Improper Advances (7 page)

She had strolled only a short distance along the streamside lane when she met a Manxwoman leading a longhaired, sharp-horned brown goat. Smiling, she expressed her admiration of the exotic beast, and was startled when the barefoot crofter handed her the rope.

“I don’t want it,” Oriana protested. “Oh, dear.”

“Croit ny Glionney?”

“Yes—
ta
. That’s where I live. But—”

“I take her. You keep, Benainshtyr. Good
goayr,
this one.” The woman held up four fingers. “Foor
skillin.”

A milking cow, a goose, and now a goat—the oddest she’d ever seen.

Walking onward, she laughed softly. Her noble cousins and Harri Mellon and the Earl of Rushton would be incredulous to hear that Ana St. Albans was collecting animals in place of admirers.

Dare didn’t crawl out of his bed until midday, and felt much better for the many hours of uninterrupted sleep. Wingate shaved him, helped him dress, and reported the latest developments in the persistent quarrel between his cook and the local butcher.

“Mrs. Crellin complains again that the kitchen floor tilts, sir.”

“Assure her that all the floors in the villa are perfectly level.”

“Indeed, sir. But she’s sure to ask when you intend to leave this house.”

“I’m damned if I know.” Wingate held up a gray riding coat, and Dare slid his arms into the sleeves.

Crossing to the mirror, he studied his appearance. His need to look his best today was rooted in his desire to secure Mrs. Julian’s forgiveness. She dressed so exquisitely, perhaps the right combination of garments would help him win his way into her good graces.

He was sure she would be impressed by the horse he rode. Envoy was one of the most recognized—and coveted—animals in the island. An aristocrat among equines, the black had exceptional conformation and a showy gait.

His enemy the goose heralded his arrival at Glencroft, waddling and honking, her wings flapping madly.

A shaggy Manx goat tied to the tethering ring began to bray.

“When did that beast take up residence here?” Dare asked Danny Corkhill.

“Mrs. Gill brought it a while ago, saying the mistress offered four shillings for’t. Mrs. Stowell gave her the money.”

Dare found the housekeeper in the kitchen kneading dough.

“Neddy’s much better today,” she informed him. “No wonder, for the mistress spent the morning singing to him.”

“Singing?”

“A voice like an
ainle,
she has. I didn’t think to hear such sounds till I get to heaven. Maybe it’s because she eats so strange. Won’t touch red meat, only fish and fowl. I’m thinking that’s why her skin is so white and fine.” She wiped her flour-caked hands on a linen cloth, saying, “I’ve made oatcakes, Mainshtyr—tell Neddy I’ll bring them up with some buttermilk, soon as I set my loaves to rise.”

Going to the spare bedchamber, Dare was delighted to find the young miner sitting upright, supported by his pillows.

“Here’s an improvement,” he commented, drawing the armchair nearer the bed.

”
Ta
, and a good thing it is. I’ll be needing my strength, for Benainshtyr says I may teach her all my songs.”’ With a sheepish grin, he asked, “Could you find a comb for me, before she comes again? I must be a fearful sight.”

Dare perceived that he wasn’t the only one whose peace of mind was disturbed by Oriana Julian.

With a low laugh, Ned said, “Eh, you needn’t be worrying, Mainshtyr Dare, I’ve not lost my heart to her. She could never fancy a broken-up miner. She’s an English lady, and the fairest I’ve ever seen. Her singing’s so fine it makes me want to cry. But for all that, she treats me like I’m no different than her. Like you do.”

Mrs. Stowell brought in a plate piled high with the promised oatcakes, and a mug of buttermilk for her patient.

“Where is Mrs. Julian?” Dare asked her.

“She went down the glen to buy Mrs. Gill’s goat. But she’s been a long time returning.”

Lost in the hills, he thought ominously. “I’d better look for her.” It was lucky he’d come on horseback instead of by gig; he could conduct a more thorough search of the neighborhood.

Dare returned to the stable yard and mounted Envoy once more. He soon reached the
claghan
used by generations of glen dwellers to ford the stream. Mrs. Julian must have crossed here. He imagined her moving from stone to stone, holding her skirts high to keep them clear of the splashing water.

A breeze stirred the green sycamore leaves. Farther on lay the broad path giving access to his mining operation. Guessing that she would keep to the main track, he pressed forward.

