Improper Proposals (5 page)

“Have I convinced you?” he whispered.

“Of what?”

“Of the worth of a kiss.”

“Yes.”

He had, it was true, but at such a cost. Until this moment I
had been content in my widowhood, not precisely happy but at least not
miserable. And now...now I felt adrift, unmoored.

“Caroline? Are you all right?” he asked, pulling back so he
might study my face. No trace of humor now animated his face. Instead he bore an
expression of tender concern and, I thought, confusion. As if he were surprised
by how complicated a simple kiss could become.

“I’m fine. Just a little...well, a little dazed, perhaps.”

“For that I beg your pardon. But not for the kiss, I’m afraid.
It is very late, though. Shall I have the carriage brought round?”

“Yes, please.” I gathered together the pages of my first two
chapters, tidied them into their folder, and joined Tom in the front hall. He
must have sent away the servants, likely not wanting them to remark upon my
kiss-tumbled features. He had found my bonnet and wrap, and stood silently while
I put them on and lowered my veil.

“Good night, Tom.”

“Good night, Caroline. When will I hear from you again?”

“I’ll send you the chapters we looked at tonight—in a week,
shall we say? And I will try to have another Chapter ready for you by this time
next month.”

“Excellent. In the meantime, if you need anything, or have any
questions, you have only to write.” He shook my hand, opened his front door and
saw me down the steps into his carriage. One last touch, his hands at my waist
as he helped me ascend, then the carriage door was latched behind me.

As the horses trotted away, I looked out the side window of the
brougham, suddenly eager for one last look. His shirt gleamed white and perfect
in the lamplit gloom of the street, his face shadowed and beyond my scrutiny. A
heartbeat later the carriage turned and he was lost from sight.

Chapter Seven

A month to the day I was again at Tom’s side, sitting at the desk in his library, together looking over my latest pages. I had sent him only one chapter, but it was an important one, perhaps the most important of the entire guide, for in it I debunked the myths and falsehoods that were served up like Gospel truth to innocent, anxious brides.

At this juncture I propose to examine and demolish the many myths that have been created in regard to lovemaking.
I
fear some
,
if not all
,
will be familiar to you.
No matter whether they are whispered
sotto voce
by a friend
,
imparted by some well-meaning relative or
,
horror of horrors
,
found in the pages of a book that purports to offer sound advice for the young wife
,
they all share one notable attribute:
they are false.

Do men turn into ravening beasts at the sight of a bared breast?
No.
Does a husband expect and even prefer that his wife lie as still and silent as a statue while he has his way with her?
No.
Is intercourse meant to be so painful that a woman may die of it?
No
,
emphatically no.
These are falsehoods
,
and continued belief in them can cause the gravest damage to your relationship with your husband.

“This, Caroline, is exactly what I had hoped for with this guide,” Tom told me as we began our inspection of the pages. “Your voice shines through—a woman who is offering sincere counsel to her reader, just as a trusted friend would do. These pages sound like
you.
”

“Thank you.”

“You’ll see there are relatively few notations, at least compared to last month. Look through them now and let me know what you think.”

I read on, achingly conscious of the way his leg brushed against my skirts, of the heat of his bare forearm where it rested next to the manuscript. Each time I turned a page, the paper caught at the hairs on his arm. I ought to have shifted the paper away, rid him of that irritating friction, but I relished that nearly imperceptible moment of contact. I left the pages where they were.

Wary of the fogging effects of alcohol, I’d only allowed myself a half glass of wine at dinner, explaining that I had a mild headache and did not want to worsen it. If he were to kiss me again, or if I were to be bold enough to kiss him, I wished to be in full command of my faculties.

In less than half an hour I had read through the Chapter and noted his comments, which were gratifyingly few, and with that, our work was done, at least for the evening. What now? It was only half past eight; surely he would not wish to send me on my way just yet.

“Will you stay and visit with me awhile tonight?” he asked, putting my fears to bed. “Shall I call for some coffee?”

“I’ve never had it before,” I admitted.

“It is rather an acquired taste. Would you prefer tea?”

“No, thank you. I want to try the coffee.” Even if I didn’t like it, I should still be able to say I’d tried.

He went to the door of the library, opened it and spoke to an unseen footman beyond, then pulled back my chair and saw me settled in one of the hearthside wing chairs. He sat in the other, but only after crouching down to scratch at Grendel’s ears. The great dog, snoring away on the hearthrug, didn’t so much as open an eye in acknowledgment.

“What kind of dog is he?”

