Improper Proposals (4 page)

He grinned, evidently pleased by my compliment, though I doubted it meant much to him. Likely he heard such things every day, falling like pearls from the lips of the beautiful young aristocratic women he met at balls and soirées and dinner parties.

“I know I usually look like something the cat’s dragged in, but I decided to make an effort tonight. If only to reassure you I’m a respectable sort. Look,” he said, holding out his hands. “No ink stains. My housekeeper had me soak my fingers in some vile concoction.”

“I’m honored,” I said, and in truth I was. Just then, in the instant of silence that fell after my response, my stomach growled. Loudly. So loudly that I knew he had heard.

“I could pretend I didn’t hear that, but I won’t. You must be hungry.”

“Ravenous. I’m used to country hours, I’m afraid. Normally I’m abed by nine o’clock.”

“Then let me see you fed,” he said, and offered me his arm.

Chapter Six

The dining room was steps away, just across the
entrance hall, and though it was a large chamber, as fully wide and long as the
main floor of my little cottage, it had been made cozy with candlelight and the
welcoming aromas of our first course.

The table was set for two, a banquet of heavy white linen,
monogrammed sterling cutlery, glittering crystal and bone china plates so thin
they were nearly transparent. Between us sat a low arrangement of late dahlias
and early chrysanthemums, flanked by candles in filigreed silver holders.

A pair of footmen in simple livery ladled out our soup, then
retreated silently. “They’ll bring in the courses but otherwise we’ll be alone,”
my host explained. “My butler is beside himself, but I’m more than capable of
refilling your wineglass without assistance. And we can speak freely this
way.”

“Thank you,” I said, surprised by his gesture. The few
aristocrats I’d known seemed to regard their servants as little more than pieces
of furniture, incapable of following the conversations of their betters, and
deaf to any snippets of gossip they were able to discern.

We spoke of the developing hostilities between France and
Prussia while we consumed our asparagus soup, turning to the weather during the
fish course of poached salmon with capers. Our conversation moved to travel as
we ate our main course, a roast filet of veal with garden peas and new potatoes.
Mr. Cathcart-Ross had visited nearly every corner of Europe, I learned, and had
been to the west coast of Africa, the Near East and even South America. He
admitted to a desire to see Australia and New Zealand but wasn’t sure he could
bear the long sea voyage. As I had never traveled farther than the Midlands, my
contribution to that portion of the evening was minimal.

By the time our pudding was served, a pretty tart of greengage
plums, I had drunk down two entire glasses of white Burgundy and was feeling
considerably less anxious about the work that awaited us once our meal was
done.

“Shall we return to the library?” he asked presently. “There’s
room for us both to sit at my desk and go over your pages together.”

He saw me seated comfortably in his own chair, then fetched a
side chair and set it next to me. Rather than sit down, however, he began to
undress, removing his coat, his waistcoat and his tie. Finally he pulled out his
cufflinks and rolled his sleeves to his elbows.

“Forgive me,” he said, responding to my expression of alarm. “I
find it much easier to concentrate if I’m comfortable. I would invite you to do
the same if I didn’t think you would have a fit of the vapors.”

He was teasing me; that much was plain. “I am perfectly
comfortable,” I lied, praying that he didn’t notice how red my face had become.
I might have daydreamed of him disrobing in front of me, but that didn’t mean I
actually wished for such a thing to happen. “As for the vapors, I’m made of
stronger stuff than that. You aren’t the first man I’ve seen in his
shirtsleeves.”

“Fair enough. Would you like a glass of brandy? I have some
very fine Armagnac.”

“No, thank you. My head is fairly spinning already.”

“Then let’s get to it,” he said, sitting down at last. “Here
are the pages you sent me—you’ll see I’ve made a fair number of annotations
already. Normally I leave the fine editing to one of my clerks, but given the
subject matter I think it best to handle it myself. Once the manuscript is
complete and polished up, I’ll hand it off. Not before then.”

“I suppose that’s for the best.”

“I won’t catch everything, but I think I’ve made a good
start.”

“What are these notations?” I asked. “What does ‘stet’ mean?
And what is this backwards
P
?”

“The
P
is a pilcrow, and it means I
want you to break here and begin a new paragraph. ‘Stet’ indicates that I’ve
changed my mind—see here? I’d crossed out several words, but once I’d read the
sentence through a time or two I decided I was wrong. So I wrote ‘stet,’ which
means ‘let it stand.’”

“There are a great many marks,” I said, feeling rather
mortified at what a poor job I’d done with my first draft.

“Ignore them for the moment. It’s the notes I made in the
margins that are important. Look through them now and let me know if you
disagree with anything I’ve written, or if there’s anything you don’t
understand.”

I hunched over the pages and began to read in earnest. As he’d
promised earlier, his concerns were few, and for the most part turned on matters
of clarity and evidence.
It isn’t enough to state that
women are kept in ignorance
was a typical notation.
You need to describe the ways that truth is kept from
them
,
as well as the unhappiness that can
result.
This is where you make your case for the guide—where you
demonstrate why it is needed.

Before long I was at the beginning of my second chapter, the
one where I described the sorts of preparatory activities, as it were, that
often preceded lovemaking. Although the ardent kisses and caresses that were
typical of such moments were likely to alarm most new brides, in my opinion they
were a necessary precursor to the act itself. I had said so, right at the
beginning of the chapter, although in the most tasteful way possible.

Mr. Cathcart-Ross tapped the manuscript with his forefinger.
“This, here, is a problem. You say,

A
woman’s natural delicacy and sense of modesty may prove to
be an impediment in those first moments of intimacy she shares with her new
husband.
He is very likely to touch her in a way that seems
disagreeable or indecent
,
while she
,
in turn
,
is quite as likely
to reject his advances.
This can only result in disappointment for both and a
consequent lack of felicity in the marital relations that follow.
The author of this guide sincerely counsels her reader to
attempt to suppress such a reaction and to not only allow her husband the
liberty of touching her person freely and without resistance
,
but also to welcome such an interest and
,
further
,
to attempt to actively
participate in such activities.

“This is so different from the rest of what you have written,”
he observed, “it might as well have come from someone else’s pen. What were you
trying to say here? In plain English, mind you.”

“I meant to say that it can be very surprising, that’s all. To
go from sharing a kiss with one’s fiancé, no more, and suddenly he wishes to
touch one’s limbs or, ah, one’s bosom. I am certain it must be very
disconcerting for some women.”

“Then say so. If it seems embarrassing, imagine you are
speaking to a trusted friend. How would you counsel her?”

“I...well, I would tell her that before her husband makes love
to her he will wish to touch her. That he will not only kiss her mouth but also
her neck and shoulders and breasts. He will want to see her legs, will almost
certainly wish to see her unclothed.”

“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.