Jonathan and Amy

Copyright © 2014 by Grace Burrowes

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Front Cover

Title Page

Copyright

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

About the Author

To the fellows whom love inspires to great feats of courage—such as wearing a tux and dancing in public.

“A gentleman does not make advances toward a woman in his employ.”

Jonathan Dolan's muttering and pacing brought him to the windows of his office, where he could watch his daughter gathering flowers in the back gardens. Her governess sat nearby, nose in a book, a spaniel panting at her feet.

“A gentleman does
not
make advances toward a woman in his employ.”

This declaration had become Jonathan's personal Eleventh Commandment, but was no more palatable with the added emphasis.

“A goddamned
gentleman
, does not perishing
make
advances
toward his daughter's
governess
, no matter how lovely, well formed, well spoken, gentle, kind, and—bloody hell.”

A footman approached the pretty tableau in the garden, and before Miss Ingraham could turn and face the house, Jonathan stalked away from the windows. It would not do for her to know he was staring—though she'd conclude he was merely being a vigilant papa.

And he
was
a vigilant papa, also a doting, loving papa, but not only that.

He was, in addition, a wealthy man in his prime who had no wife with whom to share his life or his passions. A man who had buried his beloved spouse nearly five years ago and was watching his life march along, one lonely night followed by another. A man who had endured enough of that life, a fellow now determined to put into place a plan which—if he were successful—would improve his circumstances immeasurably.

And cast him into an unfathomable darkness if he failed.

He contemplated fortifying himself with a healthy tot of good Irish whiskey, but if Miss Ingraham got close enough for him to catch a whiff of her lemony fragrance, she'd smell the spirits on his breath.

“Mr. Dolan?”

Amy Ingraham stood in the doorway to the office, the picture of genteel English good looks: a shade taller than average, blond hair pulled back into a tidy bun, gray eyes complemented by a sky-blue walking dress several years out of fashion. The intelligence in those eyes was every bit as attractive to Jonathan as the curves filling out the dress.

“Miss Ingraham, please come in. Georgina looks to be enjoying her outing.”

“The day is too pretty to keep the child at her lessons without a break, and the dog requires the occasional visit to the gardens as well.”

She remained in the doorway, the location having symbolic significance. Amy Ingraham—granddaughter of a viscount, but neither family nor servant in Jonathan's household—excelled at hovering in liminal spaces.

“Have a seat, Miss Ingraham.” He'd gestured to the settee near the hearth rather than one of the straight-backed chairs facing his desk. When she crossed the room, he closed the door behind her.

Her chin came up. “Mr. Dolan—”

Merely his name, but crackling with starch and repressed lectures.

“What I have to discuss is private and regards Georgina's best interests. Shall I ring for tea?”

She inhaled through her elegant nose, clearly torn between the need for the door to remain open and the temptation offered by a laden tea tray. To a lady raised in strict propriety, the tea tray would be a singular indicator of hospitality and manners, if not graciousness.

She lowered herself to the edge of the settee. “You may ring for tea. Just tea.”

Jonathan went to the door and signaled a footman.
Just
tea, indeed.

He closed the door, the snick of the latch sounding inordinately loud, such was the power of a governess's disapproving silences.

“If I recall aright, your holidays are approaching, Miss Ingraham.” Jonathan stalked across the room to stand near a wing chair. “May I take a seat?”

“You are my employer, Mr. Dolan, and this is your private domain. You are entitled to sit where you please, when you please.”

She had a strong jaw, a defined chin. The jaw was set, that chin a trifle elevated, even considering he was standing over her. Where he
wanted
to sit was directly beside her on that settee.

He took the wing chair. “Have you a destination in mind for your holiday?”

“I visit family.”

Of course, she did. What else was she to do? Pop over to Paris and take a turn dancing at the opera before a crowd of leering young men?

“May I inquire as to where you visit family?”

He could see her debating whether it was manners or deference that required her to answer. The tray the kitchen had been warned to prepare saved her from making an immediate reply.

