Improper Proposals Read Online Free

of it.
    I cleared my throat, at which he turned and came forward to shake my hand. His fingers were still stained with ink.
    “Good evening, Mrs. Boothroyd.”
    “Good evening,” I said. “I wasn’t expecting you.”
    “I do beg your pardon. I’m dining with some friends who live nearby. And, well, I wanted to tell you that I read your book. I thought, if you wished, we might discuss it.”
    “Of course. You have time?”
    “Yes. I’m not expected until nine o’clock.”
    “Shall we sit? May I ring for anything?”
    “No, thank you.”
    I went to the nearest settee and there took some time arranging my skirts about me, hoping my hands would cease their trembling before I was done. But then, rather than place himself at a properly remote distance, Mr. Cathcart-Ross sat mere inches away, so close that the tip of his boot vanished under the pooling hem of my gown. I folded my hands in my lap and squeezed them together tightly.
    “As I said, I read your book this afternoon.”
    “And?” I prompted.
    “And it’s very good. Well written, original, interesting. You have no small talent in that regard.”
    “Thank you.”
    “I still don’t think I can publish it. But I do have...that is, I have an idea, and I thought I might share it with you. If you are interested. I mean, if you care to hear me out.”
    I looked up at him and was taken aback by the expression on his face. He was uncomfortable. Nervous, even. It was so at odds with his confident manner and polished exterior that I suddenly felt anxious, too. What was he about to tell me? Did he have some secret to impart in regard to John?
    “Is anything the matter, Mr. Cathcart-Ross?”
    He met my gaze without hesitation. “If I appear nervous, it’s because I am. I came here tonight to propose something to you, but I find myself hesitating.”
    “How bad can it be? You’ve already turned down my manuscript.”
    “What I’m about to propose is improper in the extreme. Before I say anything more, you must promise that if I cause any offense, you will tell me directly. I will then endeavor never again to speak of the matter.”
    “Now I am the one who is nervous,” I said, appending a smile to my comment.
    “As you probably know, John and I became acquainted at Cambridge, and in the years since, although we saw one another infrequently, I considered him a close friend. I suspect most people he knew thought of him in that way.”
    “Yes. I used to chaff him about it. How within five minutes of making a person’s acquaintance he had learned his or her entire life story. And he had such a memory for names and faces.”
    “The people of your village were very fortunate in their vicar.”
    “This is all very congenial, Mr. Cathcart-Ross. Yet you alluded to something quite the opposite.”
    “Yes. Yes, I did. The thing is...when I did see John, and when we had occasion to speak at length, I was always impressed by how well he spoke of you. How content he was in his marriage and how blessed he was in his choice of wife. You made him very happy.”
    I could feel the color rising in my cheeks, for I’d never been at ease with compliments, particularly those of such a personal nature. “Thank you.”
    “And, well, I had the particular sense, though of course John and I never spoke directly on the matter, that, ah—”
    “Yes?”
    “That you and John enjoyed—good God, this is difficult—that you enjoyed a high degree of connubial bliss.”
    It could not be possible. He could not have possibly said what I was quite certain he had, in fact, just said.
    “I beg your pardon?”
    “That you were most content in, ah, your private relations with one another. If I am mistaken in this regard I do beg your pardon, most sincerely. But if my instincts were, are, correct—”
    “I...I...” was all I could stammer out by way of reply. Had the few sips of Madeira I’d consumed earlier gone straight to my head? Might I be imagining this entire