Improper Advances

by Margaret Evans Porter

  At the farthest reaches of the park was an unlit Lover’s Walk, and he hoped to stroll there later with Oriana.

  This place, beloved by Londoners and greatly admired, struck him as an odd combination of the tawdry and the tasteful. He could have dispensed with the trompe l’oeil paintings, sham ruins, transparencies, and other stagecraft illusions. The beauties of nature required no such adornments; he preferred to contemplate them in solitude. He might have appreciated Vauxhall’s magnificence more if there weren’t so many people getting in his way.

  A foursome nearby talked over the music, so loudly that he could hear every word of their conversation. The pair of young ladies—first-time visitors—marveled at the splendor of the orchestra pavilion. Their gentlemen, more interested in flirtation than in a concert, tried to entice them away from the throng and into the shadowy avenues of trees.

  “Oh, do come along, Hetty,” said one impatient swain.

  “Not till I’ve seen the gown she’s wearing.”

  “Makes no matter,” said Hetty’s confidante, “for neither you nor I could afford one like it. We haven’t rich lovers like she’s got.”

  Both young women cast critical glances at their escorts.

  “Remember, Miss Hetty, I purchased your entrance ticket and I’ve another shilling yet to pay for your dinner.”

  “All for a paltry shaving of meat,” the other gentleman complained, “and a roasted chicken no bigger than a sparrow!”

  “If you think you can find a lover who’s richer than me,” Hetty’s chap said bitterly, “give it a try. I’ll be on the watch for a girl who’ll appreciate a hardworking brewery clerk.”

  “Don’t be cross, Ralph,” Hetty pleaded. “We can wander through the Dark Walk after I’ve heard a few songs. I promised Aunt not to stray from the Grove, and I fear she’ll quiz me about the concert.”

  “Willy and I will stay for the first part and tell you what you missed,” her friend offered, “and we’ll amuse ourselves while you listen to the second half.”

  Ana St. Albans came to the forefront of the pavilion balcony as Ralph and Hetty, hand in hand, threaded their way through the throng unnoticed. She acknowledged the calls and applause by inclining her glossy auburn head, decorated with pale, glittery flowers. The tiny brilliants sprinkled across her transparent overskirt twinkled in the light, and her jade green petticoat shimmered. The gold brooch engraved with the St. Albans crest gleamed upon her breast.

  A pledge of better times, that was her family motto. Exactly what he hoped to win from her tonight.

  When her audience’s enthusiastic welcome faded, she smiled at the conductor to indicate her readiness, and his musicians provided a few introductory notes.

  The words of her first song were incomprehensible to Dare, but her magical voice created notes of perfect clarity and piercing sweetness. Ignorance of the stylistic differences between Italian and English singing couldn’t hamper his enjoyment. He knew what he liked, and he liked what he heard. The rest of Oriana’s listeners were similarly enthralled, judging from their rapt, upturned faces and approving smiles.

  She retired from view during an orchestral piece. On her return, she performed a selection of the Manx songs she’d learned from Ned Crowe, resulting in a request for an encore. When she withdrew from the stage a second time, a bell rang, signaling the nine o’ clock intermission.

  The crowd pushed and shoved its way along the path leading to the Grand Cascade. Dare, curious about this celebrated and highly regarded spectacle, let the sea of humanity bear him toward the viewing place.

  A decorative curtain rose upon a miniature stage and revealed a painted landscape, artfully lit, which contained a small house, watermill, and a road. Cheers rose from the onlookers when a mechanical waterfall began to pour forth with sufficient force to revolve the little mill wheel. The substance used to simulate the stream spilled and foamed with astonishing reality. Tiny automatons-pedestrians, riders, animals, and a mail coach—traversed the bridge spanning the waterway.

  Dare questioned a bystander about the mechanics involved.

  The man shrugged. “Stage trickery,” he muttered before shuffling away.

  After a ten-minute interval, the concert resumed. Oriana sang a lengthy aria, and with a deep curtsy she bade her admirers farewell. A quartet of male glee singers took her place.

