Improper Advances

by Margaret Evans Porter

  But he couldn’t ignore the laborers erecting a stone bridge over the stream. Beyond them, another group shoveled gravel out of a wagon and spread it across his new drive.

  “Moghrey mie, Mainshtyr!” the stoneworkers called.

  “Good morning,” he replied. He slowed the vehicle, telling his passenger, “If I don’t stop, they’ll be offended.”

  Her gloved hands reached for his reins. “What’s your pony’s name?”

  “Fedjag. Feather, in Manx.”

  “I can walk her up and down the lane till you return,” she offered.

  “No need, I’ll only be a moment.” As Dare moved away from the gig, he looked over his shoulder.

  Mrs. Julian, regal as a princess and twice as lovely, gripped the lines with unexpected expertise, forcing him to revise his vision of her progress through Hyde Park. He left her in the provocative feathered hat and the clinging habit of bold green, which complemented her milky skin and ruddy hair. But he permitted her to drive herself along the carriageway.

  “Going to the mine?” asked Donny Corkhill. “When I saw Ned Crowe last night, his mouth was moving as fast as Auldyn stream. Said they’d hit a new vein of ore.”

  “I hadn’t heard.” If not for Mrs. Julian, he could investigate this promising development.

  His mine’s productivity couldn’t match that of the Derbyshire operations he’d inherited from his grandfather, and it might be years before excavations yielded enough income to offset the expenses. But he could offer a job to those who needed one, either here in the glen or at his smelting house in Ramsey.

  The chief benefit to him was augmenting his collection of rocks and minerals with the specimens his men pried from the underground caverns.

  Returning to the gig, Dare climbed up beside Mrs. Julian, and was assailed by that enticing aroma.

  Awareness of her swiftly seeped into him, until he felt thoroughly drenched by it. His shoulder brushed hers, and all those mad, carnal thoughts from last night resurfaced. He shoved them back down. His reluctance to have her for a tenant was at odds with his lingering desire to plunder her magnificent body.

  Directly across from his new bridge stood twin stone pillars. Driving Fedjag between them, he announced, “Croit ny Glionney—Glencroft.” He turned his head to catch her initial, unguarded reaction.

  She wouldn’t care for the cottage. He was certain of it.

  Her face revealed nothing during her silent study of the slate-roofed gray stone dwelling with twin chimneys at either end, and its adjacent barn. The boundary hedges were unruly and the surrounding meadow was overgrown.

  “So many wildflowers,” she commented with evident pleasure, before descending from the gig.

  Dare observed her lissome grace as she approached the cottage, her dark green skirt brushing the upright heads of the bellflowers and yarrow. She moved like no woman he’d ever seen, and carried herself with supreme self-assurance. Kneeling, she plucked a handful of blossoms.

  Wrenching his gaze from the queenly figure waiting for him on the doorstep, he looped the reins through the iron ring set into the stable wall.

  When he joined Mrs. Julian, she declared, “I mean to fill this place with bouquets.”

  He fitted his key into the lock and turned it. Nothing happened.

  “I hope you’ve brought the right one,” she said, casting up wide, worried eyes. Little pearly teeth clamped down upon the plump lower lip.

  Her pensive glance and wistful words dissolved his prejudice momentarily. “I did,” he said, with a reassuring smile.

  Their glances held. She drew a sharp breath, possibly of anticipation.

  Dare returned his attention to the lock, and found, to his dismay, that his fingers were shaky and his palms moist. It had been a long, long time since he’d stood so near a fetching—and fragrant—female.

  He shoved against the door. When it failed to give way, he kicked hard enough to force it open. The grinding of the unused hinges was music to his ears. One glance inside, he told himself, and her enthusiasm for living in a quaint country cottage would vanish. Within seconds she would plead with him to recommend the best hotel down in Douglas.

  Clutching her flowers, she preceded him into the narrow, dark hall, and found her way to the small parlor. The light streaming in from two small windows revealed white walls and a fireplace with an iron grate.

  “Extremely rustic,” said Dare, unnecessarily.

