Improper Advances

by Margaret Evans Porter

  Oriana nodded. “So I believed. With a win, she could’ve kept her place in Burford’s stables, either as a racer or as broodmare. If I had a few hundred guineas laid by, I’d make him an offer myself—before he sends her to the Tattersall’s auction. In his present mood, he’s not likely to balk at a low price.”

  Her cousin returned with a tumbler of wine for her and a tankard of ale for himself.

  Before she could begin an introduction, Dare spoke up.

  “My lord Burford, I beg you to excuse my presumption, but I’m interested in acquiring a horse of good pedigree and wonder if you know any that might be available—for private sale. I’ve heard about your black horse, Deceit. And Weymouth, by Pharamond out of the stallion America, does he not belong to you?”

  Oriana had supplied these facts during their journey. Reciting them back to her cousin, Dare sounded far more knowledgeable about racing than he actually was. It was an impressive performance.

  Burford replied testily, “Neither horse is on the market, Mr.—”

  “Sir Darius Corlett. From the Isle of Man.”

  The earl’s reddish brows shot up, and he looked at Oriana. “Madame St. Albans has recently returned from there.”

  “Sir Darius is a friend of Halford’s,” she interjected.

  “I’ve considered selling my black filly,” Burford acknowledged. “If you and your trainer wish to examine Combustible, I invite you to do so. She was sired by Balloon, and finished third in a race at Brocket Hall.”

  What Dare intended to do with the animal if he actually bought it, she could not imagine. When he tucked Burford’s card into an inside coat pocket, she spied a flash of red—the ribbon that had bound them together throughout the long night. She flushed from her crown to her toes, and very nearly choked on her wine.

  “So dusty,” she gasped, bringing her handkerchief to her lips.

  “I’ve got myself into serious trouble,” Dare confided to Lavinia when he rejoined her.

  “How so?” She didn’t look away from the string of horses plunging along the Flat.

  “I am woefully ignorant about the care and feeding and other needs of a pedigreed courser, yet I’ve decided to purchase one.” He lifted his tankard and drank deeply.

  Her amusement burst forth in a ripple of laughter. “I’ll never let you out of my sight again!”

  “What, in your opinion, would be a reasonable offer for a three-year-old filly with a stiffness in her hock, who managed a third-place finish in her only race?”

  Lavinia creased her snowy brow thoughtfully. “It depends how bad the injury is. Nick Cattermole, our trainer, could judge that for you. If she were perfectly sound, and her lineage is good enough, you wouldn’t get her for less than five hundred pounds.”

  “I’ve been informed that she shows promise as a breeder.”

  “Not unless she can prove her merits with a win,” Lavinia responded with a sagacity that he envied.

  Clutching his sleeve, she said eagerly, “The horses are coming! Mr. Wyndham’s jockey wears the yellow silk and blue cap, he’s riding a chestnut gelding. Lord Darlington’s rider is in the pink-and-black stripes, on the dark horse.”

  “Why would anyone geld a racehorse?”

  He never got his answer.

  As the chestnut thundered past the post, the black pitched his rider out of the saddle. The band of followers riding in the wake of the two contestants tugged hard on their reins to divert their mounts before their hooves trampled the fallen jockey. Swerving, they endangered the spectators standing at the rail, whose excited, encouraging shouts were replaced by loud cries of fear and alarm.

  Dare, mindful of Lavinia’s safety—and her delicate condition—pulled her away from the scene of panic and chaos. He prayed that someone was doing the same to Oriana, wherever she might be—the riderless horse was running loose. Turning back, he saw two men lift the jockey from the ground and bear him away.

  Lavinia’s face was pressed against his arm, and her hands shielded her belly.

  “It’s all right,” he said in relief. “They’ve caught the horse. Gelding him apparently engendered a terrible resentment against mankind.”

  She responded with a weak laugh.

  “Can I take you back to your carriage?”

  “I want to find my husband.”

