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

by Baily, Sydney Jane

  Helen merely smiled. She was obviously not going to give away anything. Charlotte turned on her heel.

  “Fine. Tell Reed that I have made other arrangements to get home.” She walked off. Now, why did she bother to say that to Helen? She knew the woman wasn’t going to pass on any message to Reed from her, not even to save her own life.

  Charlotte started off at a brisk pace but soon slowed as she realized her feet were aching. It had been a long day, and to top it off by encountering Helen in Reed’s carriage . . . well, it was just enough to make her savage as a meat ax. Yet, she had to believe what he’d told her earlier. There was an explanation as to why Helen was there in his carriage, but it was irksome in any case.

  By the time she caught sight of Jason’s carriage dogging her steps, she would have welcomed a ride from the devil himself.

  “You are out walking late, dear Charlotte,” Jason called out to her, before making his driver halt the horses. She turned a weary smile toward him.

  “Yes, and I’ve had a fairly full day.” She gratefully took hold of his hand and stepped up into the plum-colored coach. “Heaven must have sent you to rescue my feet.”

  She didn’t care if it was proper as she rested her balmoral-clad feet on the seat opposite while Jason’s driver secured the door. Jason sat down, casting an eye on her shoes beside him before bestowing a friendly glance on Charlotte.

  “Heaven, apparently, has put you in my path,” he agreed. “Unfortunately, other rescuers were sent as well.”

  She raised her eyebrows, uncomprehendingly. He sighed, looking older than she had seen before.

  “I believe I just spotted the ever-professional Mr. Malloy, scoping from his vehicle, probably for your very person. Were you expecting a ride from him?”

  “I was, yes,” Charlotte admitted, sitting up straighter in her seat. Reed had seen her get into Jason’s carriage. That would annoy him. Then she thought of Helen, reclining on Reed’s black leather seat like a candy, waiting to be tasted, and added, “But his carriage was a little too full.”

  She couldn’t help the venom in her voice. Helen Belgrave was as bothersome as a wasp in summer. If Reed was annoyed, so be it.

  Jason made no comment. He simply cocked his head to one side and tapped the carriage’s ceiling with his walking stick.

  As they began to roll, he smiled. “Nevertheless, we were seen, so I suppose I have to take you home after all.”

  “Well, of course,” Charlotte said, laughing lightly, though something about Jason seemed odd. “Where else would you take me?”

  She started to remove her feet from the seat, but he put a restraining hand over her skirts and she was forced to leave her legs where they were.

  He smiled. “Yes, where indeed?”

  *****

  She was beyond happy to get home. Charlotte meant it when she told Alicia there was no place she’d prefer to be than in their parlor, her feet up on an overstuffed tuffet, having a good strong cup of tea.

  “Well, how about a glass of wine?” Alicia asked.

  Charlotte smiled. “Even better.” Everything was perfect. She could hear the children playing in the garden, and, momentarily, they would all go in to dinner. Yes, it was perfect—except for the specter of Reed in her head asking her to marry him. For every reason except the one she longed to hear. Seriously, marry him without a declaration of love! The man needed a good shaking.

  “What is it, my girl? You seem preoccupied.”

  “It was an eventful day, Aunt. But I don’t want to think about it. I’m trying hard not to, in fact.” She paused, looking at her aunt’s face; there was something so familiar in it. “Tell me about my mother,” she said at last.

  “Tell you what, dear?”

  “Anything, something distracting. Some story of when you were young girls together, something I don’t know.”

  And they passed a pleasant evening. When she climbed into bed that night, she kept an eye on her balcony door, half expecting Reed to show up. After all, whatever else was between them or, in the case of love, perhaps not between them, there was one thing they did flawlessly—without misunderstanding, without even needing to speak. Eventually, she fell asleep.

  Unable to return to the Lunatic Hospital the next day, Charlotte was at a loose end. She brushed Lily’s hair and let Lacey teach her how to braid it; she taught Thomas to play cat’s cradle and even showed Bridget how to perform a jig, which turned out to be similar to the maid’s own folk dancing.