He was acquainted with the many hazards hidden among the splendors of this landscape. A flicker of alarm teased him as he recalled every disused mine shaft and abandoned cellar hole. There were countless paths, steep and treacherous, best suited to sheep—not delicate London ladies wearing frivolous shoes. If she slipped, she could twist her knee, or sprain one of those lovely slim ankles …

Pausing at each cottage, he questioned the crofters in their native tongue, but none had noticed the lady of Glencroft passing by. Deeply superstitious, these people expressed concern that she might have fallen victim to the
glashten
and
mooinjer veggey
and the
fer obbee
roaming the glen and uplands. Dare doubted Mrs. Julian’s serenity would desert her if she did encounter a ghost or the little people, or even a wizard. She’d find a way to charm them into submission.

Envoy carried him deeper and deeper into hills golden with gorse, grazed by rough mountain sheep. A peregrine soared overhead, seeking young rabbits to feed upon. The zigzag track led him to remote crofts, and there he received encouraging news. A short time ago, Oriana Julian had crossed through the pasture and stopped to feed the pony a handful of grass. His sense of urgency faded.

“A while ago she came, that
ferrish,
as if from nowhere—like out of the old legends. I’ve sent
lhienno
to the house, so the fairy woman wouldn’t steal them.”

She ‘d probably prefer to have the pony,
thought Dare. In Manx he asked her where the strange woman had gone.

“Dys shen
—there.” The crofter pointed him toward a meadow path.

Because it circled around to rejoin the lane he’d followed earlier, Dare expected to overtake his quarry. His faith was soon rewarded.

Envoy’s thudding hoofbeats made the wanderer turn around. “Sir Darius.” Her voice was expressionless, neither cool nor warm.

“Mrs. Julian.” He bowed low.

“Why do you follow me?”

“I feared I might lose you.”

“I daresay you’d be thankful if you could.”

He swung himself out of the saddle. “One of the crofters thought you were a fairy woman, seeking to steal her children.”

“I never noticed them. I was making friends with the pony.”

He grinned. “As I suspected. Were you also being friendly when you offered Mrs. Gill four shillings for her goat?”

“I’d never seen that breed before, and tried to tell her so. She assumed I wanted to own it.”

“You
do
own it.”

“It’s certainly decorative,” she declared, taking an optimistic view. “And my milk cow will be glad of the company.”

“I’m glad of this chance to speak with you,” Dare told her. “I still haven’t fully accounted for those unkind remarks I made the other evening.”

“Quite unnecessary; I understand perfectly. You assume that every female who crosses your path wants to be your wife.” He detected more than a trace of mockery in the musical voice.

“It isn’t conceit that makes me suspicious, but experience,” he defended himself. “My wealth is a fact—and so is its influence upon others.”

“You have my deepest sympathy. May I go now?”

“No,” he barked. “I haven’t even begun. After I realized you weren’t a birthday toy my friends had provided for my amusement, I made another false judgment. I decided that you were a fortune hunter, probably in debt, intent upon luring me into marriage. I saw you not as a lovely woman—which you are—but as my worst nightmare.”

“You mustn’t flatter me, Sir Darius. Whatever else you feel compelled to say, I don’t care to listen.”

She turned to go.

He placed himself in front of her. Grasping her arm, he declared in a heated voice, “You try my patience almost as much as that damned goose of yours.” The surrounding greenery was reflected in her eyes, and in the woodland gloom her face bloomed white as a lily. A foreign, inexpressible emotion held him in its toils, far more tightly than he clutched her.

She regarded him fearlessly. “This is important to you.”

“Immensely.” At long last, he’d communicated something to her besides lust and disdain. “May I continue?”

She nodded.

He marched her over to a low boundary wall and made her sit. He stepped away, taking time to collect his thoughts.

“Grandfather Corlett married an English heiress, and lived near Matlock, the watering place at the heart of Derbyshire’s mining and mountain district. My father, enamored of his island heritage, chose a Manxwoman for his wife. I was born in Ramsey and educated at Rugby School in England. Between terms, I often stayed with my grandfather. At the time, he was building a country mansion on the grand scale, so I watched part of my future inheritance spring up before my very eyes. Later I attended Edinburgh University, where I studied geology and mineralogy. But when my father died, Grandfather insisted that I fully acquaint myself with my future responsibilities. I learned the business of mining—from the ground up, you might say. At social events in the neighborhood of Damerham, I was besieged by young ladies, all eager to claim the Corlett heir.”

