Improper Advances

by Margaret Evans Porter

  “You’re late,” she accused him.

  She couldn’t even remember why it mattered. Her reaction to his appearance was shallow, but she didn’t care. His evening clothes were beautiful—form-fitting black coat with long tails, clearly cut by a master tailor, burgundy-and-white-striped waistcoat, white-silk breeches.

  “I’m unaccustomed to dressing for grand occasions without my valet’s assistance,” he explained. “I had to rely on two of the hotel servants, and I’m still not sure I’m properly put together. If Wingate comes over to adjust my cravat, I’ll know I failed.”

  “You look”—she swallowed to cure the dryness in her throat—”exactly as you should.”

  What was the matter with her? For two months she’d known him, had encountered him in various situations, some ordinary and some not.

  “Come and meet my relations,” she invited.

  She proceeded with the necessary introductions, presenting him to each of her guests in order of their precedence, beginning with the duke. If Rushton was surprised to see him, he hid it well.

  Here was a man she could proudly introduce to her company. Her repeated claim that she was repayin are’s hospitality was a harmless, thoroughly plausible description of their connection, unlikely to incite speculation among the people who knew her best.

  Or so she hoped.

  Chapter 16

  At the proper time, Oriana shepherded her guests into the dining room. The table, covered by her best cloth, was laid with the best china and crystal and silver, gleaming in the light of chandelier and candelabra. She placed herself at one end of the table, and the duke took the chair opposite hers. Oriana had placed Rushton on her right, Miss Banks beside him, then Mick Kelly and Lady Banks. To her immediate left sat Dare. Also on his side were Mrs. Crouch, Sir Joseph, and Lady Catherine near her father.

  Oriana could not compete with her famous neighbor’s popular assemblies, at which men of knowledge, wealth, and distinction gathered to discuss topics of mutual interest. But she prided herself on bringing together so brilliant a collection of minds, talents, and titles—science, politics, society, scholarship, music, and industry were represented at her table.

  Wingate paused at each place and filled the glass with the white wine he’d deemed suitable for their first course, consisting of soupe Lorraine, salad, French beans, young artichokes in a white sauce, bisque of pigeons, salmon in lobster sauce, and a savory veal pie. To her supreme satisfaction, her guests relished the exquisite fare Louis had prepared, and the many dishes that followed were similarly well received.

  Rushton carved the haunch of venison, served up with truffle sauce. He speared a slice and offered it to Oriana.

  Shaking her head, she told him, “None for me, thank you.”

  With an apologetic smile, he replied, “I was forgetting your preference for fish and poultry.”

  Dare, having expertly quartered a roast duckling, presented her with a portion of breast meat, which she accepted.

  “Sir Darius, have you purchased the household items you required?” asked the earl.

  To conceal her interest in the answer, Oriana delved into her peas francoise.

  “I’ve bought a number of pieces,” Dare stated, “at the Soho shops, and also in St. James’s.”

  “Then you’ll not remain in London for very much longer,” Rushton hazarded.

  “Probably not,” said Dare coolly.

  Oriana could not have said why his announcement disturbed her. A short time ago, she’d hoped to learn of his immediate departure. Stealing a glance at him, she saw him pass Mrs. Crouch the plate of cherry tarts topped with Belgian cream.

  At the conclusion of the second course, all dishes were removed and the cloth lifted from the table.

  Fruit and cheese were laid out on the rich mahogany.

  Oriana soon signaled to Wingate to bring in the brandy and port decanters. Rising, she conducted the other ladies to her drawing room. The after-dinner separation of the sexes was her least favorite of England’s social customs and offended her Continental sensibilities, but she conformed to it.

  She and her friends discussed books recently read and entertainments enjoyed at the Little Theatre in the Haymarket, while sipping from tiny glasses of sherry or cordial and nibbling lemon biscuits and macaroons. Mrs. Crouch, who had lately recovered from an indisposition, recommended her physician to Lady Banks, concerned about her husband’s gout. The robust Miss Banks reported on her latest excursion to the Park in her new phaeton. A gifted and daring driver, she spent vast sums on her carriage horses, and invited Oriana to ride with her one day and try them out.

