Improper Advances (16 page)

Just like Dorrity Crowe, he thought, flitting from man to man. Insatiable, ever seeking fresh amusement, unwilling to settle down. And worst of all, thoroughly deceitful.

“I must go,” he told the boy abruptly, and marched across the street.

Grasping the brass door knocker, he banged out his anger and frustration.

The aged servant, startled by the violence of his summons, asked his business.

“Inform your mistress that an acquaintance wishes to pay his respects. And don’t tell me she’s not receiving, because one caller has already gained entry.”

Taken aback, the butler—or steward—said meekly, “Step inside, sir.” Gingerly accepting Dare’s hat, he handed it over to a young footman wearing buff livery trimmed with blue. “What name shall I give?”

“Corlett.”

Dare made a circuit of the small antechamber, absorbing every detail. The arrangement of the chairs around the hearth was informal, and the presence of a gate-leg table indicated its use as a breakfast parlor.

He peered into the adjoining room, much larger and filled with evidence of Oriana the singer. A pianoforte with a straight-backed chair, sheet music stacked upon a tabletop, a wooden music stand in the comer, and a guitarlike instrument lying on the sofa. This, he surmised, served her as both music room and library. The majority of the volumes in the bookcases were extremely old. On a lower shelf were some antique folios, very tall—musical scores, perhaps. A selection of theatrical pictures adorned the walls. Sally Vernon, clutching a nosegay, smiled saucily at him from one frame. He found Joseph Vernon, Oriana’s grandfather, hanging between two brass sconces.

In this attractive, cozy dwelling, Oriana sang and played and dallied with her lovers. Despite his pain and fury, he was conscious of how clearly it was marked by her personality and her interests and her background. In her womanly way, she’d created a home whose warmth and style he coveted. His own house, grand though it was, had no history yet—nor any contents.

Hearing movement on the stair, he turned away.

“Madame St. Albans will see you,” her servant announced, not quite able to conceal his amazement.

Up the staircase he went, his heart thudding in unison with his heavy footsteps. Would she be angry?

Alarmed? Ashamed?

He entered a drawing room. She occupied a settee and spoke earnestly to her visitor, a slender gentleman with gray-flecked temples. Her appearance was remarkably angelic. Her high-waisted gown was a white cloud formed by many layers of diaphanous material, its scooped bodice exposing a wealth of creamy flesh. A pale ribbon held her loose auburn curls away from her face. Her casual attire, combined with her guarded expression, fired his rage.

“Sir Darius, this is an unexpected pleasure.” Her voice was soft, but with an undercurrent of dismay.

“What brings you to London?”

Before Dare could answer, the nobleman said, “My dear, it’s perfectly plain.
You
do.”

“I can speak for myself,” Dare said.

His abrupt answer made Oriana smile, and her companion frown.

Throughout his long and tedious journey from Liverpool, Dare had carefully composed his declaration. Now that he was with her again, the words had flown from his mind. And it didn’t even matter, because he hadn’t found her alone.

“What do you want of me?” she asked serenely, leaving the settee.

Oh, she knew
exactly
what he wanted. And he hadn’t even kissed her yet.

“Assistance. I’m here to obtain furnishings for my new house, and therefore wish to know the names of London’s best workshops and warehouses. I’d hoped to find satisfactory goods in Liverpool, but failed to do so. That, however, was the least of my disappointments during my stay,” he said harshly, recalling her stealthy escape.

He yearned to run his fingers over each sharply defined collarbone. His lips hungered for her. And here he stood talking of furniture, when all he really cared about was getting her into bed and showing her what she’d missed by abandoning him.

“Lord Rushton,” she said to the gentleman, “I present Sir Darius Corlett, of Derbyshire and the Isle of Man.”

The Earl of Rustlip—Dare had delivered a letter with that inscription to the post office in Douglas.

In his well-bred drawl the earl remarked, “I recall one Corlett of Damerham, who requested my donation to a philanthropic project some years ago. A connection of yours, Sir Darius?”

“My grandfather.”

“I regret to say that we never met, but by all accounts he was highly respected. Am I correct in thinking he was an industrialist?”

“He owned lead mines. Near Matlock.”

“And this furniture you require is for your Damerham property?”