  She ran her hand across a wooden chair back. “The furniture was made on the island?”

  He nodded. The view of Skyhill had lured her to the window. After gazing out for a moment, she went into the adjacent room, which had barely enough space for its dining table and a few spindly chairs.

  He let her find her way to the rear of the house. A great stone-faced hearth dominated the kitchen. The dairy, dry and cool, contained rows of wooden shelving.

  “I could have my very own milk cow,” said Mrs. Julian. “And hens to lay eggs, and geese.”

  “Have you ever kept animals?” he asked.

  “A dog, when I was a child. Rowley—my King Charles spaniel.”

  “Here, you’d need a cat. A good Manx mouser.”

  Undeterred by his implied warning that vermin infested these walls, she continued her explorations.

  He followed her up the narrow staircase, taking in every detail of her back view—the exposed nape of her delicate neck, the slender, tapering back, and gently swaying hips.

  She peered inside the musty linen cupboard crammed into a corner of the smallest of the upper chambers and emerged wearing a frown, raising his hopes.

  They proceeded to the principal sleeping chamber. Like the parlor, it offered her a view of Skyhill, and the bedstead was positioned directly opposite the window.

  “Imagine waking up to that fine vista every morning!” Turning to Dare, she added, “I cannot comprehend why this dear little house is vacant.”

  “For most people, the rent is too high.”

  If her finances were dodgy, she wouldn’t be able to afford it, either. Selecting a sum that she might well judge excessive, he said, “Twenty-five pounds per annum. Half a pound per week, on a short lease.”

  “I call that a bargain.”

  “You must take into account your servants’ wages,” he hastened to point out. “You’d need a woman to care for your poultry and cook all those eggs, to pluck and roast the geese. And milk the cow.”

  She thrust her flowers at him and her fingers delved into her reticule. “I’ll pay you now. I’ve got five pounds.”

  This wasn’t the outcome he’d envisioned. When she presented her banknote, he shook his head. “I meant five Manx pounds. Your English currency is worth more than ours.”

  “I’ve had no opportunity to change my money. The difference doesn’t signify to me.”

  “Mrs. Julian, are you certain you’re ready to commit to this project? I urge you to wait a few days—or longer-and acquaint yourself with the island. There are some very pretty towns along the coast, and many more glens.”

  “I’m satisfied with this cottage. What did you call it?”

  “Croit ny Glionney. Glencroft.”

  With remarkable accuracy, she repeated the Manx words.

  “I fear your life here will be very dull.”

  “That would make a pleasant change for me.”

  “And lonely,” he persisted.

  “I shall survive it.” Taking back her nosegay, she declared, “For me, solitude is a novelty, not a hardship. And the episode at your house last night strengthened my resolve to avoid society.”

  Without overtly casting blame, she made him feel like a brute. She’d done it before—when informing him of her husband’s demise. “Your arrival coincided with my birthday celebrations. When I found you in my study, I assumed my friends had arranged the surprise visit of a-a sporting female for my entertainment, who would-would—”

  “Felicitate you? What naughty friends you have, Sir Darius.” Prying up his
coat lapel, she tucked the stems of her flowers through an empty buttonhole. “A belated present. I beg you to disregard the fact that these blossoms grew on your property and therefore belong to you already.”

  Her brazen gesture did nothing to allay his suspicions about her motives and solidified his determination to keep his distance from this delectable mantrap. Those limpid hazel eyes, that playful mouth, her lyrical voice and bright flashes of wit—surely they had been the undoing of many a less cautious fellow before him.

  He wished he might see her without her modish green gown. His hands tingled as he imagined them cupping her bare breasts, sliding down her flat belly. The decadent curve and swell of her smiling lips brought back memories of hot kisses.

  Oriana abruptly moved away from him.

  This cottage would seem safer when it no longer contained the gentleman who gazed upon her with wolfish intensity. His dark eyes followed her movements, and if she weren’t so certain of his dislike, she might believe he intended to resume the seduction he’d begun last night.

