Free Improper Proposals by Juliana Ross Page A

his eyes in acknowledgment of his clumsy choice of words. “I sound like an idiot.”
    “Not at all. If it helps, I feel a little awkward, too.”
    “It’s almost five already—shall we be on our way? My carriage should be waiting.”
    “Yes, please.”
    “Do you mind if Grendel rides with us? Normally he and I walk to work together, but in this rain—”
    “Of course he must come. How else is he to get home in this weather?”
    Tom fetched his hat and coat, not bothering with gloves, and whistled to Grendel, who sprang to his feet as if a rabbit had just bounded past his nose. We all processed along the hallway and down the flight of stairs into the carriage, my valise having been transferred directly from the care of Mr. Randall to the coachman. Or so I hoped.
    It was rather a tight squeeze in the brougham, which had been designed for the comfort of two normal-sized human passengers. Although there was room for Grendel to stand at our knees, he was such a large creature that he couldn’t help but press against our legs. As the carriage began to roll down the street, jouncing here and there over patches of rough pavement or cobbles, I found my legs pushed ever more firmly against Tom’s. He didn’t seem to mind, for not only did he make no move to pull away, he instead set his near arm across the back of the seat, almost as if to cradle me.
    In any other circumstance, such an embrace would have felt comforting, even soothing. Tonight, it was not far short of torture. Had I been parched with thirst, and had a cup of water held only inches away, I could not have suffered more. We touched, yet were cruelly separated. We breathed the same air, yet could not dare a kiss, not here, not yet.
    And when would that moment come? He had told Mr. Randall we would be dining out. Were we truly going to sit across a table from one another, in public, and attempt to engage in conversation? I should rather be flogged than endure such sustained agony.
    I had paid no heed to our destination, conscious only of the man sitting so near to me, and was taken aback when the carriage suddenly pulled to a halt in front of Tom’s townhouse. Did he mean for us to dine at home and then proceed to his bedchamber upstairs? Deep within me, a flicker of shame stuttered to tremulous life.
    “No, don’t get out. I have other plans for us. Come, Grendel.”
    The dog leaped out of the carriage, transparently glad to be home, and ran inside as soon as the front door was opened. Tom disappeared inside, too, emerging moments later with a small leather bag. As soon as he was seated next to me, the carriage set off again.
    “Where are we going?” I asked, still apprehensive. If he were to say he had a set of private apartments—the sort of apartments where a mistress might be kept, for instance—I decided I would risk a broken neck and leap out of the carriage.
    “Brown’s Hotel. It’s in Mayfair, on the far side of Green Park. I thought you would prefer it to my house. My servants are discreet, but I think we’ll both feel more at our ease there. Is that agreeable to you? If not, we could go somewhere else. Though I’m at a loss...”
    “I think it’s a fine idea. Thank you,” I assured him, secretly delighted by his evident uncertainty. A man with a string of lovers as long as his arm would not be so nervous over the arrangements for his latest affaire de cœur.
    It was a short ride indeed to the hotel—we might have walked there with ease, if not for the driving rain. I only had time to form the vaguest impression of the building we were entering, for as soon as the carriage had stopped, a pair of footmen came forward, huge umbrellas at the ready, to help us down. What little I saw of the hotel bespoke luxury, calm, comfort and wealth. There were finely paneled walls, shining marble floors, tastefully arranged furnishings.
    We hurried through the foyer and up the main staircase, Tom having taken my arm, and were shown to our rooms without