Jonathan and Amy

by Grace Burrowes

  “So you’ll cede the field? You’ll withdraw from the lists, when you can’t take your eyes off that woman? For God’s sake, you fought for Marie when you hardly knew her. You bludgeoned, bribed, and brawled your way into the best clubs, tricked out your handsome Irish arse to perfection, courted her at every ball and breakfast in Mayfair… And you’ll toss Miss Ingraham over at the first sign of competition?”

  Deene in a tirade was an impressive sight. He was usually so much the English gentleman that his sheer size and brawn tended to fade from notice, but not when he was breathing fire and spitting indignation.

  “Let me tell you something, Dolan. If you think I’ll stand idly by while some prancing ninny makes off with my niece a few years hence on the strength of his papa’s title or his mama’s blue blood, you are sadly mistaken. One doesn’t treat a female he loves in such an asinine fashion.”

  At some point in Deene’s diatribe, Jonathan had taken up residence on a leather sofa. Deene came down beside him. “What will you do, Dolan?”

  Jonathan passed Deene his glass. “I resent you, Deene, because I’m stubborn about these things, and you are too, but in the present instance—and in the present instance only—I must admit I find a particle of sense amid all your blustering.”

  “You’re saying I’m right.” Deene finished Jonathan’s drink. “So what, for the love of God, shall you do about Lord Rooster?”

  “I’m going wading.” Jonathan rose and headed for door, but paused with his hand on the latch. “And, Deene? I loved your sister. From the first time she made herself stand up with me, I loved her, though I took far too long to make this evident to the lady herself.”

  He kept his back to his host when Deene spoke softly from his place on the sofa. “Duly noted.”

  ***

  Never before had Amy resented Georgina, but for two hours in the afternoon, it was as if the child had known Amy sought privacy with Jonathan. The marchioness could not tempt the girl to make daisy chains; the marquess could not distract Georgina with offers to show her the best climbing tree.

  Eventually, Amy had given up. Jonathan had not met her gaze, not at the stream, and not over dinner. He probably thought she’d deceived him, had accepted his advances in bad faith while engaged to another.

  Boldness got her nowhere. When she’d suggested a walk in the garden after dinner, Jonathan had declined, murmuring something about tucking Georgina in. In every other regard, he’d been his usual, punctiliously polite if somewhat irascible self.

  Boldness be damned, desperate measures were called for.

  Amy buttoned her dressing gown, picked up her candle, and headed for her lover’s bedroom—assuming he still considered them lovers—only to find his bed empty. She was sitting on Jonathan’s bed, pondering what came after desperate measures when the door opened and the object of her determination stepped into the room.

  He closed the door behind him and set his candle on the bureau. “There you are.”

  Amy remained on the bed. “There you are.”

  “Am—” He remained rooted by the door. “Miss Ingraham, please be mindful that you look quite fetching in your present location, and given how we comported ourselves in that location not twenty-four hours past, you might consider placing your person elsewhere.”

  Miss Ingraham?! “You want me to leave?” The possibility that Jonathan would not want her if she were engaged to another had haunted her since she’d heard Nigel’s awful pronouncement.

  “Leave?” Still he made no move to approach her. “I was rather hoping…” He glanced around the room. “May I be honest?”

  “Honesty would be appreciated.” She steeled herself for a polite tongue-lashing about women who fled engagements and frolicked under false pretenses.

  “I was thinking, Miss Ingraham, that you might remove to the settee, where I could take the seat beside you without risking—” Another sigh. His gaze fell on Amy’s face, his expression somber. “If I might be very honest, I was rather hoping you might let me hold you.”

  She flew across the room into his arms, lashing her own around his waist. “I am not engaged to Nigel. I cannot be engaged to Nigel.” She repeated what had become her private prayer over and over, her face pressed to Jonathan’s chest.

  His hand settled on her hair. “Amy, please don’t cry.”

  She did not oblige his request. While he walked her to the bed—not the blighted settee—she accepted his handkerchief and his physical support.

