Improper Advances

by Margaret Evans Porter

  Like Oriana, he remembered with a pang, whose career might well turn out to be an obstacle to marriage.

  He and his companions looked toward the stable as the groom led out the black filly.

  “I’ve watched her during her weeks at Moulton,” said Garrick. “She ran a good trial yesterday. If she wins today, I’m prepared to make a generous offer.”

  Con Finbar, the jockey, carried his racing saddle over his arm. The stableboy was leading the filly back and forth. Head erect, she moved with sinuous grace. The black mane, sheared into a short fringe, exposed the sinews of her neck; her tail was docked into a stiff brush. Trainer Nick Cattermole trotted alongside her on spindly bowed legs, telling Con how to run his race.

  Sir Charles Bunbury, his horse and rider in pink-and-white-striped livery, and a large crowd of hangers-on proceeded toward the Rowley Mile.

  “She’s overexcited,” Lavinia commented.

  “Who?”

  “Pamela. See how she jerks at her reins?”

  “The odds are greatly in her favor.” Dare knew about the rival’s victories, which Oriana had documented for him. “She won at Epsom and at Ipswich.”

  “But she hasn’t been as lucky on the Newmarket course,” Garrick reminded him, “for during July Meeting, she came in next to the last—in a large field. At Brighton and Lewes, she finished third, and had a very poor showing at Bedford.”

  “Combustible is untried.” He wanted her to win, for Oriana’s sake and because he needed the purchase money for his miners, and his nerves were stretched thin.

  The colors of his racing silks honored his native island: grass green for the Manx hills, pale blue for the sky above. He held the filly’s bridle while her groom tossed the saddle onto her back and cinched the girth around her belly.

  “Look who’s here to wish you luck,” said the duchess in an undertone that conveyed sharp interest.

  He saw Oriana coming toward them, flanked by two earls. Threaded through the flounce of her blue habit was a green ribbon. His heart lifted at this proof of her loyalties. “A partisan.”

  “Her cousin I recognize, but not the other man.”

  “Lord Rushton.”

  Garrick was welcoming the threesome to his enclosure.

  Burford, flushed and beaming, heartily shook Dare’s hand. “May your luck match mine. She looks well,” he said of the filly. “No more trouble with that hock?”

  “None, my lord.”

  Oriana tugged off her glove and stroked Combustible’s velvety muzzle. “Run fast as you can,” she murmured to her favorite.

  After so many days apart, Dare couldn’t stop staring at Oriana’s lilylike face. If not for the crowd gathered around them, he could kiss those delectable, pouting lips.

  In a concerned voice, audible only to Dare, she said, “You’ve hurt yourself.”

  Touching his cheek, he said ruefully, “I’ll have a lasting scar, I fear.” No time to explain, for Rushton was closing in on them, cutting off their surreptitious exchange.

  The Duke of Halford insisted that his duchess view the race from her landau. When Rushton urged Oriana to do the same, rebellion flashed in her hazel eyes.

  “Do join me,” her grace entreated. “We shall have an excellent view of the course, I assure you.”

  Oriana longed to stand beside Dare during his race but was trapped into accepting the Duchess of Halford’s invitation. Not so long ago she would have rejoiced at this gesture of acceptance from one of racing’s elite, but like all the good fortune that had come to her lately, it was a mixed blessing. As they proceeded to the ducal carriage, she cast a backward glance at the gentlemen. Dare favored his right leg.

  What had happened to him in Derbyshire?

  Letting curiosity sweep away her caution, she asked, “How did Sir Dare injure his face?”

  “He tumbled into a mine shaft while visiting his Derbyshire property. The ground opened up beneath him, he said.”

  All these many days, she’d assumed his lack of communication signified his waning affection, when in fact he’d been in grave danger—and in pain. She sank down onto the cushioned leather seat, avoiding the gentle scrutiny of the other woman’s gray eyes.

  As she focused on her grace’s waistline, she felt the familiar nip of envy. Suke’s betrothal had provoked the last attack, and now she was unsettled by a visibly pregnant duchess. Although she certainly didn’t begrudge these women their joy, she keenly regretted her inability to experience it.

