Improper Advances

by Margaret Evans Porter

  “Then why?”

  “When I said I was afraid, I didn’t mean that I feared you. It’s scandal I dread—as you should.”

  “I’ve no intention of doing anything scandalous. I didn’t set out to conquer Ana St. Albans to raise my own profile. I’m no sportsman, like your London rakes; I derive no great pleasure from the chase. I’m a miner, a seeker of treasure. Whenever I obtain a valuable gem, I hold on to it. I tell no one, and I hide it away in a private place. You may depend upon my discretion.”

  “I need more than that. I’m asking you to keep our-our liaison secret from everyone. No one can ever know about it.”

  “I promise. Will you be mine?”

  “I think perhaps I already am.”

  “Look at me, Oriana.” When she obeyed, he framed her face with his hands. “Say that again, leaving off the ‘perhaps,’ and I’ll be the happiest of men.”

  “I’m yours—I am.”

  He rewarded her with a scalding kiss, striving to melt any icy remnants of resistance. And he did, setting free the wanton, willing creature she’d been in his library at Skyhill.

  A loud titter broke through the nightingale’s aria. When Dare turned his head, the silk flowers in Oriana’s hair tickled his chin. He could just make out a couple sprawled across a nearby bench—the flighty Hetty and her swain Ralph. He spied their young friends farther on, the girl backed up against a tree trunk, her escort nuzzling her neck and bared breasts.

  Oriana tugged on his coat button to get his attention. “Have you tired of me so soon?”

  “No, but I think we should find a better place to consummate our pledge.” He pulled up her hood and fastened her cloak to cover her.

  “Where? And when?”

  After much misery, he’d won what he wanted—or soon would. Now he could afford to toy with her.

  His mischievous intent showed in his grin when he replied, “At a time and place of your choosing.”

  The oars lay idle in their locks, for the steady current and an outgoing tide was drawing the rowboat downriver, toward Westminster Bridge. It was a heavier craft than the long, flat wherries that skimmed the water, carrying other revelers back to the city. It floated along in the pool of reflected light cast by the lanterns hanging from its bow and stern, and the candelabrum thoughtfully and generously supplied by the Vauxhall management.

  Oriana, perched on the bench in the bow, was still dazed by her acceptance of Dare’s proposition.

  Her choice was made, her fate was settled. Was this a surrender or a victory? A compromise, she decided. After a difficult siege, she’d succumbed to her own desire and his enticements, but in so doing had conquered her ingrained fear of sharing herself.

  With uncharacteristic eloquence, he had revealed an emotional commitment that was gratifying as it was alarming. Neither of them, she suspected, could accurately define their feelings, but he’d been brave enough to try. After all, he was a scientist, accustomed to labeling specimens, and drawing conclusions about them. He’d courted her without mentioning love, offering in its stead his affection, devotion, honesty, faithfulness, and discretion. Few wives, she reflected, had received such firm assurances. But to make their bond more secure, she must become what she had vowed never to be.

  What use was virtue, she reasoned, if by guarding it she lost Dare? Whether she did or didn’t share her body with the Manxman who had pilfered her heart, she’d continue to be damned by the gossips and the caricaturists and the printers of Fleet Street.

  No longer content to let the silence drag on, she said, “My desire for concealment must seem strange to you.”

  “Not at all,” he answered. “You’ve been performing since you were a little child. Fine ladies copy your clothes and hats. Girls in the street sing your ballads. Men follow after you when you walk in the Park.

  It’s natural you should want to close off something of yourself from scrutiny. Even as a public figure, you have every right to lead a private life. I mean to help you in that effort, Oriana, not hinder you.”

  Propelled by his forceful stroke, the little craft surged ahead, cutting through the black waters. The lanterns wobbled, the candleholder tipped, and drops of wax spilled from the tapers. Oriana, mindful of the danger to her flounced hem, pulled up her skirt.

  “Madame St. Albans, you’re a wicked tease.”

  “I mustn’t spoil my new gown,” she defended herself. She refrained from pointing out that his coatless condition and open-necked shirt strained her own composure. She held out the goblet. “Here’s the last of the champagne.”