  “I’d like that very much.” Crossing the room, Oriana joined Lady Catherine, for whom she felt a cousinly fondness. In a low voice she made an inquiry about the progress of her ladyship’s secret romance with the duke’s chaplain.

  “I haven’t yet told Father that Mr. Burgess and I hope to marry,” Lady Catherine confessed. “Since my mother died, I’ve been responsible for the household, and while he rebuilds Hanworth, with all the attendant frustrations, he depends on me to maintain domestic tranquility.”

  Oriana’s heart went out to her lovelorn kinswoman. “How much longer can you hide your true wishes?”

  “Burford knows. He and my James are firm friends, and we have his support. At thirty-five, I’m too old for a long delay.”

  Oriana tried to imagine herself at that age. Twelve years from now, would she be alone, still waiting for a man who could offer marriage? Very probably.

  And doubtless Dare Corlett would be living at Skyhill House, surrounded by a large and affectionate family. His progeny would climb the apple trees in the orchard, swinging from the gnarled branches. They would race their Manx ponies across the ridge. And the rich, beautiful, aristocratic Lady Corlett—Abruptly she curtailed her reverie, already jealous of Dare’s nonexistent future wife.

  A hearty burst of masculine laughter sounded from the dining room. A few minutes later, Lord Rushton stepped out.

  “I stayed later than I intended,” he told Oriana, “testimony to the pleasure I’ve had this evening. But duty tears me away.”

  Responsibility for amusing Oriana’s company fell upon the singers. She sat with the Beauclerks, her chaotic thoughts temporarily lulled by the sublime combination of Kelly’s rich tenor and Crouch’s lilting soprano. At the end of their recital, her drawing room echoed with praise and applause.

  Her cousins departed soon afterward. Mrs. Crouch suggested to her partner that they also take their leave. Had she not, thought Oriana, the convivial Michael Kelly would have remained indefinitely, gabbling on about his adventures abroad and his professional associations with eminent musicians—Mozart, Haydn, and Paisiello.

  “Bless me, I quite forgot to tell you the happy news,” he said, shaking his dark and woolly head.

  “There’ll be a place for a first woman singer in the opera company this season. Mr. Taylor says I must go abroad to look for her. It doesn’t suit me to travel just now, so I’m hoping that the Siren of Soho might accept the position—if it should be offered.”

  It was the great chance she’d hoped for, ever since the Teversal scandal had driven her from the opera-house stage. To encourage him without sounding desperate, she said noncommittally, “I carefully consider every offer that is made to me. Until I know all the details of the engagement, I can’t say more than that.”

  “Very well, Madam Prudence. But be assured, you are my choice, and I shall be your most vigorous champion.”

  The crowd of ten had dwindled to five. Only her Soho guests—the trio of Bankses, and Dare—remained to indulge in the light collation of cold meats, cheese, and jellies. The gentlemen discussed Derbyshire affairs. Miss Banks, between forkfuls of cold sliced beef, complained about a recalcitrant and unsatisfactory butcher. Lady Banks appeared to be stupefied by an abundance of food and the lateness of the hour.

  When the dialogue between the two baronets shifted to science, Oriana followed it
even more avidly.

  “You met Dr. Hutton?”

  “Frequently. I attended university in Edinburgh and was privileged to attend his lectures on geology.

  My youthful enthusiasm must have amused him, but he welcomed me into his illustrious circle of like-minded acquaintances. I assisted them when they conducted their field studies, cataloging specimens and making sketches. My knowledge of mineralogy was sound, but Hutton helped me increase my powers of observation. Under his tutelage I became more adept at interpreting the relationships of rock types.”

  “I had not the honor of knowing him.”

  “He possessed sharp eyes, a brilliant mind, and an engaging manner. His enthusiasm for his discoveries was positively infectious. Everyone liked him—his popularity among his fellows is perhaps the greatest testimony to his greatness.”

  “Indeed it is. Men of science can be as petty and jealous and argumentative as the rest of humanity, if not more so.” Sir Joseph regarded Dare shrewdly. “I’m surprised your colleagues neglected to propose you for membership in the Royal Society of Edinburgh.”