  “I cannot fathom what Nigel is about.” She dabbed at her eyes with Jonathan’s linen, the lavender scent of it soothing. “He leaves my sisters and me to eke out an existence on the edge of poverty for years, then comes strutting around condescending, as if… Oh, I could just slap him, Jonathan. Him and his infernal mama.”

  “I am more relieved than you know to hear this.” Jonathan murmured these words against Amy’s hair, and the very sound of his voice calmed her further. “When you were so standoffish at the stream today, I began to wonder, and then when you did not come up to the nursery…”

  She reached for his hand. “You declined to walk in the garden.”

  “I did not want Deene’s lady to haul his perishing lordship out for a breath of fresh air along with us.”

  So they’d both been in an agony of uncertainty. This comforted Amy a very great deal, but not quite enough. “Jonathan, what am I to do?”

  “You’ll not marry that buffoon.”

  “But he spoke as if there were documents.”

  “Then we’ll demand to see them.” He sounded not simply resolute, he sounded as if he relished the whole idea of brangling with Nigel.

  “Jonathan, you must be careful. Nigel has a nasty streak.”

  “This is about money, Amy. I’m almost sure of it. When it comes to money, trade, and dirty business, I have a nasty streak too.”

  In contrast to the ferocious undertone in his voice, his hand on Amy’s back was gentle.

  She let her head rest on his shoulder and put his handkerchief aside. “How can you know money is at the root of this? Nigel thought I went into service to indulge my independent nature. Even if I had—which is an absurd notion—that doesn’t explain why he let poor Hecate and Drusilla languish without any dowry at all.”

  “All the more reason to conclude the man is eyeing his exchequer.”

  “Or his mama is. She’s a dragon.”

  “Then you will allow me to slay your dragons, but can we please be more comfortable while we discuss the particulars?”

  “You want to remove to the settee?”

  “No, my dear. I want to remove your clothes.”

  He’d brought his arms around her, and at his words, the last of Amy’s anxiety abated to a manageable level. “There’s more we need to discuss, Jonathan. My sisters must be informed of these developments.”

  “We’ll discuss anything you wish, later.”

  “In that case”—she kissed his cheek—“I want to remove your clothes too.”

  Five

  A man with eleven siblings understood family. When seven of his siblings were female, he also had a healthy dose of respect for the sororal bond, which served Jonathan well when he took Amy to call on her sisters the following morning.

  Over strong tea and fresh crumpets, he observed several salient facts, which he discussed with his intended as he drove her back to Deene’s holding.

  “You miss your sisters, Amy. I would not have begrudged you more frequent visits out here had you asked, and your sisters would certainly have been welcome to see you in Town.”

  “We do meet occasionally, but you had me sign a contract that elucidated in detail when I was to have leave.”

  He’d forgotten about her contract, though it was no doubt filed tidily away in some drawer. “I wanted someone steady for Georgina’s governess.”

  She gave him an indulgent look that had him recalling the previous night. “One understands your devotion to your only child, Jonathan.”


  “She might not be my only child for long. You will marry me, won’t you?”

  When her indulgent smile might have muted to the lambent expression of a woman in love, her lips pursed, and her brows drew down. “To plight my troth to one man when I’m engaged to another tempts fate.”

  Jonathan urged the horse, a handsome bay gelding on loan from Deene’s stables, to pick up the pace of its trot. When he wanted badly to argue, he instead fell back on the guidance of one of Amy’s preachy little books.

  “We will deal with your cousin’s unfortunate misperception. I liked your sisters, liked them very much. They’re protective of you, and they look forward to repaying your generosity.”

  Now, her smile softened. “You, sir, have changed the subject, though I’m so very glad you liked Dru and Hecate. They liked you too, or they would never have brought out the cordial.” But then the smile disappeared. “I haven’t been generous with them, please understand that. They are very stubborn, those two. They refuse to see that I’m the oldest and it’s my duty to provide for us as best I can.”

