Jonathan and Amy (4 page)

Deene looked sheepish, relieved and not a little surprised. He passed over a tall, sweating glass, then poured one for himself.

Jonathan lifted his glass. “To the lady's health.”

Deene followed suit. “To her health and my nerves.”

Jonathan remembered not to gulp his drink, though the ride out from London had been hot and dusty. “I assume you'll want to establish some sort of schedule for Georgina's visits in future?”

Deene set his glass aside—empty. “You assume correctly. When last you and I spoke of the matter, you agreed that Georgina should have regular visits with me and my marchioness. Your idea of regular is no doubt at variance with my own.”

Every five years could be quite regular. “At some variance, I'm sure. How far along is your wife?”

“She keeps saying ‘not very.'” Deene went to take another swig of his drink then scowled at his empty glass. “I realize these things happen in the ordinary course, but one doesn't… I mean to say…if one can't…it's all very well in theory, but…”

“In reality,” Jonathan said gently, “the notion of childbirth scares a man to death. Raising children is very much in the same line. I suggest we get out a deck of cards, repair to the billiards room, or otherwise engage in the fiction that we're
getting
along
, lest your marchioness work her wiles on you any further.”

“Evie has no wiles. She's quite forthright, and I'll not put off the matter of an agreement regarding visits with my niece.”

What a shame Marie had not lived long enough to see her brother fall so hard and so wonderfully in love.

“Your determination has me quaking in my dusty boots, Deene.” Jonathan went to the sideboard, topped up his own drink, and poured a fresh one for his host. “In case you are dreading the prospect, I have no intention of getting along with you, though your marchioness is charming beyond endurance. In your presence, however, I'm happy to shout and carry on at great length regarding the days Georgina spends in your house—”

“Weeks, at least!”

“—But the womenfolk will have the matter quite in hand by the time they finish ambling down the barn aisles. They might need until teatime to contrive a way to make us think the terms they reach are entirely our idea.”

Deene blinked, accepted his drink, and muttered, “My thanks.” His lordship drank half of this glass as well, then paused, one side of his mouth quirking up. “Billiards or cards?”

“Billiards.”

Deene remained quiet until they reached the game room on the second floor. “Have you deputed Miss Ingraham to negotiate on your behalf?”

“With some women, it isn't a matter of delegating authority, it's a matter of managing on the crumbs of dignity they leave us.” Jonathan took down a cue stick from the rack on the wall, and put his choice back as too light.

“Evie would never threaten my dignity.”

Jonathan eyed the lemonade in the younger man's glass. “Not intentionally, of course. The only consolation is that you manage on those crumbs of dignity willingly to ensure her happiness and safety.”

Deene chose his cue stick and sighted down it toward nothing in particular that Jonathan could determine. “Would you have me believe this is how it was between you and my sister?”

So casual, but behind the question was a younger brother's worry, and a surviving sibling's guilt. Without planning to, without
wanting
to, Jonathan addressed both.

“Deene, I loved your sister very much. I took years to understand what a gift the Almighty and your impecunious father put in my hands, but I am confident that by the time she was taken from us, she was at least certain of my regard. Now prepare to suffer a sound drubbing in the name of hospitality.”

Whether in the name of hospitality or as a function of a new husband and expectant father's nerves, Jonathan's host did in fact lose to him handily.

All three times.

And perhaps because Jonathan was feeling expansive in victory, but more likely because he could see that Deene's anxiety over the marchioness had robbed him of even the ability to concentrate on a game of billiards, Jonathan hazarded a question.

“You consider yourself a gentleman, don't you, Deene?”

Deene looked up from a table devoid of easy shots. “Are you contemplating calling me out, Dolan? It's a bit late for that.”

“I will take that as a yes, and thus I will put a question to you: Is there any circumstance under which a gentleman may make advances toward a woman in his employ?”