  After lunch, she had to get outside. She took a walk up one side of the Common and down the other, unintentionally ending up near the business district. She hesitated on the corner of Scollay Square. Part of her wanted to go to Reed’s office, maybe just to see him for a moment, maybe to have a heart-to-heart talk. Part of her wanted to run and hide.

  She exhaled slowly. Her overwhelming feeling was confusion. How could he be so intelligent and yet so dimwitted at the same time? Did he truly want her—Charlotte Sanborn, from Spring City—as his bride? Or was he just fond of the idea that she was not from Boston and, therefore, not the same as the other women he professed to know?

  Unable to contain a big sigh, Charlotte returned the smile of an older lady who passed by, and then realized she must look a veritable simpleton, standing there.

  “I am a ninny,” she said to herself, turning around and heading past Boston’s oldest burial ground where the rich and famous enjoyed their eternal slumber. With her head down, feeling as though she wanted to turn off her brain for just a little while, she had barely gone five steps when she bumped into the very man himself.

  “One thing I should tell you about living in the city,” Reed said, crossing his arms as he stopped to look at a flustered Charlotte, “is that you have to look where you’re going.”

  She thought of his proposal. She thought of Helen. She thought of the unknown Celia. She touched her bonnet to make sure it was still in place, giving her a moment to stay the words that wanted to start bubbling out of her mouth like water from a fountain. Don’t babble, she warned herself.

  “I apologize for treading on your foot, Reed.”

  He didn’t smile. “I’ve sustained no injury. But I’m surprised to see you walking. You have a penchant for a certain ridiculous violet-colored vehicle, don’t you?”

  Charlotte colored. So he had seen her get into Jason’s carriage. And it had irritated him as she’d suspected.

  “I needed a ride. Mr. Farnsworth was kind enough to give me one.”

  “I offered you a ride. Surely, you don’t think your aunt would find it any less improper for you to be driving around unchaperoned with Farnsworth than she would with me.”

  “I guess that depends on the chaperone. And I didn’t particularly care for the one you’d chosen.”

  Reed narrowed his eyes. “What are you talking about, Charlotte?”

  “The ever-present Mrs. Belgrave.” She wished she didn’t sound so peevish whenever she mentioned the woman.

  He shrugged. “You are talking in riddles. It is always back to Helen, no matter how many times I tell you that she means nothing to me. I have not had the same assurance from you regarding Farnsworth. I know he has kissed you.”

  She blanched.

  “Yes, that’s the exact look that told me so. Was he familiar with you yesterday in his carriage?”

  Her mind went immediately to Jason’s hand across her ankles. Her eyes widened.

  “Damnation, Charlotte,” Reed swore. “I am not a man to give up, but I am being sorely tested.”

  He walked past her, not looking at her again. Not even saying goodbye. She watched his tall figure moving rigidly away and she felt physically sick. Disregarding the other people strolling the path, she called out to him.

  “Reed Malloy, don’t you walk away from me.” Please.

  He stopped in his tracks but didn’t turn around. Perhaps he was weighing his options, she thought. Was it worth it to turn and face her? Was she worth the trouble? He had offe
red her his hand in marriage. She could certainly take the first step. She took one, then another.

  “Reed,” she said again, more steadily.

  He turned, but his face was still forbidding. She walked closer until she was only an arm’s length away. She looked up earnestly into his blue gaze.

  “Jason did not kiss me in his carriage yesterday. He took me by surprise one evening, perhaps he was a bit in his cups.” She hesitated, remembering the feeling of repulsion. “I didn’t like it and I would never let him do that again.”

  “Does he know that?” Reed asked, his voice quiet, his tone flat.

  “I . . . I think so,” Charlotte returned. What exactly had she said to Jason?

  “You think so! Yet you are exceedingly clear when telling me you cannot accept my proposal of marriage.”

