Free Improper Proposals by Juliana Ross Page B

his having so much as signed a piece of paper.
    And then we were alone.
    We stood in a sitting room, not overlarge, its small table set for dinner. On the far side of the chamber was a door, only half open, which I took to lead to the bedroom. At least I very much hoped it did.
    Not knowing what to say, I removed my bonnet and shawl, both quite damp, and drew off my gloves. These Tom took from me, setting them on a table by the door before removing his own hat and coat.
    He walked over to the dining table and lifted the silver covers one by one. “I think we both ought to eat. I don’t want you to wilt away on me.”
    Though my appetite had vanished, I obligingly took my seat and allowed him to fill my plate with a slice of cold game pie, cod in oyster sauce, a slice of roast mutton, some buttered potatoes and French beans. He took at least double that for himself and, after filling our glasses from the bottle of white wine that had been left on ice, proceeded to methodically inhale his dinner.
    I picked at my food, wishing I could do it justice, and tried not to drink too much of my wine. I wasn’t hungry, nor was I thirsty. I only wanted one thing.
    “They’ve left an apple tart for pudding. Would you like some?”
    “No, thank you,” I said, shaking my head adamantly. “Tom—”
    “I know. Enough torture.”
    He took my hand and we walked together from the sitting room to the bedroom. The bed had been turned down, the gaslights aglow in their sconces, and coals burned merrily in the hearth.
    I stood in the middle of the chamber, as ignorant as a virgin bride of what was to follow. Should I approach him? Should I say something? If only I could be certain of what to do.
    And then he was before me, his hands in my hair, and he was tipping my head, bending me back so I felt unsteady on my feet and ready to swoon from the anticipation of this moment. His lips hovered so close, his breath a whisper on my skin, and then his mouth covered mine, the touch of it so lush and enthralling that I forgot to breathe.
    He moved from my mouth before I was nearly done with the kiss, but then he pressed his lips to the curve of my brow, the indent below my ear, the hollow of my throat, and those caresses were so distracting and delicious that I couldn’t bring myself to complain. His mustache and beard were soft against my skin, wonderfully so, and yet just abrasive enough to set my nerves alight.
    “Were you wondering about your chapter?” he asked.
    “Wha...what?” I mumbled. Why on earth did he wish to speak of the guide now?
    “I thought it nearly perfect. Just so you know. But I think we should consider assessing your work directly. Testing it out. For instance, you say that men often find it arousing to watch women undress.”
    “Was I wrong?”
    “No. God, no.”
    “Do you wish to watch me?” I asked, not truly knowing how I wished him to answer. I rather hoped he would say yes, but I was afraid, too. Would he like what he saw? How could I be certain?
    “Yes,” he said, pulling away so I might look him in the eye. “Yes, Caroline, that’s what I want.”
    We walked to the bed, hand in hand. He sat, while I stood a little distance away, perhaps two feet, far enough that he could not easily touch me. For now he would look, only look.
    I unbuttoned the bodice of my gown, glad to be free of it, and eased the tight-fitting garment from my arms. I tossed it on the floor, not caring how wrinkled it would be in the morning. Next, I unfastened the buttons at the waistbands of my skirts and petticoats, as well as the ribbon tie of my crinolette, and let all of it drop to my ankles. I stepped out of the discarded mound of cambric, bombazine and sprung steel hoops, only then noticing that I still wore my boots.
    I crouched down and unlaced them as quickly as my trembling hands allowed. Above me came a soft, almost pained groan. I looked up, wondering what I had done to provoke such a reaction, and followed Tom’s line of