Improper Advances

by Margaret Evans Porter

  Because it circled around to rejoin the lane he’d followed earlier, Dare expected to overtake his quarry. His faith was soon rewarded.

  Envoy’s thudding hoofbeats made the wanderer turn around. “Sir Darius.” Her voice was expressionless, neither cool nor warm.

  “Mrs. Julian.” He bowed low.

  “Why do you follow me?”

  “I feared I might lose you.”

  “I daresay you’d be thankful if you could.”

  He swung himself out of the saddle. “One of the crofters thought you were a fairy woman, seeking to steal her children.”

  “I never noticed them. I was making friends with the pony.”

  He grinned. “As I suspected. Were you also being friendly when you offered Mrs. Gill four shillings for her goat?”

  “I’d never seen that breed before, and tried to tell her so. She assumed I wanted to own it.”

  “You do own it.”

  “It’s certainly decorative,” she declared, taking an optimistic view. “And my milk cow will be glad of the company.”

  “I’m glad of this chance to speak with you,” Dare told her. “I still haven’t fully accounted for those unkind remarks I made the other evening.”

  “Quite unnecessary; I understand perfectly. You assume that every female who crosses your path wants to be your wife.” He detected more than a trace of mockery in the musical voice.

  “It isn’t conceit that makes me suspicious, but experience,” he defended himself. “My wealth is a fact—and so is its influence upon others.”

  “You have my deepest sympathy. May I go now?”

  “No,” he barked. “I haven’t even begun. After I realized you weren’t a birthday toy my friends had provided for my amusement, I made another false judgment. I decided that you were a fortune hunter, probably in debt, intent upon luring me into marriage. I saw you not as a lovely woman—which you are—but as my worst nightmare.”

  “You mustn’t flatter me, Sir Darius. Whatever else you feel compelled to say, I don’t care to listen.”

  She turned to go.

  He placed himself in front of her. Grasping her arm, he declared in a heated voice, “You try my patience almost as much as that damned goose of yours.” The surrounding greenery was reflected in her eyes, and in the woodland gloom her face bloomed white as a lily. A foreign, inexpressible emotion held him in its toils, far more tightly than he clutched her.

  She regarded him fearlessly. “This is important to you.”

  “Immensely.” At long last, he’d communicated something to her besides lust and disdain. “May I continue?”

  She nodded.

  He marched her over to a low boundary wall and made her sit. He stepped away, taking time to collect his thoughts.

  “Grandfather Corlett married an English heiress, and lived near Matlock, the watering place at the heart of Derbyshire’s mining and mountain district. My father, enamored of his island heritage, chose a Manxwoman for his wife. I was born in Ramsey and educated at Rugby School in England. Between terms, I often stayed with my grandfather. At the time, he was building a country mansion on the grand scale, so I watched part of my future inheritance spring up before my very eyes. Later I attended Edinburgh University, where I studied geology and mineralogy. But when my father died, Grandfather insisted that I fully acquaint myself with my future responsibilities. I learned the business of mining—from the ground up, you might say. At social events in the neighborhood of Damerham, I was besieged by young ladies, all eager to claim the Corlett heir.”

  An image flashed in his mind—a pert and smiling face with a pair of laughing eyes.

  “One of them succeeded—Wilhelmina Bradfield, daughter of a bankrupt china manufacturer. Her skin resembled the finest porcelain. She had black corkscrew curls, and dimples.” Head bowed, Dare studied his clenched hands. “Flirtation led to courtship. She was receptive, and so was her family. But she didn’t agree to an engagement until my grandsire’s long life completed its course. I inherited his mines, his mansion, and all his money.”

  She broke the silence, saying, “And you decided Miss Bradfield was after your fortune.”

  “Not then. My attention was divided among a prosperous mining operation, my geological pursuits, and a growing stack of architectural renderings for the fine house I intended to build for my bride. Willa never complained about my preoccupations. When I was overseeing my lead mines or cataloging rock specimens or visiting my mother, she was free to dally with her sweetheart. Long before she set her cap for me, she had pledged herself to the manager of Mr. Bradfield’s china factory. When the business failed, she dutifully complied with her family’s wish that she marry money. My money.”

