Improper Advances
Page 2
Picking up the shiny rock atop the stack of pages, she examined it closely.
“It resembles gold,” he said, “but it’s pyrite. Common sulpharet of iron.”
Her face turned toward him.
He marveled at Wingate’s talent for understatement, for she possessed an extraordinary degree of beauty.
After a burst of raucous merriment from across the hall, the lady said contritely, “I stole you away from your party.”
Her voice, like sweet music, charmed him as much as her glorious heart-shaped face. He had moved close enough to see that the hazel eyes returning his cautious scrutiny were a combination of malachite green and pyrite bronze, flecked with clay brown. Her mouth was delightfully shaped, full and rosy.
Alarmed by his susceptibility, he fought a losing battle against his desire to smile. “You’re forgiven.”
He wanted to stand there gazing at her for the rest of the night, but felt it necessary to say, “I suspect you’ve come to my house by mistake.”
“My instructions were explicit, and this residence fits the description I was given. Aren’t you Sir Darius Corlett?”
He didn’t need to ask who had given those instructions. Buck Whaley and George Quayle, ignoring Cousin Tom’s protests, had clearly provided that exciting and satisfying birthday present. Where had they found this delectable doxy? Her refinement was unique for a member of her profession.
He dropped his voice to a low, suggestive murmur. “Be patient but a little while. My friends will soon depart.” Taking her gloved hand, he pulled her close enough to kiss the parted lips. Her sudden intake of breath expressed surprise. Holding her, he was conscious of her generous curves, his own superior size—and a simmering arousal.
Swiftly, she pulled away. Her face expressed stunned dismay, and another emotion he couldn’t identify. “You’re very bold, sir. Do you know me?”
“I was beginning to,” he responded.
“But you’ve never seen me before tonight?” she persisted.
“Never. I would certainly remember you.” Not only her face and form, but the floral scent of her. He reached for her again.
She stepped back and bumped into a bookcase, knocking several fossils off the shelf. He didn’t care.
His hands seized her slender waist, and his mouth locked on hers. Her body was rigid, unresponsive—then she trod sharply upon his foot. Startled, he released her.
In a cool, collected voice she inquired, “Are you drunk?”
“Not entirely. Did they advise you to play games with me? I’m a straightforward man; I prefer a bedmate with experience. You needn’t feign virginal innocence to whet my appetite.”
“I’m not a virgin,” she stated with remarkable candor, “or a trollop. I’m Oriana Julian—Mrs. Julian. I’ll be spending several weeks on this island and require a lodging.
Laughing, he said, “And you accuse me of boldness! My dear, I’ll gladly keep you here—if Mr. Julian doesn’t object.”
“Captain Julian died in the service of his country,” she answered soberly. “Six years ago.”
That disclosure hit Dare like a bucket of cold seawater. The enormity of his error silenced him.
Mrs. Julian stepped away, putting more distance between them. “If you’ll stop chasing me around this shockingly untidy room, I will explain. Yesterday, I sailed from Liverpool. An hour ago, I arrived in this town. I asked the landlord at the King’s Head whether he knew of any properties to let in Glen Auldyn, and he told me Sir Darius Corlett owns a villa there.”
In his mind, a warning clanged as loudly as a storm bell. His wariness, temporarily overpowered by her physical attributes, reasserted itself.
A widow—with a weakness for the latest, most lavish fashions. One whose beauty was so seductive that even he, a hardened case, was affected by it. Here was a hazardous combination, positively lethal.
She’s trouble, he told himself, even as he focused on the parted cloak, revealing a well-formed bosom and a narrow waist. Better send her away—quickly.
“That villa will soon become my principal residence,” he informed her. “Mr. Hinde referred to a small untenanted dwelling. Merely a cottage,” he added, with a dismissive shrug.
“I don’t mind. So long as it’s situated in Glen Auldyn.”
With some reluctance, he confirmed that it was. “If you seek an affordable lodging,” he suggested, “you should inquire down in Douglas, the largest of our towns.”
