Free Jonathan and Amy by Grace Burrowes Page B

rejoicing in itself that transcended her skin and dissolved the boundaries between her and her lover. She could feel his body as if it were her own, could feel pleasure ricocheting between them and expanding until she was weeping against his throat and bucking madly beneath him.
    And then…a resonant stillness, broken only by the feel of Jonathan’s hand smoothing over her hair and their breathing finding a complementary rhythm.
    Long, contented moments went by while Amy simply marveled at what her body was capable of in Jonathan Dolan’s arms.
    â€œDo you cry for your soldier boy, Amy?”
    His voice was as gentle as the touch of his hand on her hair. Amy turned her face into his throat. “I cry for the girl who yearned. She wasn’t wrong: there is astounding poetry, there are gorgeous symphonies.”
    â€œDear lady, that was merely the opening movement.”
    ***
    Maybe he’d forgotten this soul-deep postcoital peace, or maybe it had never been like this before. As a younger man, Jonathan had been too restless and self-important to appreciate the pleasure of simply holding a woman in his arms. As a husband, he hadn’t wanted to presume or overstay his welcome. As a widower, his encounters had been about sexual relief, with neither party seeking any entanglement.
    He was entangled now. He’d arranged Amy over him, so she straddled his hips and cuddled against his chest. She used the end of her braid to tickle his mouth in a distracted way, as if her body wanted to play, but her mind was intent on serious matters.
    â€œYou are thinking, Miss Ingraham.” He kissed her crown. “These are not moments one ought to waste on thinking.”
    She raised a troubled expression to his gaze. “Do you hold me in less esteem now for knowing what you do about me?”
    Ah, women. Certain women. “What do I know about you? I know passion makes you brave and generous. I know you move me to forget myself. I know I am happy at this moment.”
    â€œBe serious.” A hint of the governess laced her inflection. He envied schoolboys as he traced the arch of her brow with his thumb.
    â€œI will be what you call serious. Marry me, Amy Ingraham. Please marry me. I will procure a special license, Deene and his lady will stand up with us, Georgina will be ecstatic. We can be married by sunset tomorrow and spend all our nights composing symphonies to passion.”
    She did not smile at him. If anything, her countenance became more solemn. Jonathan debated the wisdom of arousing her again as a distraction, ran an experimental hand down the elegant curve of her spine, and discarded the notion.
    A single caress of her bare flesh, and he was the one distracted.
    â€œYou needn’t offer for me, sir. I am no more or less chaste than I was when I got into this bed.”
    Her words held a chilling sense of purpose, and Jonathan divined that along with her blue blood, Amy Ingraham had inherited a dose of the martyr. She would preserve him—son of a stonemason, climbing cit, upstart social nothing—from what she perceived as marrying beneath himself.
    â€œAmy, I did not withdraw.” He kept his voice even, when what he wanted was to roll her beneath him and prevent her bodily from leaving the bed. “Neither time did I take the simplest measure to reduce the likelihood of conception. I am one of twelve. I have nieces and nephews without limit. I would not have climbed into this bed without intending to marry you.”
    She stroked her fingers over his mouth. “I am not sure I would have climbed into this bed if I’d known your intent.”
    â€œ Why the hell not? ” He was about to remind her that he could provide for her handsomely, buy her all the pretty things and fine horses she wanted, but something stopped him. Poetry and symphonies, maybe.
    She looked hesitant in the flickering candlelight. “It isn’t what you think—it isn’t that I