Improper Advances (40 page)

After the ceremony, Oriana accepted her servants’ felicitations. Suke, still dazed by her own nuptials, wished her all happiness, and Oriana returned the sentiment. Both of the Lumleys were misty-eyed.

Said the housekeeper, “Your mother never dreamed you’d become a ladyship.”

“No more did we,” her butler added.

Louis vowed to serve up a splendid wedding supper made up of all her favorite dishes. The crowd dispersed; the clergyman, handsomely compensated, took his leave.

Her husband took her left hand, holding it up to admire the gem-encrusted band she wore. “Manx stone and London gold. A suitable symbol for this marriage.” He held her fingers to her lips. “You’ve made me very happy, Oriana.”

Marriage was a holy estate, but Dare’s first kiss as her husband made her made her feel spectacularly wicked. “Come with me,” she invited him.

They walked around the packing cases in the hall, and ascended the staircase together.

“I’ve lived in this house as a girl, and as a widow,” she said when they entered her chamber. “Not a soul in London would believe it, but you’re the first man I’ve invited to share this bed.”

Dare inspected her Poussin painting of the bacchante crossing a river, and after commenting on her pulchritude, he faced her. He removed every article of Oriana’s clothing, until she was in the same disrobed state as the girl in the picture.

“You’re much lovelier,” he said, when they lay together on the bed. He filled his hands with her hair, spreading it across the pillow. “And infinitely more respectable.”

It was a term that she didn’t readily associate with herself—perhaps in time she would grow accustomed to it.

She traced the contours of his chest, then felt the strength of the muscled arms that enfolded her.

Desire flowed hot and thick in her veins, pulsing though her eager limbs, but she sought more than carnal pleasure; she wanted to give—her soul, her body, all of her senses.

This new respectability was being undermined by what Dare was doing to her with his hands and his lips. Oriana didn’t care. Other gifts, tangible and intangible—music and minerals, love and passion—were far more precious.

Glen Auldyn, Isle of Man

April 1800

Oriana rejoiced in the mild warmth of spring, for it enabled her to bring her
mandoline
into the old orchard. She sat among the blossom-laden trees, plucking the strings, while her pony Glistree cropped the grass nearby. As she played, she cast her eyes toward the villa in which she and her husband had spent many happy months, devoting themselves to private pleasures.

Very little time remained to revel in the peace and beauty of the glen—in two days she and Dare would sail for England.

“For Love’s sake, kiss me once again,”
she sang, “I
long and should not beg in vain.”
At Dare’s suggestion, she was setting his favorite Jonson verses to music.

When her final note faded, a mistle thrush broke into song. Oriana sat perfectly still, listening to her fellow performer.

A short time later she spied her husband coming up the path from his mine, where he’d been giving final instructions to the manager.

“What fair creature is this?” he inquired, feigning surprise. “Lady Corlett, you should be devising your seating plan for tonight’s dinner.”

“Wingate and Suke will do it for me. I’m taking advantage of the leisurely hours left to me, for we shall be very busy in England.”

They would travel first to Derbyshire to inspect the improvements made to the miners’ dwellings, funded by the proceeds from her initial subscription concerts. After the Spring Meeting at Newmarket, she’d give a recital at the Bury St. Edmunds Guildhall on behalf of their charity. Its success was already assured: The Duchess of Halford had vigorously peddled tickets.

“How many guests are we expecting tonight?”

“Your cousins the Gilchrists, Lord and Lady Garvain, the Curpheys, and the newest newlyweds, Mr. and Mrs. Buck Whaley.” She leaned her instrument against the trunk of the nearest tree. “Ned will play for us afterward—and it was no small feat snaring him; his services are in high demand.”

Grinning, Dare quoted, ” ‘Mr. Crowe, the celebrated performer of London’s Vauxhall and Sadler’s Wells Theater.’ With that impressive title, small wonder he’s the most-sought-after musician on our island.” He leaned down and dropped a handful of pebbles into her lap. “Care to classify these for me?”

Oriana held up each glittering specimen, proudly giving its name. “Pyrite. Calcite. Quartz. Galena.”

“What a clever assistant,” said her husband approvingly. “I’m taking these to London. I can donate them to the British Museum, or use them during my presentation to the Royal Society.”

Within a month of their marriage, Sir Joseph Banks had presented Dare as a candidate for membership in that illustrious body. Confirmation of his election had come in a letter early in the year, and he’d been invited to speak at a meeting and submit his writings for publication. Oriana would never forget his pride the first time he added the initials
R.S.
after his signature. Throughout the winter he had revised and expanded his treatise, and finished the illustrations. She’d accompanied him on his rambles across the island to sketch the geological phenomena he referred to in his text.

Previously, she’d had no need of thick-soled walking boots. The ones poking out from under her blue flounce were now scuffed from regular wear. She rubbed one of the toes, and said, “I must remember to order a new pair from my London shoemaker.”