“No, my lord. I’ve constructed a rural villa on the island and now must fill it.” Was it a good sign or a bad one that Oriana had failed to mention his existence?

She said, “You would admire the setting, Rushton—a secluded valley, with mountain views.”

“It sounds delightful. You will find the town very crowded just now, Sir Darius, but it will empty soon enough. I hope you had no difficulty finding a desirable lodging.”

“Nerot’s in King Street.” It ranked among the most fashionable and expensive of London’s hotels, and he hoped the quizzical Lord Rustlip was impressed.

“Not your first visit, I take it.”

Dare had met this type before—worthy, wealthy, impeccably turned out. From his cropped, silver-dusted head to his leather soles, Lord Rushton was the model of an English nobleman, as excruciatingly correct in his behavior as in his dress.

Looking to Oriana, the earl said pleasantly, “I had better leave, that you may confer with Sir Darius.

My daughter demands my escort to the Park—her Mr. Powell is in Wales, administering to a sick relative—and I must not fail her, else she’ll be cross. Shall we see you there this afternoon?”

“Not today,” she replied.

While her noble guest made his farewells, Dare wandered over to examine the pair of portraits hanging on either side of the window. Charles II, attired in formal robes and doublet, smiled enigmatically, his black eyes half-lidded and his long black hair hanging down his shoulders. His swarthy complexion and curling moustache gave him a piratical appearance. Nell Gwynn, painted
en deshabille,
placed a floral garland around a lamb’s neck; the white bedgown drooped from her shoulder, revealing one plump breast. Her pink, pouting lips reminded him of Oriana’s, and her curls were a similar shade.

From across the room, she told him, “I was afraid you might come.” Now that they were alone, her agitation was evident.

Facing her, he said wrathfully, “You have cause to fear me. Because this is one of those moments, Oriana. when I wish I could torture you as you’ve tortured me. Mercilessly.”

“Quiet, my servants will hear you.”

“I don’t care if the whole of London hears me. What’s the point of discretion? You’re Ana St. Albans, your lovers visit the house in broad daylight, one after the other. I’m surprised there’s not a queue outside your door.”

“You needn’t be jealous of Rushton,” she snapped. “He’s not my lover, and never has been.”

“That’s not what I’ve heard. Is his name Thomas?”

She shut her eyes as if pained by the question. “No, it’s Richard—but I’ve never called him that, our friendship isn’t that intimate. Who told you about Thomas?”

“Merton Pringle.”

“I don’t know him.”

“Lady Pringle’s youngest son.” Taking her wrist, he drew her to the window. “He’s down there, playing in the garden.”

“That little boy?”

“He can’t be more than eight or nine, but he knows all about you.”

“I doubt it.” She freed herself, saying, “He may have heard some silly rumors.”

“He entertained me with a ballad. I can’t remember all of it, but that was your name in the refrain.”

“I know the one. Oh, this is worse than I imagined.” She pressed her palms against her face, warding off his accusing stare. “I didn’t want you to know. I could have told you myself, in Liverpool. But I fully expected that you’d find out.”

“Are you admitting there’s truth in that stupid song?”

“Yes.”

Oriana wished she could have given him the denial he so clearly wanted, but she wouldn’t lie to him.

“Was your liaison with Thomas another of your youthful rebellions?”

“No. It was a mistake,” she said. “As I’ve told you, while mourning my dead husband, I nursed my dying mother. When I lost her, I was desperately lonely. I didn’t believe I could ever fall in love again. In my third year of widowhood I met Thomas. From him, I wanted all that Henry had offered—love
and
marriage. Only after he asked me to be his wife did I accept his presents, and after much pleading on his part, I proved my affection for him in the way that he most desired.”

Dare wouldn’t look at her.

“My happiness lasted only a few weeks. Mrs. Mountain fell ill on one of her Vauxhall nights, and I was called in to replace her. Thomas turned up with a large party of fashionable people—he was attentive to a very pretty girl. And that’s how I learned of his prior engagement to another duke’s daughter—a legitimate one, with a courtesy title and a fortune. The next time he visited my house, I refused to receive him.” After a pause, she asked, “Did you see Willa Bradfield after you learned the terrible truth about her?”

“I didn’t want to.”

