Jonathan and Amy by Grace Burrowes Page A

He’d read to his daughter, played cards with her, taught her how to shoot marbles, then turned around and interrogated the physicians he’d hired—the best to be had—until they either produced intelligible answers or were shown the door.
    Amy pushed the memory aside and advanced into the room. “I think she’s enjoying her visit.”
    His smile was rueful as he gathered Georgina and rose with her cradled in his embrace.
    â€œMust you? Of course she’s enjoying her visit. Deene has cozened his wife into ensuring it’s so. My only consolation is that without his marchioness, he’d be reduced to stashing his pockets with horehound sweets and performing card tricks the same as any other uncle.”
    â€œI am more than capable of tucking her in, sir.”
    â€œOf course you are.” He leaned over and kissed Amy’s cheek, angling the child slightly away to effect his thievery. “Soon, she’ll be too grown up to bring the events of the day to Papa. Fetch us the candle, if you please. Let me have what cuddles I can before my daughter outgrows her regard for me.”
    â€œYou’ll miss her.” Amy picked up the candle, resenting that his claim on the child was as far superior to her own as his physical strength was to hers.
    â€œPerhaps we’ll both miss her.”
    Rotten man.
    But as Amy illuminated his progress down the corridor to Georgina’s room, she admitted part of her pique was a function of the kiss they’d shared three days earlier. He hadn’t brought it up in conversation, but he’d repeated the offense in its misdemeanor varieties.
    He’d kissed her hand when he escorted her up to her room at the end of the day.
    He’d kissed her cheek when he’d collected her from the library prior to dinner.
    He’d claimed a kiss as his prize when the adults had indulged Georgina in a game of forfeits, causing the child to groan and the marchioness to posit that any lady would want to lose her round to Mr. Dolan if that was the boon he sought.
    And Jonathan had laughed and cast such a look at Amy, she’d been put to the blush in company.
    Dratted, man. Dratted handsome man, looking weary and slightly disheveled and perilously dear.
    â€œIf you’ll put her on the bed.”
    His lips quirked up, as if he wasn’t fooled by Amy’s businesslike air. He settled the child gently on the mattress, then drew the blankets up and straightened. “She’ll sleep soundly now, but what about you? Will the storm keep you awake?”
    Amy passed him the candle and tucked the covers more closely around Georgina. She smoothed a hand over the child’s brow, then realized what she was doing.
    â€œI’m sorry.”
    He cupped his hand around the candle to shield it from the draft, but this also reduced the available light. “What could you be sorry for?”
    â€œI don’t mean to imply… Georgina is not my daughter.”
    While Amy forbid herself to fuss at the sleeping child any further, Jonathan held the candle up a few inches, closer to Amy’s face. “Your mood is not sanguine, my dear. Are you angry with me? Marie could be irritable too, at certain predictable intervals.”
    â€œAt certain—!”
    â€œCome along, my dear.” He took her hand in his and led her from the room, closing the door quietly behind them. “I suppose a gentleman wouldn’t allude to such a notion? Marie was hardly reserved about her bodily rhythms.”
    â€œA gentleman would most assuredly avoid such topics.” Though damn him, he’d suggested a plausible excuse for why Amy had felt a sense of melancholia over the past several days.
    â€œThen husbands aren’t gentlemen, because without fail, if my wife were screeching at me one moment and weeping in my arms the next, there was only one explanation. I took to marking my calendar so I’d know when to bring home