  “Garrick and I recently returned from a long visit to my parents and brother on the Isle of Man.”

  Overcoming her distraction, Oriana replied, “That must have been pleasant—for all of you.”

  “I particularly enjoyed sharing my birthplace with my son and daughter. During our stay, Garrick drove me to Glen Auldyn to see Sir Dare’s new villa.”

  Memories of a verdant hillside crowned by a graceful white house flooded her mind. Saying nothing, she relied upon her lowered lashes to shield her secrets.

  “We ventured as far as the lead mine, and very busy it is.” Leaning forward, the duchess continued, “On our way back down the glen, we met an old woman driving her goats up to the hills to graze. I spoke to her in Manx, and mentioned our acquaintance with the baronet. She pointed out a nearby cottage, and told me it had been occupied by an English fairy. Mine is a superstitious race, and I’m familiar with a variety of local legends. But this one was of very recent origin. The ferish, whose great beauty she described in detail, cast a spell on Mainshtyr Dare, and lured him away. Dys Sostyn—to England.”

  Oriana would not sully her precious love with lies and pretense. “Her spell has faded. He’s free to return to his island and his people. Soon he will.”

  “Why do you say so?”

  “I know him.” The second of those three simple words revealed the wealth of emotion she’d been hoarding.

  “If I’ve made you uncomfortable, I’m sorry. But when you looked so bereft just now, I wanted you to know you’ve got a friend.” The duchess reached over and lightly touched Oriana’s wrist. “I remember being at Newmarket, desperately in love and terribly confused. And feeling lonely, despite the throng. Or even because of it.” Smiling, she continued, “At your concert in Bury St. Edmunds, you neglected to tell me where you learned all those Manx songs. Now I know.”

  “Have you informed Dare of your discovery?” asked Oriana.

  “Not yet.”

  “Don’t—please.”

  But the secret was already out, she reminded herself. Her companion’s warm sincerity was melting her reserve, but still she was reluctant to share the full history of her latest ill-fated romance.

  Looking toward the Flat, she said thankfully, “The race has begun.”

  Dare’s mind exploded with curses. What the devil was Rushton doing here at Newmarket, hovering around Oriana?

  He and the other gentleman were gathered at the rail. The official’s box had been wheeled into place near the finishing post.

  Two minutes, or thereabouts, and the race would be over.

  It was the longest two minutes of his life.

  His head rang from the shouting—it seemed that everyone standing along the Rowley Mile supported the popular Sir Charles Bunbury and his Pamela.

  The two horses flew past him at exactly the same moment, and he could not distinguish which was the leader. The followers cantering in their wake blocked the judge’s box, and it was the spectators’ startled reaction that told him the outcome. The shouts of “Pamela! Bunbury!” suddenly ceased, and a murmuring broke out.

  “Combustible—by a nose!” someone yelped.

  Garrick was grinning ear to ear. “She did it! Let’s find Con—they’ll be weighing him.”

  Sir Charles Bunbury proved his sportsmanship by walking up to Dare and grasping his hand. “Well done, sir,” he said graciously, “very well done, indeed. Courage and good management wins out over confidence and experience. You should be pleased with your filly and her r
ider.”

  “Extremely,” said Dare.

  A host of strangers clamored for his attention. He nodded and smiled at them indiscriminately, until they moved away to the betting circle to pay up or be paid. Garrick conversed with Con Finbar, whose cherubic face was flecked with mud.

  “Corlett.”

  Dare spun around.

  Rushton marched toward him. “We both have cause to rejoice, having won something here at Newmarket. For you, a handsome purse. For me, a bride.”

  After a lengthy silence, during which the nobleman’s steely gaze faltered, Dare said, “That surprises me.” In fact, it half killed him.

  A siren, he reminded himself, sang out many a false promise that she never intended to keep.