  Soon, she told herself, she would occupy this chamber. She’d line her brush and comb and hairpins and scent bottle atop the wooden chest; her garments would fill its drawers. Tonight she intended to sleep in that very bed. Giddy with delight, her head so filled with plans that she felt it might pop, she returned to the window. After a lingering look at the cloud-covered mountain, she suggested that they return to Ramsey.

  During their drive down the misty glen, she sought the baronet’s opinion of the local haberdashers and victuallers who could supply her with necessities. His suggestion that she travel to Douglas to shop for goods and hire servants found no favor with her. Although she could not tell him why, she must avoid the island’s most populous area.

  “If the Isle of Man is anything like England,” she said, “a city servant won’t consider working in the countryside. I must find a woman from this parish.”

  “Mrs. Stowell, a pensioner of mine, managed my parents’ household for many a year. She lives with her married niece in Barrack Street, and complained mightily of being coddled when last I saw her. I’ll send her to the King’s Head if you wish to meet her.”

  Oriana nodded. “Do you also know of a needy lad who might tend my livestock?”

  “Young Donny Corkhill, who was helping the stoneworkers, lives in the glen. His family could use a few extra shillings.”

  He was motivated by concern for his candidates, she guessed, and cared less about her needs.

  Curious, that a man who had kissed with so much passion should possess such chilling reserve. Clearly he disliked being imposed upon. After today, she’d be careful not to do it again.

  He delivered her to the inn. Oriana meant to climb down from the gig unaided, but he prevented her.

  Strong fingers manacled her wrist.

  His eyes bored into her mercilessly. “Mrs. Julian, I can’t help wondering about your flight from London. Earlier today you mentioned a gentleman. Did he do you harm? Are you afraid of him?”

  A flush heated her cheeks, and her gaze locked on the wilted nosegay she’d impetuously bestowed.

  “He’s one of the nicest people I know, but he did something very foolish. He asked me to marry him.”

  Her light tone belied her residual regret over Matthew’s drunken, foolhardy proposal. More amusing than distressing, nevertheless it had revived bitter memories of Thomas Teversal, whose promise of marriage had made her believe in miracles—until his callous betrayal had destroyed her trust.

  She would not share with this disapproving Manxman her shattered dream of matrimony, or her contradictory, incompatible longings. She hoped to reclaim her place on the opera-house stage, yet also wished to achieve a semblance of respectability. And although she desired a lasting love, she couldn’t conceive of relinquishing her freedom.

  Sir Darius Corlett did not need to know that she was Ana St. Albans, the Siren of Soho. And she could think of no good reason to explain why she intended to hide herself away in that dilapidated little cottage she’d rented for the ludicrously inflated sum of half a pound per week.

  Chapter 3

  The newly discovered vein of lead ore lured Dare to his Glen Auldyn mine day after day. Nearly five feet wide and ten feet high, it was a beautiful sight.

  Holding a lantern up to the wall of glistening rock, he boasted to the manager, “This lode will be the making of us.”

  Tom Lace, one of the miners, grinned at him, teeth flashing white in his mud-slicked face. “Plenty o’ lead here, Mainshtyr Dare.”

  Mr. Melton had come to the island from Dare’s larger and vastly more productive Derbyshire mines.

  “We’ll get some silver ore from it in addition to lead galena and blende,” he predicted. “With the works at Foxdale abandoned, you’ve got less competition for labor.”

  “We must encourage our men to work diligently in these weeks before fishing season begins,” said Dare. “When herring fever strikes, many will leave the mine for the sea.” If necessary, he would raise wages to maintain production.

  “I’d rather pass my days here, in the heart of the earth,” Lace volunteered, “and my nights at home.

  I’m not one to make for the sea every sundown, hauling up skeddan and fighting gales. My wife won’t have me on the water. Her father was a fisherman, a Douglas man, who went down with the herring fleet back in ‘87.” To Mr. Melton, he explained, “A great storm struck in the bay, and dozens of vessels were sunk or smashed on the rocks.”

  The persistent tap of a metal pick against stone ceased. ” ‘Tisn’t so safe in here.” The voice belonged to John Saile, working atop the wooden scaffold with young Ned Crowe. “We could all be blasted into bits from the gunpowder. If the pump failed and the water rushed in, we’d be drowned. Or a loose rock might strike any of us on the head.”

