Improper Advances (8 page)

He sat quietly beside her, breathing in her flowery scent and watching the gentle, rhythmic rise and fall of her breasts. He’d humbled himself before a woman he’d wronged, and felt better for it. By telling her his terrible secret, he’d released much of the residual anguish he had locked away.

“My rudeness the other evening was inexcusable. I crave your pardon, and I hope that from this moment we can be friends.”

She accepted his hand, but hers was quickly withdrawn.

When he suggested that she ride Envoy back to Glencroft, she said, “After this long rest, I don’t mind walking.”

“I can’t let you stifle one of my rare chivalrous impulses.”

Dare brought the horse over to her and lifted her onto his saddle. He shortened the left stirrup strap for her and was rewarded with a tantalizing glimpse of her foot when she placed it in the iron.

“Does he go fast?” she asked, threading the reins through her fingers.

“Very. But you can’t try his paces till I’ve found a lady’s saddle for you.”

He released the bridle and away she rode. He followed behind, down the lane, across the stream, and through the gateposts of the property he had reluctantly rented to the fair rider.

With more politeness than enthusiasm, she invited him to come inside. “Ned wants cheering, and you’re quite a hero to him.”

But not to you
, he thought regretfully.

“If you care to dine here,” she added, “I’ll tell Mrs. Stowell to lay another place at the table.”

Dare cringed as the long-necked gray fowl hurled herself at them. “Might I suggest roast goose?”

“Booa”

“Cow,” Oriana translated.

“Kiark,”
said Ned.

“Hen.”

“Goayr.”

“She-goat.” It was the easiest to remember.

From the front garden rose a loud honking. Grinning, her instructor said,
“Guy.”

“Goose.” Moving to the window, she discovered the cause of the latest disturbance—her landlord in his pony-drawn gig. “One day, Sir Dare will ride right over that creature.”

He visited daily, pausing on his way to his hilltop house or his lead mine, stopping again on his way back to Ramsey. Usually he lingered, waiting until she offered him a cup of tea and Mrs. Stowell’s gingerbread. He never turned down an invitation to dine.

Turning back to the bed, she asked Ned, “When will you teach me to speak full sentences?”

Mrs. Stowell applied her dusting cloth to the blanket chest.
“Yiow moyrn lhieggey
—pride will have a fall. A short and simple proverb, but none more true.”

Oriana repeated the phrase. “Give me another, please.”

“Cha vow laue ny haaue veg.”

“What does that mean?”

“The idle hand gets nothing. As I told the master many a time, when he was a lad. And this one:
Ta
caueeght jannoo deiney ny share.
Religion makes men better.” With a final swipe of her cloth, the housekeeper left the room.

Said Ned, “She’s Methodist, very prayerful. Always worrying ‘bout people’s souls and salvation.”

After a thoughtful moment he said, ”
Ta leoaie lheeah.
Lead is gray.”

“I’m not likely to need that remark in the course of daily conversation.”

She was still laughing when Dare entered the room. Warmth crept into her cheeks, for his intimate and admiring smile caressed her vanity.

“Is the lad setting up as a wit? What has he said to amuse you?”

“She’s learning Gailck,” Ned reported. “She can call her animals now and knows two of Mrs.

Stowell’s proverbs. And I’ve taught her three new ballads.”

“I’m eager to hear them, Mrs. Julian.”

Oriana’s merriment was stifled by a
frisson
of alarm. Surely he’d recognize that her voice was highly trained-and that could lead to complications. They had been getting on so well lately, she hated to refuse, though.

“Perhaps another day,” she said. “Ned is eager for news of his friends at the mine.”

She darted out of the room, feeling that she’d escaped a lion eager to rip out her heart and feed upon it.

Absurd, she scolded herself. He wasn’t the villain of an opera, nor was she a trembling ingénue. She must continue to behave like a sensible woman. Just as she’d forgotten—almost—the way her limbs had melted when he’d held her against his chest and kissed her, she must rid herself of this ridiculous desire to sing for him.

Did he like music?