An image flashed in his mind—a pert and smiling face with a pair of laughing eyes.

“One of them succeeded—Wilhelmina Bradfield, daughter of a bankrupt china manufacturer. Her skin resembled the finest porcelain. She had black corkscrew curls, and dimples.” Head bowed, Dare studied his clenched hands. “Flirtation led to courtship. She was receptive, and so was her family. But she didn’t agree to an engagement until my grandsire’s long life completed its course. I inherited his mines, his mansion, and all his money.”

She broke the silence, saying, “And you decided Miss Bradfield was after your fortune.”

“Not then. My attention was divided among a prosperous mining operation, my geological pursuits, and a growing stack of architectural renderings for the fine house I intended to build for my bride. Willa never complained about my preoccupations. When I was overseeing my lead mines or cataloging rock specimens or visiting my mother, she was free to dally with her sweetheart. Long before she set her cap for me, she had pledged herself to the manager of Mr. Bradfield’s china factory. When the business failed, she dutifully complied with her family’s wish that she marry money.
My
money.”

“Did she jilt you?”

“She couldn’t risk it.” Dare sat down on the stone wall, stretching his legs out before him. “She was carrying her lover’s child. To save herself from disgrace, and to secure a fortune, she insisted upon a quick wedding. I preferred to wait. My mother wasn’t strong enough to come over from Ramsey. The manager at Dale End Mine had given notice. Willa twice fainted in my presence, and I feared she was unwell. Marriage, her parents assured me, would be the saving of her. No time for banns—they begged me to get a license, immediately. I hastened to the Bishop of Derby,” he said fiercely.

“You needn’t tell me the rest,” she said gently.

“I must.” Staring into her troubled eyes, he said, “I’ve never revealed the whole truth to a living soul.

On the eve of my marriage, the impoverished, unemployed factory man came to Damerham and made his confession. If not for him, I’d be shackled to a woman who couldn’t love me, the lawful parent of a child not my own. Within a week of these events, Mother died—peacefully, in her sleep. She was spared the whole sordid story, for which I was thankful. At her funeral, I informed my Corlett and Gilchrist relations that my engagement had ended, by mutual consent. I’ve since acknowledged that Willa was a fortune hunter, but that’s as much as anyone knows.”

“Did her duplicity prejudice you against matrimony?”

“Against
mercenaries,”
he corrected her. “Willa was by far the most determined, but she wasn’t the only one. Ever after, when young ladies sought my company, I detected the calculation behind their glittering smiles and lowered lashes.”

“Perhaps you misjudged them. As you did me,” she said pointedly.

“I doubt it.” He regarded her curiously. “Have you never placed too much faith in a suitor’s avowals of love and devotion?”

“Yes,” she acknowledged. “Even so, it didn’t vanquish my hope of achieving perfect bliss.”

“I suppose you equate marriage with blissfulness. Most women do.”

“I give you my word, Sir Darius—”

“Dare.”

“Sir Darius,” she said firmly, “I do
not
covet your fortune or your possessions or your name.”

He believed her. “I suspect I’m beneath your notice-my grandsire became a baronet late in life, and I’m only the second Corlett to hold the title. Your correspondents include a duke and two earls—your connections are far superior to mine.” He added, “And I doubt your past contains an episode as unsavory as the one I’ve related.”

A frown clouded her sublime countenance. “If it did, I wouldn’t tell someone who already disapproves of me.”

“I don’t. I’ve no cause for it—I know too little about you.”

“Perhaps it’s better so,” she said, faintly smiling.

Her reticence was a shield, swiftly raised to ward off prying questions. He ignored it. “You spent your youth in Brussels. You were wed and widowed. I should like to hear more of your history.”

“My parents were eccentric, and my upbringing was unconventional. I thwarted my mother’s ambitions for me at age sixteen, when I eloped with a young soldier. I loved him dearly, but our marriage was also an act of youthful rebellion. Henry’s regiment went to India, and there he died, less than a year after we were wed. Sadder, but no wiser, I returned to my mother’s house and the life I’d wanted to escape.”