Jonathan and Amy Read Free Page A

pillow, her hair would be an entire palette…
    â€œI have a suggestion, Miss Ingraham.”
    She arched a brow, all starchy business and brisk efficiency. No wonder Georgina’s education was progressing at such a great rate.
    â€œIf we are to maximize the time between now and our departure, then it makes sense for you to take your meals with me.”
    Such a delicate frown had Miss Ingraham. “That…does…make sense.”
    And so reluctant. Jonathan’s despair eclipsed the desire that simmered in his veins whenever he beheld his daughter’s governess. “Only for a week, Miss Ingraham, and I assure you I will be on my best behavior.”
    â€œYes, you will.” She studied him until the corners of her mouth curved up and an impish light gleamed in her eyes. “Keeping you on your best behavior shall be my personal mission.”
    And thus began his week of heaven—and hell.
    She showed him how to tie his cravats in the more fashionable knots, though how she knew such things was a mystery. This exercise required her hands on his person, making it a wonder of biblical proportions that Jonathan mastered anything beyond the fussed-up reef knot he’d been using for years.
    She lectured him through three meals a day plus tea—high bloody tea!—and gave him little books to read on the subject of table manners.
    She inspected his turnout each morning and each time before he left the house, tugging on a shirtsleeve or adjusting his boutonniere . He was no longer permitted to refer to it as a damned posy .
    And then the real torment began.
    â€œWe must do something about your hair.” Miss Ingraham made this pronouncement at breakfast on Thursday, and their departure was scheduled for Saturday morning.
    â€œYou will not be parading me around all slicked down with grease and perfume, Miss Ingraham. I like my hair clean.”
    While Georgina grinned at her eggs on Jonathan’s left, Miss Ingraham sat back in her chair on his right, her expression alarmingly pensive. “You have lovely hair.” He did not roll his eyes, but her compliments always preceded some dire pronouncement, and she did not disappoint on this occasion. “Your hair is in want of a trim.”
    â€œThen I shall cut it. More tea?”
    She remained silent, until she leaned forward and feathered her fingers through his hair. “You have marvelously thick hair, and the color is unusual. Titian.”
    Which meant however dark it was, it was still red, and thus the wrong color. She repeated the caress of her fingers through his hair, while Jonathan tried to ignore the pleasure of her touch.
    In this, at least, the week had been successful: Amy Ingraham showed no more compunction about touching him than if he were a five-year-old boy and truly one of her charges.
    â€œMay I help cut Papa’s hair?”
    Jonathan spoke a bit too loudly. “Certainly not. Finish your eggs.”
    â€œYou may keep a curl for a locket,” Miss Ingraham said. The females exchanged a look, one Jonathan recognized, as any man with seven sisters would.
    â€œYou two are conspiring,” he said, pouring more tea for Miss Ingraham. “This does not bode well for my peace of mind. There are laws against conspiracies. Females plotting to overthrow the order of a man’s household is likely some sort of felony. Old George sired six daughters. I can’t believe he’d fail to address such potential unrest in his kingdom.”
    â€œPapa’s eggs are getting cold,” Georgina remarked to no one in particular.
    â€œSo are yours, young lady.”
    â€œA gentleman never argues with a lady.” Miss Ingraham’s expression was positively bored, while her gray eyes danced gleefully.
    â€œShe’s an imp from h—the depths, not a lady. Not yet.” When Georgina grinned at him, Jonathan brushed his finger down her nose in a parody of a reprimand. “And a very