Jonathan and Amy

by Grace Burrowes

  Nigel would be a deal of handsome work. Hecate got the swing moving again.

  “Amy is happy with her Mr. Dolan, whose household she might forsake if we’re impressed to go to Hampshire.” Amy wrote little regarding her employer, but the very absence of contumely suggested that she approved of the man.

  “Mr. Dolan and his dear Georgina. Men do occasionally marry their children’s governesses.” Drusilla was not wrong in this. They’d had occasion to make lists of the men they knew who’d married their children’s governesses.

  “We’ve had no indication such a match is in the offing, Dru, and Amy has worked for Mr. Dolan for years.”

  “A few years. A widower has things to deal with, and Amy says Mr. Dolan is shy.”

  The swing creaked to a halt. “Amy can be shy too.” Also stubborn, loyal, proper to a fault, and in her highly educated way, not very bright.

  A widower was better than nothing, of course. Both twins had been approached by widowers—men who weren’t in the market for schoolgirls or stepchildren. Such attention wasn’t quite flattering, but it was better than being ignored altogether, particularly when the widower was youngish, wealthy, and handsome, and the lady had long since lost her heart to the widower’s small daughter.

  “Amy and her Mr. Dolan will find their way,” Drusilla said. “I shall find the raspberry cordial.” She rose, but Hecate caught her by the wrist.

  “Pour me a glass, and we’ll compose a note to Amy warning her that Nigel has recalled his family connections after all these years. We can post it the first of the week—assuming we can find her direction, and assuming she hasn’t gone back to Town without telling us.”

  Such a note would ensure that Amy would be underfoot when next Nigel came around oozing charm and wearing boots badly in need of new heels. Somebody needed to take Nigel in hand, because Dear Cousin was up to an adult version of putting a toad in a young lady’s bed.

  “Mr. Dolan might better comprehend the treasure he’s been harboring if a titled, handsome swain shows Amy some attention,” Drusilla said. “But Amy might consider it her responsibility to fall in with whatever scheme of Nigel’s will see us settled. We must consider strategy, Sister. We owe it to Amy to consider our strategy before we summon her from Mr. Dolan’s side.”

  Drusilla did not tarry long enough for Hecate to start listing considerations and possibilities, but instead disappeared into the house.

  “Strategy! And bring the bottle out here, if you please,” Hecate called after her, “with the fresh tea cakes!”

  ***

  Amy awoke to a flash of lightning and a rumble of thunder. A nice, here-comes-the-storm sort of rumble that meant a brisk breeze was likely to kick up soon. Grabbing for her dressing gown, she pushed her feet into slippers and headed across the corridor to Georgina’s room.

  The curtains beside the girl’s bed were already dancing in the freshening breeze, while the bed itself was empty.

  And this, more than the coming storm, was what had awakened Amy—a sixth sense that all was not well with her charge. The same instinct had alerted Amy to more than one nightmare, as well as the child’s inchoate bout of influenza.

  Amy closed the window except for a half-inch crack and inspected the room. No dressing gown and no slippers, and Georgina was very good about observing a nightly routine that would have had both at the foot of the bed.

  “Wandering, then.” And Georgina wandered to one destination when she wanted comfort. Not to her governess, not if Papa was anywhere to be found.

  Amy knew exactly where Jon—where Mr. Dolan’s room was. Georgina had insisted on seeing it, and had made an inspection of it. The dog, Charles, was sternly admonished not to eat Papa’s slippers, “lest Papa be cross.”

  As if Jonathan Dolan could ever be cross with his daughter. Gruff possibly, and stern, of course, but not cross. The door to his room was cracked a few inches, and soft light spilled into the corridor. Amy tapped twice on the door.

  “Come in.” Mr. Dolan’s voice, but speaking softly rather than issuing orders and ultimatums.

  He sat in a capacious armchair, Georgina curled against his chest. His hand stroked slowly over her back while her breathing followed a regular rhythm.

