An Improper Situation (Sanborn-Malloy Historical Romance Series, Book One)

by Baily, Sydney Jane

  Putting her stack of reading material to one side and leaving a piece of paper with her name on top, Charlotte dashed down the stairs and out of the library. The library’s doorman hailed a cabriolet and she was on her way.

  Fumbling in her reticule a moment, she drew out her compact mirror. With her handkerchief, she blotted the shine on her nose, checked her hair, and shrugged. She would have to make do with her appearance. In under ten minutes, she was at Malloy and Associates.

  A doorman let her in and, just inside, a second man, introducing himself as the secretary, received her, escorting her to a seat in the waiting area. The pervading scent of beeswax polish reminded her of her aunt’s home, with its understated elegance.

  Assuring her that Mr. Malloy was in the building, the secretary disappeared upstairs to notify him of her arrival.

  Preferring to stand, Charlotte paced the thick oriental rug surveying the art work on the walls. There were newspapers in dark cherry wood racks and more strewn across the tables on either side of the settees, but she didn’t have time to peruse them, for she heard a familiar voice in the doorway.

  “Charlotte,” John Trelaine greeted her, as he clasped her hand warmly. “I heard that you were here. Reed will be with you shortly; he just had a client drop by.”

  “Oh, that’s quite all right. I am late, too—” She broke off as it occurred to Charlotte that John presented a golden opportunity to learn more about Reed. It must be the flame of investigation sparked by her writing assignment, she justified to herself.

  “I mean, why don’t you sit with me while I wait; that is, if you’re not too busy.”

  “Not at all.”

  They sat down together on the long plush settee. “How are you liking Boston, so far? I understand that the local intelligentsia have found you already.”

  “You are referring to Mr. Greene. I’m thrilled to be working again. I suppose you and Mr. Malloy have worked together for many years?” Charlotte felt brazen in her question, but he didn’t seem to think her shift in interest too peculiar.

  “We graduated from Harvard Law School together about ten years ago,” John told her. “I very much respected Reed’s father, so naturally, when the opportunity arose, I became an associate.”

  Charlotte adroitly steered the conversation to the more personal aspects of Reed’s life. “Knowing him so long, you must also be acquainted with his family. He has spoken to me of his eldest sister . . . Elise, I believe?”

  “Yes, she’s a lovely woman, though I get the distinct feeling that she would like to see her brother settled, as would all of the Malloy family.”

  That couldn’t have happened more easily, Charlotte congratulated herself, as she saw an opening.

  “That seems so easily accomplished. To continue along the lines of our brief conversation in Spring City,” she added, “Reed seems to have gone out of his way to put up a barrier.”

  “You mean Mrs. Belgrave,” John offered.

  Charlotte shrugged. “I must admit I’m puzzled why a thoughtful man, who has had success in his professional life and comes from a happy family, wouldn’t want to know that same happiness himself.”

  She had to push on and ask, “I know that he is trying to fend off marriage-minded females, but why?”

  “Hasn’t he told you?” John Trelaine looked surprised. “Well, it’s no secret I guess. He—”

  “He what?” Reed asked, startling them both from the waiting room doorway.

  John stood up first, looking far more composed than Charlotte felt. She was sure it appeared to Reed as if she were snooping, which, of course, she was. And she realized with chagrin that John, who must be as shrewd a lawyer as Reed, knew exactly what she was doing, too.

  “He should probably tell you about Celia himself,” John finished, ignoring Reed’s withering look. John pressed her hand once more before taking his leave. Charlotte couldn’t help but notice that he had a slightly smug look, knowing he’d opened Pandora’s box with one simple, mysterious word.

  Reed’s annoyance seemed to vanish along with his associate. He took Charlotte’s hand and brushed it lightly with his lips, raising memories of the night before. His eyes held hers for a long moment.

  “I was starting to doubt I’d be seeing you. I didn’t expect to find you here in our lounge, deep in conversation with John.”