  Dare saw the duke pushing through the crowd, evidently searching for his wife, and raised an arm to catch his attention.

  Garrick hurried over. To Lavinia, he said gravely, “You shouldn’t have left the landau.”

  “What happened to the jockey?” she asked.

  “He’s bruised and shaken, but otherwise unscathed. He’s already standing on his own two feet. Which is more than you seem able to do, carissima,” he said, tightening his hold on Lavinia. “Sir Dare, I’m deeply indebted to you. These accidents are uncommon, but when they do occur, all too often the consequences prove fatal—to rider or horse, or both.”

  As they walked toward the Halford carriage, Lavinia told her husband, “Sir Dare means to buy Burford’s black filly.”

  Garrick looked at Dare. “He’s selling Combustible? Who told you?”

  “The earl himself.”

  “Reducing his stable again. I’m not surprised; he must have spent a considerable sum to acquire Weymouth. What are your plans for the filly?”

  He wanted to give her to Oriana, who had once expressed a desire to own a racehorse. But that, he knew, was impractical. “I want to see her race,” he said. “And win.”

  “So did Burford,” the duke commented wryly.

  “I’ve agreed to stop by his lordship’s paddock later, so I can inspect the creature.”

  “Do you mean Burford’s horse,” Lavinia murmured, “or his beautiful cousin?”

  Dare couldn’t bring himself to glower at so charming a duchess, but he was sorely tempted. Not only did he understand Oriana’s mania for privacy, he was beginning to share it.

  Chapter 21

  Oriana’s fingers fluffed Combustible’s mane, a short black fringe running the length of her glossy neck.

  “Elegant, isn’t she?” she heard Burford ask Dare.

  “They both are,” he responded. “The filly and the lady.”

  The earl laughed. “Only one is for sale, sir. And I doubt my cousin will let you examine her teeth.”

  “I wouldn’t presume to ask.” Dare marched in a circle around the horse, studying her from every angle. “I’m prepared to offer two hundred guineas.”

  “My dear Sir Darius, I’ve paid out that much in expenses. I can’t accept less than six. And it’s possible I’ll get it-there’s another interested buyer. The Duke of Halford and his trainer came by a little while ago to look her over.”

  “They did so at my request. If you and I reach an agreement, I’ll be sending her to his grace’s Moulton Heath stables.”

  That disclosure took the wind from Burford’s sails, Oriana observed. Without a win, Combustible was worth only half of what he demanded.

  For a long time she’d anticipated her favorite filly’s debut season, cherishing hope of victory. This abrupt decision to sell was premature and unwise, and it made her cross. Burford’s groom should have been more careful with Combustible. Muscle strain could occur when a coddled horse was moved from one location to another, because it was forced to cover rougher terrain than it had trained on. Her only comfort was that the injury seemed slight, and was certain to mend long before the filly’s next scheduled Newmarket race.

  Dare’s willingness to purchase her protégée was as startling as Burford’s plan to be rid of her. He had a good eye for horseflesh, demonstrated by his choice of Envoy for his island hack. He was also a skilled rider. But owning a pedigreed courser was a costly and demanding enterprise. The risks were many; the rewards were few and far between. Dare needed luck as well as patience and wealth, and plenty of it.

  But he never flinched at a challenge, and she believed that the dedication and persistence that had conquered he
r heart would stand him in good stead—if he could close the deal.

  “Three hundred,” Dare offered.

  “I must point out that she’s entered against Sir Charles Bunbury’s Pamela at the October Meeting,”

  Burford countered. “That engagement stands; it’s included in the sale.”

  Oriana handed the halter rope to the stable boy. “Lead her over to the railing,” she commanded.

  The filly walked slowly, her gait affected by her injury.

  ‘That sinew sprain in her left forefoot need not trouble you,” Burford said. “We’ve taken the shoe off and applied a poultice of white-wine vinegar and egg whites. Any farrier will tell you that the problem can be cured in a couple of months. Perhaps sooner.”