  Ned’s hearty chuckle was a cheerful note in the gloomy darkness. “If you’re so timid, John, you shouldn’t be a meaineyder.” He edged along the plank, and the small flame of the candle set into his protective helmet flickered.

  “Careful, Ned,” Dare cautioned. “I promised your mother you’d come to no harm.”

  Dorrity Crowe had been comforted by Dare’s deathbed assurance that he would stand friend to her fatherless son. Jolly and immoral, his Manx nursery maid suffered many hardships in the course of her life, always returning to the Corlett family for support. One of Dorrity’s many ill judged liaisons had produced Ned, now twenty. He’d been blessed with his mother’s merry disposition and warm grin, and his sprightly fiddle playing made him a universal favorite.

  “Mainshtyr Dare,” he called down, “I’ve got a cliegeen here for you.”

  Ned referred to all the bright bits of stone as jewels, though in fact they were mineral crystals that had formed within the deep cavities between the rocks. Like his fellow miners, he earned extra money by supplying the proprietor with pyrite, calcite, quartz, and spar. Dare welcomed every addition to a collection he’d begun in boyhood.

  The stone Ned had found was passed along from man to man. Taking it from Tom Lace, Dare held it close to his lantern. Dolomite, he suspected, although he wouldn’t be sure till he’d examined it in daylight.

  He and Melton began their slow, laborious ascent from the lower level, working their way up the ladder. As they neared the opening, cool fresh air struck Dare’s face. He liked coming out of the mine as much as going in. The towering chimney stack belched smoke no longer, for he smelted his ore down in Ramsey now, conveniently close to the docks. From there his ship Dorrity made her regular journeys, carrying his lead ore across the sea to Liverpool.

  He inspected a recent repair to one of the launders, wooden troughs built on an incline to carry water and crushed ore from one location to another. A Manx pony, harnessed to a horse-wheel, powered the drainage pump.

  While they strolled on to the offices, the Englishman said, “I met your new lodger yesterday.”

  “She came here?” Dare asked, his voice sharp
ened by displeasure.

  “I met her walking along the glen, on my way back from the smelting house. Said she’s taken Glencroft, on a short lease.”

  “Very short.”

  For three weeks more he must tolerate Mrs. Julian’s tenancy, and pray that she wouldn’t ask to extend it. Not once had he stopped by the cottage—he hadn’t even ridden past it, lest he meet her.

  When he came to the mine, he followed a circuitous route. He crossed the stream at his new bridge and followed his graveled drive to a private track leading from his stables to this excavation site deep in the hills.

  “Charming woman,” Melton added.

  Entirely too charming, thought Dare. Mrs. Melton wouldn’t approve of her husband’s admiring tone.

  They stopped at the forge, where the sooty-faced smith crafted the necessary picks and shovels, and repaired any broken implements. A fresh supply of timber was stacked outside the carpenter’s shop, waiting to be planed and sawed into planks for additional launders and scaffolds. Dare surveyed the revolving wooden waterwheel, the focal point of his small but bustling enterprise, and felt a rush of satisfaction.

  Excited shouts interrupted Melton’s commentary on the current price of lead ore. Workers from the washing floor raced past them, and Dare recognized their horrified, disbelieving expressions.

  An accident in one of the levels.

  He and the manager hurried back to the shaft opening.

  “What happened?” he asked the Manxmen gathered round the ladder.

  “Tom Lace called for help. Somebody fell from the platform.”

  “Who?”

  No one could tell him.

  Lace had been working near the scaffold—with Ned Crowe.

  A cold, sick dread settled in Dare’s gut. Regardless of who was involved, he would feel this same heavy regret. But with Dorrity gone, Ned had no blood relative to care for him. Or to bury him.

  The waiting was unbearable. The mineworkers, understanding his concerns, at first tried to reassure him that all would be well. Dare pretended to believe them, his panic increasing with each second that ticked away on his gold watch.