“I’ve no idea. Came from one of the gamekeepers on my father’s estate in Aberdeenshire. By looks alone I’d say he’s at least half deerhound, though the other half is anyone’s guess. Likely there’s some lurcher in there, and perhaps a dose of mastiff. He’s a dear old fellow.”

“How does he like London? I’d have thought him better suited to country life.”

“He tolerates it for my sake. We go on good long walks every morning, over in Green Park, and he runs along the banks of the Serpentine when I’m on the water.”

“On the water?”

“I scull. Keeps me fit.”

That explained the improbable muscles in his arms and shoulders. “Did you row at Cambridge?”

“I did, but only for my college.”

“Were you at Christ’s College with John? He never said.”

“No, Emmanuel. Just next door. We met in second year, at the Philosophical Society. As I recall, John was the only non-mathematician there. But he held his own, all the same.”

A scratch at the door heralded the arrival of our coffee. Tom poured a small measure into a little vessel, half the size of a teacup. “Sugar?” he asked.

“I don’t normally take sugar in my tea.”

“Try it black, then, but don’t be afraid to add some sugar. It’s very strong.”

It smelled lovely, like almost-burned chocolate and exotic spices, but my first sip was a surprise. It tasted of...there was no comparison. Distant shores and moonlit nights and caravans across endless sandy seas, all of it mixed together. I took another sip, a smaller one this time, and decided I liked it.

“Did you also meet Mr. Keating at Cambridge, as John did?”

“No. It was at the Alpine Club, a few years after we’d taken our degrees. We both hated it—the place is packed with old buffers talking complete rot about their exploits. But I did make a lifelong friend, so it was worth the initial tedium.”

“How fortunate that he married your sister.”

“I suppose. Though I fear she’s made a lapdog of him. I’ve never seen a man so smitten. Appalling, really.” This last remark he softened with a grin.

“Did you ever travel with Mr. Keating?”

“I did. Not on the great mountaineering expeditions. I was never more than a rank amateur. But we went to South America together, nearly ten years ago now, and also to India. To the Holy Lands as well.”

“You never wished to write about your travels, as he did?”

“God, no. I’m no writer. But I can recognize good writing when I see it, and I have some small talent at nurturing it. With Peregrine Press I thought to create a home for men and women who have seen the world and wish to share their discoveries.”

“There are other women who write for you?” I asked, my voice a fraction too loud for the intimate tone of our conversation. I wasn’t jealous, only surprised, for I had thought myself the only woman author at Peregrine Press.

“There are. Typically they use a pen name—most have relations who would be horrified by such notoriety, as it were. Doesn’t change the fact that they’re every bit as adventurous as the men I publish. Just as you are.”

“Me? I’ve nothing of that spirit.”

“Haven’t you?” he asked, his expression nakedly disbelieving.

“Of course not. I may enjoy reading about exotic climes and strange places, but I’ve no desire to travel there myself. Aston Tirrold suits me perfectly well.”

“I think if you had the chance,” he said slowly, turning his cup on its saucer, “you would enjoy it.” He looked up, capturing me in his intense gaze, challenging me to look away.

“You’re quite wrong. I’m far too old for such things.”

“You can’t be a day over thirty,” he protested.

“I am twenty-nine. Old enough to know better.”

“And I’m thirty-four. Do you think me too decrepit for adventure?”

Goodness, no. He was the sort of man who would never seem old, not even once his hair had gone white. Perhaps it was that boyish grin of his.

“Of course not.”

“When you were a little girl, didn’t you dream of such things?”

“You mean sailing the seven seas? No, never. I was a very ordinary child. All I wished was to grow up and marry and become a mother.”

“But what if that had never happened?” he pressed. “What if you had never met John, or any other man whom you thought worthy?”

“I’m not sure. Likely, I would have married all the same. I was fortunate to have been so happy with John, but most women make do with less. As long as he was a kind man, a decent man, that would have been enough.”

“You think mere liking would have been enough for a woman such as yourself?”

He ought not to compliment me so, for it would turn my head. Of a certainty it would. “By necessity, yes. What else was I fit for?”

At this he shut his eyes and rubbed at his temples, as if something about my answer had annoyed him. “And what of your siblings?”

“I have but one brother, and he’s lived in India for years. No—don’t say it. Peter was born wishing to travel. That’s all he ever thought of, for as long as I can remember.”

“You might have joined him.”

“I couldn’t have left my parents. And I married John soon after, so even had I wished to go, it wouldn’t have been possible.”

“Anything is possible for a woman of your daring.”

“That’s different, and you know it. A man may do all sorts of things that a women cannot even dare to think about.”

