Improper Advances (37 page)

The first test of her composure came when she walked past the square gardens, the setting for so many midnight assignations with her lost lover.

This Newmarket journey was a stark contrast to Oriana’s previous one. No cuddles and kisses, or halting for carnal delights at a roadside inn. This time, unlike the last, she would have preferred to travel alone.

Through lowered lashes, she glanced at the gentleman beside her. Why she’d accepted his offer to escort her to Suffolk, she wasn’t sure—perhaps because she’d been too astonished by it to refuse.

Rushton wasn’t fond of racing, and she’d wondered why he wished to attend October Meeting.

When he informed her that his daughter was married, she understood: He felt lonely.

“Her ladyship’s wedding came about so suddenly,” she said. The bridegroom had not, it seemed, exposed her efforts to bring about the match.

“Matthew dashed off to London in a great hurry, and returned to Rushton Hall the following week with a special license. The next morning, in the drawing room, Liza became his wife. Later that same day, they set out for his aunt’s house in Wales.”

“How happy they must be.” She was pleased that her detested diamonds had paved the couple’s way to marital bliss.

“When I shall next set eyes on them, I can’t say,” the earl told her. “I return to Cheshire before they take up residence at Rushton House.”

His daughter’s changed circumstances had altered him. He was withdrawn and subdued, and his long silences were symptomatic of his discomfiture.

He knew her full history and, unlike Dare, wouldn’t be entertained by tales of her childhood and youth. Nor did he want to hear theatrical reminiscences, or her experiences while living on the Continent.

And she cared not at all for his dry description of recent parliamentary business. With Dare, the constant flow of dialogue ceased only when they were kissing or making love. Sometimes not even then, she remembered, faintly smiling.

“Rushton Hall will seem very empty,” Rushton commented. “But I have hopes of finding companionship.” The silver-streaked head turned toward her, and his hand settled over hers. His palm was unexpectedly damp. “For a very long time I’ve wanted to bare my heart to you. I waited till the furor over the Teversal affair died down. I couldn’t involve myself in scandal while Liza was establishing herself in London society, but her future is settled. Now I am free as never before. Oriana, you deserve a better life—and I mean to give it to you.”

“Better in what way?” she wondered.

“You’ll find out when you marry me. Be my wife, and you will want for nothing.”

Astonished, she replied swiftly, “I can’t.”

“You say that without considering how we will both benefit,” he responded. “When you become a peeress, your days of currying favor with theater managers—and a fickle public—will end. I shall protect you from men like Corlett, who impose themselves on you to bolster their reputations as libertines.”

Pulling her hand away, she said, “For you, marriage t na St. Albans, the Siren of Soho, would be a liability, not a benefit. Imagine the gossip!”

“We’ll never hear it,” he said soothingly. “We shall conduct ourselves with discretion. I won’t mean to flaunt our union, or present you at court, or even live in town. As Lady Rushton, you’ll make your home in Cheshire. I’ve instructed my solicitor to seek a buyer for your Soho Square house, so you can sell it.”

Stung that he should take her acquiescence for granted, Oriana shook her head. “I cannot—I will not accept your offer, my lord. You do me great honor, and I regret disappointing you with a refusal, but I love—” She hesitated. “Believe me, it’s quite impossible.”

His expression was guarded. “Your infatuation with that Manxman clouds your judgment.”

“Not entirely. My answer would be the same if I’d never met him.”

A loveless, passionless marriage, however respectable, was unthinkable. Exile from London, hiding herself in the country—it sounded like a punishment for her waywardness.

“He is unworthy of you, Oriana, and proved it with his scurrilous boasts. I heard him characterize you as a shameless wanton, lying down for him and raising up your skirts and—”

“Don’t,” she choked. “I won’t let you disparage him.”

“I’ll never mention Corlett’s name again, if you agree to marry me.”

She owed him a credible reason for her decision, and easily found one. “My singing, as you well know, is important to me. I couldn’t possibly give it up.”

“You may sing as often as you please, at home. Is it the music you crave, or the acclaim it brings you?” he asked shrewdly.

“I want both,” she admitted. “My art
and
my audience.

I do enjoy singing for myself, alone in my music room, or for my close friends. But I also need a stage or concert hall. If that makes me a selfish, shallow person, there’s no help for it.”