  “She couldn’t sleep. Deene has recruited her to assist the marchioness with naming the foals, of which I can tell you, there are at least two dozen.”

  The picture of the small child dozing peacefully in her father’s arms caused a queer ache in Amy’s chest. When Georgina had been ill, her father had slept on the floor of the nursery until her fever had abated. He’d read to his daughter, played cards with her, taught her how to shoot marbles, then turned around and interrogated the physicians he’d hired—the best to be had—until they either produced intelligible answers or were shown the door.

  Amy pushed the memory aside and advanced into the room. “I think she’s enjoying her visit.”

  His smile was rueful as he gathered Georgina and rose with her cradled in his embrace.

  “Must you? Of course she’s enjoying her visit. Deene has cozened his wife into ensuring it’s so. My only consolation is that without his marchioness, he’d be reduced to stashing his pockets with horehound sweets and performing card tricks the same as any other uncle.”

  “I am more than capable of tucking her in, sir.”

  “Of course you are.” He leaned over and kissed Amy’s cheek, angling the child slightly away to effect his thievery. “Soon, she’ll be too grown up to bring the events of the day to Papa. Fetch us the candle, if you please. Let me have what cuddles I can before my daughter outgrows her regard for me.”

  “You’ll miss her.” Amy picked up the candle, resenting that his claim on the child was as far superior to her own as his physical strength was to hers.

  “Perhaps we’ll both miss her.”

  Rotten man.

  But as Amy illuminated his progress down the corridor to Georgina’s room, she admitted part of her pique was a function of the kiss they’d shared three days earlier. He hadn’t brought it up in conversation, but he’d repeated the offense in its misdemeanor varieties.

  He’d kissed her hand when he escorted her up to her room at the end of the day.

  He’d kissed her cheek when he’d collected her from the library prior to dinner.

  He’d claimed a kiss as his prize when the adults had indulged Georgina in a game of forfeits, causing the child to groan and the marchioness to posit that any lady would want to lose her round to Mr. Dolan if that was the boon he sought.

  And Jonathan had laughed and cast such a look at Amy, she’d been put to the blush in company.

  Dratted, man. Dratted handsome man, looking weary and slightly disheveled and perilously dear.

  “If you’ll put her on the bed.”

  His lips quirked up, as if he wasn’t fooled by Amy’s businesslike air. He settled the child gently on the mattress, then drew the blankets up and straightened. “She’ll sleep soundly now, but what about you? Will the storm keep you awake?”

  Amy passed him the candle and tucked the covers more closely around Georgina. She smoothed a hand over the child’s brow, then realized what she was doing.

  “I’m sorry.”

  He cupped his hand around the candle to shield it from the draft, but this also reduced the available light. “What could you be sorry for?”

  “I don’t mean to imply… Georgina is not my daughter.”

  While Amy forbid herself to fuss at the sleeping child any further, Jonathan held the candle up a few inches, closer to Amy’s face. “Your mood is not sanguine, my dear. Are you angry with me? Marie could be irritable too, at certain predictable intervals.”

  “At certain—!”

  “Come along, my dear.” He took her hand in his and led her from the room, closing the door quietly behind them. “I suppose a gentleman wouldn’t allude to such a notion? Marie was hardly reserved about her bodily rhythms.”

  “A gentleman would most assuredly avoid
such topics.” Though damn him, he’d suggested a plausible excuse for why Amy had felt a sense of melancholia over the past several days.

  “Then husbands aren’t gentlemen, because without fail, if my wife were screeching at me one moment and weeping in my arms the next, there was only one explanation. I took to marking my calendar so I’d know when to bring home flowers.”

  Amy stopped but didn’t retrieve her hand from his grasp. “You brought her flowers?”

  “I brought you flowers.”

  He tugged on her hand, and she started walking again. “When?”

  “When you had that head cold, in the winter.”

  “The card said they were from Georgina.” But Amy had had her suspicions, of course she had. And one of the red roses gracing that bouquet—roses in January!—was pressed between the pages of her Bible. “Where are we going?” The question answered itself as they came to a halt. “This is a bad idea, Mr. Dolan.”

