“Mother of—Amy, did you suppose I could be this intimate with you, hold you while your tears wet my chest, bury myself inside you not once but twice, and then greet you over breakfast as if nothing had changed?”
“Many men suppose just that, and carry it off quite well. I visit with other governesses in the park, abigails, and companions. Ours can be a perilous existence.”
“And you think I’d condemn you to that?” He wanted to shake her, and he wanted to use his fists on the men who’d justified these notions of hers with such dishonorable behavior.
“You look so fierce, Jonathan Dolan.” Her smile was slow and knowing, not a smile he’d seen on her before, and it made her positively, rivetingly beautiful. “You would not take advantage of me—of anyone. You are far too much a gentleman to behave so disgracefully.”
He did not comment on the error of her observation. “So you’ll marry me?”
“Give me time to adjust to the notion. I’ll give you an answer before we must go back to Town.”
He wanted to tell her they’d leave for Town at dawn, but his negotiating instincts told him not to let her see how desperate he was—not to put it into words yet again. “Take your time, then, Miss Ingraham, but I know a few things about music and poetry.”
She brushed her hand over his chest, then stared at his right nipple as it reacted to her touch. “What do you know?”
“I adore you, too. I have for quite some time. I also know that symphonies typically have at least three movements, and poems can have many stanzas. They can go on for pages and pages.”
His behavior in the next hours wasn’t gentlemanly, but he made a decision in favor of hope and trust and adoration. As he explored all those extra stanzas and orchestral finales with Amy, Jonathan again took not the simplest measures to reduce the probability of conception.
Nor did she ask him to.
***
Nigel did not allow himself to peer around the Marquess of Deene’s foyer until the footman had withdrawn, bearing Nigel’s hat, riding gloves, and crop, and the butler had toddled off with Nigel’s card on a salver.
Cousin Amy was no doubt overwhelmed by such grand surrounds. To have a card delivered to her on a silver tray would likely fluster the woman nicely.
“I beg your pardon, sir.” A petite blond bearing a bowl of roses halted abruptly in the doorway to the foyer. “May I be of assistance?”
She was pretty enough, and as Nigel’s gaze traveled over her person, he noted generous curves in the best places, particularly those places north of her waist and south of her chin.
“I am Wooster.” He infused his voice with a hint of hauteur.
“Mr. Wooster.” She bobbed a curtsy, roses and all. The woman wasn’t even wearing a cap, which suggested Lord Deene overlooked a bit of laxness from his more attractive domestics.
Nigel studied her bosom, which truly was perfect. Not vulgarly generous, but abundant and well displayed by a fetching pale green dress. “Lord Wooster.”
“Are you here to see his lordship?”
If she was the housekeeper, then such a question wasn’t exactly rude. “I will pay my courtesies to him, certainly, but I am calling upon a guest, Miss Amy Ingraham. The butler has been dispatched to fetch her.”
The woman’s gaze dropped to her roses. “I’ll wish you good day then.” She popped another small curtsy and withdrew.
Deene was said to be recently wed. His marchioness must be the tolerant sort, or she’d have dismissed the likes of the curvy little blond immediately upon getting Deene up to scratch. This idea put Nigel in a good humor. A man with a tolerant wife would be disposed to understand Nigel’s own circumstances, which might come in handy if Dolan grumbled about the loss of a governess.
Which he would not. Even a mushroom like Dolan had to know governesses were available on any street corner.
The butler reappeared through the doorway the housekeeper had just vacated. “This way, my lord.”
The house smelled good, of flowers, lemon, and beeswax. The place was full of summer sunshine too, the windows sparkling clean, and the drapery tidily folded back. Nigel abruptly decided that upon his marriage to Amy, the family seat in Hampshire would get a good scrubbing—the present viscountess not being inclined to trifle with household matters.
“Miss Ingraham has been informed of your arrival, my lord.”
The butler bowed his way from the pretty parlor into which Nigel had been shown. From somewhere in the house, a woman’s laughter rang out, then the lower tones of a man’s voice. Morale was apparently good among Deene’s servants, though decorum sadly wanting.
