Improper Advances

by Margaret Evans Porter

  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.”

  Secretly amused by his unsubtle attempt to elicit information, she replied calmly, “I occasionally dine in the home of a duke, yet I spent several months as a soldier’s bride in a garrison town. Make of that what you will.”

  “Your time in Italy must have been interesting.”

  A soft laugh escaped her. “Too interesting, sometimes. Mother and I were constantly on the move.

  We wintered in Milan. We spent spring in Venice, summer in Florence, autumn in Rome, and Christmas in Naples. After the New Year, we returned to Milan and began again.”

  Lessons, recitals, performances—she had never worked harder. She’d sung for aristocrats, sometimes for royalty, in the most notable opera houses, and had provided entertainment for many a private fete. She’d sung in churches and convents. Although the Italian critics’ assessments of her abilities had been encouraging, they saved their highest accolades for native divas. Her talent was remarkable—for an English girl, and one so young—but too many people believed that Italian opera was written for Italian voices. Yet she had her partisans, and because there was no debate about her budding beauty, she achieved a moderate success.

  “Tell me about Mount Vesuvius. You must have seen it when you were in Naples.”

  “It’s hard to miss,” she told him. “There it is, looming in the distance, puffing smoke.”

  “Did you climb it?”

  “Every tourist does. One evening we rode donkeys from Portici up to the very top of the volcano.

  We gazed into a deep cavern filled with waves of liquid fire—terrifying, like a vision of hell. A few weeks later, black smoke began pouring from the mountain. There was a powerful noise—loud blasts like thunderclaps, and red cinders bursting up toward the night sky. Afterward there was a great flow of lava down the sides of the mountain.”

  “I envy you that sight,” he said. “I imagine the rocks of that region are very black.”

  She nodded. “I gathered up a handful, as souvenirs.”

  “You were happy there?”

  “I wasn’t unhappy. But four years was a long time to be away from London, and I was thankful to return to Soho Square.”

  The gig heaved up on one side and slammed down hard. Oriana fell against Dare, whose arm curled around her shoulders. Inwardly she melted, but her body went rigid.

  Drawing away from her, he murmured, “Sorry. The wheel must’ve struck a stone.”

  Did he apologize for the bumpy ride, or for touching her?

  She felt flushed all over, despite the bracing night air. The dangerous nature of the suggestive darkness, this deserted road, were suddenly obvious to her. He was a man, she was a woman. He wanted her, and his unexpressed desire wakened a similar need in her, but she must not give in to it. By letting him steal another kiss, whether tender or passionate or merely curious, she’d forfeit what peace of mind she had left. And tomorrow she would have to pack up her belongings and catch the next boat for Liverpool.

  Her heart pounded wildly as she waited for him to pounce.

  As soon as she saw Glencroft’s gateposts, she said, “Set me down, please.”

  “In the lane?”

  Reaching for the reins, she tugged them herself, and Fedjag obediently came to a halt. “Good night, Sir Darius.”

  “I do wish you’d call me Dare,” he complained, as she climbed out of the gig. ‘Till tomorrow, Oriana,” he called after her.

  Beneath the green silk her skin prickled, and not because of the wind.

  Two weeks of tomorrows, she thought, hurrying down the drive to the cottage. Fourteen days and nights of giving incomplete answers to his questions, of refusing t
o sing for him. And she must never put herself within reach of his hands—or his mouth—unless she wanted to lose the respect she’d desperately tried to cultivate.

  Awfully tiresome, being ruled by prudence. Never before had she felt so restrained by propriety.

  When she liked a gentleman, she enjoyed flirting with him. Inevitably, the gossips turned any agreeable acquaintance into a tawdry affair. Those engravers who specialized in satirical prints would produce yet another grossly inaccurate bedroom scene and hang it in their shop windows.

  On this island she was safe from those who caused her so much distress, yet she dared not take advantage of her freedom. For that reason, her convincing impersonation of a prim and proper widow was sometimes more of a curse than a blessing.

  Chapter 7

  Oriana presented her open palm and let the goat nibble the blades of grass she held. The animal’s downy muzzle and blunt little teeth tickled her sensitive skin.

