Improper Advances (34 page)

“As soon as Liza and Matthew are married, I shall be at liberty to court Oriana.”

“You want her for your mistress?” asked Dare grimly. “Or your countess?”

“For the past week, she has occupied my late wife’s bedchamber.” The earl’s smile was triumphant. “I would not have insisted upon that, unless I intended to become her husband. Which I do.”

Dare would have felt the same alarm if Rushton suddenly seized one of the shotguns and pointed it at him. “She won’t have you. Given the choice between marriage and music, she’d choose the latter.”

“Her music would cease to be a public spectacle, and become a private pleasure. Yes, she would relinquish her career, but the rewards would be substantial—a title, a fortune, a country house. Through me, she can gain the respectability she desires above anything. I will ensure that she leaves her house in Soho Square, a monument to her unseemly heritage. With you, she must endure the shame of a secret dalliance that is unlikely to last. Her choice, Corlett, is simple.”

If he denied his affair with Oriana, he’d be lying. But silence would confirm the earl’s suspicion. “Your assumptions belittle Oriana, and do you no credit. She’s not a helpless, abandoned creature in need of guidance, my lord, but a uniquely talented woman who cherishes her independence. I predict she’ll refuse your proposal-and with a delicacy that preserves a valued friendship.”

With what sounded like grudging respect, Rushton said, “You would not deliberately wound her—but it’s inevitable that you will. If you break with her sooner than later, you’d be doing her a favor.”

Dare doubted that Oriana would regard his desertion in that light. Squaring his shoulders, he stared into his rival’s flinty eyes. “I regard your remarks, and your advice, as an intrusion.”

“A necessary one. As Oriana’s future husband, I must state my objections to your—your intimacy with her.”

“Until she agrees to become Lady Rushton,” he retorted, “she’s free to live as she pleases, not as you ordain.”

He would cede nothing to this toplofty lord, who implied that Dare’s connection to the singer was both ephemeral and degrading. Their tense dialogue had shaken his confidence only slightly. He was a scientist, trained to observe and draw fact-based conclusions, and he’d seen nothing, heard nothing to prove that Oriana would turn away from her profession—and her paramour—to marry the Earl of Rushton.

* * *

A grand success, thought Harriot Mellon, was hardly an apt description of the Rushton Hall players’ version of
The Critic.
Her assessment of the performance was quite different from that of the gentry-folk, so effusive in their compliments to the young actors and actresses. In her judgment, they had acquitted themselves reasonably well, but the only one who truly deserved the accolades was Mr.

Powell.

Her duty done, she could enjoy herself at the grandest party she had ever attended. Although her pink gown was made of sheer muslin, not silk, Oriana said it favored her coloring. Her pearls weren’t real, and her lacy shawl had been loaned by her more fashionable friend, but her occasional glances at the nearest gilt-framed mirror showed an impressively elegant image.

“A pity there are so few aristocrats here,” her mother commented. “Squires and baronets are well enough,
if
they’ve got riches—and no wife.” Her sharp eyes moved to the one gentleman matching that description. “Sir Darius Corlett must be pleased with you, Harriot, for he chose you as his dinner partner.”

Sir Dare’s invitation to sit beside him had thrown her mother into a state of ecstasy. During the meal, the Manxman had quizzed her about Mr. Sheridan’s eccentricities and expressed a flattering desire to see her perform. Grateful though she was for his interest in her career, and his kind attention, she understood perfectly well that his friendliness was a product of his devotion to her dear friend.

The theatrical season would soon begin, and the Drury Lane proprietors had summoned her back for rehearsals. Tomorrow she would travel to London on the mail coach—no stops along the way, except for meals—and all the way her mother would grumble enviously about Oriana, who would make the journey in an unhurried and more comfortable fashion.

Her parent, still carping about the absence of titled persons from this gathering, was yet again holding up another actress as a model. “When Miss Farren managed the players at the Duke of Richmond’s house, she was able to push herself into high society—and marry the Earl of Derby.” Mrs. Entwistle took one of Harriot’s trailing black ringlets, and draped it more picturesquely. “You must thank Lord Rushton for asking us to stay.”