He pulled out his memorandum book and pencil. “I’ll add it to the list. Anything else?” When Oriana shook her head, he asked, “No gowns, no hats? A town coach?”

“Not if we’re trying to avoid extravagance.”

“That was last year. As far as my bankers are concerned, a new year began at Lady Day. My finances are greatly improved. I can afford to indulge your fashionable impulses, and settle all your dressmakers’ and milliners’ bills. My own needs are few—although I do intend to acquire one very desirable object that Skyhill lacks.”

Oriana couldn’t think of a single necessity that was missing from their exquisitely appointed house.

“What might that be?”

“A portrait of my beautiful and talented wife. But I haven’t yet decided whether to have her painted with the
mandoline,
or seated at a harpsichord.”

“It should be a double portrait,” she insisted. “The illustrious geologist writing his next treatise, or perusing Dr. Hutton’s
Theory of the Earth.
And on his desk-these.” She gave him the shiny stones.

“Art and Science,”
he said, warming to her idea.

Her smile faded as she said, “I wish I could attend your lecture.”

“After you’ve heard me practice over and over, you won’t. Unlike you, I’m not accustomed to making addresses, or appearing in front of an audience.”

“You can witness my performances whenever you like, but I’m excluded from yours. Most unfair.”

“Your concerts are open to anyone with the means to buy a ticket. This will be a private meeting—members only. Don’t forget, Banks invited me to make a presentation at the Royal Institution. I’ve decided my subject should be my campaign to ensure greater safety for miners, and you must definitely be there.” Dare rose and reached high to pull clusters of frilly blossoms from the tree. When he rejoined Oriana on the grass, he tucked one into her hair and used the St. Albans brooch to fasten the other to her chemisette. “I mean to credit you for raising all that money. The first series of subscription concerts succeeded beyond my wildest dreams.”

“I’m eager to resume them. You’ve very nearly depleted the coffers of the Benevolent Society for the Relief of Distressed Miners.” She drew a quick breath as his hands settled on her waist.

“Come let us here enjoy the shade,
as your poet says.
For love in shadow best is made.…
You, Lady Corlett, have the nicest, most ruffly petticoats of any female on this island.”

“How do you know?” she asked suspiciously. “Whose skirts have you been peeking under, besides mine?”

“Only a theory,” he replied, his lips grazing her knee. “Be assured, I have absolutely no intention of proving it. My investigation ends here.” His hand settled on her thigh.

The security of marriage permitted her to share herself fearlessly, and the privacy they enjoyed at Skyhill emboldened her. Her hands eagerly caressed his broad shoulders, and her mouth meshed with his.

Her lips still tingled from the kiss when she said wistfully, “We needn’t stay in England any longer than absolutely necessary. I want you to be at home to watch our apples ripen.”

“Home,” he murmured against her neck, “has nothing to do with which house I occupy, Oriana. My residence of choice is your heart, and I rejoice that you invited me to live there.”

The missel thrush resumed her song, sweetly serenading the lovers while they took full advantage of their seclusion.

Author’s Note

The primary characters of
Improper Advances
are my fictional creations. Nearly all the secondary characters are real people.

Actress Harriot Mellon eventually left the stage to marry Thomas Coutts, the millionaire banker, when she was thirtyseven and he was eighty. At his death, she became the richest widow in Great Britain. In her fiftieth year she wed her second husband, the twenty-six-year-old Duke of St. Albans—a nephew of the Lord Burford who appears in this story. She was never fully accepted by high society, although her enormous fortune and grand title ensured her entree at Court.

It is true that in 1799, Michael Kelly needed a
prima donna
for the opera house; eventually, he hired an Italian one. He and Anna Maria Crouch remained a devoted couple until her death in 1803. He pursued his theatrical endeavors as singer, composer, musical director, and seller of music until he was debilitated by gout and debts.

Sir Joseph Banks, his wife, and his eccentric sister continued to live at Number 32, Soho Square, all three living to a great age. The Royal Society and the Royal Institution of Great Britain are two of his many legacies. Less well known is the leather-bound volume in which he recorded the weights of his family members and visitors.

In January 1800, Thomas “Buck” Whaley, Irish adventurer, politician, and dog-lover, wed the Honorable Mary Lawless, sister of Lord Cloncurry. She raised his illegitimate children as her own, edited his memoirs, and arranged their publication.

At the close of the eighteenth century, Dr. James Hutton’s theories were discounted by all except his closest associates. His observations of igneous coastal rocks, basalt and granite, supported his belief that our earth’s true age should be counted in millions of years. As scientific methods and dating procedures grew more sophisticated and precise, they proved the accuracy of Hutton’s radical—for his time—pronouncements. Not only was he a founder of modern geology, he also promoted the concept of natural selection a generation before Charles Darwin. As far as I’m aware, no one besides Sir Darius Corlett has aligned the geology of the Isle of Man with Huttonian theory.

The paintings in Oriana’s possession correspond to items listed on inventories, sold or otherwise disposed of, by the third and fourth Dukes of St. Albans.

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Margaret Evans Porter