  From what Jonathan had observed, Hecate and Drusilla were managing well enough. Their surroundings were humble but comfortable. They had a maid of all work, a man of all work, and a mule of all work, who was as near to fat as a mule could get.

  “What they see, my dear, is that you have gone into service to punish yourself for lapsing with the late Robert, and they have had quite enough of your penance. You refuse to admit your sisters are grown women—very pretty, capable grown women—and they are waiting for you to settle before they change their own prospects.”

  Beside him, Amy was silent for a moment while the tilbury spun along between green hedgerows. “I am not pleased to think you might be right. They are that loyal. What did Hecate want to ask you?”

  Hecate, the one who looked most like Amy, had drawn Jonathan aside in the small stable and whispered a few pointed comments in his ear.

  “Your sister asked me, among other things, if I my intentions toward you were honorable. I assured her they were. The question remains, though, whether your intentions are honorable toward me.”

  “Do you really want me to answer that?”

  Her expression, frowning again and distracted, was answer enough.

  “When we’ve sorted your cousin out, you will give me an answer, Amy.”

  Though as to how they would sort dear Nigel out, Jonathan himself did not yet have as many answers as he might have wished.

  ***

  “I have a plan, but I’d like your opinion on it.” Jonathan kept his tone neutral, because despite the recent thawing in his relations with Deene, the younger man was an integral part of the plan—if he allowed himself to be.

  “You want my opinion?” Deene paused while running his stirrup irons up their leathers. “Is this why you let me beat you?”

  “We weren’t racing.” Jonathan loosened his horse’s girth while he offered that bouncer. “We were merely having a good gallop.”

  Deene patted his stallion’s sweaty neck. “A very good gallop. I suspect Evie put you up to it, because we’ve agreed I’m not allowed to race her these days.”

  The charming little marchioness had put Jonathan up to it, cornering him in the breakfast parlor when Amy had departed for the upper reaches of the house. “I put me up to it. A hard ride clears a man’s head, and you have the perfect property for it.”

  They handed their mounts off to grooms, and as the clip-clop of shod hooves faded into the barn behind them, Deene stripped off his gloves. “Did you just pay me a compliment, Dolan?”

  “Cut line. I paid your property a compliment. Where can we talk without interruption?”

  Jonathan slapped his gloves against his thigh, knowing Deene might well refuse him aid. The impending discussion would be difficult, not a negotiation but a flat-out session of begging, for which Jonathan had spent much of the night preparing.

  Deene gestured toward a pair of benches set up beneath a spreading oak. “Let’s sit. How is Miss Ingraham faring?”

  “She is a stoic woman. It’s difficult to tell.” Though in the middle of the night, when she clung to Jonathan even in sleep, it wasn’t difficult at all.

  “The ladies keep much more to themselves than we give them credit for. Evie is squarely in your corner, though.” Deene took a seat on one bench, resting his back against the tree and crossing his legs at the ankle.

  Jonathan came down beside him. “It’s the mothering instinct. When they’re on the nest, women can become quite fierce.”

  “Do they also become affectionate?”

  Jonathan did not give in to the impulse to study Deene, whose question had been offered most casually. He considered a proper answer instead.

  “I speak not only as Georgina’s father, but as a man with seven married sisters, into whose confidence I am frequently dragged, and I can tell you, Deene, some of them become hopelessly wanton. My brothers-in-law, stout men all, theorize this gives a fellow a chance to store up some goodwill for when the lady’s attentions will be usurped upon the arrival of the Blessed Event.”

  “Keeps a fellow motivated to grow his family, I suppose.”

  Deene was smiling the idiot smile of man in love. Jonathan smiled too. “Wait until you hold the child in your arms, Deene. You think you love your marchioness now…”

  He trailed off, missing Georgina’s mother, though with a sweetness to the ache, a peace that had been lacking previously. Absolution, perhaps, or the knowledge that Marie would want Jonathan to ask for Deene’s help.

  “I do love Evie. I suspect you love Miss Ingraham, and I can tell you, Dolan, if your intentions toward the woman aren’t honorable, I am to take you apart with my fists, her ladyship’s orders.”