  Dare had positioned himself near the door through which the performers entered and exited. As he expected, Oriana soon darted out, swathed in dark velvet.

  She raised the hood of her cloak to cover her flowery head. “Let’s move away, I don’t care to be recognized,” she explained, taking his arm.

  “Quite a large crowd,” Dare observed. “Is this usual?”

  “For a Saturday night it is. Drury Lane’s season ended earlier this week, so this is the first night Vauxhall doesn’t compete with Mr. Sheridan’s Pizarro for an audience.”

  The supper boxes and alcoves were already crammed with persons eager to sample Vauxhall’s famous thinly sliced ham and cooked chicken. A regiment of waiters moved about, vigilantly performing their duties. A band of pipers and flutists was playing, and a party of roving musicians wound its way through the gardens, pausing to entertain the diners when requested.

  “Did you see the Grand Cascade?” asked Oriana. “It fascinated me when I was a girl, and the magic wasn’t spoiled when I was shown the clockworks that make the figures move. The moving-water effect is created by very thin strips of tin. Very ingenious.”

  “I preferred the music.”

  A bald-pated gentleman, overhearing him, came up to say, “Our attendance always rises, sir, when Madame St. Albans performs. Mr. Barrett and I wish we could afford to have her sing for us every week rather than fortnightly.”

  Oriana presented Mr. Simpson, Vauxhall’s master of ceremonies. He welcomed Dare to the gardens, shaking his cane so excitedly that the silver tassel dangling from its knob bobbed up and down. “Do you dine here this evening?” he inquired. “I can secure one of our finest supper boxes for you both.”

  Guessing that this plan was at odds with Oriana’s preference for privacy, Dare responded, “Would it be possible to take away a selection of food in a hamper, and a bottle of your excellent champagne?”

  “Permit me to make all necessary arrangements for you, Sir Darius; it would be my pleasure. Anything else I can do to make your enjoyment of Vauxhall complete, I shall. Madame St. Albans will tell you that we pride ourselves upon the quality of our entertainments.” Mr. Simpson tucked his chaapeau bras under one arm and bowed so low that his shirt frills grazed the knees of his tight fitting breeches. He marched away, waving his cane to signal an attendant.

  “Your refreshments won’t be ready for quite some time,” said Oriana.

  “Our refreshments.”

  “Vauxhall portions are scandalously meager; you’ll not get enough food to share.”

  “Then you shall have all—you must be ravenous. I’ll be too busy to eat.” Tugging at his hat brim, he added, “I’m your oarsman tonight.”

  Eyeing him from head to foot, she commented, “I’ll wager you didn’t ferry yourself across the Thames—not in those clothes.”

  “No. The man who rowed me over was so industrious and entertaining that I tripled his fare. He said I might have the use of his craft for the rest of the night, and took a carriage home.”

  “Dare Corlett, you’re a madman.”

  “A Manxman.”

  “One and the same, as far as I can tell. Why would you want to row a boat all the way across the Thames, when you can hire someone else to do it?”

  “I’ll get you safely to the other side, I promise—I’ve been around boats all my life, and salt water flows in my veins. But before we take to the river, you can show me the Lover’s Walk.”

  “I’d be glad of some fresh, cool air,” she told him. “The stage lamps are hot and bright, and they smoke so badly that my eyes water. Did you purchase more furniture yesterday?”

&nb
sp; “No, I visited another Bond Street tailor, at Wingate’s insistence.” He cast a rueful glance down the open front of his double-breasted evening coat, adorned with rows of shining gold buttons. “I asked him whether he’d prefer working for a town gentleman, someone who would do him greater credit. He thought about it for a while, before replying that he intended to make me more creditable, but it might take rather longer than he expected. He was vastly disappointed when I postponed today’s fitting with a hat maker to visit the British Museum. The collection in the Mineral Room is immense—fossils and gems from around the globe, and the representative rocks of England, Scotland, and Ireland.”

  “Were there any from the Isle of Man?”

  “No—a glaring omission. I must donate some choice samples of galena, quartz, and calcite. Rock specimens, too. Manx slate, Peel sandstone, Castletown limestone, basalt from the Stack of Scarlett.”