  “When we met I was merely a scholar, and family obligations prevented me from taking my degree.

  I’m still very much an amateur scientist.”

  Oriana would not let his modesty prevail. “As I mentioned earlier this evening, Sir Darius has composed a treatise describing his island’s geology.”

  Said Sir Joseph, “As president of the original Royal Society, I can arrange for you to tour its premises.” With a nod to Oriana, he added, “This lady’s royal ancestor, King Charles II, founded our organization, and his bust occupies a prominent place in our meeting chamber.”

  Dare replied to the invitation with appropriate gratitude. He climbed to his feet and politely thanked Oriana for an enjoyable evening. Knowing him so well, she detected an undercurrent of discontent flowing beneath his civilities.

  A few hours ago she’d wanted him to leave London-now she felt desolate because he had deserted her drawing room.

  His departure broke up the party. Her neighbors, echoing his thanks, trooped down the staircase to the front door. From her parlor window she watched them cross the square.

  Oriana sank wearily into an armchair. Slipping her feet out of her tight silk pumps, she flexed her cramped toes. She chose not to return to her empty drawing room, no longer ringing with music and cheer. The bittersweet aftermath of a party was inevitably a solitary experience, for not since her mother’s death had there been anyone to share it.

  Her spirits should be uplifted by Mick Kelly’s implication that she was his chosen candidate for the vacant place at the opera. But all she could think about was Dare’s stated intention of returning to the Isle of Man.

  Hearing footsteps in the stairwell, she called, “Everyone has gone, Wingate. You may go up to clear the table.”

  “I’m not Wingate.” Dare came into to the parlor.

  Rising quickly, she said, “I thought you left for Morland’s!”

  “I went no farther than your wine cellar, and stayed until the coast was clear. Wingate wanted to show me a cask of muscadet he’s partial to.”

  “If he wishes to drink it all, he certainly may. After everything he’s done this day and night, he deserves the reward.”

  Dare’s hands moved to his neck, and he began unwinding his cravat. In her shoeless state, Oriana could hardly object.

  Tossing the length of creased linen over a chair back, he said, “You look more beautiful tonight than I have ever seen you. I couldn’t leave without telling you so.”

  Her heart expanded. “You chose this gown.”

  “There I was, conversing with one of the eminent scientific minds of the age, and all I could think about was holding you. And touching you.”

  When he came nearer, she said unsteadily, “My servants are about.”

  “I don’t see any.”

  She felt his breath on her cheek, warming it. Lowering her head, she watched his tanned fingers slide across the shiny fabric and lace inserts of her bodice.

  “I’ve waited all night for this—I won’t be denied.”

  His lips claimed hers, insistent, caressing. Her eyelids drooped, her neck arched, and as long as the delicious contact lasted, she wallowed in bliss.

  She wanted him so desperately that it hurt. But by admitting that simple truth here and now, she would concede defeat in a battle she had waged before, unsuccessfully. Unless she defended herself, her body would be forfeit. And then the entire bastion would crumble-independence, pride, self-respect.

  “If you loaned your butler for the evening in the belief that I’d lie with you—”

  “I didn’t. But I won’t insult your intelligence by pre tending that seduction isn’t my purpose now. It most certainly is—we both know that.”

  “You should go,” she told him, her voice a raw whisper.

  “And I shall.” But still he held her. “My desire and your unwillingness are incompatible. I won’t stop wanting you, Oriana. But I won’t stay here and become a nuisance like those chaps who mobbed you in Hyde Park.”

  “Is that why you told Rushton you’d be leaving London?”

  “I’m going because you want me to.”

  “I’m not sure what I want,” she confessed. “In Liverpool everything seemed so much clearer. When you turned up here, I decided to give you a taste of my real life, thinking you’d find it unpalatable.”

  “As you do?”

  “I’m used to it.”

  “So the walk in the park, and including me in your dinner party, were intended to repel me?” He shook his head in bewilderment. “You spent the first month of our acquaintance concealing your identity.