  “Reed—”

  “You are playing with a grown man.”

  She thought he meant himself, but then he added, “If you get into Farnsworth’s carriage, you are signaling to him—”

  “Yours was otherwise occupied,” she stated, but then added, “I’m starting to think you didn’t know that.”

  His blank face confirmed her suspicions.

  “Reed, Helen was in your carriage at the library.”

  It looked like dawn breaking over a rough ocean as he comprehended the situation.

  “She was not in it by my invitation, Charlotte.” He took her hands in his. “I swear it.”

  “I believe you.”

  “I went in the library to find you. I looked upstairs and down, to no avail. When I came out, I thought you might be nearby and started toward your aunt’s home in my carriage. By myself,” he added. “Alone. Then I saw you disappear into the confines of Farnsworth’s coach.” His grip tightened.

  “If my feet hadn’t been hurting, I wouldn’t have accepted a ride.”

  “If you get in his carriage, if you let him take you places, you’re encouraging him to pursue you,” Reed said, dropping her hands.

  “Reed, that’s not fair.” She stopped her protests when he swore under his breath, looking to the heavens for patience.

  “You don’t understand how it works, Charlotte. You can’t possibly, but I’m telling you, if others also saw you get into his carriage, . . . let’s just say, your behavior would not be deemed appropriate, no matter how much your feet hurt.”

  She stared hard at him, but he was right. She looked down at the pavement. Her behavior was that of a bumpkin, someone who, as Reed had said, couldn’t possibly know.

  His hand lifted her chin. “Look at me.” For some reason, the gentleness in his tone nearly brought her to tears and she closed her eyes.

  “Charlotte Sanborn. Look at me.”

  She swallowed and breathed evenly until the feeling passed. What had she to cry about anyway? When she finally looked up, she encountered an unquestionably sensual blue gaze.

  “Will you come with me?”

  “But you just said—”

  “That doesn’t apply to me, Charlotte. I am pursuing you.” He smiled at her. “And you are encouraging me correct?”

  She nodded and let him take her arm. “Where are we going?”

  “You’ll see,” was all he said. Inwardly, she felt a delicious tingle at the thought of a mystery.

  Finally, she was alone with Reed in his bustling city. He was by her side, they were on friendly terms, and all seemed right with the world. She thought they were heading toward his office, but then he took a turn and they were on Washington Street.

  “Almost there,” he said, after they’d gone a block. And in the next minute, they arrived at the corner of School Street and she gasped.

  “Oh, Reed,” she exclaimed, examining the building’s signage, “it’s incredible.” It was not the interesting architecture that caused her reaction; for though the corner building was old, it was not particularly attractive. It was the sight of all the books for sale.

  “I am sure I could only get that particular reaction out of one woman,” Reed said, not taking his eyes off her brightened face. He escorted her inside the bookstore.

  “Tell me about it,” she said to Reed, as she perused the first line of shelves.

  When other men might whisper sweet nothings, he told her of the building’s history. Erected in 1718, it had withstood much change and was a testimony to the ongoing value of the written word.

  Earlier in the century, the bookstore had the reputation as the most respectable bookselling and publishing house in America, and it was once the gathering place of Hawthorne, Longfellow, and Emerson, as well as Thackeray and Dickens.

  Charlotte was enchanted, even more so by the fact that Reed had understood her enough to know how she would feel. They spent an hour lingering in the shop, picking up books and pointing out passages to each other, sharing their likes and dislikes.

  “Choose something and let me buy it for you,” he said, as she scanned a shelf of English classics. She considered his offer.

  “In the first place,” she said, running her hand over the spines of the books in front of her, “I am not sure I should take a gift from you. After all, I don’t understand about how such things work.”

  She shot him a glance and saw he was smiling wryly. “And in the second place, I would never be able to choose one,” she concluded with a helpless shrug that took in the hundreds of titles available.