“Cousin Nigel.” A woman spoke his name a few moments later, a willowy blond with lovely gray eyes, a perfect complexion, and soft masses of shiny hair caught back at her nape. Standing inside the doorway, she was prettier than the housekeeper by virtue of greater height. For that matter, she was prettier than many women by virtue of some unnamable luminous quality to her whole bearing.
And this was Jonathan Dolan’s governess?
“Dear Cousin Amy.” He held out his hands to her, and when she crossed a few steps to take them into her own, he tugged her in close enough for an embrace.
The moment—the entire situation—called for boldness.
She allowed him a brief, chaste hug then stepped back. “This is a surprise and a pleasure. May I ring for tea?”
She’d probably enjoy such a small gesture of standing, to have a titled relation call on her, and to be able to offer him tea. “Tea would be lovely, but not half so lovely as you, dear cousin.
This compliment earned him a quizzical glance—Amy would not be used to drawing-room flatteries—and then she went to the door to order the tray. Nigel was pleased to note the view of the back of her was as lovely as the view of the front. Amy wasn’t as curvaceous as her sister Hecate, but Nigel would reconcile himself to that disappointment eventually.
“Won’t you have a seat, Nigel? I can’t stay long. Georgina has her heart set on a picnic this afternoon, and I disappoint her at my peril.”
Nigel affixed a look of sympathy to his features, took a seat on the sofa, and patted the place beside him. “Is your charge a spoiled little beast? I am grieved to hear it.”
Amy took a ladder-backed chair near the hearth, and sat so her spine did not touch the chair. Perhaps she hadn’t understood the proximity he’d offered; more likely she could not afford to act familiarly with a caller.
But no, she was smiling. “Georgina is a treasure, the day is gorgeous, and the marchioness has declared that we will abandon the house and go wading. How does the summer find you, Nigel, and what brings you this way?”
Boldness, he reminded himself. “I am in good health, but as for what brings me to Surrey, you do. Surely you must know that.”
Her brows drew down. “I’m glad to see you, of course, but my circumstances are very comfortable. You need have no concern for me.”
The tea tray arrived, and Nigel was pleased to see Amy could navigate it without fumbling. He accepted a cup and set it aside after a single sip. “Amy, your birthday approaches.”
“In a few weeks. You will not tease me into revealing which one it is, either. I’ve had rather a lot of them.” Her rueful smile was fleeting.
Boldness. “My dear, I can wait no longer. The issue of our betrothal has become urgent.”
Her head came up, and she set her cup on its saucer with a little clatter. “Our what?”
“Our betrothal. Might I have a few of those cakes?” They looked delicious, draped in frosting and arranged just so.
“Nigel, you can’t blithely announce—” She fell silent, which was wise of her. She’d been on the verge of raising her voice, something Mama would not approve of at all. Nigel accepted a plate with three cakes on it.
“You’re not having any?”
She got up to pace. “For God’s sake, Nigel. We are not now, nor have we ever been, engaged.”
“Well, this makes one t
hing clear.” He popped a cake in his mouth, letting chocolate sweetness spread over his palate. “I’m reassured you weren’t being coy, or—heaven forbid!—trying to avoid your duty. You really didn’t know?”
She whirled toward him from across the room and stopped, her arms crossed over her middle. “Didn’t know what?”
“Didn’t know of our engagement. Surely somebody…” He pretended to assess her heightened color, her tense posture. “But I can see they did not. Finish your tea, Amy, and contemplate how many women enjoy exchanging a governess’s lot for that of a titled lady. Consider it my early birthday present to you.”
She did not do exactly as he bid. She went to the window and stood for a long moment with her back to him, which allowed Nigel to consume two more tea cakes. He waited, expecting she’d soon start weeping with gratitude and demanding that he promise he was not jesting.
If only.
