Jonathan and Amy by Grace Burrowes Page B

an integral part of the plan—if he allowed himself to be.
    â€œYou want my opinion?” Deene paused while running his stirrup irons up their leathers. “Is this why you let me beat you?”
    â€œWe weren’t racing.” Jonathan loosened his horse’s girth while he offered that bouncer. “We were merely having a good gallop.”
    Deene patted his stallion’s sweaty neck. “A very good gallop. I suspect Evie put you up to it, because we’ve agreed I’m not allowed to race her these days.”
    The charming little marchioness had put Jonathan up to it, cornering him in the breakfast parlor when Amy had departed for the upper reaches of the house. “I put me up to it. A hard ride clears a man’s head, and you have the perfect property for it.”
    They handed their mounts off to grooms, and as the clip-clop of shod hooves faded into the barn behind them, Deene stripped off his gloves. “Did you just pay me a compliment, Dolan?”
    â€œCut line. I paid your property a compliment. Where can we talk without interruption?”
    Jonathan slapped his gloves against his thigh, knowing Deene might well refuse him aid. The impending discussion would be difficult, not a negotiation but a flat-out session of begging, for which Jonathan had spent much of the night preparing.
    Deene gestured toward a pair of benches set up beneath a spreading oak. “Let’s sit. How is Miss Ingraham faring?”
    â€œShe is a stoic woman. It’s difficult to tell.” Though in the middle of the night, when she clung to Jonathan even in sleep, it wasn’t difficult at all.
    â€œThe ladies keep much more to themselves than we give them credit for. Evie is squarely in your corner, though.” Deene took a seat on one bench, resting his back against the tree and crossing his legs at the ankle.
    Jonathan came down beside him. “It’s the mothering instinct. When they’re on the nest, women can become quite fierce.”
    â€œDo they also become affectionate?”
    Jonathan did not give in to the impulse to study Deene, whose question had been offered most casually. He considered a proper answer instead.
    â€œI speak not only as Georgina’s father, but as a man with seven married sisters, into whose confidence I am frequently dragged, and I can tell you, Deene, some of them become hopelessly wanton. My brothers-in-law, stout men all, theorize this gives a fellow a chance to store up some goodwill for when the lady’s attentions will be usurped upon the arrival of the Blessed Event.”
    â€œKeeps a fellow motivated to grow his family, I suppose.”
    Deene was smiling the idiot smile of man in love. Jonathan smiled too. “Wait until you hold the child in your arms, Deene. You think you love your marchioness now…”
    He trailed off, missing Georgina’s mother, though with a sweetness to the ache, a peace that had been lacking previously. Absolution, perhaps, or the knowledge that Marie would want Jonathan to ask for Deene’s help.
    â€œI do love Evie. I suspect you love Miss Ingraham, and I can tell you, Dolan, if your intentions toward the woman aren’t honorable, I am to take you apart with my fists, her ladyship’s orders.”
    â€œI am atremble at the prospect.” Jonathan leaned back against the same tree. “I must dispose of the peacocking cousin first though, and for that I need some assistance.”
    Deene closed his eyes and crossed his arms, as if preparing for a nap. “Say on.”
    Jonathan spoke for quite some time, and for the entire length of his discourse, My Lord Deene appeared to enjoy a pleasant nap with his friend, the oak tree. When Jonathan fell silent, Deene roused himself with a leisurely stretch.
    â€œYou put your domestics under written contracts?”
    Of all the things to seize on, Deene would choose this detail. “A servant gains no consequence working in the