“That’s how I felt, too. Out of spite, he told his friends that I’d been his mistress—just when I’d finally been offered a position at the opera house. He attended my debut, with his betrothed and her parents.

I’ve never felt so exposed as I did that night, or so outraged. The claque was out in force. They loathe any singer who’s not an Italian, and they shouted the rudest comments imaginable. After that hideous incident, every rake in town claimed he’d made love to me.
Falsely.
I was furious.”

His expression of outrage told her that he shared her feelings. And she was relieved to see his hard eyes soften with compassion. “Your longing for privacy,” he said. “I understand it better now.”

“My name turned up in a book listing the most renowned females from the brothels and the alleyways round Covent Garden.
‘The Siren of Soho,’
she quoted bitterly, ”
‘a duke’s by-blow, is an armful of
delight and much in demand. This sprightly, auburn-haired maiden has an inviting countenance
and melting eyes. She is a skilled musician and singer, in bed proves herself a zestful companion.’
I paid the publisher a hundred pounds to edit me out of subsequent editions. And after finishing my season at the King’s Theatre, I never returned.”

“Didn’t your aristocratic relatives step forward to quash the scandal?”

“They couldn’t. Society, hungry for the most salacious stories, labeled me a fallen woman—and still does. Wagging tongues inevitably couple me with nearly every gentleman who can claim an acquaintance with me, and just as many who can’t. I’ve grown resigned to it.”

“I don’t believe you.”

He was right to contradict her. “Well, if I retaliated by announcing that all those prominent men who boast of sleeping with me are a pack of liars, I would harm only myself. As a performer, I’m too dependent on the goodwill of the public to make enemies. My only defense against slander was my virtue.”

“I was your only lapse?” He sounded pleased.

“I’ve no right to make demands, after the way I’ve behaved. But I beg you, Dare, don’t tell anyone.

Please.”

“Christ, Oriana,” he said impatiently, “have a little faith in me. Your secret is safe.” He seized her forearms, and gave her a little shake. “I want your promise that you’ll stop running away from me.”

“I’ve nowhere else to go. Except Newmarket, to watch the—”

He silenced her with a kiss that melted her limbs.

Her arms curled around his waist, and she surrendered herself to a losing battle between emotion and reason. Dare Corlett knew the worst now, and judging from his hungry lips and roving hands, his passion for her had not diminished.

As her body quickened with desire that must forever go unfulfilled, she remembered the joy of yielding herself to him. She must put an end to this immediately, for her own sake and for his. But his kisses were too potent, or else she was too weak.

“Ma’am, the dressmaker wants to know whether you’ll want—”

Horrified, Oriana tore herself from Dare’s arms.

Her maid stood in the doorway.

“What were you saying, Suke?”

“I thought you were alone, ma’am.” Rattled by finding her mistress wrapped in a stranger’s embrace, the servant continued nervously, “Your seamstress sent a message asking whether she should finish the cream-colored silk gown for your dinner party, or the green one.”

‘“The cream,” Dare suggested to Oriana, in a carrying voice. “I’ve already seen you in green, several times.”

Suke stared at him.

Poised between mirth and annoyance, Oriana informed her servant of her preference—which just happened to coincide with Dare’s. “And I want you to take all my pearls to the jeweler for restringing.”

“As you wish, ma’am,” Suke replied before making a speedy retreat.

Dare swept Oriana’s hair aside, exposing her neck.

“You are the most shameless—that tickles.”

“When is your party?”

“Next week.”

“You’ll be devastating in that new evening gown, wearing your pearls,” he murmured, his mouth moving against her skin. “Must you deprive me of the chance to see you in all your splendor? I’m a stranger in your city, fully dependent on your goodwill and hospitality….” His lips touched her forehead, as lightly and gently as the flicker of a moth’s wing.

He was thrusting himself into her life. She was unable to muster a defense as he distracted her with his kissing and caressing.

“How would I explain your presence to my cousins, my friends?”

“To repay my
many
kindnesses during your stay in Glen Auldyn, you invited me to dinner.”

“That will make my numbers uneven.” Mentally reviewing her guest list, she said, “If you come, I must get another female. Rushton won’t want his daughter coming to my house. Even if he permitted it, I couldn’t have Lady Liza without Matthew Powell—they’re betrothed. He’s the man who wanted to marry me.”