Improper Advances

by Margaret Evans Porter

  “An enchanting city,” said Oriana, “despite the absence of horses. It’s unlike any other. And the opera house is magnificent.”

  Clearly this comment captured Garrick’s interest. “You performed at Venice?”

  “Shortly after it opened,” she replied.

  “I suspected you’d been to Venice when you sang the gondolier’s song. Didn’t you recognize it, carissima?”

  “Yes,” Lavinia answered. “Madame St. Albans, I was more amazed to hear you sing in my native tongue. From whom did you learn ‘Song of the Blackbird’ and all the others?”

  “A Manxman, your grace. A musician.”

  “You’re quite clever, for it’s not an easy language.”

  Smiling, Oriana replied, “My poor instructor had the harder task by far.”

  “My duchess might have preferred your Manx tunes, but I favor the Italian ones,” Garrick told her.

  “One doesn’t often encounter a mandoline in this country.”

  “I acquired mine in Naples, and gathered my music from many sources. I’m sure you are familiar with the operatic piece ‘Deh, vieni alia finestra, ‘ from Mozart’s Don Giovanni. The serenades, comic and serious, are popular tunes that I adapted myself, with the aid of my singing master, Signor Corri. The sonata by Gaudioso is one of the few pieces composed for a mandolinist.”

  “I sincerely hope that you’ll perform in Bury often,” said Lavinia. “Our London visits are infrequent, and we seldom attend the theater. When must you return to town?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  The members of the group soon went their separate ways. Dare thanked the Halfords for their hospitality and wished them a safe and uneventful voyage to the island.

  Leaving the assembly rooms, he made a swift progress across the cobblestones that paved Angel Hill and hurried up the steps of the hotel.

  Even though Oriana expected it, the soft tap on her door made her jump. The old hinges rasped as Dare came into the room. Peering through the parted bedcurtains, she saw him come toward her, a chamber stick in his hand. He placed it on the nightstand beside hers, and removed his dressing gown.

  Her heart fluttered in anticipation.

  “What are you reading?” Taking away her book, he turned its leaves one at a time, with maddening slowness. “Ah, yes. Your poet expresses my feelings most eloquently.” Holding his finger on the chosen verse, he read it to her.

  “This morning, timely rapt with holy fire,

  I thought to form unto my zealous muse,

  What kind of creature I could most desire,

  To honour, serve, and love; as poets use.

  I meant to make her fair, and free, and wise

  Of greatest blood, and yet more good than great.”

  Flattered by the description, she knew she didn’t deserve it. “The blood of kings runs in my veins, much diluted, but I’ve none of their greatness.”

  “For a famous woman, you have a very low opinion of yourself.”

  She laughed softly. ‘Truth is, I’ve pride enough for two. As for the rest of it—whenever you’re with me, I’d rather not be good.”

  He joined her on the bed, and smilingly brushed aside the strands of hair trailing across her breast.

  “Are you going to perform another experiment in animal behavior?” she asked hopefully.

  “Not behavior.” His fingertip drew a circle around her nipple, and the rosy tip drew itself into a bud.

  “Reflexes. Involuntary reactions. Allow me to test the limits of your self-control.”

  His palms drifted down her rib cage, along her sides, and spanned her hips. They swept behind to trace the curves of her bottom, then caressed the backs of her thighs. Oh, yes, the sensations he produced defied restraint.

  She placed her hand low on his abdomen. His skin felt warm beneath her palm, and his muscles flexed into tautness. As she caressed him, she heard the hissing rush of air through his teeth and saw the upward thrust of his flesh, swollen with promise.

  “You have reflexes, too.” This observation earned her a searing kiss. Afterward she said, “You’ve been drinking brandy.”

  “You’ve recently eaten marmalade,” he said, the motion of his lips tickling hers. “You taste sugary, but slightly tart.”

  That was exactly how she was inside—all sticky and sweet, with a contrasting tangy sharpness. This pleasure was too seductive, deliciously intense, and she didn’t want it to end. Trapped by his greater weight, maddened by desire, she couldn’t remember why she’d fought so hard and long to preserve her celibacy—or her liberty. The joys of surrender were keener by far.