  “Did she jilt you?”

  “She couldn’t risk it.” Dare sat down on the stone wall, stretching his legs out before him. “She was carrying her lover’s child. To save herself from disgrace, and to secure a fortune, she insisted upon a quick wedding. I preferred to wait. My mother wasn’t strong enough to come over from Ramsey. The manager at Dale End Mine had given notice. Willa twice fainted in my presence, and I feared she was unwell. Marriage, her parents assured me, would be the saving of her. No time for banns—they begged me to get a license, immediately. I hastened to the Bishop of Derby,” he said fiercely.

  “You needn’t tell me the rest,” she said gently.

  “I must.” Staring into her troubled eyes, he said, “I’ve never revealed the whole truth to a living soul.

  On the eve of my marriage, the impoverished, unemployed factory man came to Damerham and made his confession. If not for him, I’d be shackled to a woman who couldn’t love me, the lawful parent of a child not my own. Within a week of these events, Mother died—peacefully, in her sleep. She was spared the whole sordid story, for which I was thankful. At her funeral, I informed my Corlett and Gilchrist relations that my engagement had ended, by mutual consent. I’ve since acknowledged that Willa was a fortune hunter, but that’s as much as anyone knows.”

  “Did her duplicity prejudice you against matrimony?”

  “Against mercenaries,” he corrected her. “Willa was by far the most determined, but she wasn’t the only one. Ever after, when young ladies sought my company, I detected the calculation behind their glittering smiles and lowered lashes.”

  “Perhaps you misjudged them. As you did me,” she said pointedly.

  “I doubt it.” He regarded her curiously. “Have you never placed too much faith in a suitor’s avowals of love and devotion?”

  “Yes,” she acknowledged. “Even so, it didn’t vanquish my hope of achieving perfect bliss.”

  “I suppose you equate marriage with blissfulness. Most women do.”

  “I give you my word, Sir Darius—”

  “Dare.”

  “Sir Darius,” she said firmly, “I do not covet your fortune or your possessions or your name.”

  He believed her. “I suspect I’m beneath your notice-my grandsire became a baronet late in life, and I’m only the second Corlett to hold the title. Your correspondents include a duke and two earls—your connections are far superior to mine.” He added, “And I doubt your past contains an episode as unsavory as the one I’ve related.”

  A frown clouded her sublime countenance. “If it did, I wouldn’t tell someone who already disapproves of me.”

  “I don’t. I’ve no cause for it—I know too little about you.”

  “Perhaps it’s better so,” she said, faintly smiling.

  Her reticence was a shield, swiftly raised to ward off prying questions. He ignored it. “You spent your youth in Brussels. You were wed and widowed. I should like to hear more of your history.”

  “My parents were eccentric, and my upbringing was unconventional. I thwarted my mother’s ambitions for me at age sixteen, when I eloped with a young soldier. I loved him dearly, but our marriage was also an act of youthful rebellion. Henry’s regiment went to India, and there he died, less than a year after we were wed. Sadde
r, but no wiser, I returned to my mother’s house and the life I’d wanted to escape.”

  He sat quietly beside her, breathing in her flowery scent and watching the gentle, rhythmic rise and fall of her breasts. He’d humbled himself before a woman he’d wronged, and felt better for it. By telling her his terrible secret, he’d released much of the residual anguish he had locked away.

  “My rudeness the other evening was inexcusable. I crave your pardon, and I hope that from this moment we can be friends.”

  She accepted his hand, but hers was quickly withdrawn.

  When he suggested that she ride Envoy back to Glencroft, she said, “After this long rest, I don’t mind walking.”

  “I can’t let you stifle one of my rare chivalrous impulses.”

  Dare brought the horse over to her and lifted her onto his saddle. He shortened the left stirrup strap for her and was rewarded with a tantalizing glimpse of her foot when she placed it in the iron.

  “Does he go fast?” she asked, threading the reins through her fingers.