  Now you’re using it to fend me off.”

  “I must,” she cried unhappily. Still, she couldn’t help asking, “Will I see you again before I leave for Newmarket?”

  “Only if you’re prepared for the consequences.” He kissed her hard, his solid legs straddling hers.

  An existence free of risk, devoid of excitement, had never appealed to Oriana. She felt happy when Dare was near and less happy when he was not. The attraction mystified her, because their backgrounds and habits were so unalike. His respectable obscurity found its opposite in her notoriety. He was a scientist and she an artist. His area of expertise was mining, hers was music. And none of those facts could quiet her turbulent mind and hungering body. She burned for him with a ferocity that terrified her.

  “Do I have a reason to stay, Oriana?”

  “Vauxhall,” she murmured.

  “What?”

  “Meet me there, after my concert. You’ll get your answer then.”

  When he left her, she opened the desk drawer in which she’d placed his geological treatise. Turning up the oil lamp, she sat down to read the introduction again.

  The chief portion of the Isle of Man, perhaps three quarters, consists of a barren soil overlaid upon graywacke slate and on clay slate. In the northern portion, light sand rests upon a bed of common clay. The mountainous areas are formed of clay slate strata— with veins of quartz—upon mica slate overlaying granite. The slate is chiefly gray in color, weathering to brown, light green, deep blue, or black. These appear to be sedimentary rocks formed in a deep ocean bed by compacted silts, mud and sands. The layered nature of this material is clearly visible at Maughold Head, and elsewhere, in the folds and fissures created by subterranean events. The granite is primarily composed of feldspar, mica, and quartz.

  By hiding away in Glen Auldyn, she’d deprived herself of the natural wonders he described—mountains, rivers, beaches, entire towns. Perversely, she wished she could see them, but doubted she ever would.

  In just a few days, she would either send Dare back to the Isle of Man or accept him as her lover.

  If only she could give him all that he desired from her—and she from him—without losing anything essential to her contentment. Could they perhaps find a compromise, reach an accommodation, that might bring the
m together?

  To find it, they needed time. He was a very impatient gentleman, and she was a very cautious lady.

  She stared thoughtfully across the square to the Banks residence. The lights were still on.

  Bounding up from her chair, she hurried into the hall. Sam, an apron tied over his clothes, was coming down the stairs with items from the dining room.

  “After you’ve carried those dishes to the scullery,” she said, “I want you to deliver this pamphlet to Sir Joseph.”

  It wasn’t until Sam had embarked on his impromptu errand that Oriana’s qualms surfaced. Her effort to justify her act continued through the long night.

  Dare had printed his arguments and distributed the copies to geologists in Edinburgh—how could he object to a review by the most prominent supporter of scientific discovery? He deserved recognition, not only by Sir Joseph, but all the members of the Royal Society, and every other person who learned enough to appreciate his diligent work. If they could hold him here in London to explain his theories about Manx rocks, so much the better for her.

  Chapter 17

  Promptly at eight o’clock, the conductor bobbed his wig-covered head at the other musicians. The opening bars of the concert drew Dare—and Vauxhall’s music-loving visitors—closer to the gothic-styled orchestra stand. Swags of colored lamps hung from the structure, and a multibranched chandelier threw a soft light upon the rows of powdered heads and glanced off the towering organ pipes at the back of the pavilion.

  All walks of life were represented in this crowd: common prostitutes, shopgirls, prosperous merchants, members of the gentry and nobility. Like the rest of them, Dare had crossed the River Thames and paid two shillings to enter the gardens. But he felt infinitely superior, for he had been bidden there by the soloist they had come to see and hear.

  His tour of the grounds earlier had taken him to the vast Rotunda, the site of masquerades and musical entertainment during inclement weather. Before tonight, he’d never imagined, much less seen, two thousand glass lamps blazing at once. They hung in festoons from the sheltering colonnades and the semicircular dining pavilions, and the effect was impressive. He’d promenaded along the stately elm-lined Grand Walk, and the Cross Walk, and the Italian Walk-spanned by three triumphal arches—and the Hermit’s Walk.