Jonathan and Amy by Grace Burrowes Page B

flowers.”
    Amy stopped but didn’t retrieve her hand from his grasp. “You brought her flowers?”
    â€œI brought you flowers.”
    He tugged on her hand, and she started walking again. “When?”
    â€œWhen you had that head cold, in the winter.”
    â€œThe card said they were from Georgina.” But Amy had had her suspicions, of course she had. And one of the red roses gracing that bouquet—roses in January!—was pressed between the pages of her Bible. “Where are we going?” The question answered itself as they came to a halt. “This is a bad idea, Mr. Dolan.”
    And yet, she followed him into his bedroom and said nothing when he closed the door behind them, set the candle down, and turned to face her, his hands on his hips.
    â€œI’ll tell you what is a bad idea, Amy Ingraham. A bad idea is when you watch me like I’m about to pounce on you, to the point that Deene has remarked the situation.”
    The last thing, the very last thing Amy had expected was a lecture—and a deserved lecture. “I do apologize, but if you’d keep your lips to yourself, perhaps I wouldn’t maintain such a close eye on you.”
    He glowered, and without moving, seemed to grow taller and broader. “If my advances are wholly unwelcome, you have only to so inform me.”
    To get away from the indignation in his gaze, and the hint of vulnerability lurking beneath it, Amy ducked aside and began to pace. “Your attentions are not wholly unwelcome, but you leave it to me to exercise sound judgment, and I am not as reliable in this regard as you might think.”
    â€œYou have very sound judgment, my dear Amy. I wouldn’t entrust you with my only child if you lacked judgment.”
    Now he sounded amused, the wretch, and he’d called her Amy.
    Also my dear . Again.
    â€œThere, you see! You call me Amy, and I want to smile. Not a condescending smile, as if I had some perspective on such a presumption, but a real, genuine smile, at you —simply for using my name.”
    â€œSay my name.”
    He made no sense. “Jonathan.”
    And while she was studying him, trying to fathom what he was about, he smiled— at her . His smile harkened to the way he looked at Georgina, full of tenderness and approval, but it was a swain’s smile, not a papa’s smile at all.
    â€œYes,” Amy said, taking a seat. “I want to look at you in precisely that manner. This is, this is folly .” And that she remained right there beside him, in his bedroom, late at night, worse than folly.
    â€œYou are flustered.” He lowered himself beside her. “I am sorry for it. Tell me what I can do to calm you.”
    He took her hand, and despite all sense to the contrary, it helped steady Amy’s nerves—until she saw where they were sitting. “This is a bed.”
    â€œMy bed. It’s comfortable too, which suggests Deene is emerging from the perpetual adolescence common to his peers. Tell me what’s really bothering you. You know if it’s in my power to do so, I’ll address it.”
    He kissed her forehead, and that obliterated Amy’s scanty reserves of composure. The scent of him, the proximity of his throat to her mouth, the realization that he was without neckwear… This would never do.
    â€œYou think I am proper enough to resist what you offer, because you assume I don’t precisely know what you offer. I wish… That is, you must consider…” She was gripping his hand and knew she should untangle her fingers from his. “I have experience ,” she went on, “such that I am more susceptible to temptation than you suppose. I know where kisses can lead. I know what use beds can be put to.”
    Jonathan withdrew his fingers from her grasp at that confession—now, when she wanted to drag his hand against her heart and hold it there.
    â€œYou have experience?” His