  “I am atremble at the prospect.” Jonathan leaned back against the same tree. “I must dispose of the peacocking cousin first though, and for that I need some assistance.”

  Deene closed his eyes and crossed his arms, as if preparing for a nap. “Say on.”

  Jonathan spoke for quite some time, and for the entire length of his discourse, My Lord Deene appeared to enjoy a pleasant nap with his friend, the oak tree. When Jonathan fell silent, Deene roused himself with a leisurely stretch.

  “You put your domestics under written contracts?”

  Of all the things to seize on, Deene would choose this detail. “A servant gains no consequence working in the household of a cit like me, Deene. I’d lose staff to the greater houses of Mayfair constantly if I didn’t insist on terms with the upper servants.”

  “Evie will like this plan.”

  Jonathan held his silence, hoping dear Evie’s buffle-headed husband would be persuaded by his wife’s preferences.

  “I like this plan, Dolan. Mind you, I still don’t like you, but about this plan, I can find nothing to criticize. I will assume Miss Ingraham had a hand in coming up with your scheme?”

  “She did not. I think it imperative that she have no idea what I’m about, else Wooster will call my bluff.”

  Deene’s smile now was diabolical. “One condition, Dolan.”

  Jonathan steeled himself to swallow a visitation schedule for Georgina that parted him from his daughter for half the year. He waited for Deene to demand financial consideration; he tormented himself wondering if Deene would obliterate the Dolan racing stables.

  “You have to let me watch.”

  Relief sang through Jonathan’s body. “Referee. I’ll let you referee—and I’ll let you buy Georgina a damned pony, provided it’s at least twenty years old.”

  ***

  “Dolan.”

  In the quiet of the club’s reading room, Jonathan’s name was spoken very softly. Worth Kettering was big, handsome, a dark-haired favorite with the ladies, and privy to nearly every financial secret ever to leak out of Mayfair.

  “Kettering. Shall you join me?”

  “It’s a lovely day. I was hoping you’d walk me home.”

  Kettering was not a f
riend. He was a man of business serving only such members of the aristocracy as Kettering himself deemed worthy of his attention. Jonathan had done business with him on occasion, finding him ruthless, clever, and honest.

  And not one to socialize needlessly.

  Jonathan rose and put aside the newspaper he’d been staring at for the past hour. They gathered top hats, gloves, and walking sticks at the door and went out into the brilliant sunshine of a summer day.

  “So how comes your little project, Dolan?” Kettering’s tone was blasé, his pace relaxed.

  “I gather you’ve been in communication with Deene?”

  “Among others. Some of my clients have taken an interest in your situation. Tell me about your lady.”

  Jonathan hadn’t anticipated this line of inquiry, but according to Deene, Kettering was in a position to obtain certain documents Jonathan was desperate to have. “My daughter’s governess, you mean?”

  “Word is, Miss Ingraham is the granddaughter of a viscount.” Kettering used his walking stick to decapitate a daisy in a planting around a lamppost. “An earl lurks not too far back on her mother’s side.”

  “I hadn’t known that.”

  Kettering stooped to pick up the daisy and slipped it into his buttonhole. “Deene has decided that I’m in a position to assist you, Dolan, but there will be conditions.”

  The tension that had been roiling in Jonathan’s belly since he’d left Amy in Surrey a week ago eased fractionally. “I’d like to hear them.”

  “Seems Wooster is not particularly liked, but there’s sympathy for him because of who he has for a mother. She, however, is uniformly held in dislike, to the extent the ladies of Polite Society are now enlisted in support of your cause.”

  “A man can’t help his antecedents.”

  Kettering’s smile was not one Jonathan would have enjoyed seeing over a negotiating table. “I’ve heard that sentiment rather a lot lately, from people in very high places.” He reached into his pocket and thrust a stack of folded notes at Jonathan.

  Jonathan took them and tucked them into his own pocket. “How much?”