  And yet, she followed him into his bedroom and said nothing when he closed the door behind them, set the candle down, and turned to face her, his hands on his hips.

  “I’ll tell you what is a bad idea, Amy Ingraham. A bad idea is when you watch me like I’m about to pounce on you, to the point that Deene has remarked the situation.”

  The last thing, the very last thing Amy had expected was a lecture—and a deserved lecture. “I do apologize, but if you’d keep your lips to yourself, perhaps I wouldn’t maintain such a close eye on you.”

  He glowered, and without moving, seemed to grow taller and broader. “If my advances are wholly unwelcome, you have only to so inform me.”

  To get away from the indignation in his gaze, and the hint of vulnerability lurking beneath it, Amy ducked aside and began to pace. “Your attentions are not wholly unwelcome, but you leave it to me to exercise sound judgment, and I am not as reliable in this regard as you might think.”

  “You have very sound judgment, my dear Amy. I wouldn’t entrust you with my only child if you lacked judgment.”

  Now he sounded amused, the wretch, and he’d called her Amy.

  Also my dear. Again.

  “There, you see! You call me Amy, and I want to smile. Not a condescending smile, as if I had some perspective on such a presumption, but a real, genuine smile, at you—simply for using my name.”

  “Say my name.”

  He made no sense. “Jonathan.”

  And while she was studying him, trying to fathom what he was about, he smiled—at her. His smile harkened to the way he looked at Georgina, full of tenderness and approval, but it was a swain’s smile, not a papa’s smile at all.

  “Yes,” Amy said, taking a seat. “I want to look at you in precisely that manner. This is, this is folly.” And that she remained right there beside him, in his bedroom, late at night, worse than folly.

  “You are flustered.” He lowered himself beside her. “I am sorry for it. Tell me what I can do to calm you.”

  He took her hand, and despite all sense to the contrary, it helped steady Amy’s nerves—until she saw where they were sitting. “This is a bed.”

  “My bed. It’s comfortable too, which suggests Deene is emerging from the perpetual adolescence common to his peers. Tell me what’s really bothering you. You know if it’s in my power to do so, I’ll address it.”

  He kissed her forehead, and that obliterated Amy’s scanty reserves of composure. The scent of him, the proximity of his throat to her mouth, the realization that he was without neckwear… This would never do.

  “You think I am proper enough to resist what you offer, because you assume I don’t precisely know what you offer. I wish… That is, you must consider…” She was gripping his hand and knew she should untangle her fingers from his. “I have experience,” she went on, “such that I am more susceptible to temptation than you suppose. I know where kisses can lead. I know what use beds can be put to.”

  Jonathan withdrew his fingers from her grasp at that confession—now, when she wanted to drag his hand against her heart and hold it there.

  “You have experience?” His voice was painfully neutral, as cool as the rain beginning to patter down outside the window. “What variety of experience?”

  “The kind no true lady ought to have.”

  ***

  “Your shot.” Bonny yawned and cracked his jaw. “And make it count. I’m for bed once I’ve beaten you again.”

  “I’m distracted. I rode over to Dolan’s country retreat—the place is the size of a palace—but no Amy. Seems they’re enjoying the company of the Marquess of Deene, whose hospitality even includes Dolan’s brat.” Nigel considered the billiards table as thunder rumbled off to the south. “And that storm doesn’t help my concentration.”

  “You’re dithering, or possibly whining.”

  “Both.” The table held not one decent shot, and any more brandy would mean a bad head in the morning, which—given his plans—Nigel could not afford. “Where did you get off to today?”

  Bonny’s smile was wicked. He leaned on his cue stick as if it were a shepherd’s crook. “I paid a call.”

  “Upon whom? There’s precious little decent company hereabouts, not like Kent.”

  “Seems I forgot my gloves when we last visited your cousins.”

  Nigel squatted to sight a potential shot at eye level. “Forgot your gloves? You paid a call on the Misses Ingraham over a pair of gloves? Subjected yourself to more stale tea cakes and weak tea over an item of apparel?”

