Improper Proposals

by Juliana Ross

  “And?”

  “And that she is not to be afraid, or embarrassed, or worried that they are engaging in sinful behavior. That this is why lovemaking is so enjoyable. That if she allows herself to enjoy what is happening, she will feel pleasure, and the bond of affection with her husband will grow stronger.”

  “Exactly. From now on, speak to your reader as if she is your friend. She needs your advice, not a sermon. Understood?”

  “Yes. Yes, of course. I see it now.”

  He was right. The only way forward was to embrace my subject matter, and in holding tight I would smother the shame. Though it wouldn’t help those women whose husbands couldn’t be bothered with foreplay, I realized. I would have to include a chapter with advice on how to manage such a husband. Carefully, of course, for such men often proved to be brutes in other ways. But much might be achieved with a display of genuine affection and sincere eagerness for a man’s touch. I would definitely have to think more on that subject.

  Mr. Cathcart-Ross chose that moment to sit back in his chair and stretch his arms high and wide. He also let out a low groan, which struck a chord of response deep within me, as if the most delicate of butterflies had suddenly awoken and fluttered its wings.

  He bent forward, locking his hands behind his neck, and massaged his scalp, setting his hair on end. His forearms, I couldn’t help but notice, were sleekly muscled and corded with veins, his fair skin marked here and there by thin, faint scars. The hair on his arms was lighter than I expected, a dark gold rather than brown, and I wondered if the hair on his chest and legs and other, more hidden areas was also so fair. Perhaps he hadn’t any hair on his chest—I hadn’t spied any at the open neck of his shirt. Perhaps—

  “Is anything the matter, Mrs. Boothroyd?”

  “No, ah...no. I’m quite all right. Was woolgathering for a moment.”

  I read on, determining to focus my attention on the work before us and not on the myriad attractions of his person. One day, when we were finished with this endeavor and I had returned to Aston Tirrold for good, I would allow myself to think of him whenever I wished and let my imagination fashion a different life, one in which he and I might be lovers. But now was not the time for such fantasies.

  I continued to make note of the instances in my manuscript where I spoke too clinically, or in too abstract a fashion, and resolved that I would not make the same mistakes in the chapters I had yet to write. It was fortunate indeed that I had such a sensitive and understanding editor—

  “Why do you object to this passage?” I asked, stopping short at a swath of red ink.

  “Which one?”

  “Where I discuss kissing. Where I say, ‘Kissing is a poor benchmark by which to judge a man’s sentiments, and an even worse indictor of his potential as a lover.’ You underlined the entire passage in red, several times, and wrote ‘no’ in the margin.”

  “Because I disagree with you. I think you can tell a great deal about a person by the way they kiss.”

  “It’s only that...well, I’ve never enjoyed it. Kissing, I mean.”

  “You? Really?”

  “I don’t. I always assumed it was something that men liked and women, well, tolerated. But now that you say it...”

  “What didn’t you like about kissing?” he asked, his brow furrowed.

  “It was his whiskers.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “The only time John and I really kissed, were really able to be alone together, was late at night. And although he was clean-shaven, his beard had grown in by bedtime, and it was ever so scratchy and rough. I didn’t mind his kissing other parts of me, but it always left my face so red. It made me worry his parishioners might notice, the next morning, and gossip. I never let him kiss me on Saturday night, for fear it would show at church the next day.”

  “Why didn’t you ask him to shave? Before you went to bed?”

  Regret surged within me, seizing my heart and lungs. Why, indeed, had I never asked for such a simple thing? I looked away, blinking back a scalding rush of unbidden tears.

  “I beg your pardon. I ought not to have said such a thing,” he said softly.

  “No. You were right. I ought to have asked. John wouldn’t have minded.”

  He looked at me then, really looked at me, as if I were a puzzle he badly needed to solve. “May I call you Caroline?”

  “Yes,” I whispered. “But only when we’re alone. I wouldn’t want anyone—”

  “Of course. And you must call me Tom. Or Thomas. Whichever you prefer.”

  “Tom.”

  “I’d like to kiss you, Caroline. If only to prove that a simple kiss is worth your regard. May I?”

  I wanted to say yes. I wanted him to kiss me so much I could taste it, could already feel the weight of his lips on mine. Yet I ought not to want this, not when memories of John were so ripe in my thoughts and in my heart.

  What sort of woman was I, to reach out and pluck the first apple of temptation that came my way? It was unnatural to desire another man when my love for John still burned so brightly. It was wrong to want a man so avidly, even as I knew I did not love him.

  I ought not. I ought not.

  “Yes,” I whispered, the word slipping from my mouth on the slightest breath of exhaled air.

  Tom reached out, tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, traced the curve of my brow with his thumb. I arched toward his cradling hand, my gaze fixed on his serious eyes, my breath gathering in my throat. He dipped his head, so close now his features were but a blur, and touched his lips to mine.

  Soft. His mustache and beard felt so soft against my face, yet with the slightest edge of pleasant abrasion. My lips parted, eager for more, and by way of answer he deepened our kiss, his mouth firm and unyielding, fitting itself to mine with gratifying precision.

  His tongue delved deep, shocking me with its heat and purpose, but rather than pull away—I ought to have done so, for this had become far from a simple kiss—I allowed a delicate moan of delight to rise in my throat.

  I hadn’t asked for this, hadn’t wished for it, but all the same I would not change a thing, not even the spark of disquiet that he had kindled deep beneath my woman’s mound. Now that it was awoken, though, what was I to do? Should I pull away? Or should I allow him to continue and, with my compliance, signal that I was agreeable to more?

  It was time to stop. I was not ready for this connection, this degree of intimacy with a man other than John. No matter how avidly my body responded to him, I would not give in. I lifted my hand to his chest and pushed once, gently. He immediately pulled away, resting his forehead against mine, his breath gusting sweetly against my temple.

  “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 brough
t 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 s
uits 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.”