  Her desire for companionship had driven her outdoors. The goose and the hens, busy with their own affairs, ignored her; the milk cow grazed at the distant edge of the meadow. But the goat welcomed her attentions, not caring that often she gazed distractedly toward the lane or that her affectionate murmurs subsided whenever she fell into reverie.

  I won’t fall in love with him.

  She blamed her lack of music for this ridiculous, senseless despondency. While learning Ned’s songs, she’d enjoyed a semblance of her London routine. Now the miner was recuperating in the Lace household. In her idleness, she was prone to unsuitable thoughts about her landlord. This strange mood was temporary; it would dissipate when she began rehearsing her concert. At Liverpool’s Theatre Royal she’d be singing about the love and passion that eluded her off the stage. And by the time she returned to London, her interest in Sir Darius Corlett would have faded.

  His broken romance had stirred her sympathy and roused a sense of comradeship. Willa Bradfield’s deception and betrayal mirrored the actions of the callous Thomas Teversal, who had vanquished her scruples with promises and wrecked her peace.

  On coming to this island, she’d cast off her name and shed past scandals. During her three weeks at Glencroft, she’d convinced Dare Corlett that she was a virtuous widow. For a few days more she must maintain her false—and very fragile—respectability.

  She told herself it would be better if he stayed away. But every fleeting hour with him was precious, and she wanted to carry a hoard of pleasant memories back to England.

  He didn’t come in his gig, as she expected, but on his horse. Trotting beside Envoy was a dark pony, a sidesaddle strapped to its back.

  “Meet Glistree,” he called. “In English, Glitter.”

  “She lives up to her name.” Oriana ran her hands over the animal’s coat, then pried open her jaws to examine the rows of teeth. “Five years old?”

  “Close to it. She works up at the mine, but for the next few days her stablemate will be in harness. I need to pasture her close by, and didn’t think you’d mind the use of a docile hack—if your very crowded stable has room for one more beast.”

  “How did you acquire the saddle?”

  “I borrowed it from one of my Gilchrist cousins, whose husband won’t permit her to go riding while she’s—until she safely delivers his firstborn. I’m taking you to the mine, and afterward we can visit Ned.

  Mrs. Lace doesn’t coddle and spoil him as you and Mrs. Stowell did. She makes him stir her porridge and soups with his good arm, and he’s responsible for a variety of simple tasks.”

  “I miss him,” she confessed. “When you brought him here that day, I thought of my husband.” She laid her cheek against Glistree’s shiny neck. “If only I’d gone with Henry to India, I could have nursed him back to health.”

  “Did he die of a fever?” asked Dare.

  “He was wounded in a skirmish with natives, and never regained consciousness. Or so I was told. I received a long letter from Henry’s commanding officer, extolling his bravery and assuring me that his men respected and mourned him. Every soldier’s widow has read those identical phrases, I’m sure. When Henry and I first met, at Newmarket races, he seemed infinitely older. Yet he was only twenty—the same age as Ned Crowe.”

  “What the devil were you doing at Newmarket?”

  “Watching the horses run,” she said matter-of-factly. “As I’ve done since I was a little girl, and used the Racing Calendar for my reading primer. My cousin Burford owns several racehorses, and—” She clamped her lips firmly together. Unwittingly, she had disclosed too much.

  “Burford,” he repeated. “Not Bumfold. This earl is your cousin?”

  “Distant cousin.” She cursed her carelessness, and was tempted to excuse herself from the excursion lest she compound her mistake.

  Before she could, Dare’s hands settled on her waist. She tried to tell him she could use the mounting block. Ignoring her tangled words, he vaulted her into the leather sidesaddle. His hands disappeared under her skirt, gripped her ankle—dear heaven, how he tortured her-and guided her foot to the stirrup.

  Her flesh tingled; her lashes fluttered. Busying herself with the reins, she threaded them through unsteady fingers.

  They forded the stream together, their horses splashing through the rushing water, clipping the stones with their metaled hooves.