  “It works this way,” he said, grasping her gloved hand. “You let me shower you with gifts as I see fit because it brings me extreme happiness. And if you can’t decide, then I shall pick one out for you,” Reed countered, pulling her after him to stand by the cashier. He strolled back through the shop, pausing a few moments until he finally settled on something, which he would not let her see.

  “Patience,” he told her, as the shop clerk wrapped it in brown paper. Once outside, they walked along a block to a coffeehouse and took seats outside. Only after ordering refreshments did Reed hand her the small package.

  Charlotte opened the brown paper slowly, then she caught her breath as she withdrew a leather-bound copy of Ovid’s Ars amatoria.

  For a moment, she just looked down at the elegant gold lettering on the cover, reading over the Latin words as her mind translated, “The Art of Love.” She tried to convince herself that it was silly to attach meaning to the thin volume in her hand, but her heart raced anyway.

  “Have you read it?” he asked finally, when it seemed she couldn’t find any words.

  She nodded. “I have. It is wonderful poetry.” Then she looked at him. His gaze never wavered from hers. “Thank you, Reed. It is enormously considerate.”

  She was silent again for a moment, wondering if she should ask him why he’d chosen this particular work. “I would have thought that his Metamorphoses might be more apropos given the change that has taken place in my life in the last few months.”

  “No, I chose the right book.” He took her hand, unmindful of passersby. “Once again, Charlotte, I am asking you to marry me, but this time, I’m going to do it correctly.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Reed reached into his pocket and pulled out a small black velvet case. He placed it on the table, and before Charlotte had time to realize what he was doing, he opened it.

  In front of her was a ring with a large, glittering solitaire diamond, rectangular in shape. It was so clear and sparkling it looked almost blue.

  “It’s exquisite,” she murmured, unable to stop herself from leaning forward and taking a closer look.

  “I wasn’t going to do this now, not today, not in this manner. But running into you has been fortuitous and I cannot let the opportunity pass. Yesterday, when you gave me the mitten—”

  “I did no such thing,” she interrupted. “That is, I did turn down your proposal, but only because . . ,” she trailed off and sat back, with her mouth closed.

  “Because?” Reed insisted. “Because why?”

  Charlotte groaned inwardly. He thought she was being difficult, bu
t how could she ask him to love her?

  When his question met with silence, he continued, “As I said, when you turned me down, I spent the afternoon nearly deranged with frustration—especially when I’d seen for myself how easy it was for another man to take you away from me.”

  “It was only a lift home, Reed,” she protested, but he wasn’t listening.

  “Then last night, I passed a jeweler and it hit me, like a wagonload of diamonds, I guess.” He smiled wryly. “A man should never ask a woman for her hand without offering her something glorious to put on it.”

  Charlotte had been listening to his words with growing horror. At his conclusion, she rubbed her hands over her face and sighed.

  “Is that what you think of me, Reed Malloy, that I would not agree to be your wife until I saw the size of the stone? Do you think I’ve been saying no in order to honey-fuggle the biggest diamond I can?”

  “No, that’s not what I meant. Yet I can think of no other reason.” He looked exasperated. “Please, Charlotte, what is the problem?”

  “The problem is,” Charlotte began, thinking to tell him again that she simply needed more time; then she narrowed her eyes at him. Maybe she wasn’t using her head. Perhaps it was time to try the key that John Trelaine had graciously given her. “Would you care to tell me about Celia?”

  “Celia.” He was obviously caught off guard—she could see it in the way he stared at her, just as he had done long ago on her front porch when she’d suggested that she needed a wife. Then he shook his head.

  “I wondered how long it would take before you’d ask. I admired your restraint through lunch yesterday.”

  But he did not look to be a happy man. “What a pity I interrupted you and John when I did. If I hadn’t, you need not have bothered to ask me at all.”

  She refused to back down at this point. “That’s not fair, Reed. Until yesterday, I didn’t know there was anything to ask. Shouldn’t I know about the past of the man who already knows practically everything about me?”