Jonathan took the tray at the door, and when Miss Ingraham kept her gaze on the flowers beyond the window, he realized he'd fumbled. He should have taken a seat without asking her permission, he should have remained in silent, well-tailored splendor on his rosy backside while the footman brought the tray into the room, and then he should have indicated where the tray was to be set with an imperious wave of his lamentably calloused hand.

When the footman was gone and the door once again closed, Miss Ingraham studied the enormous silver tray and its contents. “Shall I pour?”

“If you pour, Miss Ingraham, then I will make you up a sandwich—or two.”

She was trying not to smile—or grimace, he wasn't sure which. She picked up the teapot and made that perfect graceful picture of an English lady dispensing the tea. The curve of the teapot's handle complemented the curve of her body, while the way she kept two fingers on the pot's lid put the finishing touch on the image.

“Do you prefer mustard, butter, or both on your bread, Miss Ingraham?'

“A touch of both. This tea has jasmine in it.”

“I was given to understand it's your preferred choice.” Her favorite. He purposely did not use that word while he liberally coated her bread with butter.

“I do enjoy it.”

That's all. Four small words followed by an enormous silence full of scolds, sniffs, and even a few genteel expressions of exasperation. How she must resent his summons, or possibly her entire life as Georgina's governess.

“You're not going to make this easy for me, are you?” He added a bit more butter and topped it with a dab of mustard.

“A governess does not take tea with her employer.”

Jonathan's oldest sister, Mary Grace, had been a governess. “That depends on the household. It's midday, Miss Ingraham. You've been chasing that child around the entire morning, and I'm hungry. Shall I deny myself some sustenance while we're in discussions simply because you are too hidebound to share a midday meal with me?”

She stirred a fat dollop of cream and two lumps of sugar into his tea. “You should not. My apologies.” She held the cup out to him, her hand absolutely steady.

And even in those civilities, she managed a hint of a reproach.

“Amy—”

Her gaze flew to his, her eyes betraying more surprise than horror.

His manners were as ragged as his stonemason father's had been, but Jonathan Dolan had never wanted for determination. He tried again from a more honest tack.

“Miss Ingraham, I eat alone at every meal save breakfast, when you and Georgina take pity on me and afford me some company. You visit with the child while I pretend to read the newspaper, because my ability to engage Georgina in conversation is wanting. Would it be imposing too greatly to ask you to break bread with me?”

She poured a second cup of tea and sat back. Jonathan waited for her to put cream and sugar in her cup, but instead she sighed, her shoulders dropping.

“It's much easier for me when you growl and snap, sir. This forthrightness—or charm—whatever it is, it isn't well advised.”

“Hunger isn't well advised.” He added thin slices of ham to her sandwich and a rectangle of yellow cheddar. “Might we declare a truce while we're eating?”

Her lips quirked up. She had a full, even lush mouth, one usually kept ruthlessly sculpted into a flat, inexpressive line—at least when she was with him. Jonathan held his breath in hopes she might permit herself an honest smile.

“I cannot resist a man who plies with me jasmine tea,” she said as the smile bloomed. “It's wicked of you, sir. You must never tell Georgina.”

With that smile, Jonathan's control over his own features slipped. He smiled back and passed her a plate bearing her sandwich, some strawberries, two tea cakes, and a slice of pineapple.

“Now that you've handed me something to bargain with, Miss Ingraham, we shall have a very enjoyable meal.”

***

Jonathan Dolan's rare smiles would make angels weep, and Amy Ingraham did not consider herself an angel. The meal would be enjoyable for him—he made this claim sound believable—but for her, it would be both torture and bliss.

She was attracted to her employer. This pathetic, sorry conclusion took no great insight.

She listened for the sound of his voice.

She watched at breakfast to learn exactly how he took his tea.

She defended him as fiercely as she dared to the occasional grumbling young footman, though the maids never complained about Mr. Dolan.