  The lead mine was composed of stone buildings, an elaborate system of water troughs, and a series of entrances leading deep into the earth. Glistree’s stablemate plodded a circular path around the horse-wheel. Dare explained that it powered a pump that drew accumulated water from the levels below, where the lead was mined. A chimney stack belching smoke and sparks marked the location of the forge.

  “Can we go down inside the mine?” she asked.

  “Definitely not.”

  “But I want to see veins of ore, and the scaffolds, and everything else Ned described.”

  “I’m sorry, I can’t let you. Too dangerous for a female.”

  “I’d be careful.”

  “You couldn’t make it safely down the ladder in that long skirt.” His hand clenched on her forearm.

  “I’ve suffered enough guilt since Ned’s accident.”

  “For no good reason,” she told him earnestly.

  “So says the lady who blames herself because her soldier husband had the misfortune to get killed in India.”

  “If not for me, Henry would still be alive,” she confessed.

  “What would you have done differently, Oriana?”

  She couldn’t tell him without opening a Pandora’s box of secrets. Her parents’ possessiveness. The demands of her profession.

  “You loved each other, didn’t you?”

  “Very much.” To help him understand, she admitted, “Our marriage infuriated my mother, who didn’t want me following the drum. To part us, she purchased a prestigious captaincy for Henry, in a regiment bound for Madras. Her health was failing; she knew I couldn’t desert her. The consequences of her stratagem were doubly tragic. After we received the letter notifying us of his death, remorse drove her into a decline from which she never recovered. For me, love has always brought loss.”

  “Better to have loved—and to have been so loved,” he responded. “That’s more than I can claim. But my luck might change.”

  Dare’s hand settled on her shoulder, and her heart skipped at least two beats. Here it was again, that familiar breathlessness. Blindly she stepped away from him, pretending that she wanted to read the lettering on the brass placard on the door of the management office. Struggling for composure, she stared at the engraved words. CORLETT MINING COMPANY.

  “Are we going inside?” she asked.

  He opened the door for her. “Doubtless Mr. Melton is at home, having his dinner. He’s your great admirer and will be sorry to have missed your visit. Step into my quarters—but I warn you, the untidiness rivals what you saw in my study the night you arrived in Ramsey.”

  Papers and books and magnification instrume
nts littered every available surface in the proprietor’s office.

  Leading her to a long table, he explained, “Each of these specimens will be identified and labeled, by mineral type and the location where it was found. This is my double-lens microscope.” He pointed out its features before dragging her over to a row of bookcases. Their shelves held very few volumes—most of his books were stacked on the floor—and were used to display hundreds, perhaps thousands, of rocks.

  “When I move into the villa, I’ll keep them in glass cases.”

  Sir Joseph Banks, Oriana’s neighbor in Soho Square, had a similar collection, but not as large as the one Dare had amassed.

  She moved to a slanted drafting table, and picked up an unfinished sketch of coastal scenery. “I didn’t know you were an artist.”

  “My works are more notable for their accuracy than their feeling, and are merely a record of my observations.

  In my view, the island’s entire landscape, and many specific rock formations, confirm Dr. James Hutton’s theory about the age of the earth. The Isle of Man contains a wealth of evidence to support my beliefs.” Going to a cabinet, he tugged at the drawer pulls. “Somewhere in here I’ve got a printed copy of my treatise. You won’t care much for the theoretical portions, but it includes descriptions of the island’s scenery.”

  While he searched, she returned to the shelves and picked up some of the stones, replacing them exactly where she found them. She recognized pyrite, which resembled gold. The most beautiful of his samples were the clear, glassy rocks that sparkled like diamonds. “Are these valuable?” she asked, examining them.

  “The crystals? They’re quite common—quartz and calcite and spar. They grow inside the gaps between rocks. My men dig out more of them every day.” He continued shuffling through his papers.

  “They look like jewels,” she said, holding one up to the light.

  He brought her a pamphlet, bound and typeset. Geology and Mineralogy of the Isle of Man, with a Defense of Hutton’s Theory of the Earth, by Sir Darius Corlett.

  “You’re an author as well?”