Jonathan and Amy by Grace Burrowes

highly educated way, not very bright.
    A widower was better than nothing, of course. Both twins had been approached by widowers—men who weren’t in the market for schoolgirls or stepchildren. Such attention wasn’t quite flattering, but it was better than being ignored altogether, particularly when the widower was youngish, wealthy, and handsome, and the lady had long since lost her heart to the widower’s small daughter.
    â€œAmy and her Mr. Dolan will find their way,” Drusilla said. “I shall find the raspberry cordial.” She rose, but Hecate caught her by the wrist.
    â€œPour me a glass, and we’ll compose a note to Amy warning her that Nigel has recalled his family connections after all these years. We can post it the first of the week—assuming we can find her direction, and assuming she hasn’t gone back to Town without telling us.”
    Such a note would ensure that Amy would be underfoot when next Nigel came around oozing charm and wearing boots badly in need of new heels. Somebody needed to take Nigel in hand, because Dear Cousin was up to an adult version of putting a toad in a young lady’s bed.
    â€œMr. Dolan might better comprehend the treasure he’s been harboring if a titled, handsome swain shows Amy some attention,” Drusilla said. “But Amy might consider it her responsibility to fall in with whatever scheme of Nigel’s will see us settled. We must consider strategy, Sister. We owe it to Amy to consider our strategy before we summon her from Mr. Dolan’s side.”
    Drusilla did not tarry long enough for Hecate to start listing considerations and possibilities, but instead disappeared into the house.
    â€œStrategy! And bring the bottle out here, if you please,” Hecate called after her, “with the fresh tea cakes!”
    ***
    Amy awoke to a flash of lightning and a rumble of thunder. A nice, here-comes-the-storm sort of rumble that meant a brisk breeze was likely to kick up soon. Grabbing for her dressing gown, she pushed her feet into slippers and headed across the corridor to Georgina’s room.
    The curtains beside the girl’s bed were already dancing in the freshening breeze, while the bed itself was empty.
    And this, more than the coming storm, was what had awakened Amy—a sixth sense that all was not well with her charge. The same instinct had alerted Amy to more than one nightmare, as well as the child’s inchoate bout of influenza.
    Amy closed the window except for a half-inch crack and inspected the room. No dressing gown and no slippers, and Georgina was very good about observing a nightly routine that would have had both at the foot of the bed.
    â€œWandering, then.” And Georgina wandered to one destination when she wanted comfort. Not to her governess, not if Papa was anywhere to be found.
    Amy knew exactly where Jon—where Mr. Dolan’s room was. Georgina had insisted on seeing it, and had made an inspection of it. The dog, Charles, was sternly admonished not to eat Papa’s slippers, “lest Papa be cross.”
    As if Jonathan Dolan could ever be cross with his daughter. Gruff possibly, and stern, of course, but not cross. The door to his room was cracked a few inches, and soft light spilled into the corridor. Amy tapped twice on the door.
    â€œCome in.” Mr. Dolan’s voice, but speaking softly rather than issuing orders and ultimatums.
    He sat in a capacious armchair, Georgina curled against his chest. His hand stroked slowly over her back while her breathing followed a regular rhythm.
    â€œShe couldn’t sleep. Deene has recruited her to assist the marchioness with naming the foals, of which I can tell you, there are at least two dozen.”
    The picture of the small child dozing peacefully in her father’s arms caused a queer ache in Amy’s chest. When Georgina had been ill, her father had slept on the floor of the nursery until her fever had abated.