To become his countess, she must abandon the career she’d begun at six years old and the richly varied existence filled with music and racing and interesting, creative people. Even worse, she’d have to sever her relationship with Dare.

As a
prima donna
she would remain in London from winter until summer, when the opera season concluded. More than ever before, she’d be the target of unwanted attentions. The pro-Italian claque would create disturbances, controversy would overshadow her artistry, and all the worst gossip about her private life would be resurrected. But her liaison with Dare could continue, and that, she realized, was the greatest advantage.

As she examined the two opportunities fate had presented, she found both of them lacking. She was no longer entirely comfortable with the familiar existence of Ana St. Albans. But she’d be miserable if she married the earl for convenience, just so she could call herself Lady Rushton.

Their long and awkward journey through Essex and Suffolk ended that night at Gwynn Cottage on Mill Hill. Rushton led her up to the door and kissed her hand before driving back to the Wheatsheaf, the nearest public inn, to seek lodging. She didn’t expect him to remain in the vicinity longer than a single evening. He hadn’t joined her because he liked racing, but to propose matrimony.

“You shouldn’t ought’ve come all the way from London in a day,” Mrs. Biggen scolded her gently.

“Poor dear, you’re looking wan and weary.”

“I’m not surprised,” Oriana replied, accepting a cup of tea.

“Did you dine on the road?”

“Twice. First at Epping, and later at the Crown in Bishop’s Stortford.”

“Fancy a bit of fish?”

“This is all I need.” She sipped the hot brew gratefully.

A countess,
she marveled.
I could have been a countess
—
still could be, if I wanted.
Only she didn’t.
A
prima donna,
that’s what I shall be, just as my mother dreamed.
But the price of her success was terribly high—an inevitable separation from the man she loved. Their love affair afforded her many joys, but it also brought despair. Because it was no longer their secret, she must prepare herself for a raging storm of scandal in the days and weeks to come. And she knew he could not remain in London indefinitely.

“A gentleman stopped in to see you no more than an hour ago.”

“My cousin Burford?”

“Nay, ‘twasn’t his lordship. A fine, black-haired fellow, looking like he’d got the worst of it in a brawl.

He’d come over from Moulton Heath to hear the reading of the Steward’s list.”

Dare Corlett, in a fight? “Does he mean to return?”

Mrs. Biggen’s jowls waggled when she shook her head. “Didn’t say. Likely you’ll see him at the course tomorrow.”

Oriana did not doubt it. His filly was running.

The Beauclerk contingent had cause for celebration when Lord Burford’s black horse Weymouth won the very first race, besting Lord Clermont’s entry on the Flat. Dare, at the Armitage stables, heard the cheers but didn’t learn the result until the Duke of Halford announced it.

Lavinia, her willowy figure significantly rounder than it had been in July, said, “Madame St. Albans will be pleased at her cousin’s victory. I hope she laid money on Weymouth.” When Dare failed to respond, she asked, “Have you placed your bet?”

“Twenty-five guineas, to win.”

“A paltry sum—for an owner!” The duchess shook her sleek black head. “You mystify me, Sir Dare, really you do.”

“I’m a shining example of Manx thrift,” he pointed out virtuously. His unwillingness to risk a large sum on his filly stemmed from his need to hoard his money for the Derbyshire miners. He explained to Lavinia, “I’m more a guardian to Combustible than a master. I feel responsible for her, but ours is a distant relationship.”

“Why did you buy her?”

He couldn’t admit that he’d been persuaded by Oriana’s conviction that the filly was a winner, or his own need to please her and strengthen their connection. “Because she’s beautiful and gifted, and deserves a chance to prove her breeding and her talent.”

Like Oriana, he remembered with a pang, whose career might well turn out to be an obstacle to marriage.

He and his companions looked toward the stable as the groom led out the black filly.

“I’ve watched her during her weeks at Moulton,” said Garrick. “She ran a good trial yesterday. If she wins today, I’m prepared to make a generous offer.”

Con Finbar, the jockey, carried his racing saddle over his arm. The stableboy was leading the filly back and forth. Head erect, she moved with sinuous grace. The black mane, sheared into a short fringe, exposed the sinews of her neck; her tail was docked into a stiff brush. Trainer Nick Cattermole trotted alongside her on spindly bowed legs, telling Con how to run his race.