The vague air of distraction left Deene's countenance. He straightened without making a shot and regarded Jonathan with a half smile. “Advances of a romantic nature? No, there is not. Is this about that blue-eyed governess?”

“Miss Ingraham's eyes are gray, and do you think I'd admit to
you
that I enjoyed an attraction to the lady?”

“You just did, but the answer is still no, not if a fellow wants to keep his honor in good shine. Alas for you.” Deene grinned evilly, bent over the table, sighted down his cue stick, and by virtue of skillful use of the bumpers and a judicious application of spin on the cue ball, managed to sink two balls and leave Jonathan not one decent shot.

***

The waltzing had about killed Amy's self-discipline, left it a miserable, whining mess of shoulds and oughts cowering in the dingiest corner of her conscience. Mr. Dolan brought to waltzing the same intensity of focus he brought to his business endeavors and his parenting, which meant he'd not simply swayed around the room with her, he'd
danced
.

“Mr. Dolan's lack of refined antecedents isn't what gives him such a feel for the music.”

Charles cocked his head, his big brown eyes conveying both concern and curiosity.

“I've danced with country lads by the score, and they lack Mr. Dolan's…grace.”

They also lacked his height, his muscle, his blue eyes, his aquiline nose, his particular lavender-and-fresh-air scent, his smile, his way of narrowing those eyes when he became determined on something, his way of moving a woman around on the dance floor like she was both safe and cherished in his embrace.

“I'm an idiot.” More than twenty-four hours after turning down the room with her employer, and Amy still wanted to close her eyes and recall the moments she'd spent in his arms.

Charles rose from the hearthrug and parked his hairy chin on Amy's knee.

“I will see much less of Mr. Dolan now that we're ensconced here with Lord and Lady Deene. I shall recover my equilibrium. You may depend upon it.”

A knock on her door had the dog looking askance at her.

“Come in.”

She would recover her equilibrium later, because at that moment, Jonathan Dolan appeared in Amy's doorway, looking windblown, sunbrowned, and delectable in shirtsleeves and riding attire.

“Mr. Dolan.” Amy nearly startled off the settee at the foot of her bed. “If you're looking for Georgina, Lady Deene tarried with her in the stables to see this year's foals.”

“Kidnapped her, you mean. I expected you to be a more ferocious bodyguard, Miss Ingraham.”

He ambled into her room without an invitation and took a place beside her on the small settee.

“Hold your peace, my dear.” He leaned back and crossed his feet at the ankles. “A gentleman does not take a seat without a lady's permission, a gentleman does not presume on a lady's private environs, a gentleman does not—in my opinion—get to exercise a great deal of common sense. Do you mind if I take a seat? I was up late last night seeing to business and woke early to make the journey here on horseback.”

Amy cast a minatory glance at the open door. “If you are tired, of course you should sit.”

“Walk with me in the garden, Amy Ingraham. I have matters to discuss with you.” He heaved out a sigh, and it was all Amy could do not to touch him. Weariness was evident in the way he rolled his shoulders, the grooves bracketing his mouth, and the informality of his posture.

“I was about to change for dinner.”

“We have plenty of time. I'm not sure whether Deene is hovering more closely over his marchioness or his niece, but he was no damned—I beg your pardon—no challenge at all at billiards. I sent him out to the stables lest he embarrass himself further.”

Mr. Dolan rose and extended a hand down to her.

Were she at home—at Mr. Dolan's home—Amy would have pointedly ignored that hand and even glared at her employer for his presumption. But the marchioness had been so friendly, and his lordship so welcoming, Amy had been given to understand that in this household, she would be treated like a guest. The idea that this visit was a holiday in truth, a small holiday from the strictest observance of the most inconvenient rules, was too attractive to ignore.

She took Mr. Dolan's hand.

“Are you content with the arrangements here, Miss Ingraham?”

Not Miss Amy. Ah, well.

“I am. The maid detailed to the nursery is cheerful and the oldest of seven. She'll manage Georgina quite easily.”

“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—”