  “I apologize for my belatedness,” Charlotte told him, trying to regain her composure that slipped the moment he touched her. “I was caught up in my research and lost track of time.”

  She nearly bounced with excitement. “I’ve been at the library for hours. Oh, Reed, it is . . . well, it’s some pumpkins!”

  “On the contrary, Miss Sanborn, you are some pumpkins!” His eyes were smiling. “Besides, now you are here, and you must eat, as must I. We can still do that together, no matter the time.”

  “Well,” she began just as her stomach rumbled again loudly. Mortified, she blushed, but acquiesced gracefully. “I guess my stomach has overruled my brain, which was inclined to skip a meal altogether and simply keep working.”

  “We’ll leave the grand tour of my establishment for next time,” Reed said, wryly, ushering her toward the door, “when your appetite is less demanding.”

  “Did you want to invite John to join us?” Charlotte asked, as he hailed his driver. She nearly bit her tongue as soon as the words were out of her mouth, for she couldn’t wait to follow up on the mysterious “Celia” over lunch. It occurred to her that Reed knew so much more about her than she about him.

  “No, I’m sure he’s busy,” Reed replied, a bit too quickly. “You will have to settle for my company alone.”

  Charlotte tried not to look too relieved, especially given the way he said alone, tickling her fancy. She soon found out that, in truth, he meant it.

  When they alighted from his clarence, it was not in front of an eating establishment but a private residence. She looked at him questioningly.

  “Lunch,” he offered, “by the best cook I know.”

  “You?” she asked. He laughed.

  “Hardly, I’m not so deluded about my cooking abilities as to believe they outshine the best restaurants in Boston. But my cook’s do. You’ll see.”

  That was not the only surprise; Reed’s home a former sea captain’s, built almost on the pilings of India wharf.

  “It’s marvelous, Reed,” Charlotte told him, stepping inside and gazing around the eighteenth-century home. She couldn’t imagine what he had thought of her landlocked little house.

  “It’s not as archaic as it looks. I’ve modernized it with the latest in indoor plumbing and gas lighting. Still, the good people of Beacon Hill consider me to live on the wrong side of Atlantic Avenue.”

  She shrugged. The wrong or right side meant nothing to her. All she knew was that the wide pine floors covered in richly colored oriental carpets and the gleaming brass fixtures that caught the light throughout the downstairs were quintessentially Reed.

  His home was masculine but not stark, and Charlotte thought the house suited him perfectly. Right down to the impressive view of the ocean from the parlor at the rear of the house. Sailing ships of every size filled the harbor, and there was even a large steamship with flags flying.

  “Think about it. All of our great nation is at our backs,” she said. “We’re simply perched on the edge of the continent.” Charlotte looked out at the sea, which reminded her of Reed’s eyes, going from deep blue to gray blue depending on the sunlight. “It’s breathtaking,” she added.

  “As are you,” he said from behind, slipping his arms around her waist and resting his chin on top of her head. “The view is even better from upstairs.”

  “Reed,” she admonished, but the touch of his hands and the heat of his body against hers had instantly lit the flicker of fire. She had to resist the urge to press against him, though she could vividly envision how thrilling it would be to make love to Reed with the magnificent view of the ocean before them.

  �
�Monsieur Malloy.” The male voice startled her and she felt Reed jump, apparently equally distracted by the heady sensations, which made her feel as if they were the only two people in the world.

  Reed recovered first. “Pierre, this is Miss Charlotte Sanborn. I have already told her of your magical powers in the kitchen.”

  Pierre greeted her with a nod and a smile. “We are ready,” he said.

  “I’ve never met a Frenchman before,” Charlotte told Reed’s cook, as they entered the formal dining room, which also had a splendid view.

  “Then I am honored,” he said, pulling out her chair for her.

  The table was set for an intimate lunch, with both place settings at one end of an enormous maple table. Reed pulled out her chair, just as Pierre brought out the first course—the aroma of baked cheese and pungent spices drifting out of the kitchen behind him.