Amy was a pretty enough woman that Nigel would manage to do his marital duty by her, but she wasn’t…warm, not like her sister Hecate. Her eyes held no laughter, no light of devilment. She wasn’t…approachable, and she didn’t look at all like she’d become the sort of viscountess to meekly pacify Mama day after day.
“I brought you a ring, though I can’t vouch for its size. Shall I put it on your finger?”
She turned, her features remarkably composed considering the good fortune befalling her. “That would be rather hasty, wouldn’t it? You might consider us engaged, but I have heard no proposal, and you haven’t heard an acceptance.”
He hadn’t seen her for twelve years, but even as an adolescent, she’d had a sort of sternness about her. When Nigel had heard Cousin Amy was at work in the schoolroom, he’d considered it a natural fit for her and pitied any unruly children in her care.
Nonetheless, boldness meant he should slap an indulgent smile on his face and jolly her past her incredulity.
“Come, Cousin, are we to descend into dramatics? Shall I go down on one knee? The documents require that we are to marry by your twenty-eighth birthday if Grandpapa’s provisions aren’t to be largely lost to you.”
“Our grandfathers set this up? I cannot believe such a thing.”
Mulish woman. She’d likely inherited that from their great-grandfather, whose stubbornness was legendary.
“You are in shock.” He rose and moved closer to her, and caught a whiff of lemons from her. She would wear lemon, though a hint of brimstone wouldn’t have surprised him. “I have had years to accustom myself to these terms, and years to hope you were merely indulging in an independent nature when you went into service—”
“An independent nature? For God’s sake, Nigel, I wanted to eat. I wanted to provide for my sisters. I wanted to survive. I wrote to your mother repeatedly, begging for her assistance and guidance, and I even wrote to you.”
“I never saw your letter.” His mother had burned it unread, saying it couldn’t include anything other than all its predecessors had. “I am sorry, and the post is notorious for being unreliable.”
“It is not.” Her voice cracked like a whip.
Would he have to argue her into accepting a title? Nigel’s gaze fell on Amy’s prim mouth, and he felt a sinking sensation regarding his marital future.
“So you thought yourself abandoned? Why didn’t you come to us, Amy? We’re your family, and you must have known we’d be in Town during the Season? A post chaise out to Hampshire shouldn’t have been beyond you, and Mama would never turn away family.”
Nigel was congratulating himself on the concern and hint of reproach in his voice—as well as the smoothness of his lying—when the petite blond came barging into the room.
“Miss Ingraham, I’m sorry to interrupt your little tête-à-tête with his lordship, but Georgina is growing inpatient. Your duties call.”
The little idiot beamed encouragingly at Amy, which was the outside of too much.
“My good woman, you are rag-mannered indeed to interrupt a gentleman when he’s calling on a lady, much less on a relation, much, much less when he’s calling on his intended for the purpose of solemnizing their engagement. You will take yourself off immediately. Tell the dratted child to go copy some prayers, and be very certain that I will inform Lord Deene of the rudeness countenanced among his help.”
Amy’s jaw snapped closed with an audible click, though if she were to become a viscountess, then she’d need to know how to deliver a proper dressing down. God knew Mama had the knack of it.
“Why don’t I fetch Lord Deene?” the blond volunteered. She had a gleam in her eye Nigel did not in the least approve of. “And Amy Ingraham, you are coming with me.” She grabbed Amy by the wrist and towed Nigel’s cousin from the room.
Clearly, Amy was oppressed in her present circumstances, even by so dubious an authority as her host’s housekeeper. But of course, the woman was likely Deene’s leman, which put a different light on the situation.
Deene was to be admired, really, if he could keep wife and mistress both content under the same roof. Nigel resumed his seat before the tea tray and popped another cake into his mouth.
A wife, a mistress, and a jolly good cook, too. Perhaps married life might not be so bad after all.
***
“Get the hell in here.” Jonathan’s brother-in-law grabbed him by the elbow and all but dragged him into the library.
“Deene, is this how you treat guests now? I’ll have a word with mine hostess that your disposition is in want of—”
Deene closed the door behind them with a kick of his boot. “Shut up and listen, Dolan.”