  His restless fingers searched for the place where her passion pulsed. As his thumb stroked her sensitive inner flesh, little ripples of delight spread outward through her limbs, building into billowing, surging waves. She tensed, bracing herself for the largest breaker of all, which struck with a force so strong and uplifting that she was swept away entirely.

  “A reflex,” he whispered. The concentrated flare of the two candles shone upon his face, and their light was reflected in his dark eyes. “There’s a whole collection of words and phrases to identify what you just experienced—some lofty and learned, some extremely crude.” He nuzzled her cheek. “Tonight, Oriana, I mean to explore the process very thoroughly. Clear definitions are essential to the scientist’s understanding, and the term I mean to concentrate on tonight is ‘ravishment.’ ”

  Stretched out upon this bed, her body exposed to his view, she should have felt vulnerable. His arousal, visible proof of her desirability, made her invincible. She grasped his rigid flesh and ran the pad of her thumb over its rounded, velvety tip, brushing away a bead of dew. His eyelids fluttered and he clenched his jaw.

  Another reflex.

  “Who’s ravishing whom?” he groaned, leaning forward and letting her guide him.

  When he buried himself in her, she released a shuddering sigh. His body stilled, allowing them a moment to savor their closeness. She felt entirely filled, but wasn’t yet satisfied.

  He began to move, and so did she. Their friction kindled a rapturous heat that spread rapidly from her core. Her blood heated to the boiling point, it thickened like the marmalade she’d eaten and flowed sluggishly through her veins. He slid in and out of her, stoking the fire. She didn’t feel ravished—she was burning up, and soon there would be nothing left of her, nothing at all but the scent of smoke in the air.

  She cried out; he surged forward, and poured himself onto her embers.

  Oriana’s head fell back upon the pillow, dampened wisps of hair clinging to her forehead and temples.

  “This isn’t science,” she panted. “It’s magic.”

  For a long, lovely while they lay together, limbs entwined.

  During the gradual recovery from their passionate coupling, Dare told her about his brief stay at Monkwood Hall and his thriving friendship with the Halfords.

  “The children are delightful. Lady Kat sat upon my knee and let me teach her some Manx words.

  And I was permitted to cuddle her cat. Jonathon, the Marquis of Rotherfield, is a dignified young chap of two.”

  Beneath her hand, his chest heaved and sank in a sigh.

  After a thoughtful silence, he asked, “What are your thoughts on motherhood?”

  His simple question was an unwelcome reminder of the probable impermanence of their liaison. “If we produced a child, it would be awkward for you, and for me the worst scandal yet. I do what I can to prevent it.”

  “May I ask how?”

  She stared up at the tester over their heads. “I use a lemon—cut in half.”

  He rolled over on his side. “What do you do, eat it?”

  “Oh, don’t ask,” she pleaded. “You don’t need to know.”

  “You’ve made me curious. Who told you about the preventive power of the lemon?”

  “My mother. When I was first wed, she taught me how to—where to position the lemon. She visited the garrison for a long talk with Henry,
and convinced him that an infant would interrupt my career. He could barely support me, never mind a child. We were young, he said; we could start our family when he returned from India.”

  He held up her fingers and kissed each one. “You do smell lemony.”

  “The scent is lasting.”

  “Your knowledge served you well, I gather, during your involvement that blackguard who treated you so ill.”

  She didn’t want to remember Thomas while she was lying in Dare’s embrace. “I didn’t bother with it, because we were soon to marry. Or so I believed.”

  Dare’s expression was inscrutable. Perhaps she shouldn’t have spoken so candidly about her past. He might assume that Thomas Teversal was the only man whose child she’d been willing to bear. She could refute it, but the topic of pregnancy was not one she was eager to pursue. He seemed more amused than offended by her effort to avoid conception. Perhaps he was relieved. Most men would be—but then, Dare was in no way ordinary. He continued to hold her hand against his face, drawing her fingertips across his cheek. Reaching for the other, he did the same. “Feels different.”