  “I tried to warn you.” The earl exhibited a sealed letter. “I’ve written my solicitor, requesting that he undertake the sale of the Soho Square house. Oriana accepts the necessity of surrendering it—along with all her disreputable friendships.”

  A category that included Dare. “Is the wedding date decided?”

  “Not yet,” the earl answered, meeting his stare. “It would be a kindness if you departed for the Isle of Man without seeing Oriana again. That would spare her the awkwardness of a final parting. Her recent conduct causes her much shame. And regret.”

  To Dare’s ears, Rushton’s claim didn’t ring true. His rival hadn’t seen Oriana’s face when she noticed his wounded cheek, or heard her words. She wouldn’t, she couldn’t marry a man she didn’t love, not even if it repaired her reputation and gained her a title.

  After receiving his prize money, he and his entourage led Combustible back to the Armitage stable, where he accepted Garrick’s purchase offer.

  Like Oriana and the other dedicated racegoers, he passed from course to course to witness each contest. Rushton and Burford were always at her side, and he couldn’t wrest her away from them without creating a scene. She often smiled but seldom laughed. Her remarks were mostly directed to her cousin, and she tended to drift away from the earl. These observations confirmed his belief that Rushton had lied to make him think there was an engagement.

  The earl’s interference made him more desperate than ever to marry Oriana. They could travel to London that night—get a special license in the morning. By noon, they’d be man and wife.

  He declined Garrick’s invitation to join the Jockey Club members at the Coffee House, and set out for Moulton in a fast chaise to collect his baggage and his servant. Returning to Newmarket, he left the vehicle in the High Street and made his way up Mill Hill.

  As he approached Gwynn Cottage, he heard her rich voice, accompanied by the mandoline. By the door was a wooden bench, and he sat down to revel in her music.

  Whether she married a Manx baronet or an English earl, she deserved to cultivate and share her talents. After days of searching in vain for a solution to his thorniest problem, he found it in her soaring notes. Her gift, he realized, could enrich other lives besides her own—and his.

  When she finished, he rapped lightly on the windowpane to get her attention.

  Oriana opened the door to him, but not all the way.

  Her unexpected visitor wore his hat low on his brow, and the collar of his greatcoat was turned up, giving him a furtive appearance. She gazed up at the wounded face, and to prevent her landlady from overhearing, asked quietly, “Shouldn’t you be celebrating your victory?”

  “I did. Halford bought the filly, and means to race her one season more. I imposed a condition on the sale, that you are allowed to visit her at Moulton whenever you wish.”

  From the heart of the town came the sounds of roistering. Oriana peeked out and saw two parties of men on opposite sides of the street, waving at each other and shouting. To avoid attracting their attention, she asked Dare to come inside.

  “Only if our privacy is assured.”

  “Mrs. Biggen is here.”

  “Then come walking with me. There’s something important I must tell you. And ask you.”

  Leaving the clustered houses of Mill Hill, they strolled through one of the hedge-bound fields that stretched along the Exning road. Dare, his hand clasped around hers, described the plight of his Derbyshire miners.

  “The people suffer many hardships—declining wages, disease, and hazardous working conditions.

  Though the mines are no longer in my direct control, I’m doing everything in my power to help and seek assistance from anyone able to offer it.” He recounted a meeting with Si oseph Banks at his Overton Hall estate near Matlock. “He made a sizable contribution to the charitable fund I’ve established. Now I must solicit your aid.”

  “I’ll support your fund,” she assured him. “How much money do you need?”

  “It’s not your money I want, but your voice.” Facing her, he explained, “I’ve decided to sponsor charity concerts, with the profits going to the Benevolent Society for the Relief of Distressed Miners.”

  “And you want me to perform? Certainly I will. It’s a splendid plan.”

  He raised her hand to his lips. “I haven’t worked out any of the details, but I soon will.”

  “I can help you.”

  “My conversations with Sir Joseph were devoted to philanthropy rather than geology, but he did encourage me to deliver my revised treatise to the Royal Society.”

  “Dare, how wonderful—oh, you must be so pleased! I have some happy news of my own,” she told him. “I’ve received a most exciting offer.”

