Free Improper Proposals by Juliana Ross

hours, not letting myself think of the past, nor of the unknowable future that awaited me.
    After I had finished the Chapter and sent it off to London, I wrote to Marshall & Snelgrove’s on Oxford Street and ordered a set of new undergarments. A year remained before I might begin to dress in any hue other than deepest black, but what I wore under my gown was my business alone.
    They were delivered by the end of the week, beautifully wrapped in rose-scented tissue paper, and were even prettier than I had hoped: a chemise, corset cover, petticoats, drawers and stockings, all but the latter made of fine white cambric and trimmed in narrow bands of broderie anglaise. It was a pity I would have to wear them under my wretched bombazine gown, but they would provide an amusing contrast to what concealed them. I did hope that Tom would be pleased.
    I arrived at Paddington Station on the appointed day, a rainy, almost oppressively dark afternoon late in October, and took a hansom cab straight to the offices of Peregrine Press, as Tom had directed me to do. I walked up the stairs slowly, taking my time, not wishing to appear flustered or out of breath when I arrived.
    Mr. Randall, perhaps having been told to listen for my arrival, greeted me with a friendly smile and led me to Tom’s offices without delay. No one seemed to take any particular note of my presence there, not even Mr. Randall, which was reassuring. It would be so mortifying if his staff were to discover what was taking place between their employer and me. Or, rather, what was about to take place.
    “Mrs. Boothroyd to see you, sir,” said Mr. Randall as he opened the door. Tom was at his desk, marking up a manuscript with his red pencil, but he stood as soon as I entered.
    “Good day, Mrs. Boothroyd. Thank you, Randall.”
    “Do you want me to send along some tea?” asked the clerk.
    At that, Tom looked me straight in the eye, and I shivered at the naked, wanton desire I saw, a mirror of my own intent. “No need. Mrs. Boothroyd and I will be dining out tonight. We won’t be here much longer.”
    The door closed behind Mr. Randall, and I held my breath. Would Tom come to me now?
    “I’m so sorry, Caroline—I have to finish something here. It won’t take me long at all.”
    “There’s no need to apologize. The chair by the window looks very comfortable.” I walked past where he still stood at his desk and sat by the window, not daring to look back. I had thought to distract myself with the view of Fleet Street, but the rain had grown heavier and I could see little more than the dark, blurred silhouettes of people and carriages below.
    Tom was half a room away, so why did it feel as if he were hovering at my elbow? I could hear his every breath, could sense how tightly he held his shoulders. Could very nearly smell the desire that rose from him, whispering my name, daring me to rise from my seat and rush to his side.
    I felt a soft nudge against my leg. Grendel had come to say hello, perhaps sensing I was in sore need of a distraction. He plopped down next to me, his fur still damp from his last walk, and set a gigantic paw on my lap.
    “What does he want?”
    “The paw? It’s his way of asking you to scratch behind his ears,” Tom answered, not looking up from his work.
    “Why didn’t you ask?” I whispered to the dog, then took off my glove and gave his velvety ears a thorough scratching. When he’d had enough, he fell to the floor, yawned noisily and went to sleep.
    “There—all done,” Tom said presently, turning to face me. “I was worried I’d forget what I meant to say if I didn’t get it down. I am sorry for making you wait.”
    “It doesn’t signify. Grendel and I are fast friends now.”
    “That you are. How have you been? Are you well? Are you ready? I mean—are you ready to go? I thought we might have dinner first. That is...”
    He ran his hands through his hair, which only made him look all the more adorably rumpled, and rolled