  He released one oar to take it from her. After finishing it off, he said, “If only we had pen and paper, we could stick a note in the bottle and set it adrift.”

  Feeling about in her cloak’s inner pocket, she reported, “I’ve got a pencil stub. And a crumpled playbill.”

  His grin flashed in the evening gloom. “If you write the message, it will be unreadable.”

  Bent on retaliation, she dipped her hand into the river and flicked cold water at him. It splashed upon his face and neck and dampened his white shirt. Where the material stuck to his dark skin it was nearly transparent, revealing dark skin and a delicate etching of black hairs.

  “Do it again,” he urged.

  His eager response roused a yearning to pleasure him in other ways, and her whole body seemed to tingle with anticipation.

  When he returned the wineglass, she let him have the pencil and paper. Resting her elbows on her knees, she watched him scribble, pause, then continue. When he presented his composition to her, she held it near the candlelight to read.

  United by their pledge of mutual faith and hopefulness, Oriana & Dare, Saturday, 6 July, 1799.

  Rolling the paper into a scroll, she tucked it inside the champagne bottle.

  “Let’s each contribute an item of personal significance.” He dropped his cravat pin inside, and it fell with a clink.

  Oriana couldn’t settle on a sacrificial object. The St. Albans brooch was a memento of her father; her emerald eardrops had belonged to her mother. She wore no rings. Dare suggested that she give up one of the spangled silk flowers from her hair, so she stuffed it into the neck of the bottle.

  To make a strong seal, she dipped the cork in a pool of rapidly congealing wax before inserting it into the mouth. “Shall I release it?”

  He reached out to grip the neck, his fingers closing over hers. “Together.”

  Gently they laid the vessel in the water.

  Oriana sat back to watch it bob on the surface. “I hope it doesn’t wash ashore anywhere near London. Discovering my identity would be no great feat—my stage name is printed on that bill.”

  “And my surname is engraved on the pin.” He brandished an oar. “I can pull it back.”

  “No,” she answered. “Let it go.”

  Like the bottle, they had embarked upon a voyage to an unfamiliar region. Her destiny was entwined with his—for how long, she could not be sure.

  Chapter 19

  Drawn by a fresh set of horses, the post chaise sped along the familiar highway. Four times a year Oriana followed this route from London to Newmarket, and she knew every village, farmstead, and great house. Dare, on whose shoulder her head rested, viewed this terrain for the first time.

  They had already passed by the posting inn at Epping where she often broke her journey to Suffolk.

  This time, to ensure their privacy, she would halt at Saffron Walden, a larger and busier town farther along the turnpike. There was less chance of encountering any of the sportsmen who knew her, for by now the majority would be in Newmarket.

  At the start of their drive, intimidated by the presence of their London postilions, she and Dare had been content to hold hands beneath the billowing folds of her carriage habit. After the first change of horses and riders, they had kissed and cuddled. During the third stage, Oriana had dropped into a comfortable slumber, and for many miles had dozed in his arms. She needed her sleep—last night, tum
ultuous thoughts and emotions had kept her awake for hours, and she knew the evening ahead would not be restful.

  Tonight she and Dare would share a room—and a bed.

  To distract herself from this thrilling but unnerving prospect, she told him, “Cousin Burford’s horse runs tomorrow. Her name is Combustible, and she’s got a very promising future ahead of her. Or so we hope.” After a pause, she said, “Most of the lodgings in the town will be taken.”

  “Wherever you’re staying suits me best.”

  “Gwynn Cottage is too small to accommodate you. But Mrs. Biggen, my landlady, will know of a farmhouse in the environs.”

  He smiled down at her. “I hope I’ve brought money enough to cover lodging and meals. Am I likely to incur other expenses during this excursion?”

  “That depends on how many wagers you make, and how lucky you are.”

  “I hadn’t planned on wagering. I wouldn’t know how.”

  “Perfectly simple. You walk up to the betting post, where you’ll find a slate printed with all the horses’ names and the odds.”