  Pain flashed in his dark eyes. “So I heard.”

  His answer was unexpected. “You did?”

  “The earl told me. He declared his intentions when we were at Rushton Hall. And don’t expect me to express all the proper sentiments.” He drew a long breath. “Human lives, like igneous rocks, are shaped and marked by past events. Your experiences, good and bad, make you the unique and remarkable creature that you are. If Rushton doesn’t understand that, you can’t marry him.”

  “I don’t intend to.”

  Dare grinned—and with a groan quickly pressed his fingers over his lacerated cheek.

  “Does it pain you?” she asked.

  “Only when I smile. The earl said you accepted him.

  He has already directed his solicitor to find a buyer for your house.”

  “Perhaps you misunderstood.”

  “The misunderstanding appears to be on his side—he showed me the letter. Your refusal must’ve been less than emphatic.”

  “I was extremely emphatic. If I marry Rushton, he’ll banish me to Cheshire and make me do penance for my indiscretions. He’ll keep me away from race meetings. And throw out all my low-cut dresses.”

  “How unenlightened of him.”

  “I’ve been telling you for months, I don’t want a husband.”

  “At twenty-four, you’re rather young to commit to a solitary life.”

  “I’m old enough to know my mind,” she insisted.

  A steady breeze gusted around them, billowing her skirts and his greatcoat. The coming rain scented the air.

  The earl’s manipulation of the facts reminded her of another instance when she’d doubted him. “During our visit to Rushton’s estate, did you say anything—purposely or by accident—about our relationship?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  His denial rang true, but it was at odds with what she’d been told. “According to Rushton, you made jests about me to the other men, on the grouse moor. He overheard you boasting about my—my eagerness when you come to my bed.”

  “Never,” he replied forcefully. “The only conversation concerned the number of birds we bagged.

  And sometimes they made sport of my bitch.”

  “Who?”

  “That poor old setter. Half-lame, always eager to rest. Once I made them laugh by saying she never needed a command to sit, or lie down. Perhaps Rushton mistook my meaning. I’ve always been careful around him,” Dare assured her. “Whatever he thinks he knows about us, he learned none of it from me.”r />
  Vastly relieved, Oriana tucked her arm through his. “I’ve had a musical offer, as well as a matrimonial one. Mick Kelly asked me to sing at the King’s Theatre next season, as prima donna.”

  In a tender, caressing tone, he said, “The honor is long overdue. You deserve the highest place in the company, and a salary to match.”

  Unlike the earl, he was proud of her, and she loved him for it. “We’ve both got what we most wanted, haven’t we? The Royal Society will publish your writings, and I’ll be singing at the opera once more.”

  Glancing up at him, she caught him wearing a bleak, almost tragic expression.

  He slowed his long stride to match hers as they crossed the darkening field. “How much longer do you stay here?”

  “Burford’s horse runs on Thursday. It’s one of the last races.”

  “I’m afraid I must miss it.”

  “You’re returning to Derbyshire?”

  “London. I’ve got a post chaise waiting for me even now.”

  The words fell ominously on Oriana’s ears. Having made many an escape of her own, she was troubled by his sudden bolt. His eventual destination, she felt sure, would be Deptford docks, where his ship waited.

  Many weeks ago, at Vauxhall, he’d said he would divide his time between London and the island—for her sake. She could not keep him away from his lead mine and his new house. As she’d already explained to Rushton, she couldn’t surrender her own dear home, or her audience. Therefore, she must endure the many weeks-or months—that Dare chose to be elsewhere.

  When they arrived at her door, he unlinked his arm from hers and reached into his coat. “I want you to have this.” He presented a small velvet pouch.

  “If it’s money—”

  Laughing—and wincing—he said, “I haven’t any to spare.”

  Still she wouldn’t take it from him. “I can’t, Dare.”

  “You shall. It’s a birthday present.” The wind whipped strands of hair across her face, and gently he brushed them aside. “I wasn’t with you then. But I was thinking of you, wishing I could do this.” His mouth fastened on hers.