Sir Charles Bunbury, his horse and rider in pink-and-white-striped livery, and a large crowd of hangers-on proceeded toward the Rowley Mile.

“She’s overexcited,” Lavinia commented.

“Who?”

“Pamela. See how she jerks at her reins?”

“The odds are greatly in her favor.” Dare knew about the rival’s victories, which Oriana had documented for him. “She won at Epsom and at Ipswich.”

“But she hasn’t been as lucky on the Newmarket course,” Garrick reminded him, “for during July Meeting, she came in next to the last—in a large field. At Brighton and Lewes, she finished third, and had a very poor showing at Bedford.”

“Combustible is untried.” He wanted her to win, for Oriana’s sake and because he needed the purchase money for his miners, and his nerves were stretched thin.

The colors of his racing silks honored his native island: grass green for the Manx hills, pale blue for the sky above. He held the filly’s bridle while her groom tossed the saddle onto her back and cinched the girth around her belly.

“Look who’s here to wish you luck,” said the duchess in an undertone that conveyed sharp interest.

He saw Oriana coming toward them, flanked by two earls. Threaded through the flounce of her blue habit was a green ribbon. His heart lifted at this proof of her loyalties. “A partisan.”

“Her cousin I recognize, but not the other man.”

“Lord Rushton.”

Garrick was welcoming the threesome to his enclosure.

Burford, flushed and beaming, heartily shook Dare’s hand. “May your luck match mine. She looks well,” he said of the filly. “No more trouble with that hock?”

“None, my lord.”

Oriana tugged off her glove and stroked Combustible’s velvety muzzle. “Run fast as you can,” she murmured to her favorite.

After so many days apart, Dare couldn’t stop staring at Oriana’s lilylike face. If not for the crowd gathered around them, he could kiss those delectable, pouting lips.

In a concerned voice, audible only to Dare, she said, “You’ve hurt yourself.”

Touching his cheek, he said ruefully, “I’ll have a lasting scar, I fear.” No time to explain, for Rushton was closing in on them, cutting off their surreptitious exchange.

The Duke of Halford insisted that his duchess view the race from her landau. When Rushton urged Oriana to do the same, rebellion flashed in her hazel eyes.

“Do join me,” her grace entreated. “We shall have an excellent view of the course, I assure you.”

Oriana longed to stand beside Dare during his race but was trapped into accepting the Duchess of Halford’s invitation. Not so long ago she would have rejoiced at this gesture of acceptance from one of racing’s elite, but like all the good fortune that had come to her lately, it was a mixed blessing. As they proceeded to the ducal carriage, she cast a backward glance at the gentlemen. Dare favored his right leg.

What had happened to him in Derbyshire?

Letting curiosity sweep away her caution, she asked, “How did Sir Dare injure his face?”

“He tumbled into a mine shaft while visiting his Derbyshire property. The ground opened up beneath him, he said.”

All these many days, she’d assumed his lack of communication signified his waning affection, when in fact he’d been in grave danger—and in pain. She sank down onto the cushioned leather seat, avoiding the gentle scrutiny of the other woman’s gray eyes.

As she focused on her grace’s waistline, she felt the familiar nip of envy. Suke’s betrothal had provoked the last attack, and now she was unsettled by a visibly pregnant duchess. Although she certainly didn’t begrudge these women their joy, she keenly regretted her inability to experience it.

“Garrick and I recently returned from a long visit to my parents and brother on the Isle of Man.”

Overcoming her distraction, Oriana replied, “That must have been pleasant—for all of you.”

“I particularly enjoyed sharing my birthplace with my son and daughter. During our stay, Garrick drove me to Glen Auldyn to see Sir Dare’s new villa.”

Memories of a verdant hillside crowned by a graceful white house flooded her mind. Saying nothing, she relied upon her lowered lashes to shield her secrets.

“We ventured as far as the lead mine, and very busy it is.” Leaning forward, the duchess continued, “On our way back down the glen, we met an old woman driving her goats up to the hills to graze. I spoke to her in Manx, and mentioned our acquaintance with the baronet. She pointed out a nearby cottage, and told me it had been occupied by an English fairy. Mine is a superstitious race, and I’m familiar with a variety of local legends. But this one was of very recent origin. The
ferish,
whose great beauty she described in detail, cast a spell on Mainshtyr Dare, and lured him away.
Dys Sostyn
—to England.”