Thomas Teversal had seldom attended her performances. He’d preferred to meet her afterward and whisk her from the opera house or concert hall to a rented room for an hour of pleasure. But that shaming final confrontation had occurred at the King’s Theatre. Before a watchful crowd of elegantly dressed lords and ladies, Thomas had flirted blatantly with his betrothed—while Oriana, his former mistress, sang of love unrequited, ruinous passions, and cruel betrayal. Her pathos had summoned dozens of lace-edged handkerchiefs. She’d held back her own tears until she was alone and in bed.

“Lurking in the corridor—can you be eavesdropping? I’m appalled.”

She spun around. “Whatever you and Ned were saying, I didn’t hear.”

“I was telling him his days as a bedridden invalid are numbered. Dr. Curphey says he can be moved soon.”

“Where will he go?”

“I invited him to come to my house in Ramsey, but he refuses to leave the glen. Tom Lace and his wife wish to take him in, and he prefers to stay with them.”

His reference to the doctor reminded her of a development she needed to discuss. “I had a note from Mrs. Curphey, inviting me to dine at Ballakilligan this evening.”

“I know. I volunteered to collect you at the designated hour and return you to Glencroft.”

“That’s most kind of them—and of you. But I cannot go.”

His black eyebrows arched. “You have a prior engagement?”

His question was a tease. He knew perfectly well that she was friendless, and her nights were free.

“You should have explained my reluctance to mix with local society.”

“How could I, when you haven’t given me your reasons?”

Ignoring his complaint, she said, “I’ll have to send a note saying I’m unwell.”

“You’d soon have the doctor at your doorstep, and your fraud would be exposed.”

She pressed fisted fingers to her mouth, considering her dilemma.

“I’m the only other guest,” he told her. “Mrs. Curphey’s dinners are widely praised, and I’ve already dropped a hint about your preference for fish and poultry.”

“I haven’t got anything suitable to wear,” she protested, grasping at any possible excuse.

“That pretty jade green gown you wore the other night will do nicely.”

He probably remembered it because the bodice was cut so low. “Do you mean to select my shoes as well?” she asked tartly.

“Gladly, if you need assistance. I’d like to see the entire collection, for I don’t think you’ve worn the same pair twice. I’ll wager you’ve even got dancing slippers. I mean to find out,” he declared, and bounded into her chamber.

Determined to chase him out, Oriana followed. She was too late—he’d already opened the wardrobe, containing an array of garments ill suited to country life.

Fingering the crimson-silk gown she’d worn at her Chester concert, he commented, “I’ve not seen this. Or this.” He held up a long sleeve of sapphire satin.

“You shouldn’t be here,” she objected. “What if Mrs. Stowell catches you pawing through my clothes?”

“This cottage is mine; I’m entitled to an inspection. I have to assure myself that my tenant is responsible and hasn’t harmed my property in any way.” He leaned down to peer into a dark corner of the compartment. “Ah.” He picked up a pair of kidskin shoes with flat leather soles. “What have we here?”

“My personal possessions.” She snatched her slippers from him and held them behind her back. “Go away, Sir Darius.”

“Dare.”

Oriana shook her head.

“We’re alone—in your bedchamber. What better place for familiarity?”

“Ned could hear,” she warned. “You’ll make him suspicious.”

“On this island, we’re not so quick to the think the worst.”

“No? As I recall, on first meeting me you assumed I was a trollop. Until quite recently, you regarded me as a fortune hunter.”

He laughed, much too loudly. “Not any longer. The lavishness of these dresses proves that you’ve got plenty of money of your own, Oriana.”

“I prefer that you call me Mrs. Julian,” she said primly, although she couldn’t repress a smile.

“Only in company. And when I escort you to the Douglas assembly rooms, I promise I shall behave with absolute propriety.”

She’d never attended an assembly ball in her life. Stage performers were never invited to mix with gentry-folk and the nobility. She couldn’t tell him that her only opportunities for social dancing had occurred at the public masquerades held at Ranelagh or in Vauxhall Gardens, where rakes and rogues and ladies of easy virtue supped together, listened to music, and dallied in dark groves and alleyways.

Marching over to the bed, he picked up the book she’d left there.

“Give it to me, she commanded.

He found the page she had marked, and began to read.

“Kiss again: no creature comes
.

Kiss and score up walthy sums

On my lips, this hardly sundered

While you breathe. First give a hundred,

Then a thousand, then another

Hundred, and then unto tother

Adda thousand
. …”

He looked up at her, eyes dancing. “You’re a romantic.”

