Improper Proposals Read Online Free Page B

submit.” She had told me that in return for
enduring John’s “attentions,” I would one day be rewarded with a baby. And that
had been all, for Mama had been so ill at ease that I had not dared ask a single
question.
    By the time John had come to me on our wedding night, more than
an hour after I’d been put to bed, I was quite beside myself with fear. Through
all the months of our courtship he had been so gentle, so affectionate, that it
seemed impossible he should now wish to injure or abuse me.
    I had shut my eyes tight, praying silently for the strength to
endure the coming ordeal. Then he’d climbed into bed, wearing only his shirt and
trousers, and drawn me into the shelter of his arms.
    “Why are you afraid, my darling?” he’d asked.
    “I promise to be good,” I had whispered, fearful that one of
the servants might hear. “I know I must do my duty.”
    A sigh from John, and then, “Did anyone tell you what to
expect?”
    “Mama told me it would be unpleasant. She said I was to submit
to you, and on no account must I resist.”
    Another sigh. “Caroline, will you turn to look at me?
Please?”
    I’d been relieved to see that he appeared almost as uneasy as
I. Perhaps he might decide to relent, if only for tonight.
    “Your mother, God bless her, told you a great untruth. What we
are about to do will not be unpleasant—at least, I very much hope it will not.
And if you do feel any discomfort, you must be honest and tell me so straight
away.”
    “Yes, John.”
    “If it makes you feel any better, I have never done this
before, either.”
    “You haven’t? But Mama told me you would know what to do.”
    “I do. At least I have a fairly good idea. But I’m nervous,
too. I want you to enjoy this.”
    “What are we going to do? I so wish I knew what to expect.”
    “I will tell you, in a minute. But first, will you let me kiss
you?”
    Before the night was done I had learned a number of things.
One, that my mother had been wrong, entirely wrong. There had been nothing
shameful or disgusting about what John and I had done. Quite the contrary,
although we were rather shy with one another at the beginning, and I spent most
of the night covered in nothing more than blushes.
    And two, I had discovered that the minor discomfort I
experienced at the beginning—and which John had assured me would not be
repeated—was as nothing compared to the entirely delightful feelings that had
overtaken me several minutes later.
    From there, our lovemaking had only improved. John had been
attentive and sensitive, always keen to ensure my satisfaction, never troubling
me if I were overtired or ill. As our intimacy had grown, so too had our
devotion to one another, and apart from my failure to conceive we had been
entirely content with one another and with married life.
    I stood, casting aside the cobwebs of the past, and walked out
to my garden. The path needed sweeping and the rosebush in the corner needed
deadheading, but rather than put myself to work I sat on the little bench under
the quince tree, gripped by an unfamiliar sense of indecision.
    I had written my book of household management in order to
enlighten other women, and in so doing lift the burden of ignorance under which
so many labored. Might I be able to perform a similar service with the
unorthodox guide that Mr. Cathcart-Ross proposed? The anxiety of not knowing how
to properly stoke a range, for example, was as nothing compared to the
anticipatory terror I had felt on my wedding night. To free even a single woman
from such fear was a laudable goal.
    If only I knew more about Mr. Cathcart-Ross and the sort of man
he was. Of course he had known John for years, and my husband had spoken of him
often, always with great affection. But I barely knew him, for he had been
abroad both at the time of my wedding and when John died, and in the years
between he had never visited us in Aston Tirrold. Yet I felt certain my husband
would never have been friends with