  “What about pyrite? And granite—isn’t that the most common of all the rock types?”

  “Madame St. Albans, did you perchance read my description of the island’s geology?”

  “Every word,” she declared triumphantly. “I daresay you didn’t think me clever enough to make sense of it.”

  “I didn’t think you’d be interested,” he admitted.

  “It’s worthy of being published by the Royal Society.”

  Laughing at her naive but flattering opinion, he said, “I’m not so certain of that, although I’d like to think my theories would interest the membership. Now that I’ve conversed with Sir Joseph Banks, perhaps I’ll feel more comfortable inaugurating a correspondence with him. But for the time being, I’ve abandoned my geological research to complete a study of animal behavior.”

  “Really? What sort of animal?”

  “An exotic female of the human species. I’m keenly interested in learning how the subject of my investigation will respond when separated from her pack and isolated in a dark, remote area,” he said—for they had left behind the colonnades and gaudy illuminations, and were entering the shadowy alley where amorous couples roamed.

  Chapter 18

  The overhanging branches of densely planted trees formed a leafy canopy, thick enough to block out the sky and stars.

  “We’ve entered the most disreputable part of the gardens,” Oriana said, as they ventured down the long, narrow alley. “The Druid’s Walk, it used to be called.”

  “A popular place of assignation, I gather.”

  “Here the light skirts parade their wares before the gentlemen of the town, and many an innocent girl has met with ruin. I’ve not come to the Lover’s Walk for several years.” Her hood fell back as she gazed up at the treetops. “Did you hear? A nightingale!”

  “Poor creature, she must have felt sadly inferior when you were signing.”

  “Oh, Dare,” she sighed, “that’s a lovely compliment.”

  “Allow me to improve upon it.” He studied her shadowed countenance. “Your eyes shine like the rarest of fine gems. Your lips look as if they were carved from pink coral. Your teeth are like pearls—”

  “No, no, I’d rather hear you praise my music. I was born with this face, but I’ve spent a lifetime training my voice.”

  As the bird completed a series of trills, Dare said, “Your singing reaches into my soul. And that wondrous rich voice resides here, in a throat so delicate that my fingers can almost encircle it.” His fingers curled around her slender neck. “The first song you sang tonight—I heard it in Liverpool, didn’t I?”

  ” ‘Frena le belle lagrime.’ Restrain not your lovely tears. Herr Abel composed it—Queen Charlotte’s court musician.”

  “I had no idea what you were singing about, I knew only that it was the most poignant tune I’d ever heard.”

  “The lyric comes from a poem by Pietro Metastasio. His verses are beautiful, and many composers have set them to music. Non destarmi almeno nuovi tumulti in seno,” she quoted softly, “bastano i dolci palpiti che vi cagiona amor. Rouse not new turmoil in my breast, great is the sweet throbbing that love causes there.”

  His hand crept inside her cloak and sought her bosom, feeling its erratic rise and fall. “Yes, there is a turmoil here.”

  “Don’t,” she pleaded, “or I shall feel even more wretched.”

  “Clearly I need to improve my technique.”

  His wry comment produced a feeble burst of laughter. “No—as it is, you are difficult to resist. I shouldn’t have come here.”

  “One kiss.”

  “You won’t stop at that—you never have done. You’ll want more.”

  “Much more,” he drawled. “You promised I should have my answer tonight.”

  His reminder increased her agitation. “You might be content to dally with me for a little while, to pass the time in town, until you meet some suitable heiress with twice the riches you already possess.

  Eventually you must return to your home, with or without a bride.”

  He bestowed another chastening look. “You form your judgments of me, and your expectations, by the way other men treated you—particularly that cad Thomas. Remember your anger and hurt when I treated you as one more in an endless parade of fortune hunters? It’s unfair—and very foolish—to let our past misfortunes rob us of pleasure. Trust me, Oriana.”

  “I’m trying.” Staring down at their joined hands, she confessed, “And I’m afraid.”