She wanted to protest that characterization—or was it an accusation? Her affinity for Ben Jonson’s verses was impossible to explain without mentioning her Stuart ancestors’ court masques, or her plan to set her favorite sonnets to music. With her silence, she accepted the label he bestowed. It wasn’t inappropriate.

Oriana was accustomed to seeing Dare in the coats and riding leathers and top boots typical of a well-to-do country gentleman. When he returned to Glencroft late in the day, he resembled the elegant stranger whose birthday dinner she’d interrupted. His cravat was intricately tied; he wore a patterned silken waistcoat with his dark coat and knee breeches. His eyes glittered devilishly when he complimented her green gown and insisted that she show him which slippers she’d chosen.

The doctor’s family warmly welcomed them to Ballakilligan, and Mrs. Curphey sat them down in her parlor and served a cordial and sweet biscuits. Oriana, whose own dinner parties were attended by celebrated writers, witty actors, and gifted musicians, feared the conversation would prove tedious. It didn’t, because it centered on the Cashins, a noble clan in the neighboring parish of Maughold.

“Lord Garvain’s linen mill succeeds beyond expectation,” Dare commented during dinner. “My friend Buck Whaley, one of the directors, boasts about the quantity of fabric being exported to England.”

“Lady Garvain will be lying in next month,” said Mrs. Curphey.

Dare nodded. “The Earl of Ballacraine must hope for a grandson, to carry on the title.”

“That young couple are so devoted,” the doctor declared, “his lordship will get a litter of grandsons
and
granddaughters in due course.”

“Earls and barons live on this island?” Oriana asked, covering her alarm at this unwelcome news.

“We’ve one of each,” Dare informed her. “And our very own duke as well. But the less said of Atholl the better.”

“On the fifth of July, when Tynwald meets, you’ll meet them all,” the doctor declared. “As well as the full contingent of government officials.”

“By that time, I shall be back in London.”

In a fortnight she would give up her pets and pay off her servants, and leave the quaint cottage in the glen. Until then, she would avoid any gathering that might include aristocrats.

A maidservant bearing a soup tureen paused by her chair to ask shyly,
“Vel shiu em’akin Ben-rein
Hostyn?”

Oriana looked to Dare for a translation.

“She wonders whether you’ve seen the Queen of England.”

With a smile, she answered, “Yes—
ta,
several times. The King also. And they’ve seen
me.”

Everyone at the table laughed.

Her host wished to know where her encounter with royalty had taken place.

“At the theater,” she answered. “Their Majesties sit in their velvet-draped box, with the coat of arms carved upon it.”

She’d been on the stage, singing for them.

After dinner Mrs. Curphey suggested that they leave the gentlemen to enjoy their brandy, and ushered her back to the parlor. A series of impersonal questions about the price of dress goods in London alleviated Oriana’s fear of personal conversation. The good lady merely sought assurance of her favorable impression of the island—its residents, its scenic beauties, the cheapness of provisions.

“I’ve never lived any other place,” Mrs. Curphey acknowledged, “so I’ve naught to compare it with.

Sir Darius tells us you’ve lived in Brussels. Did you visit other cities on the Continent?”

“Paris and Vienna,” Oriana answered, as Dare and the doctor entered the room. “And my mother and I spent several years in Italy.”

She continued to dole out select morsels of her past for her Manx friends to feast upon, feeling guilty about the many facts she withheld.

Because Dare had posted those letters, and was hearing her vivid descriptions of foreign scenery, he had revised his opinion of her. In truth, he knew her no better now than when he’d believed her to be a marriage-hungry vixen. He pursued a friendship with respectable Mrs. Julian, well-connected soldier’s widow. If she had visited his island as Ana St. Albans, he would either shun her or expect to sleep with her. She wanted no repetition of the indignities she routinely suffered in London.

During their moonlit drive through Glen Auldyn, Dare asked whether she’d enjoyed the evening.

“Very much.” Spoiled by a lifetime in public view, she’d rather missed being the focus of attention. As long as the attentiveness was polite and undemanding.

“Confess, you’re accustomed to more exalted company than a Manx country doctor, his wife, and the owner of a lead mine.”