Improper Advances (19 page)

“No, madam. He instructed me to assist you and your servants in every conceivable way. Not only am I here to help with preparations for your dinner, I shall wait at table. In addition to valetting Sir Darius, I’m his butler.”

The relief on young Sam’s face was comical.

“I’m most grateful to Sir Darius,” confessed Oriana. Salvation had arrived in the form of this pleasant and competent being. “Sam, never mind laying the table, you must carry a note of thanks to Nerot’s.”

“Sir Darius is no longer there, ma’am. He has moved to Morland’s Hotel in Dean Street.”

“Morland’s?” She couldn’t imagine why he would leave the most elegant establishment in St. James’s, if not all of London, for a lesser hotel in Soho.

Her surprise must have been obvious to the butler, who declared, “He finds this neighborhood more to his taste. Mr. Morland set up his establishment just last year, and his lack of custom allowed him to grant my master’s wish to have the entire second floor.”

Oriana crossed to her writing desk. Without sitting down, she plunged the pen into the inkstand and scrawled upon a sheet of notepaper, I
doubt that I can ever fully repay you for what you’ve done,
but I shall try.
She folded it and handed it to Sam. “Off with you to Morland’s—quickly.”

After the footman left the room, Dare’s servant asked, “Will this be a large party?”

“No, only eight persons.” She reeled off her guests’ names. “We’ll have two courses, with a cold collation as a supper, after the musical entertainment. I’ve got the menu here—somewhere.” She searched her desk.

Wingate moved to the fireplace and removed a paper on the mantel shelf. “Might this be it?” He studied the list of dishes, and nodded approval. “You employ a French cook?”

“A French-speaking Belgian. After a decade in London, he speaks perfect English—when he’s in the mood. Louis is monarch of the kitchen, and a culinary genius. He’ll tell you so himself.”

“Ah, yes. Monsieur Louis sounds much like my master’s cook. I’ll take care not to disturb his equanimity. Have the wines been chosen?”

“Not yet. Here is the key to the cellar. The plate has been moved from the butler’s closet and laid out on the long table in the servants’ hall. If you don’t find everything that’s necessary, ask Mrs. Lumley. Oh, and you have my permission to snub Annie, should you be tempted—and you will be. She’s the scullery maid, the plague of our lives. Sam, whom you just met, is very reliable. But too much responsibility discomfits him, so I’m glad you’re here.”

“Likewise, madam.”

For the remainder of the day she practiced her
mandoline
and perfected a new piece on the pianoforte; then she perused the journal she’d bought at Hatchards. Suke Barry popped into the music room at intervals to report on Wingate’s activities. Amazingly, he had endeared himself to the two persons most likely to be prejudiced against his intrusion, the cook and the housekeeper. Sam, his minion, was performing his duties with great efficiency and eagerness.

“Mr. Wingate even spoke with Mr. Lumley,” the maidservant informed Oriana. “He wished to know his opinion about whether the Frontenac would be better for the beginning course, or the first-growth claret.”

That diplomatic effort would serve him well, thought Oriana, lifting her teacup to her lips. Entirely at leisure, she was indulging her appetite with a plate of chocolate puffs fresh from Louis’s oven.

She wondered how Dare was spending his afternoon. Visiting the shops, in all probability, selecting fine furniture to adorn his villa.

What she’d given him once, he desired again. But if she repeated the indiscretion she’d committed at Skyhill, she would suffer for it. When Dare completed his necessary purchases, he’d sail back to his island, depriving her of his bracing company, his candor, and those kisses that burned her brain and turned her limbs to water and made her heart leap. As he’d done in Liverpool, he might invite her to go with him.

Although she had enjoyed her weeks in Glen Auldyn, and the temporary respite from work, she didn’t belong there. She was bound to Soho Square—this was home. All her life, she’d trained to become a
prima donna.
For the past several years she’d labored in London’s concert halls and pleasure gardens, dreaming of the day when the manager of the King’s Theatre would summon her back to the opera.

What folly it would be to relinquish her long-held ambition because of a Manxman, for her past loves had always ended with loss.

But Dare Corlett was not a military officer. And she knew, with wistful certainty, that he would treat her more considerately than Thomas Teversal had done. His vibrant personality would buoy her whenever she was at low ebb, either in her private or her professional life.