  “It won’t help me much.”

  “I’ll advise you—I’m familiar with all the owners and their jockeys, and most of the horses. Burford knows even more than I do.”

  “Will the Duke of St. Albans be there?”

  She shook her head. “At present, his chief occupation is rebuilding Hanworth.”

  “What about Lord Rushton?”

  “He won’t desert the House of Lords so near the end of the session, and he doesn’t care for horseracing at all. He hunts foxes sometimes, and he shoots wildfowl on his estate. In autumn, he always sends me game birds. They come to Soho Square in a great hamper, all the way from Cheshire, every week. Annie complains mightily about having to pluck them, and Louis makes the most divine dishes.”

  Sitting upright, she told him, “Not much farther to go.”

  “Let’s hope the Sun can provide a vacant bedchamber.”

  A sudden attack of shyness deprived her of speech. To hide her flush, she averted her face.

  For so very long, she’d avoided intimacy with a man. Running away, as Dare could attest, was a bad habit she’d developed during her celibate years. Nevertheless, she’d secretly cultivated a tiny seed of hope that she would find someone who would excite her senses and treat her with respect.

  “In our effort to preserve secrecy,” he said, “I suggest we keep to our room as much as possible.”

  His talent for brightening her moments of dim uncertainty with a jest was one of his most endearing qualities. He seemed to be aware of the vulnerability she tried to bury beneath her stubborn bravado and assertive independence.

  They agreed that in the morning they would board separate conveyances and proceed to their different Newmarket lodgings, for a week of pretending to be casual acquaintances. After Race Week she would proceed to Bury St. Edmunds, to give a recital at the Assembly Rooms, and Dare would join her at the Angel Hotel. With luck, they could manage a few shared nights before returning to town.

  A short time later, their chaise drew up before a whitewashed building of medieval origins. Its sharply pitched gables extended over the street, sheltering a gothic portal. The adjacent structure, similar in style, bore plasterwork decorations in a splendid display of the pargeter’s artistry.

  Oriana, head bowed, withdrew to a dim corner of the vestibule while Dare conversed with the landlord about their baggage. Within minutes, they were ascending a narrow stair to the upper level. Her heartbeat quickened, her fingers curled themselves tightly around the handle of her wooden mandoline case. She was eager—she was terrified.

  Her thoughts carried her back to her wedding night. She and Henry had stayed at an inn far grander than this, because he’d wanted to impress her. She suspected Burford had actually paid the bill.

  Thomas Teversal’s arrangements had been more casual. She had been too ignorant to know that the site of their furtive encounters, a cramped lodging above a milliner’s shop, wasn’t the sort of place an honorable man took his future wife. But it served him well for meetings with his doxy.

  She was three-and-twenty now. It was illogical—and so foolish—to feel this young and fluttery.

  Their bedchamber was compact but clean. A servant deposited their trunks on the floor and withdrew, visibly awed by the largesse Dare bestowed upon him.

  Oriana, still victim to her nerves, carefully set down her instrument case. Desperate for air, she crossed to the mullioned window and flung it open.

  “Make yourself comfortable,” Dare said. “I’ll return shortly.”

  By the time she turned around he was gone, his footsteps fading as he went down the stair.

  A maid came to wait upon her. She ordered a pot of tea to calm her apprehensions, and half a lemon.

  Her disappointment over Dare’s unexpected desertion intensified, so she busied herself with unpacking—an experienced traveler, she felt the need to settle into her lodging as quickly as she could. She held up her nightshift, a delicate confection of sheer white lawn and spidery Brussels lace, its gathered yoke set with tiny satin bows. She wondered whether she’d need it.

  Another quarter of an hour passed, and no sign of Dare.

  Oriana took off her tight jacket and flounced skirt, intending to change for dinner. She loosened the front ties of her red-linen corset to relieve the constricting pressure of its rigid whalebone strips. Feeling much more comfortable, she also kicked off her low-heeled shoes and untied her garters and peeled off her stockings. Weary from five hours in the carriage and still feeling the effects of her sleepless night, she stretched out on the bed for just a few minutes. The checked-linen counterpane, softened by frequent laundering, was smooth and cool against one cheek, and a breeze from the open window drifted over the other. She hadn’t realized the extent of her fatigue. Her breathing slowed; her eyelids fell.