  “Where is Jeanine?” Reed asked as he sat down, and Pierre clucked affectionately.

  “She went on errands, just at the wrong time once again.” Pierre left them with two small quiches and salad.

  “Jeanine is Pierre’s wife, my only other domestic. They came as a pair,” he added. “She’s a mystery of female competence and makes my life easy so I ask no questions.”

  Charlotte didn’t know whether to be envious of this seemingly phenomenal woman or enlist her services for private tutoring, but she longed to hear Reed speak in the same admiring tones over something she did.

  As if on cue, he said, “Since you haven’t yet volunteered the information, I’ll be bold and ask what it is you’re working on for the Post.”

  “I wasn’t going to bring it up since you made it plain last night that you only think I received the assignment because of my feminine wiles.” His intimation had stung and she wasn’t going to let him forget it.

  “I was churlish,” he said, “and I’m sorry.” He smiled ruefully, and she forgave him instantly. After all, they were both feeling rather heated the evening before.

  “As you’ve asked, my article is on criminal reform. Mr. Greene decided to try me at a little investigative reporting.”

  Reed’s smile died. “Is it dangerous?”

  She studied his concerned face. “No more than my being here alone with you.”

  “But you’re not alone,” he pointed out. “There is Pierre, and Jeanine is somewhere close by.”

  “And will they come if I call?” she asked, teasing him.

  “Not if they know what’s good for them,” he said with a wolfish grin. “They are to remain out of sight and out of hearing distance, except while bringing food.”

  “Do you do this often?” She tried to keep her tone light as she thought of him having tête-à-têtes with Helen in the afternoons.

  “You mean eat lunch?” he asked innocently.

  She made to smack him with her free hand, and he seized it, bringing it to his lips for a gentle kiss.

  “You are a special case and I told them so this morning.”

  “This morning?”

  “Yes. I told Pierre and Jeanine ‘Charlotte Sanborn is extremely special to me.’ “

  “Oh, Reed, you didn’t say anything that would . . .,” she trailed off and was blushing furiously, trying to hide it by taking another bite of the creamy quiche.

  “Of course not.” Another rueful smile. “I am honestly trying not to compromise your reputation, at least not for the remainder of the day.”

  It seemed to her as if he had been the sole source of attempts to compromise her since she’d met him—and she had gone along willingly. The previous night, though, in the emptiness after he left, Charlotte had had the lingering doubt that, maybe, he hadn’t used contraception on purpose, knowing that she was too intoxicated by the headiness of their lovemaking to consider it.

  She wasn’t sure how to bring it up, or, in any case, what motive she could attach to such actions. Before she could broach the subject, Pierre reappeared with roasted pheasant and red potatoes, which he followed with a chocolate soufflé.

  “Pierre,” she said, catching Reed’s cook before he returned to the kitchen, “you are a huckleberry above most people’s persimmons.”

  The Frenchman frowned and looked to Reed. “I am a berry?”

  Reed couldn’t help the smile. “Just take it as a compliment, Pierre.”

  “But it is,” Charlotte assured the man as he smiled at her uncertainly and left the room. “Oh, dear,” she continued. “I hope he wasn’t offended.”

  “He wasn’t. But I’m sure it isn’t every day he’s called a fruit.”

  “You’ll explain it to him, won’t you?” she asked.

  “I’ll try. Now, my lady writer, are you full?”

  She groaned in mock pain as they walked to the parlor. “If this is what you eat for lunch, I can only imagine the extravagance of your dinner.”

  “Five courses,” Reed admitted. “That’s why I keep busy from morning until night to work off all the food.” She laughed. Their conversation was back to being easy, as if their night of lovemaking had broken down the wall between them.

  Charlotte again felt the unusual paradox of being utterly relaxed with this man and on edge at the same time—anticipating his hand touching her skin while enjoying the play of ideas that flowed between them.