She shook her head, saying decisively, “I do not wish to live in a town. I chose this part of the island quite deliberately.”
Moments ago he’d held her, he’d hungered for her. Now he wanted to be rid of her, as speedily as possible. He preferred a warm-blooded whore, eager to earn a few shillings, to a greedy huntress. Mrs.
Julian’s urgency, her expensive raiment, her dubious desire to live hidden away in a desolate valley alerted him to her true purpose in coming to the Isle of Man. In debt up to her pretty pink earlobes, he guessed.
She must have left England in a rush, fleeing an army of creditors.
Cornelius Hinde, proprietor of the King’s Head, had surely described Sir Darius Corlett as one of the island’s wealthiest residents. This female, no doubt as clever and as calculating as she was desperate and beautiful, wouldn’t be the first of that type to pursue him. Or the last, he thought fatalistically.
Plunging her gloved hand into her reticule, she withdrew a folded paper. Confidently she said, “This will help you understand.”
Her handwriting, in contrast to her outward perfection, was atrocious. He struggled to decipher the scrawled phrases and gave up. “You’d better read it to me.”
“Glion Auldin. This retired village makes a pretty appearance from the rocks around it.. .
Sycamores thrive in it… This will be worthy the attention of a contemplative stranger; here he will perceive that happiness may reside clothed in a retired garb, and far distant from the refined luxuries of modern dissipation.”
“You copied that passage from a tour book,” he surmised. “Which author—Robinson or Feltham?”
“I have no idea. I found it at the circulating library in Liverpool. Before I finished reading it, I made up my mind to visit this island. Of all the lyrical paragraphs describing splendid scenery and beautiful vistas, that one tempted me the most.”
“Are you so contemplative? You don’t look it,” he said daringly.
Her head came up, and she retorted, “Haven’t you just learned the danger of judging solely by appearances?”
“In the scientific realm, observation is crucial to discovery. Your outward appearance cannot reveal the whole of your character,” he acknowledged, “but it’s highly informative. You employ a skillful and expensive dressmaker, and must have come from a large city where fine fabrics are easily obtained.
Because you haven’t an accent typical of Edinburgh, Liverpool, Manchester, or Bristol, I therefore conclude that you’re a Londoner.”
His discernment earned him a smile. “You know my city?”
“As well as I care to. I’ve not visited for many a year, and have no intention of doing so in future.”
Her smile slipped, a sign that his frankness had wounded her. Making a quick recovery, she said airily, “Being thoroughly exhausted from the ‘refined luxuries of modern dissipation,’ I wish to spend a pleasant month in your quaint little cottage in the lovely, peaceful glen.”
“You’d better see the quaint cottage before you make up your mind.”
“I intend to, as soon as you permit. Are you at leisure tomorrow morning?”
Oriana returned to her chamber at the King’s Head, gratified by her success but not entirely content.
Sir Darius Corlett had reluctantly agreed to show his Glen Auldyn property.
He’d begun the interview by propositioning her—as though he’d known exactly who she was—and ended it disliking her because she’d asked to rent a cottage that needed a tenant.
As a p
ublic figure, and a notorious one, she was accustomed to improper advances. More troubling—and mystifying—was his behavior after she’d stated the purpose of her visit. Her simple explanation had wiped the smile from his arresting face and transformed his wry amusement to cool condescension.
His failure to apologize for mauling her still rankled. Country manners, she thought derisively. His lack of finesse reminded her of the raw young squires who paid court to her—but none of them had kissed her so masterfully, or sparked a dangerous desire for more.
In future she would be careful not to arouse him.
Four weeks, she thought, entering her bedchamber. An entire month without employment or responsibilities. But no companion, either, for Suke Barry was enjoying a long leave of absence with her parents in Cheshire. Oriana missed her efficient, soft-spoken maidservant. She must also accustom herself to the absence of lively Harriot Mellon, solemn Lord Rushton, and amusing Matthew Powell.
Even if the Isle of Man lived up to the enticing descriptions in the tourist guide, its beauties could not replace the pleasures of friendship.
