Amy left off staring at the flowers to risk a glance at Mr. Dolan. For all he was fatigued, he didn’t seem angry, nor was his tone irritated.

  “In what regard have I betrayed you, sir?”

  “Behold, my late wife’s brother, the young and handsome marquess. A gentleman by birth, breeding, and behavior. He came to the front door of his own home to admit us, Amy Ingraham, and you did not scold him for the oversight.”

  “Of course, I didn’t. The man’s a marquess, and his wife—”

  Mr. Dolan stopped her words with a finger to her lips and a shake of his head. “He was in riding attire, my dear. You showed not the least sign of being scandalized.”

  My dear? “Are you mocking me, sir?”

  “I am mocking myself.” He shifted beside her, and while he probably didn’t realize it, this brought his arm in direct contact with Amy’s shoulders. She savored the closeness and tried to attend his words.

  “In what regard would you mock yourself?”

  “Very few of those rules matter, do they, Amy? I can still be a gentleman if I forget my top hat on a sunny day. I can still be a disgrace if I have perfect table manners. I sincerely hope this is so. In the alternative, I must conclude that I am not now, nor will I ever be, a gentleman.”

  Amy? “But you are the most honor—”

  She broke off when he turned toward her. The arm resting on her shoulders was no longer a casual weight; it encircled her person in a gentle but clearly intentional semblance of an embrace.

  He brought his free hand up and used two fingers to caress Amy’s jaw.

  “A gentleman does not make advances toward a woman in his employ, Amy Ingraham. I must conclude I cannot be gentleman.” He brushed her hair back from her temple with the callused pad of his thumb. “My relief at this realization is boundless.”

  ***

  “More tea, my lords?”

  “Oh, come now.” Bonny’s eyes twinkled in the most nauseating fashion as he passed his cup back to dear cousin Hecate. “Wooster here is your cousin. Surely the milording can keep for more formal occasions?”

  Nigel roused himself from dismal contemplation of the stale half cake on his plate. “I insist. We cousins must not stand on ceremony. I cannot think why you haven’t called on us in Hampshire of a summer. Mama would be delighted to have the company.”

  Mama would turn the hounds loose on him for suggesting such a thing.

  Women above the age of twenty-two ought never simper, but neither Drusilla nor Hecate demonstrated awareness of this universal truth.

  “We couldn’t,” said Hecate at the same moment Drusilla cooed, “We’d love to.”

  “Then I’ll send the traveling coach to fetch you as soon as you establish a date with Mama. But tell me”—he made himself take a sip of his tea, the better to appear nonchalant—“where is Cousin Amy and might we persuade her to join your visit to the family seat?”

  If Bonny took exception to the imperial we, he was too well-bred to show it.

  The sisters exchanged a look incomprehensible to Nigel by virtue of it being a look exchanged between females, and also a look exchanged between twin females.

  “Amy is tending to her charge,” Drusilla said. “I understand the family rusticates this time of year.”

  Either Amy hadn’t told her sisters she was at Dolan’s country holding, or Drusilla and Hecate were exercising a touch of discretion on their older sister’s behalf.

  Bonny cast a puzzled glance at Nigel. “If Miss Ingraham is employed in the household of Mr. Dolan—do I have that right?—then I believe he might be related to your distant neighbor, the Marquess of Deene. I can never keep all these Society connections straight, but perhaps you ladies can untangle it for me?”

  No wonder Bonny had the prettiest, most accommodating mistresses, because without even a conniving glance between them, Drusilla and Hecate were racing each other to explain that the dear baron had it exactly right.

  “And while Amy might certainly by rights find a position in a more exalted house,” Hecate said, “it must be allowed that Mr. Dolan’s family connections are impeccable.”

  Drusilla nodded sagely over a plate of cakes, which Nigel had found to his regret were at least a day old. “Deene married a duke’s daughter, no less, and it’s said to be a love match.”

  More simpering, which had the weak tea and stale cakes threatening to rebel.

  “We ought to call on her,” Nigel announced, though this was the very purpose of his exile to the countryside. “Extend the invita
tion, let Dolan know the woman has family.”

  “She’d like that,” Drusilla replied. “Dolan is a cit, but quite well fixed from what we hear. It wouldn’t hurt him to understand that the old families, the best families, can be protective when it comes to their young women.”

  Bonny paused in the midst of chewing on a cake, and Nigel had to wonder if a criticism hadn’t just been served up with the tea and crumpets. He got to his feet rather than ponder such an improbability.