  “Over time, the ends grow firm from pressing down on the mandoline strings. I’ve been practicing so much lately.”

  “You deserved all the applause and approval you earned tonight.”

  “The audience was genteel and more attentive. These subscription concerts can also be more profitable for me. When I sing at a theater I must share the money with the proprietor, and not all of them deal fairly with performers or pay promptly. The crowds are larger and much noisier, and not very discriminating. They want popular or sentimental pieces—the ones I like the least.”

  “And yet you seek employment at the King’s Theatre.”

  “I was trained for opera,” she said simply. “And I enjoy it, despite the demands. Not only must I use my voice well, I’m required to interact with other characters.” She laid her head on his shoulder. “You’ll never guess my favorite place to sing.”

  “In bed?”

  “In a church. For me, sacred music is the most marvelous of all. The oratarios by Bach—his St.

  Matthew Passion and St. John Passion, the Christmas Oratorio. Handel’s Messiah and Arne’s Judith. Il Ritorno di Tobia, by Herr Haydn. He’s produced a new one, The Creation, which I long to perform. Nothing can compare to the hush and the holiness of a cathedral. I’m happy whether I’m a soloist, with a great organ playing in the background, or part of a large chorus. And the listeners—they are the true music lovers. They come to be uplifted, not merely entertained.”

  “What a surprising creature you are,” he murmured. “When can I hear you sing one of these great religious works?”

  “The Academy of Ancient Music sponsors concerts at the Crown and Anchor Tavern, beginning in January. From February till May, Concerts of Ancient Music are held at the opera house on Wednesday evenings. I prefer employment with the latter, because the pay is better. But I long to sing in a cathedral again.”

  “I’ll order one up for you, and hire musicians and choristers.”

  She kissed his cheek. “A lovely notion, but I wouldn’t want to ruffle the sensibilities of the churchmen.

  I’ll wait to be invited. Besides, you’ve incurred too many expenses already. Chasing me across England.

  Lodging charges at Nerot’s and Morland’s. The purchase of a racehorse.”

  “I got her at a bargain price,” he reminded her. “It’s only money. I’ve got plenty.”

  “And I’m only a woman.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “There are so many others. Women who could please you better in bed. Women who are unencumbered by a profession as demanding as mine can be.” Women whom you might marry, she thought despairingly.

  His hand closed upon her shoulder. “But you are special, Oriana. No female in the entire world can surpass you. You’re mine. Floating in the Thames somewhere, or out in the English Channel, or perhaps the ocean, is a champagne bottle containing our written pledge.” He reached around to cup her breast, with tender possessiveness. “If your lemon should fail you, remember that I can afford to support a child.

  And I shall.”

  “You won’t have to,” she assured him.

  “I want your promise that you’ll deal with me honestly, whatever happens. No half-truths, and no subterfuge. No more running away. If by some accident I get you with child, let it be born on the island—it must grow up there. Bastardy is no stigma among the Manx.”

  And what would he do with her, send her back to London to resume her interrupted career? Keep her at Glencroft, conveniently down the hill from his villa?

  She stared down at his broad, tanned hand as it toyed with her. “You should go back to your room.”

  “Not yet. For too many days, I haven’t been able to touch you. Like this. Or kiss you here.” He swept aside her long hair and his lips brushed her nape.

  “I can’t let you stay the night—not at this hotel, where I’m known. On our way back to town, we’ll find some quiet, remote inn.”

  “And when we’re back in London, what then?”

  “I’ve not thought that far ahead.”

  She recalled her clandestine encounters with Thomas Teversal—rushed and stealthy, and so shaming.

  Her pride demanded a different arrangement, although she knew it wouldn’t be easy to devise one.

  Dare drew her into his embrace, and their mouths locked in a heady kiss. Casting off her concerns, Oriana decided to let the future resolve itself.

  PART III

  Why should we defer our joys?

  Fame, and rumour, are but toys.

  Cannot we delude the eyes

  Of a few poor household spies?

  Or his easier ears beguile,

  So removed by our wile?