“It was Lady Liza who invited me,” Harriot reminded her.

“Yes, but his lordship is your host. If we leave him with a good impression, he will remember you—and perhaps will seek you out when he’s in London. What has become of him, I wonder?”

“He stepped out into the gardens a little while ago.” He’d taken Oriana with him, but saying so would provoke a tirade.

“Then I suggest you improve your acquaintance with Sir Darius—until the earl returns.” When Harriot stood her ground, her mother pinched her waist, hard enough to make her flinch. “Go along, now—and do remember to hold your head high, it makes your neck look longer.”

Angry and ashamed, Harriot crossed to the drawing-room window to join Sir Dare, as commanded.

His warm smile failed to comfort her. She wondered how he’d react if she surrendered to her emotions, pressed her flushed face against his chest, and wept all over his coat lapel. He’d seen her tears before, when he’d come to her Liverpool lodging in search of Oriana.

“Your mother sent you,” he said, his voice softened by compassion.

Ignoring her parent’s recommendation about holding up her head, she bowed it. “She’s always telling me that unless I put myself forward, no one will notice me.”

“By no one, she must mean eligible gentlemen.”

Harriot nodded. “She expects me to marry a rich nobleman, as Miss Farren did.”

The baronet’s dark head turned toward the window. “Every female player’s dream,” he said wryly.

“It is. And Mother resents Oriana because she’s likely to make a brilliant match before I do.”

His jet-black brows angled downward, and his eyes fastened on hers. “With whom?”

“Someone—anyone—who has a title and a great deal of money.”

“If such a person made her an offer, would she accept it?”

Rolling her sham pearls between her fingers, Harriot decided that he needed encouragement. “If she cared for the gentleman, and he for her, I’m certain she would.”

“Even if the marriage curtailed her career?”

“When she eloped with Captain Julian, she didn’t mind about that.”

“She was much younger then, and madly in love.”

“She also felt trapped by her mother’s expectations. Sally Vernon put Oriana on the stage, but she also reared her as a duke’s daughter, a royal descendant. She longs to be honorably married, and she’s a slave to her music. No wonder she feels so torn,” Harriot said sympathetically. “She expects to be asked back to the King’s Theatre—as
prima donna.
But if she became a ladyship instead, her Beauclerk relations—the duke and the earl—would be so pleased. And people couldn’t say rude things about her any longer.”

“True,” he said heavily. “That consideration hadn’t even occurred to me.”

Gazing up at his weary face, Harriot perceived that he, too, was exhausted from a long and busy day, and all the evening’s activities. Summoning a smile, she said, “This week you’ve learned how demanding a profession ours is. It’s equally unpredictable. Oriana and I don’t wish to end up like our mothers—embittered by misfortune, fearful of what the future might bring.”

Smiling, he said, “I can’t imagine your spirits being dampened for very long, not even by the most dismal occurrence. You deserve a husband with a fortune larger than the King’s, and whose title will place you at the pinnacle of the aristocracy—you’d make a magnificent duchess. And may your consort be as handsome and charming as you are lovely and talented.”

Harriot laughed. “You are generous, sir. But if I had a suitor so rich, or was courted by a duke, I wouldn’t care if he looked like a toad!”

From the earl’s darkened gardens, Oriana could clearly see the figures standing near the tall and well-lit drawing room windows. Dare and Harri had been speaking to one another for several minutes, and now were laughing. She was pleased that they got on so well.

Rushton placed a hand beneath her elbow, guiding her away from the house and deeper into the shadows. “Are you in love with him?” he asked.

“He doesn’t want my love,” she confided.

The earl had comforted her in bereavement, after her mother’s death, and supported her through scandals great and small. But by requiring Dare to conceal their relationship, she’d forced herself to conceal the truth from all the kind, uncritical people who cared about her—Rushton and Harri and Matthew.

“I recall a time, not so long ago, when you vowed never to give your heart to a man who can’t wed you—or won’t. You must know that Corlett has but one use for an Ana St. Albans. He made that perfectly clear.”

“Did he?” she couldn’t help asking. “When?”