  “We’ll check in on her at Dolan’s estate early next week. Ladies, it has been a pleasure, and you must write to Mama posthaste.”

  Bonny bowed over their hands, patted their knuckles, stood a shade too close in parting, and twinkled his damned eyes until Nigel wanted to wallop his friend with a riding crop, but then—thank God—they were trotting down the lane toward Bonny’s country retreat while Hecate and Drusilla waved them on their way with monogrammed handkerchiefs and admonitions to come by again soon.

  “What lovely cousins you have, Wooster. I liked the little brunette in particular. They might have made decent matches if somebody had seen to their come-outs.”

  “Second cousins, and Drusilla’s smile hides a world of feminine cunning. Mama wasn’t inclined to present them. I rather thought Hecate turned out well enough.” Better than a cousin of any degree ought to have turned out, and he’d never thought himself partial to blonds with mischievous smiles.

  Bonny regarded Nigel for a long moment. “Your mama doesn’t hold the title, and your mama must learn that you are the head of the family. I went through the same thing with my mother. To set matters on the proper course takes a firm hand and nerves of steel—probably very good preparation for holy matrimony.”

  “Bonny, are you censuring my treatment of my cousins?” The very notion stung.

  Bonny shrugged broad shoulders. “You haven’t exactly treated them, so what is there to criticize? Besides, you’re marrying the fair Amy, and that will give you the means to make provisions for the other two, won’t it?”

  This realization stung a good deal more. The addition of not one but three women to the family dole was a lowering thought. “Suppose it will.” Nigel whacked his mount on the quarters and cantered away from the stale crumpets, the weak tea, and the obligations connoted thereby.

  Three

  A man who’d spent much of his childhood on nodding terms with starvation knew better than to plunder or steal what must be bargained for, regardless of how dearly he desired the prize. The past week had shown Jonathan one thing at least: he could not go on worshipping from afar, he needed to resolve matters with Amy Ingraham one way or another before he parted with his reason.

  And either way, he was determined to at least have a kiss to show for his efforts.

  Jonathan settled his lips over Miss Ingraham’s with…authority. He struck a balance between entreaty and demand that required him to ignore both the male-animal jubilation coursing through his veins and the terror roiling in his gut.

  She’d be horrified at his expression of honest desire.

  She’d say nothing, but in the morning he’d find a tidily penned notice of intent to vacate her post.

  She’d simply vanish…

  This notion made him gather her more closely in his arms and take a glancing taste of her lips with his tongue. So plush and soft, so…

  Amy Ingraham made the sweetest little moan in the back of her throat, and through the haze of his building lust, Jonathan felt her hand fist in his hair and her breasts press firmly, even desperately, to his chest.

  She might vanish in the morning, but right now, she was kissing him back.

  The relief of that realization had him gentling his approach so he might savor the pleasures of the moment—The heat of her tongue when it made a slow sweep over his bottom lip.

  The particular sound of their clothing shifting and rubbing in close proximity.

  Her leg hooked across his knees, adding a nice little clutching gesture below their waists.

  The lovely, pungent fragrance of lemon verbena on the summer air.

  Jonathan was contemplating the necessity of shaping her breast under his palm when Amy’s mouth withdrew from his.

  “This is wicked.”

  She breathed the words against his neck, her fist still closed around the hair at his nape. He felt the rising and falling of her chest against his sternum while her leg slid back to a more decorous position.

  “Not wicked.” Jonathan cradled her jaw and marveled at the contrast between his stonemason’s hands and her soft cheek. “Lovely. Sweet. Precious beyond words.”

  Gaelic endearments bubbled up, but rather than blemish the moment with his heathen tongue, he settled for kissing her temple. “You kissed me too, my dear.” Gaelic would have been better than that smug pronouncement, cursing would have been better, and yet, it was a truth he wanted her to acknowledge.

  She tried to sit up. “Any woman would have been helpless to resist such skill, sir…”

  “Mother of God, can you not say my name, Amy Ingraham?”

  The effort to sit up, to stiffen her spine, lasted another three seconds, while Jonathan gently thwarted her. He kept his arms around her, tucked his chin over her crown, and held her loosely until she subsided with a sigh.

  “This was very bad of us.” She sounded more bewildered than outraged. At least she wasn’t amused.

  “I’m sure you’ll tell me why a little kiss is so very bad, long before I have any interest in hearing your sermon. For now, might I please have the pleasure of simply holding you?”