  “No.” Bonny twirled his cue stick like a baton. “My gloves are all accounted for. I used the pretext of a missing pair to enjoy some very impressive raspberry cordial and a few sandwiches on the porch in the company of Miss Drusilla. Miss Hecate was off to the lending library.”

  “Raspberry cordial cannot be impressive.” Nigel rose, feeling a crick in his back, also a peculiar relief that Bonny hadn’t aimed his charms at Hecate. She was too substantial a woman for a man as good-hearted as Bonny. She’d chew him up and spit him out in the space of a single waltz.

  “Raspberry cordial can be quite impressive,” Bonny said, “unlike your billiards game. If you were to forfeit, I might be persuaded to keep your disgrace to myself.”

  Bonny was good-hearted. He was not an idiot. “You’d keep it to yourself—if what?”

  “If you dower your cousins.”

  Abruptly, they weren’t bantering. They’d progressed to that delicate ground where friendships could flounder and challenges might be issued.

  Nigel took his shot, which sent balls bouncing all over the table, but sank not a one. “Bonny, if I could dower them, I would. Mama wouldn’t have it.”

  Bonny skewered Nigel with a look that announced contempt for the fiction that Nigel’s mother had vetoed dowries.

  But Bonny was good-hearted, so no challenge—no overt challenge—was issued. “Perhaps when you win the hand of the fair Amy, you might bring the topic up with your wife, for she will want to see her sisters provided for. A dowager viscountess would not have a say in such a discussion, would she?”

  Bonny leaned over the table, aimed, and took his shot. As a crack of thunder sounded directly overhead, three balls dropped, just like that. One, two, three.

  ***

  “Were you willing?”

  Jonathan put the question quietly, but the lady’s answer made such a difference. Mother of God, if she’d been forced… And here he was, cadging kisses from her at every opportunity.

  “Oh, I was far from forced. I was eager.”

  Amy was disgruntled, and she could be only Amy when he beheld her in her night-robe and slippers, her hair a golden rope over one shoulder.

  “Eager is a good thing.” Jonathan slipped his arm around her waist. “A woman ought to be eager, especially her first time.”

  She shook her hand free of his and toyed with a button on the sleeve of her robe. “What about her second or her third?”

  A story lurked here, and late at night with a breeze whipping up and onl
y one candle lit was the time to wrest the story from her. Jonathan nudged Amy’s head to his shoulder—where it did not stay, until she returned it there herself. “Tell me, dear heart. I told you about my calendar.”

  “You should not have.”

  A glimmer of amusement laced her words, so he didn’t push. He stroked her back and savored the feel of her right next to him, on his bed.

  “There was a boy. His name was Robert.”

  A boy, not a man. “Go on.”

  “He was the squire’s son, a suitable fellow, and he had a wonderful smile.” She fell silent for a moment while Jonathan focused on her use of the past tense. “But he was seventeen and restless, needing to see the world if not conquer it. His indulgent papa bought him a commission, and off he went for a soldier on the Peninsula.”

  “But first he charmed you with his smile, as boys in their regimentals are wont to do.”

  “You make it sound prosaic. He and I had an understanding—we truly did—except he would not let it be an engagement, given that he was going off to war.” She sounded weary, as if she’d told herself this aspect of the tale many times.

  “You want to believe he was honorable.” Jonathan turned her, so she was in his embrace more than merely sitting beside him.

  “When he died, his commanding officer sent to me the lock of hair Robert had carried everywhere. The letter was very nice, going on about how thoughts of me must have comforted the fallen hero, but that lock of hair was several shades darker than mine has ever been.”

  “He might have been carrying it for a comrade, a comrade fallen in battle.”

  Jonathan brought his arms around her, and she burrowed into him with a gusty sigh. “You are so kind. I was furious.”

  He propped his chin on her crown, closed his eyes, and inhaled a bouquet of lemon verbena. “Because?”