While she practiced French with Georgina over breakfast, Amy studied the way Mr. Dolan's thick, dark hair fell over his brow. She noticed how morning sun sometimes made him look weary, and she saw the utter besottedness with which he beheld his daughter in unguarded moments.

And she
loved
to hear him thundering at some jobber or subcontractor who had delivered late or shoddy goods.

Amy yanked her thoughts back to the present, to this unprecedented midday meal with her employer.
Just
tea, indeed.

“So tell me, sir, what are we to discuss?”

His smile, both mischievous and bashful, faded. “I have a proposition for you.”

His tone was brusque, and as soon as the words were out of his mouth, he set his teacup down and rose. “That came out wrong.”

The momentary leap in Amy's pulse settled. Of course he hadn't meant anything untoward. Jonathan Dolan was the soul of propriety, a gentleman to his big, handsome bones.

Alas
for
her.
“Come sit, sir, lest you leave me to dine alone.”

He ran a hand through his hair and shot her a look that smacked of bewilderment.

“I'll sit in a moment. I'd like you to consider joining me and Georgina for a jaunt out to Surrey. My brother-in-law is insistent that his niece come visit him and his new marchioness. If I drag my heels accepting the invitation, Lord Deene will get his back up, and we've had plenty enough of that behavior from him to last us lifetimes.”

The Marquess of Deene being the brother of Mr. Dolan's late wife, a man of rank and influence, and one who had the power to command his niece to the country.

“You have agreed to bring her to visit her uncle, have you not?”

“May God have mercy upon me, I have.”

He dreaded this visit. Amy could tell as much from the wariness in his gaze and the fact that he was standing across the room, keeping furniture and space between them.

“I had thought to visit my family in Surrey, sir.” Such as her family was. Drusilla and Hecate put up with her during the few weeks of leave she took from her job.

“And you shall.” He closed the distance and resumed his seat. “I shall see that you have time with your family while we heed Deene's summons, and I'm sure Deene's marchioness will make you welcome.” He paused to narrow his eyes at Amy. “She's not the fussy sort. Unlike some.”

Amy ignored the jibe and tried to still the excitement brewing in her veins. Oh, to be able to come and go at the cottage for once, to see her home but be spared the long silences, the faint disappointment lurking behind every compliment her sisters gave her.

The worry.

“How long would this visit last, sir?”

He sat back and crossed his legs at the knee. The pose made him look elegant and imperious, while his expression gave away nothing. “A few weeks at most. Deene will likely go shooting up North in August, English gentleman that he is.”

Amy passed him a plate with two sandwiches on it—sandwiches she'd made not only to keep her hands busy, but also because Jonathan Dolan would neglect to eat, did he not join his daughter for breakfast each morning.

“How long do I have to consider this journey, Mr. Dolan?” Though she already knew what her reply would be.

“Give me an answer now, Miss Ingraham. If you're not to accompany us, I'll have to make other arrangements for Georgina's care while I'm ruralizing with her family.”

They were Mr. Dolan's family too, if only by marriage. “Eat your sandwiches, sir, and give me some time to consider this. You have been hatching this scheme for who knows how long, while it's only now been sprung upon me.”

His gaze flitted to the window then back to Amy's plate. “Your tea is getting cold, Miss Ingraham. I do not mean to badger you.”

Her tea—the exact brand she permitted herself only at Christmas and on her birthday, or when she was feeling particularly low. She raised her cup and closed her eyes to savor the delicate, flowery aroma. Mr. Dolan had a reputation as a superb negotiator. He was honest, but ruthless.

Jasmine tea was ruthless, indeed. “Is this to be a house party?”

He studied her between bites of his sandwich, and he wasn't coy about it, another reason to like her employer. “I gather from your tone that you do not approve of house parties?”

“I left my last position in part because of a house party. Too many gentlemen nearly mistook my room for theirs.” Including her former employer.

Mr. Dolan set his plate down with a noisy clink. “It's not a benighted house party. Deene wants to spend time with his niece, and a house full of drunken peers and their ladies would not be conducive to his lordship's ends. Eat your sandwich, Miss Ingraham.”