He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, and his expression was dauntingly serious. “
You
dare. You dine with me, here in my home, with no chaperone. You are writing a book on the most daring subject imaginable—”

“Only because you convinced me.”

“Rubbish. You convinced yourself. You, Caroline, are an adventurous woman. Admit it.” He appended a smile to his assertion, though there was little humor to it. Only admiration, I realized with a start, and beneath it something more. Something that ignited a flame of answering desire deep within me.

“I’ll admit no such thing,” I said, flummoxed by his charm and convincing ways. He ought to have stood for Parliament. “What of you?” I said, seeking to turn the conversation away from myself. “Have you never thought of marrying?”

I had thought to provoke another smile from him, and possibly a protest at the constraints of married life, but he frowned and looked away.

“I did hope to marry, once. Was actually engaged. She—Cecilia—died of a summer fever several months before the wedding. I was away when it happened, in Palestine with Elijah.”

“You loved her.”

“I did. It surprised me, you know, how much it hurt. How could it be possible that she should die and leave me? It simply didn’t make sense. Not then, and not for a long time after. I expect you felt the same sort of thing when John died.”

“I did. I still do.”

“After she died, I forgot about the idea of marriage, or perhaps I simply lost interest. In the meantime my brother married and produced several heirs, so my parents stopped bothering me about it.”

“I
am
sorry.”

“You’re very kind. But it was a long time ago. I can scarcely remember her face, now. She never sat for a photograph. You do have a picture of John, don’t you?”

“Yes, thank goodness. I have a daguerreotype that was taken on our wedding day, and also a portrait in oils, a small one, that was done when he was ordained.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“So now it’s only you and Grendel?” I asked, hoping to lighten the mood in the room.

“Yes, me and my wee Scots beastie, and he loves me despite my faults.”

“You exaggerate. I’m sure you would have made Cecilia very happy.”

“I hope so. What of your plans for the future? Do you think to marry again?”

“I doubt it,” I answered honestly. “I have enough for my keeping, and I’m content in my little cottage. I cannot imagine replicating the happiness I shared with John, so why settle for less?”

“Why indeed?”

“He wasn’t perfect, you know. People in the village speak of him as if he were some sort of living saint. But he wasn’t. He could be grumpy, and obsessive about his work, and sometimes he was so busy he seemed to forget I was even there. But I loved him all the more for it, clay feet and all. He wasn’t perfect, but he was perfect for
me.
”

“You must speak to me about him whenever you wish, if you think it will do you good.”

“It does. I miss everything about him. Even the way he would snore at night. Most of all, I miss...well, I miss having someone to be close with. I hate the feeling of forever being apart and alone. Untouched. Some days it’s unbearable.”

An instant after the words had left my mouth, I grasped their full import. Surely Tom did not wish to hear of my loneliness, either physical or emotional. How pathetic I must seem. “I beg your pardon. I spoke too boldly, just now.”

“You did nothing of the sort. Particularly since...well, it encourages me to say something at least a thousand times bolder. Or, rather, I am going to ask you something.”

Oh, Lord—he wanted another kiss. I knew it. He was nervous, just as he’d been when he’d asked me to write the guide. There was the slightest flush of color on his cheekbones, and the expression on his face, when he looked up and met my searching gaze, was endearingly uncertain.

“I have another proposal for you, and once more I must beg your pardon in advance if it offends you. I, ah, I rather fear it will, but I cannot help asking all the same.”

“Go on,” I said, wincing a little at how eager I sounded.

“You must already know that I’m drawn to you. Very much so. Not only because you are the loveliest woman I’ve ever met, but also because you are...well,
you.
Brave, intelligent, curious. Infinitely desirable.”

Why did he persist in saying such things? What did he want from me? “Please, Tom, you mustn’t—”

“Do let me finish. What I wish to ask you, and again I beg your pardon, if I cause you to feel even the slightest moment of distress—”

“Just say it, Tom. I’ve never swooned before and I doubt I will now, no matter what you say.” Though if anything were to make me swoon, his complimenting me so fulsomely would be enough.

A pause, an endless pause, and then his question, spoken so softly I could barely hear his voice above the drumbeat of my heart. “Will you consent to an intimate liaison with me? Become my lover?”

I must have misheard him. That could be the only explanation. “I beg your pardon? I think I must have—”

“I want you. I desire you. And I believe you desire me, too.”

I didn’t swoon, but I did lose the ability to transform thoughts into words. I licked my suddenly parched lips and opened my mouth to speak, but no sound emerged, not so much as a squeak.