She removed her bonnet and draped her velvet cloak across a chair, wondering what colors the London ladies, bereft of her example, would wear this season. At least she had the consolation of successfully introducing the St. Albans flounce to the female population of Chester.
The public, appreciative of London performers, had welcomed her arrival, and her charity concert on behalf of the impoverished mothers had been well attended. With soaring hopes she’d set out for nearby Liverpool, only to discover that Francis Aickin, the theater manager, had postponed her engagement.
Preoccupied with hiring players for his summer season, he could not aggressively promote the appearance of the celebrated Ana St. Albans. Her concert, he said apologetically, could not take place until June. After agreeing to his preferred dates, she faced the dilemma of what to do with herself in the meantime. Her timely discovery of the guidebook had persuaded her to escape the bustle and coal smoke of Liverpool for Ramsey, this quiet backwater on the Isle of Man.
The chambermaid appeared with a pitcher of washing water. A poor substitute for Suke, she gawped at Oriana’s nightgown, liberally trimmed with Belgian lace.
Oriana brushed out her hair and plaited it herself. Softly she hummed a haunting aria from the season’s most popular opera. Next winter, she promised herself, she’d sing it in public, at the King’s Theatre, to the delight of London’s most fashionable citizenry and the chagrin of the Italian cabal, who regularly hissed English-born singers.
“Is Sir Darius Corlett a native of this island?” she asked the Manx girl.
” Ta, that he is, ma’am, but for a long time he lived away. Two years ago he come back from Derbyshire to build his house. My brother, who works at the lead mine in the glen, says Mainshtyr Dare pays a good wage. His smelting works is right here in the town, and his ship is anchored in the bay. His man, Mr. Wingate, is very English. He comes into our taproom on his evenings off.” The girl slid a warming pan between the bedsheets, and withdrew.
Crawling between her heated covers, Oriana reviewed her brief but telling encounter with the Manx baronet. Bold. Unchivalrous. Intelligent. Tactless.
Although he wasn’t handsome by conventional standards, he was decidedly attractive—more so when he smiled. And he’d towered over her. She preferred dark men, the taller the better.
Sir Darius Corlett, whose demanding mouth and roaming hands had so greatly discomfitted her, was someone to avoid. She couldn’t even put him in his place by boasting of her descent from the Stuart kings of England. That fact, like her profession, must remain a secret.
She didn’t discount the dangerous possibility that some islander might have attended one of her London performances, or the more recent one in Chester. Dread of being recognized as Ana St. Albans had firmed her resolve to hide herself away in the secluded glen.
By adopting her married name she cloaked her identity. She’d rarely used it because it was connected to a bittersweet chapter in her life, a reminder of her shattering loss. Within months of their daring elopement, Henry Julian’s regiment had been shipped off to India. There he remained, buried in foreign soil.
In imitation of the heroine in that ridiculous Covent Garden play, she would live in the country under an obscure name—albeit a genuine, legal one. After twenty-three busy years, she looked forward to leading a quiet, ordinary life. No admirers would demand her time and attention, her energies would not be depleted by vocal lessons and rehearsals and concerts. Best of all, she had escaped false rumors and the constant threat of renewed scandal.
Exhausted from her lengthy sea crossing, she slept the night through without waking.
In the morning, a thick mist hung gloomily over the port of Ramsey. Undaunted, she bathed in the steaming water delivered by the maid, who pressed the creases from a modish carriage habit of ivy green. In preparation for her new life, she simplified the arrangement of her hair. But she did reach for the cut-glass bottle of French floral water, as she did every morning, and touched her moistened fingers to her neck, her brow, her wrists.
She broke her fast with plain bread and bitter but sustaining tea, and drove away all thoughts of the immensely gifted Louis, her Belgian chef. On leaving the rickety table, she moved to the window to watch for Sir Darius. When she leaned out the casement for a better view of her surroundings, she saw plain buildings of whitewashed stone and unpaved streets pitted with murky puddles. A large seagull marched across the slate roof; others clawed at the thatched tops of the dwellings.