  “Very. But you can’t try his paces till I’ve found a lady’s saddle for you.”

  He released the bridle and away she rode. He followed behind, down the lane, across the stream, and through the gateposts of the property he had reluctantly rented to the fair rider.

  With more politeness than enthusiasm, she invited him to come inside. “Ned wants cheering, and you’re quite a hero to him.”

  But not to you, he thought regretfully.

  “If you care to dine here,” she added, “I’ll tell Mrs. Stowell to lay another place at the table.”

  Dare cringed as the long-necked gray fowl hurled herself at them. “Might I suggest roast goose?”

  Chapter 6

  “Booa”

  “Cow,” Oriana translated.

  “Kiark,” said Ned.

  “Hen.”

  “Goayr.”

  “She-goat.” It was the easiest to remember.

  From the front garden rose a loud honking. Grinning, her instructor said, “Guy.”

  “Goose.” Moving to the window, she discovered the cause of the latest disturbance—her landlord in his pony-drawn gig. “One day, Sir Dare will ride right over that creature.”

  He visited daily, pausing on his way to his hilltop house or his lead mine, stopping again on his way back to Ramsey. Usually he lingered, waiting until she offered him a cup of tea and Mrs. Stowell’s gingerbread. He never turned down an invitation to dine.

  Turning back to the bed, she asked Ned, “When will you teach me to speak full sentences?”

  Mrs. Stowell applied her dusting cloth to the blanket chest. “Yiow moyrn lhieggey—pride will have a fall. A short and simple proverb, but none more true.”

  Oriana repeated the phrase. “Give me another, please.”

  “Cha vow laue ny haaue veg.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “The idle hand gets nothing. As I told the master many a time, when he was a lad. And this one: Ta caueeght jannoo deiney ny share. Religion makes men better.” With a final swipe of her cloth, the housekeeper left the room.

  Said Ned, “She’s Methodist, very prayerful. Always worrying ‘bout people’s souls and salvation.”

  After a thoughtful moment he said, ” Ta leoaie lheeah. Lead is gray.”

  “I’m not likely to need that remark in the course of daily conversation.”

  She was still laughing when Dare entered the room. Warmth crept into her cheeks, for his intimate and admiring smile caressed her vanity.

  “Is the lad setting up as a wit? What has he said to amuse you?”

  “She’s learning Gailck,” Ned reported. “She can call her animals now and knows two of Mrs.

  Stowell’s proverbs. And I’ve taught her three new ballads.”

  “I’m eager to hear them, Mrs. Julian.”

  Oriana’s merriment was stifled by a frisson of alarm. Surely he’d recognize that her voice was highly trained-and that could lead to complications. They had been getting on so well lately, she hated to refuse, though.

  “Perhaps another day,” she said. “Ned is eager for news of his friends at the mine.”

  She darted out of the room, feeling that she’d escaped a lion eager to rip out her heart and feed upon it.

  Absurd, she scolded herself. He wasn’t the villain of an opera, nor was she a trembling ingénue. She must continue to behave like a sensible woman. Just as she’d forgotten—almost—the way her limbs had melted when he’d held her against his chest and kissed her, she must rid herself of this ridiculous desire to sing for him.

  Did he like music?

  Thomas Teversal had seldom attended her performances. He’d preferred to meet her afterward and whisk her from the opera house or concert hall to a rented room for an hour of pleasure. But that shaming final confrontation had occurred at the King’s Theatre. Before a watchful crowd of elegantly dressed lords and ladies, Thomas had flirted blatantly with his betrothed—while Oriana, his former mistress, sang of love unrequited, ruinous passions, and cruel betrayal. Her pathos had summoned dozens of lace-edged handkerchiefs. She’d held back her own tears until she was alone and in bed.

  “Lurking in the corridor—can you be eavesdropping? I’m appalled.”

  She spun around. “Whatever you and Ned were saying, I didn’t hear.”

  “I was telling him his days as a bedridden invalid are numbered. Dr. Curphey says he can be moved soon.”

  “Where will he go?”