“I do not respond well to the imperative voice, Deene.” Jonathan shrugged out of his lordship’s grasp. “I’m to join Georgina and her governess for a picnic down by the stream, where I will no doubt be splashed without mercy and consoled for the abuse I suffer by being pelted with strawberries and—”
“Drink this.” Deene shoved a glass of whiskey at Jonathan. “You’ve trouble brewing, unless I much mistake the situation.”
Jonathan peered at his drink. “Even for you, Deene, this is odd behavior. Explain yourself.”
“Evie came across a Lord Wooster lurking in our foyer, a pink of the ton idling about in high fashion without an invitation from me. He said he came to call upon your Miss Ingraham, and when Evie couldn’t find me to alert me to his presence, she took it upon herself to chaperone his call.”
“Lord Wooster.” The name rang a bell, not a pleasant one. “Where is Amy right now?”
Deene nodded, as if Jonathan’s response confirmed something in the marquess’s mind. “Evie dragooned Miss Ingraham into joining Georgie on their planned outing.”
“Our planned outing. I gather you were not invited?” Jonathan took a fortifying drink of excellent potation, but it did little to ease his distress at the thought of a titled gentleman calling upon Amy.
“What would be the point of my joining the picnic? Evie was going to distract the child, while you…”
“While I what?
“Wooed your child’s governess.”
This sip was necessary to give Jonathan time to think. “I was under the impression, Deene, that you regard me as the presuming Irish cit who kidnapped your sister into holy matrimony by taking advantage of both her and your mercenary father. You hate me, and you tolerate me under your roof only because you do not want to offend your niece.”
“I do not hate you.” Deene muttered this, and turned away to pour himself a drink. When he’d tossed back two fingers—and not of lemonade—he rounded on Jonathan with a determined expression. “I resented you.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I resent you.”
Jonathan saluted with his drink. “Present tense, duly noted. I resent you, too. Marie thought you could do no wrong, while I was a constant source of shame to her.”
“Ashamed of you?”
“Certainly.” Even with Deene’s best libation on hand, the admission wasn’t easy. “I all but bought her, Deene, or so she believed, and no mat
ter that she was mistaken, I was not her choice. I was her duty.”
Deene poured himself another half glass. “She bloody loved you, you fool. She was ashamed of her family, of the way her own father sold her off to pay his gambling debts—and my tuition bills. That’s what she resented.”
The marquess glowered at his drink while insight warmed Jonathan’s insides more than the best whiskey ever would.
“Looking after Georgina is the only way you can absolve yourself of the sacrifice your sister made for her family—for you.”
Deene’s glower intensified. “I’m Georgina’s uncle, her only adult male relation on her mother’s side worth the name. I will not neglect my responsibility, but we can argue that point some other day. I’d say at present we have a more pressing concern.”
“Lord Wooster.” And wasn’t it interesting, that Wooster was our problem?
“He announced to Evie that he’s some relation of Miss Ingraham’s and he’s come to seal their betrothal. Georgina won’t like this development at all, and I can’t say I approve of it either.”
As a boy, Jonathan had experienced the shock on a hot summer day of leaping from the broiling sun into the still, frigid depths of the water filling an abandoned quarry. The same sensations went through him then settled in a leaden ball in his guts.
Among the upper-class English, there was no such thing as an informal betrothal.
“To hell with your approval,” Jonathan spat. “I loathe the very notion of Amy marrying another.”
“Thought you might.” Deene looked marginally relieved. “I’ve run Wooster off for now, but he’ll be back tomorrow. He told me in confidence that their grandfathers set it up, so the marriage has to take place in the next few weeks or Amy’s portion will be greatly reduced. What shall we do about him?”
Jonathan attributed the frisson of weakness in his knees to Deene’s blasted whiskey.
“He’s titled, Deene, and he’s a gentleman. I’ll bet he’s such a damned gentleman he wears gloves to bed and has some fussy little maggot shine his boots with champagne.”
Deene set his drink down with a thump.
Jonathan and Amy Page 7