Jonathan and Amy by Grace Burrowes

don’t…that I would not care to be your wife.”
    â€œThen what is it?”
    â€œI had not thought to be anybody’s wife, not ever, not now… I must discuss this with my sisters, I think.”
    â€œAmy, are you ashamed of me? Is that it? Because my first wife was ashamed of me, and I bore it for years. If that’s how—”
    â€œHush.” She kissed him on the mouth, a solid, you-listen-to-me kiss followed up with a stern glare. “I am not ashamed of you. I could never be ashamed of you. You are the most worthy, honorable man I know. I adore Georgina, and she adores you.” Amy’s brows drew down as if in puzzlement. “I adore you . I must think about this though.”
    He wanted to make love with her all over again, simply for admitting she adored him—he would think about the rest of her words later—but he instead posed a question. “Do you want to consider terms?”
    This, he could understand. She had bargaining power now that every woman thought she gave up at the altar—only to find she held even higher cards after the wedding.
    â€œI want to consider everything. I really did not foresee forcing an offer from you.”
    â€œMother 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?”
    â€œMany 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.”
    â€œAnd 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.
    â€œYou 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?”
    â€œGive 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?”
    â€œI 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.
    â€œI 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.
    â€œI am Wooster.” He infused his