  During the meal, she hadn’t wanted to disturb the agreeable atmosphere, but now, she thought, it was as good a time as any to broach the subject of Celia, whomever she may be.

  As far as she could tell, John had given her some kind of key, and it was time to see what it would unlock. She opened her mouth, the question ready, but before she could ask it, Reed took her hand.

  “Charlotte Sanborn, I would like to marry you.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The look of stunned surprise on her face must have been absolute, for Reed laughed and took her hand.

  “I’m sorry, that was stupidly clumsy of me. Not at all how I meant it to come out. But it’s out. I suppose, seeing as Alicia Randall is your oldest living relative,” he added, “I should have asked her permission first, but you’ve been independent so long, perhaps we could overlook that formality.”

  “Consider it overlooked,” Charlotte muttered, not caring at this point if Reed was handling the situation somewhat unconventionally, or that he seemed to have picked up her habit of nervous babbling. Her mind felt almost frozen by his words: I would like to marry you.

  His blue eyes turned dark as a Colorado winter sky capturing her own in the intensity of his gaze.

  He took hold of her other hand as well, keeping them both captured between his own. “It seems that I had no choice from the moment I met you; from the moment you offered me your delicate hand to shake, Charlotte, our union was inevitable. However, it was after I made the mistake of leaving you behind that I discovered the absolute necessity of us being together.”

  “May I assume this is why you were on a train to Spring City when I arrived in Boston?” She was amazed that a whole sensible sentence came out of her mouth.

  His face shadowed over and those familiar eyebrows assumed their straight line. “I thought you told me John had said nothing.”

  “Well,” she admitted, “he did say that you’d gone back there.”

  Reed’s eyes narrowed. “He shouldn’t have told you anything at all. Isn’t it a man’s right to surprise a woman when he asks for her hand in marriage?” he grumbled.

  “I don’t know, Reed. I’ve never had a man actually ask me,” she told him pointedly.

  He flashed her the smile that always melted her stormy thoughts like butter near a hot stove.

  “The weeks we were apart dragged with all the ease of Sisyphus pushing that damnable rock. I was unable to concentrate to any degree that was useful to my clients. I tried throwing myself into the social rounds, but believe it or not, they seemed tame compared to Spring City and the evenings spent with you.”

  He brought her hands up to his lips, first one, then the other.

  “I c
ould think of nothing and no one but the beautiful lady writer I’d left behind. And when I could stand it no longer, when I knew I had to have you here in my life, filling it with your honesty and your intelligent conversation, not to mention your sweetness and,” he paused, giving her a wicked smile, “your curvaceous body—”

  “My what? Reed, really!” But she wasn’t the least bit upset with his words so far, except for a lingering sense of disappointment. She could not get around the fact that he had not mentioned love, the love that had taken up residence in her heart since their first days together.

  Still, he had gone all that way to get her, and that couldn’t have been only for her mind and body, could it? He must want her heart, too. His wanting to marry her surely explained why he hadn’t bothered with contraception.

  His expression turned serious, as he pulled her toward the sofa, pressing her to sit and then, astounding her further, by going down on one knee beside her.

  “Reed, honestly, you don’t—”

  “Ssh,” he told her, placing a finger across her lips, “I can see by your expression that I’ve gone about this all wrong, but then I’ve had no experience.” His eyes glimmered. “Now be silent, woman, and let me do this right. You deserve that.”

  She let him take her hand and waited, trembling slightly, as his playful demeanor gave way once more to the serious expression. Now, she was sure he would say the words.

  “Charlotte Sanborn, you are an extraordinary woman. I took the children out west myself, for the express purpose of meeting you.”

  She started to tell him that she already knew that, but he hushed her with one shake of his dark head, causing a lock of hair to fall over his forehead in the way that she loved.

  “When I met you, you turned out to be nothing that I expected, except for your being smart, of course. You resembled a little girl lost in that house of yours. Yet you had such a no-nonsense demeanor as if you’d never been a child. You are charming and frustrating and refreshing and infuriating—all at once.”