  She was wakened by a gentle, tickling pressure on her lips.

  “You’re back,” she murmured.

  Dare thrust a handful of flowers at her. “For you.”

  Pale blue larkspur, vibrantly pink everlasting peas, richly scented white stock, and trailing strands of deep green ivy. “Lovely. And so fragrant.”

  He removed his coat and began unwinding his cravat. “This town, I can tell you, is a very quiet place late on a Sunday afternoon.”

  “So is London.” In a drowsy voice she reminded him, “Your island is no different.”

  “True. If anything, it’s quieter, and I had only my books and my writing and my rock collection for entertainment. Here, I’ve got you—a beautiful, enticing female in a delectable state of undress—and what appears to be an exceedingly comfortable bed.” He removed his boots and began unfastening the waistband of his breeches.

  There was no mistaking his intentions. His eyes smoldered, dark coals of desire.

  Standing on a stage, she was fearless, confident of her ability to please. In Dare’s library, her passion for him had made her bold and reckless. But now, in a rented bed in this small, silent chamber, she was all too conscious of her limitations.

  Stroking an azure petal, she confessed, “I’m nervous. At Skyhill you knew much less about me than you do now. And I haven’t had much experience.”

  “I don’t care about experience, Oriana. I want you.”

  It seemed like a year, thought Dare as he stripped off his shirt and flung it away, since the day he’d shown her his empty house. He was ready to feast upon her with the wild abandon of a ravenous beast.

  And yet he needed to hold himself in check and behave like a considerate and civilized gentleman. That’s what he told himself as he quickly removed his breeches and smallclothes.

  He joined her on the downy mattress, which dipped lower from their combined weight. “I’ll be gentle,” he promised her.

  “I don’t want gentle. I want you,” she said, echoing his words to her. She reached out to him.

  Placing his hand on her waist, he turned her around
. Deftly he unhooked the corset and dropped it over the edge of the bed.

  Her pleated petticoat was ruffled at the hem—even her underclothes had that St. Albans flounce. This one was threaded through with a cherry-satin ribbon, and decorated with bright rosettes and bows. “I’ve never received a present so elegantly wrapped,” he commented as he removed it.

  Her shift, transparent as gauze, revealed carmine-tipped breasts, firm and round. With tender deliberation, he paused to press his lips to each glorious discovery he unveiled—soft thighs, pale belly, smooth shoulders. Between her legs he found a tuft of crisp auburn curls to match her flowing locks.

  He had bared the whole lovely length of her body. Like the earth itself, she was a collection of hills and valleys and caverns, and he roamed over her with an explorer’s zeal. After crossing a sea and traveling countless miles, his quest had ended. He had found his promised land, and he was eager to claim it.

  Her hands roamed across his forearms and chest and torso. With his every kiss, her yearning cries reverberated in the cavern of his mouth. Here was no ladylike acquiescence—this was lust, feral and primitive. His touch made her writhe and moan. Hers made him stiffen and swell.

  He suckled her, the flicker of his tongue transforming each tender nipple into a firm pebble. His lips moved along the gentle underslope of one breast, down the flat plain of her midriff, and roamed across the slight rise of her belly.

  He lifted his head. Through the dark fringe of hair hanging down over his forehead he saw that her eyes were half-lidded, and her mouth curved in a smile.

  Finding the fragile spray of larkspur beneath his bent knees, he rescued it. “I’ll get you another later,” he promised. Discarding it, he dived at her for another bout of kissing, and she welcomed him with grasping arms, pliant lips.

  Never, he thought, would he get his fill of her. There would be many more lazy afternoons, different rooms with grander bedsteads.

  When he pried open her rose-pink folds, he felt the dewy proof of her readiness. He held her hand to his rampant flesh so she could guide him to his resting place. After a gradual, careful penetration, he was lodged inside her, pressing into her heated core.