Her escort arrived in a gig drawn by a bay pony—fourteen hands high, in her judgment—and halted in front of the inn.
Waving to catch his attention, she called, “Good morning, Sir Darius.”
The baronet looked up, and touched his wide brim in perfunctory acknowledgment of her cheery greeting. A night’s repose hadn’t seemed to improve his mood, for he failed to return her smile.
Chapter 2
She smelled like a garden of rare and exotic flowers. Dare, trapped in the fragrant cloud of her perfume, tried to identify it. Lilies, lilacs, roses? He couldn’t guess what it was; he only knew it was damnably intoxicating.
“I had little faith that you would come, Sir Darius.”
“I’m a man of my word,” he declared.
Her head tipped back, exposing a slender column of a neck and the elegant curve of her jaw. As she eyed the low, heavy clouds scudding across the sky, she said, “It’s not a promising day for a drive.”
He let out a humorless chuckle. “If you’re so easily deterred by damp, you won’t like living on this island. Be thankful for a civilized mist—you might’ve had the more typical torrent of spring rain.” He guided the pony around the largest puddles, to avoid splashing mud on his passenger’s deep green skirt.
“Have you ever lived in the country, Mrs. Julian?”
“Till now, I never wished to.”
Dare imagined her being driven around Hyde Park in a fashionable phaeton, smiling and nodding to her acquaintances, or sweeping through London’s lamplit streets in a closed carriage. “What made you change your mind?”
“A gentleman.”
This disclosure deepened Dare’s suspicions and, contradictorily, sharpened his interest. “He commanded you to leave London?”
“No, I went voluntarily. Extremely inconvenient, but very necessary.”
He had to wonder if she made hasty departure in order to conceal the evidence of an indiscretion. But if that were so, she’d want to hide on the island for nine full months instead of just one.
“How far is Glen Auldyn from Ramsey?” she asked.
“Two miles. The whole island is thirty miles top to bottom, so there are no great distances.” Fedjag, who regularly trod this stretch of the Sulby Road, slowed even before Dare tugged the left-hand rein.
After negotiating the sharp bend, he said, “Here we enter the glen, which extends four miles southward.
“Trying to frighten me away, Sir Darius?”
He wished he could, but last night she’d demonstrated her tenacity. She turned her face away from him and gazed at the mountain on their right. Fog veiled the view but couldn’t obliterate its beauty.
“You must favor hills and tors,” she commented. “I’m told you have property in Derbyshire.”
She had been asking questions about him, the little schemer. Affronted by this proof of her prying, he was determined to deflect further inquiries. “The locals identify Skyhill as the site of a fairy city. It’s also a famous battleground—on that summit an army of Norsemen conquered the native Manx.”
Her fascination killed his impulse to drive her away with a lecture on history—perhaps he should try geology. A soliloquy on the predominant characteristics of Manx slate would cause those pretty hazel eyes to glaze from boredom. By comparing and contrasting the Plutonian theory of the earth’s origin—which he strongly supported—with the less worthy Neptunian example, he could force Mrs. Julian to leap out of the gig and run back to Ramsey.
The pervasive, garlicky odor of the ramsoms, pale flowers shooting up in shadowy places, would surely dissuade her from settling here. To his dismay, she complimented the precocious bluebells bobbing beneath the green canopy of tree branches, and admired the river, swollen by spring rains, as it splashed and foamed over the rocks.
To make certain she noticed that the glen was sparsely populated, he said, “There are very few crofters here.”
“How do they support themselves?” she asked.
“You would regard their agricultural methods as primitive, but they manage to feed themselves and supply their livestock with adequate fodder. Lezayre parish is blessed with good farmland, and a quantity of grain leaves Ramsey port for England. Glen Auldyn used to be famous for snuff making, and some folk still grind tobacco with their hand mills.”
His lead mine provided employment to two dozen men, but he didn’t tell her that, or point out the pair of stone gateposts marking the entrance to his future home. He didn’t want a fortune hunter to see his mining operations, or the unfinished splendor of his villa.