No matter what the future held, she could never forget that he’d offered to purchase a new harpsichord for her. He’d done it on impulse, because he could afford to-without realizing the significance of his gesture. And yesterday, he’d asked her to sing for him. Of all the men in her life, only her father had nurtured her talents, and cherished them. Henry had cared more about soldiering than music; Thomas had poured diamonds into her hands but had rarely bothered to attend her performances.

Dare had been curious about her mandoline, and had wanted to carry her off to Broadwood’s.

She wouldn’t delude herself into hoping his intentions might be honorable. Whenever she found herself speculating about marriage to Dare Corlett, she reminded herself that he wanted no wife like her. He’d stated the qualities his bride must possess with wounding bluntness: impeccable lineage, a spotless reputation, and a fortune that exceeded his. If he scoured the globe, he couldn’t have found a lady who contradicted that description as fully as she did. His ambitions weren’t matrimonial and never would be.

He wanted her for his mistress.

On the island, loneliness had made her vulnerable to his admiration, and she’d let a passionate impulse push her into committing an imprudent act. In London, she must be stronger, and wiser. She must conquer this desire he’d roused in her, a force as dangerous as it was unpredictable.

Dressing for dinner, she felt the same rush of excitement that she did preparing to go on the stage. On private occasions she dispensed with vibrantly colored, richly spangled garments, and could strive for a more subtle form of elegance. Her new gown of creamy silk crepe was perfection; the overskirt parted at the waist to expose a pale petticoat finished off with a St. Albans flounce of Brussels lace, to match the appliqué’ on her bodice.

Suke swept her hair up into a chignon, covering it with a pearl-encrusted fillet. Oriana placed a strand of pearls around her throat and inserted the large drops into her earlobes.

“He’ll think you the loveliest lady in all London,” Suke murmured, offering the scent bottle.

“Who?” asked Oriana, as though she didn’t know.

“That gentleman you walked out with yesterday. The one who kissed you.”

Oriana’s reflection in the glass wore a secretive smile, for Dare had done far more than kiss her. Her maid’s supposition that she dressed for him tonight should have troubled her, but didn’t. Rising from her chair, she said, “I must speak with Wingate, to make sure all is in readiness.”

“He thinks of everything, ma’am. Do you know, he persuaded Annie to put on a fresh cap and apron without ever raising his voice.”

“A miracle worker, beyond doubt.”

The Earl of Rushton, the first arrival, expressed regret that he must depart immediately after dinner, as the House of Lords was sitting late.

“Shouldn’t you be at Westminster now?” Oriana asked him.

“I’ll take my place later. Knowing what pride you take in your arrangements, I didn’t wish to impair your seating plan.”

“I’m sorry you must miss the duets Mr. Kelly and Mrs. Crouch will sing for us later.”

Her Beauclerk cousins, the next guests to arrive, greeted her with affection.

“A charming gown,” Lady Catherine approved. “Your seamstress is assured of a comfortable retirement, whenever she decides to give up her trade.”

“I hope she hasn’t any plan to do so,” Oriana responded. “Without her, I’d never set another fashion.”

Smiling upon the Duke of St. Albans, she said, “Cousin Aubrey, I look forward to hearing about
your
latest purchases. Did you buy the marble vase, or the bronze?”

“Both—as you’ll see when next you call in Mansfield Street.” His pale blue eyes scoured the drawing-room walls. “You’ve moved those canvases you bought at my auction.”

“You’ll find the Rembrandt in my music room.” Lowering her voice, she added, “Because the bacchante is rather a saucy girl for mixed company, I’m keeping her in my private chamber.”

The duke laughed.

The pair of paintings had cost her nearly four hundred pounds, but she didn’t regret last year’s extravagance. The Poussin,
A Bacchante Crossing a River,
had been the costlier investment but a valuable addition to the collection she’d inherited from her father. Rembrandt’s
Matron Giving Advice
to Her Daughter
had been a sentimental choice; the great Dutch master had depicted the mother and daughter in a pose that inspired nostalgia for the times when she and her mother had been at peace.