  She straightened enough to look him in the eye for an instant. “That was your idea of a little kiss?” She tucked herself against him, muttering something that sounded like “Mother of God.”

  After another moment, and another weighty sigh from the woman in his embrace, Amy’s arm stole around the back of Jonathan’s waist.

  “How shall I face you at breakfast, Mr. D—”

  He dipped his head and bit her earlobe. “Jonathan.” Speaking through teeth clenched around a delectable bit of female flesh while that female tried not to laugh was an effort.

  “You are horrid, Mister Dolan.” She did laugh, the slight tremors of her body making Jonathan want to lay her out flat beneath him on the bench, shove their clothing aside…

  He wrestled his thoughts away from that image. “Jon-a-than. Say it.”

  Her free hand came up to cradle his jaw, her palm soft and warm against his skin. “Jonathan. Jonathan Patrick Joseph Dolan.”

  “Thank you.” Bless her, for giving him this small boon and for knowing his full name. “I’ve wanted to kiss you forever, you know.”

  The admission was probably stupid, a bad miscalculation that would have her thinking he’d been lusting in dark corners since the day he’d hired her, which wasn’t the case at all.

  She snuggled closer. “I’ve been wanting to kiss you since you bought Georgina the spaniel. My papa would never let me have a dog, said they were too much fuss and bother, as if…”

  In her silence, Jonathan heard the rest of the thought: as if a daughter weren’t bother enough.

  “I’ll buy you an entire kennel.”

  She un-snuggled.

  She didn’t exactly stomp off, but now Jonathan knew he’d miscalculated. He was certain of it when she straightened, kissed his cheek, and sat up. “You needn’t buy me anything, sir. This was a delightful lapse, but a lapse nonetheless. Shall we agree to forget it happened?”

  He’d been smug in victory a moment ago, and now the ground beneath his feet was treacherous. “I can agree never to mention it without your invitation.”

  The look she gave him was hard to fathom. “My thanks.”

  She sounded like Lord Deene, her words bringing to mind the aristocrat implying something besides thanks. While Jonathan sought for some means of arguing her conclusions, she leaned in again and kissed him on the mouth lingeringly.

  When she rose and headed back toward the house, J
onathan marshaled frustration that wasn’t entirely physical. That last kiss, the one she’d taken from him, had been a kiss of parting.

  Or had it? The damned dog had joined the household at least a year ago—no, two years ago.

  At least.

  ***

  Hecate Ingraham stuffed her handkerchief back into a pocket as the dust on the drive dissipated into the summer air. “We have been wicked, Sister.”

  Drusilla tucked her handkerchief away as well and paced over to the porch swing. “Naughty, indeed. The stale tea cakes were an inspiration. I do like the look of the baron though.”

  Hecate took a seat beside her sister and gave the swing a push with her slippered foot.

  “I think it a shame that Cousin Nigel has grown so handsome. He was a crashing bore when we were forced to visit in Hampshire as children.”

  “A good-looking crashing bore,” Drusilla agreed. “But only a second cousin, thank God. Do we have a proper pot of tea now, or is a medicinal tot of the raspberry cordial in order?”

  “A tot. Definitely a tot.” Another push, while Dru heaved out a sigh that portended a mind at work on a Problem.

  “We must warn Amy, you know. Nigel is up to something, and it won’t be something as tame as putting toads in our beds.”

  “We put them in his boots first, alas for the toads. What are you fretting at, Dru?”

  Drusilla took a turn toe-pushing the swing, rather vigorously. “Amy is our sister.”

  A statement of the obvious from Dru was nothing more than an opening feint. “She is.”

  “She sends us money frequently, and she has suffered at the hands of the Witless Gender.”

  “Suffered grievously,” Hecate replied, though it was years ago, and many women had suffered the same fate. She was about to rise and fetch the cordial when Drusilla went on speaking.

  “Amy probably won’t even notice the baron’s shoulders.”

  Ah. “And you saw him first, so you think it only fair that he fall in love with you. Honestly, Dru, that’s not a sacrifice Amy would expect you to make.”

  “I do not think the baron will be falling in love with anybody. I think if we warn Amy that Nigel is sniffing about the gate, she might conclude it’s her responsibility to see that he’ll make provision for the two of us—though God knows he’s had years to do that. Nigel would be a deal of work if she took him on, while Amy’s present circumstance seems to make her happy. As happy as she’ll allow herself to be.”