“I overheard him talking with the young men during our shoot the other day. I cannot reveal exactly what terms he used when referring to you. But from his tone and the ribald laughter his comments produced, I know they were disrespectful.”

Stricken, Oriana stared up at the earl. “I can’t believe that of him.” But the pity in his ascetic face confirmed his revelation.

Men talked among themselves, that she knew, trying to impress one another. They told tales of their conquests-real and imaginary. As a female who valued her privacy, she couldn’t understand the masculine urge to establish prowess through coarse boasting. She was vastly disappointed that Dare had broken his promise. But his betrayal had most probably been accidental, not deliberate—he was so tactless. To collapse in despair because he turned out to be a fallible human, not a saint, would be absurd. She was stronger and more sensible than that.

If she confronted Dare with his transgression, she might imperil their relationship. By feigning ignorance, she could hold on to him a little while longer.

“When Dare does seek a bride,” Oriana told her concerned friend, “he won’t choose a professional singer. Or a duke’s bastard.
Or
a reputed courtesan. I’m all three.” To remove any impression that she dreamed of becoming Lady Corlett, she lightened her tone, saying, “I’ve left no room for a husband in my plans for the future.”

“You refer to your anticipated return to the King’s Theatre.”

She nodded.

“It must have occurred to you that employment at the opera house will revive past controversies.

You’ve become accustomed to the sedate and attentive audiences at your oratorios, and the middle-class pleasure-seekers of Vauxhall. People of fashion attend the opera, and they don’t necessarily go to hear the music. It’s London’s temple of gossip and intrigue. The ladies shred the characters of the performers, with or without cause. The gentlemen in the boxes and in Fop’s Alley ogle the prettiest singers and dancers, and vie for their favors. Your visibility will cause you much misery, I fear.”

His prediction disturbed her, for she knew the truth of it better than he.

“If ever you feel the need to retire from public life, Oriana, you must let me know. When you were in Liverpool, and sought a quiet retreat, you could have come to Rushton Hall.” Lowering his voice, he added, “How I wish you had done.”

He was clearly worried that her sojourn on the Isle of Man would lead to her greatest sorrow yet.

Deep down, she feared he might be right.

The short supply of bedchambers at the George Inn prevented Dare from trysting with Oriana during their night in Stafford. Privacy was denied them, for Suke Barry shared her chamber and slept on a truckle bed.

Before they resumed their journey, he joined her in a cramped dining parlor for a breakfast of toast, boiled eggs, and coffee, served by a chatty waiter. Assisting him was a young female, whose downcast face and red-rimmed, teary eyes stirred Oriana’s sympathy. When the girl stepped out of the room she asked the cause.

“Her brother was a miner, and lost his life in an accident,” the man replied.

Dare glanced up from the newspaper. “What happened to him?”

“He drowned, sir. The lead mine he worked in flooded during the rains. Her other brother brought back his body yesterday, and the funeral’s this afternoon.”

“Which mine was it?”

“I can’t say, sir. You’d have to ask Liddy. I’ll take you to the kitchen.” The servant hoisted his tray and moved to the door.

Oriana knew Dare’s fears without being told, and waited for his return with increasing trepidation.

When he came back, she asked, “Did the accident happen at Damerham?”

“No. But conditions there will be just as bad—and as dangerous. The August rains caused much flooding, and left the ground saturated and unstable. When water collects in a mine shaft, it must be pumped out.”

His intentions became apparent when he picked up her copy of
Paterson’s Roads,
lying on the table, and unfolded its map of turnpike roads.

“You’re going to Derbyshire.”

“I must. Although I leased the mineral rights of the various Corlett properties to another, the land is still mine, and I feel responsible for the men who work it. I’ve already instructed Wingate to load all my baggage in one chaise, and yours in the other.”

“You may take my book, if you need it,” she offered. “I know my way back to London.”

She refrained from asking when she would see him again—it depended on too many uncertainties. To tell him how much she’d miss him would be equally unwise.

He came over to her. “You may come with me, if you wish. I don’t like parting from you so near your birthday.”

Believing that his invitation rose from his sense of obligation, she shook her head. “My presence would be impossible to explain in a place where you’re so well known. And I’m not at all sure I want you watching me grow older before your eyes.”