Michael Kelly—tenor, composer,
bon vivant
—entered the drawing room with his duet partner, Anna Maria Crouch, who shared his home in Lisle Street. Their marriage was prevented by the existence of Mr. Crouch and their Catholic faith, which prohibited a divorce. Mick Kelly directed the singing at Drury Lane and the King’s Theatre, and Mrs. Crouch was that rarity, an English
prima donna.

In her sweet voice she told Oriana, “Mick brings you glad tidings—but I shall let him share them.”

“Later,” the Irishman promised, twinkling at Oriana. “Mustn’t discuss business on an empty stomach.”

Oriana wouldn’t build her hopes too high, for without an Italian surname she wasn’t likely to be offered a position at the opera house. Most likely he wanted her to preview one of his latest compositions at Vauxhall.

“Will you have some wine?” she offered, as Wingate approached with his tray.

“I’m no enemy to the juice of the grape. A new servant?” Kelly asked, after the butler retreated. “I wish you better luck with him than Mrs. Crouch and I had last year, when we increased our domestic staff. A stranger recommended a man to us, but we had to turn him off when we began to suspect he meant to rob us. Scurvy criminals, the pair of them—in league with a gang of housebreakers. One went to Newgate, the other had his neck stretched, poor soul. Take care, my dear Ana, and be sure you can trust the person who introduced him to your household.”

Before Oriana could explain that Wingate’s presence was temporary, her gathering increased by three persons: Sir Joseph Banks, his wife, and his sister. Because the eccentric Banks ladies preferred their riding habits to any other garments, Oriana was always amused when she encountered them in evening attire. Lady Banks wore her yellow-diamond marriage brooch, surrounded by white diamond pendants, but Sarah Sophia Banks wore no jewelry.

“Madame St. Albans, such a pleasure,” her ladyship gushed. “As I was telling Sir Joseph, this is lavish repayment for having you in for potluck during Eastertide!”

The baronet broke in to say, “A mystery beyond solving, why you’d want a crusty old scholar like myself at your entertainment.”

“You are my neighbor here in Soho Square,” she responded, “and the duke’s neighbor at Windsor.”

“But we rarely see him since Hanworth Park burned down. I must ask him about the progress of his rebuilding project.” When she offered wine, he shook his silvered head, regretfully stating that he was a martyr to his gout.

“Tonight you’ll meet a newcomer to London,” she informed him. “A Manxman. He’s knowledgeable about geology and mineralogy and has written a paper on the history of rocks on the Isle of Man.”

Where
was
Dare? What had detained him?

Her guests mingled; the drawing room filled with their pleasant chatter. Wingate, after making a final circuit with his tray, withdrew to the dining room to oversee the final preparations.

Oriana’s gaze continually wandered to the doorway. While listening to Lady Banks describe recent additions to her china collection, she eyed an ormolu timepiece that had formerly graced her father’s Rue Ducale residence in Brussels. If she told Louis to hold back the meal even a quarter of an hour, he’d be outraged. Not even the masterfully tactful Wingate would be able to break the news of a delay without disturbing the tempestuous Belgian.

Please come soon,
she begged Dare silently, as the minutes ticked on.

Her reputation as a superior hostess could not be brought down by the tardiness—or the absence—of a single guest. But she needed to prove to her clever, country loving admirer that she was a creature of the town, actively social, her days and nights crammed with activities. She had no time to spare for dalliance. Once Dare realized that, he would leave London. Until he did, she’d live with the constant fear that his persistence and personal magnetism could overcome her reluctance, leading to another passionate entanglement like the one that had taken place at Skyhill.

She cast a vague smile at Sir Joseph, for she hadn’t heard what he’d been saying. Because his thick gray brows were set so low, he seemed to glower. He was, she realized, studying the figure in the doorway.

And an impressive figure it was.

As Dare strode into the room, the old gentleman asked, “Is this the fellow you were telling me about?

I’ve seen him before—at a Lord Lieutenant’s dinner in Derbyshire, I believe it was. Who is he?”

“Sir Darius Corlett.” Her fingers tightened around the stem of her wineglass.

“Corlett?” Banks repeated. “I’m sure I knew his grandfather, for the King granted our baronetcies in the very same year.”

Mindful of her duty to a guest, she went to welcome Dare, adding in a confidential murmur, “Wretch, you might have told me you already knew Sir Joseph.”

“That would be an exaggeration,” Dare replied. “We met once, a long time ago.”