  “I invited him to come to my house in Ramsey, but he refuses to leave the glen. Tom Lace and his wife wish to take him in, and he prefers to stay with them.”

  His reference to the doctor reminded her of a development she needed to discuss. “I had a note from Mrs. Curphey, inviting me to dine at Ballakilligan this evening.”

  “I know. I volunteered to collect you at the designated hour and return you to Glencroft.”

  “That’s most kind of them—and of you. But I cannot go.”

  His black eyebrows arched. “You have a prior engagement?”

  His question was a tease. He knew perfectly well that she was friendless, and her nights were free.

  “You should have explained my reluctance to mix with local society.”

  “How could I, when you haven’t given me your reasons?”

  Ignoring his complaint, she said, “I’ll have to send a note saying I’m unwell.”

  “You’d soon have the doctor at your doorstep, and your fraud would be exposed.”

  She pressed fisted fingers to her mouth, considering her dilemma.

  “I’m the only other guest,” he told her. “Mrs. Curphey’s dinners are widely praised, and I’ve already dropped a hint about your preference for fish and poultry.”

  “I haven’t got anything suitable to wear,” she protested, grasping at any possible excuse.

  “That pretty jade green gown you wore the other night will do nicely.”

  He probably remembered it because the bodice was cut so low. “Do you mean to select my shoes as well?” she asked tartly.

  “Gladly, if you need assistance. I’d like to see the entire collection, for I don’t think you’ve worn the same pair twice. I’ll wager you’ve even got dancing slippers. I mean to find out,” he declared, and bounded into her chamber.

  Determined to chase him out, Oriana followed. She was too late—he’d already opened the wardrobe, containing an array of garments ill suited to country life.

  Fingering the crimson-silk gown she’d worn at her Chester concert, he commented, “I’ve not seen this. Or this.” He held up a long sleeve of sapphire satin.

  “You shouldn’t be here,” she objected. “What if Mrs. Stowell catches you pawing through my clothes?”

  “This cottage is mine; I’m entitled to an inspection. I have to assure myself that my tenant is responsible and hasn’t harmed my property in any way.” He leaned down to peer into a dark corner of the compartment. “Ah.” He picked up a pair
of kidskin shoes with flat leather soles. “What have we here?”

  “My personal possessions.” She snatched her slippers from him and held them behind her back. “Go away, Sir Darius.”

  “Dare.”

  Oriana shook her head.

  “We’re alone—in your bedchamber. What better place for familiarity?”

  “Ned could hear,” she warned. “You’ll make him suspicious.”

  “On this island, we’re not so quick to the think the worst.”

  “No? As I recall, on first meeting me you assumed I was a trollop. Until quite recently, you regarded me as a fortune hunter.”

  He laughed, much too loudly. “Not any longer. The lavishness of these dresses proves that you’ve got plenty of money of your own, Oriana.”

  “I prefer that you call me Mrs. Julian,” she said primly, although she couldn’t repress a smile.

  “Only in company. And when I escort you to the Douglas assembly rooms, I promise I shall behave with absolute propriety.”

  She’d never attended an assembly ball in her life. Stage performers were never invited to mix with gentry-folk and the nobility. She couldn’t tell him that her only opportunities for social dancing had occurred at the public masquerades held at Ranelagh or in Vauxhall Gardens, where rakes and rogues and ladies of easy virtue supped together, listened to music, and dallied in dark groves and alleyways.

  Marching over to the bed, he picked up the book she’d left there.

  “Give it to me, she commanded.

  He found the page she had marked, and began to read.

  “Kiss again: no creature comes.

  Kiss and score up walthy sums

  On my lips, this hardly sundered

  While you breathe. First give a hundred,

  Then a thousand, then another

  Hundred, and then unto tother

  Adda thousand. …”

  He looked up at her, eyes dancing. “You’re a romantic.”

  She wanted to protest that characterization—or was it an accusation? Her affinity for Ben Jonson’s verses was impossible to explain without mentioning her Stuart ancestors’ court masques, or her plan to set her favorite sonnets to music. With her silence, she accepted the label he bestowed. It wasn’t inappropriate.