  “You needn’t be. I seek only as much as you’re willing to give. But if you say I must surrender all hope of having you, I must go away—soon. I want you too much,” he said quietly.

  This craving was leagues beyond merely wanting—his whole being pulsed with the need to possess, a force as powerful as it was elemental. Her heart, her soul, her mind … her naked body, wrapped in his arms.

  He was desperate enough to suggest that she marry him. But should he?

  No. Even if she wanted another husband—and she’d never hinted that she did—pride wouldn’t permit him to wed a woman who wasn’t in love with him. That was one mistake he would never repeat.

  But the fact that her heart wasn’t fully his wouldn’t prevent him from sleeping with her.

  “Twice you deserted me, yet my desire for you grows stronger rather than weaker. Believe me, Oriana, your present wretchedness cannot possibly surpass mine. So many years I’ve evaded the snares of designing females, only to become enamored of a lady who cares nothing for me.”

  “I care,” she broke in.

  “Prove it,” he challenged her.

  She moved in closer, until her hips were framed by his and her long velvet cloak and silken skirt crumpled against his legs. Her hand reached for the back of his head, gently forcing him down to meet her parted mouth. The dart of her tongue between his lips sent a shudder through his frame. He clutched at her, and wondered how long he could survive this exquisite agony.

  After the kiss, he told her, “You’ve proved very little, only your ability to torment me.”

  “And myself,” she admitted, her eyes dark pools of uncertainty. “You seek a mistress—your own Nell Gwynn or Sally Vernon. And that is what I never wish to be.”

  “I am less familiar with such arrangements than you,” he conceded, “but I do know they entail an exchange of money or property for sexual favors. I’m making no such offer. No allowance nor house, not a shilling of my money will you get. I won’t barter for a bedmate. My greatest dream, my most fervent hope, is that from this night onward, we will belong exclusively to one another.”

  “While I dwell in London, and you on the Isle of Man? You’re overlooking a crucial detail—geography.”

  “A minor problem with a simple solution. I’ll divide my time between both places.” He tried not to think of his lovely villa, empty and neglected, and the elegant furnishings he’d been choosing so carefully.

  And he closed off all thoughts of the Corlett Mining Company. His most vital concern stood before him—reluctant, undecided, breathtakingly beautiful.

  “Constant
travel grows wearisome,” she said. “I might not be worth the trouble.”

  “If you weren’t, I wouldn’t be standing here,” he pointed out. “That determination was made many weeks ago. Just when I was settling into complacency, my future clearly charted, you walked into my house and showed me what was missing. I didn’t realize it then, but you do have impeccable timing.”

  “So say the critics,” Oriana murmured. “Perfect pitch, also.”

  “Our greatest difficulty,” he said heavily, “is that we’ve both grown too cautious. Maybe I should stop talking about what I intend to do, and do it. Now. You’d enjoy it—yes, you would, though you might not admit it. And I’d feel a hell of a lot better while it lasted. But afterward you’d be angry, and I’d be ashamed. And I can’t let it happen that way. Why are you smiling at me like that, you witch?”

  “Because you’re the only man I’ve known who felt compelled to apologize for his decency.”

  “I don’t. I curse it.” Capturing her hand, he held it tightly. “My affection and devotion are yours. Not to mention fidelity, respect, and honesty—or as you might say, bluntness.”

  She said reflectively, “This is exactly how we began, all those weeks ago. You wanted to sleep with me before you even knew my name.”

  “It wasn’t sleeping I had in mind, then or now.” His hand smoothed her shoulder, brushing the nap of her garment. “That night I discovered my greatest weakness—a lovely lady in a blue-velvet cloak. Refuse me tonight, and I shall ask you again tomorrow. And the day after, and the day after …”

  “I don’t want to refuse.”

  At those wistful words, relief stilled his heart.

  “I think about you all the time,” she told him. “From morning to evening. When I lie in my bed, when I’m practicing at the pianoforte. I remember what happened at Skyhill, and wonder why I can’t let it happen again. It isn’t a lack of desire that holds me back, Dare, or a wish to make you miserable.”