  ‘Tis no sin, love’s fruit to steal,

  But the sweet theft to reveal:

  To be taken, to be seen,

  These have crimes accounted been.

  —Ben Jonson

  Chapter 22

  “Mrs. Julian sings in theaters? Vel shiu g’insh dou yn irriney, Mainshtyr?”

  “Of course I speak the truth.”

  Ned Crowe was in a perpetual state of wide-eyed incredulity, expressing his amazement at London’s size and architectural magnificence, its traffic, the crowds. But his master’s announcement that the former tenant of Croit ny Glionney was a famous vocalist startled him more than anything else.

  “She performs at the public pleasure gardens.”

  The young Manxman rubbed his forehead. “Sweet is her voice, dy-jarroo. When I told her folk would pay to hear such sounds, how she laughed.”

  “She’s paid very well,” Dare responded. “Later this week she gives one of her Vauxhall concerts. I’ll take you. You’ve never seen anything in your life like the illuminations, Ned—they will astound you.”

  “Everything does in London,” the youth admitted with a grin.

  The Dorrity had completed a smooth and swift sailing from Ramsey, and was now moored in Deptford. Her crew was enjoying a few days’ leave, but they’d be busy again soon, for she was about to have her hull scraped and repainted, and get a new mast and rigging.

  Ned, his arm fully mended, had delivered requested reports from the Glen Auldyn mine and copies of requisition orders to Morland’s Hotel.

  “What about that small pouch I asked for?” Dare wanted to know as he searched through the trunk.

  “It’s supposed to be here. What’ve you done with it?”

  Ned peered over his shoulder. “At the very bottom, Mainshtyr.”

  That was exactly where he found it, tucked into a corner. Emptying it onto a tabletop, Dare inspected the collection of prism like crystals. He would restore them to Oriana, but not in their present state. The jeweler on Ludgate Hill must first transform them into an appropriate token of his affection.

  He advised Ned to change his clothes. “Ask Wingate to give you all my old shirts. M
y brown coat should fit well enough without alteration, and he can shorten the black breeches for you. And have him trim your hair before you go out.”

  ” Vel oo cheet marym?”

  “No, I won’t be going with you. I want you to deliver a message to Madame St. Albans, who lives close by, in Soho Square. Wingate can direct you to her house. Tell her that I must make a quick trip to Deptford to confer with the captain and give him orders for the refurbishing of the ship. I shall spend tonight on board and return tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Ta, Mainshtyr.”

  Wingate, coming into the parlor, said, “I can inform Madame of your plans myself, sir.”

  Since returning from Newmarket, Dare had noticed that his valet was never reluctant to visit the singer’s house. Wingate claimed to have developed a comrade-ship with old Mr. Lumley, but Dare suspected the greater attraction was Oriana’s waiting woman. Whether his servant’s interest in Suke Barry was casual or reciprocal, he didn’t know.

  “Both of you may go.” To Wingate, he added wryly, “Don’t let me detain you. Lately I’ve had practice packing my valise; I can manage without you.”

  “I shall take care of it, sir. This came for you.” Wingate presented a salver with a single letter and a silver knife to open it.

  Oriana wasn’t the sender—his name and direction were legibly written. Impatient to be away, Dare snatched it from the tray and unceremoniously stuck it in his pocket.

  During his journey to Deptford, he read it.

  Number 32, Soho Square

  Sunday, 14th July, 1799

  Sir,

  My purpose in writing is twofold.

  Firstly, I commend your excellent treatise “Geology and Mineralogy of the Isle of Man.” I found your investigations and their connection to Dr. Hutton ‘s theories most intriguing.

  Secondly, if you are at leisure on Saturday evening, I would be honored by your presence at dinner. My wife Lady Banks and my sister send greetings, and look forward to seeing you in Soho Square.

  Believe me, my dear Sir,

  Very faithfully yours,

  Jos. Banks, President, Royal Society

  His treatise?

  How the devil had Banks got hold of it? Dare had distributed copies to his circle of friends in Edinburgh-Hutton, Playfair, John Clerk of Eldin. The remainder languished in a dark cupboard at his Glen Auldyn mine office.