  “And if it’s not, she can’t prepare for her next race. I stand by my price. Three hundred and not a guinea more.”

  In a tone of resignation, Burford replied, “Done. Though it may not appear so at present, you’ve bought yourself a sound racehorse with a good disposition and an enviable pedigree. Meet me at the White Hart after the last race, and we’ll seal our bargain with a glass of brandy.”

  “With pleasure.” Dare smiled at Oriana, and invited her to join them.

  “My reputation is dodgy enough, Sir Darius, and would suffer greatly if I invaded that solid bastion of masculinity.”

  Consulting his timepiece, Burford said to her, “We’d better hurry away if we mean to watch the two-year-olds race for the twenty guineas sweepstakes. I’ve bet on Vandal, Grafton’s chestnut colt.”

  “Along with everybody else,” she retorted. “I prefer the filly, Royala.”

  “Care to make a personal wager? We’ve got Corlett as witness. Ten guineas?”

  “Twenty,” she said daringly. She hoped her run of luck hadn’t ended with Dare’s purchase of her beloved filly.

  “Agreed. Corlett, will you accompany us?”

  Oriana handed Combustible’s young caretaker a cartwheel penny and gave the velvety muzzle a parting caress. With her racing-mad relative on one side and her secret lover on the other, she left the paddock.

  All the people of rank and fashion in the environs of Bury St. Edmunds had descended on the assembly rooms, and Angel Hill’s flat, cobbled surface was thick with carriages. Dare and the Halfords arrived together, after dropping off his baggage at the inn where he would spend the night.

  The master of ceremonies conducted the duke and duchess to a place of honor in the foremost row of chairs.

  Sweeping his long coattails aside, Dare sat down beside Lavinia.

  “I wish you’d stayed longer with us,” she said while they waited for the concert to begin. “Kat and Jonathon will miss you—though their antics must have cured you of any desire to sire children of your own.”

  “Quite the contrary.”

  He’d developed an avuncular fondness for her daughter and son. If not for his desire to be with Oriana and return with her to London, he would gladly linger in the pleasant wilds of Suffolk, enjoying the domesticity of Monkwood Hall. He owned property here, after all—a black filly comfortably stabled at the duke’s Moulton Heath stud. He would cover the cost of her feed and lodging, and the farrier’s fee. As soon as she was judged ready, Nick Cattermole, his grace’s trusted trainer, would prepare her for the October race meeting at Newmarket. Depending on her performance, she would either continue racing, or be covered by Don’t Tell the Wife, a retired stallion of superior parentage who had won an impressive string of victories.

  Madame St. Albans took her seat at the harpsichord. Conscious of Lavinia’s watchful silvery eyes, Dare maintained an impassive face. Beneath his best waistcoat, his chest expanded with pride of possession.

  A strand of pearls was wound through Oriana’s coiffure, and she wore her St. Albans brooch. Her gown was a waterfall of cream satin, billowing down to the floor, with a foamy lace flounce at the bottom. He remembered the dress very well; she’d worn it at her dinner party.

  She opened with a pensive ode to lost love, her soprano soaring to exquisite heights. Her artistry was sublime. Yet every time Dare confronted the famous Ana, the performer whose repertoire of music seemed infinite, his dream of sharing her life and fitting her more securely into his seemed threatened. In this rarefied setting, he couldn’t envision her ever living with him at Skyhill—or wanting to. He’d sworn that he would take only what she was willing to give, but keeping his word was more difficult with each passing day.

  In earlier years, his life had been more evenly divided between England and Man. Missing Tynwald Day hadn’t concerned him, but he regretted his long absence from his lead mine and both his houses. Mr.

  Melton sent regular reports on the miners’ progress on the new vein of lead, but predicted that it would falter with the onset of fishing season. Cousin Tom Gilchrist had written to assure him that Donny Corkhill and his father had cut and stacked the hay at Skyhill as ordered, and that Mrs. Stowell was still comfortably ensconced at Glencroft. If not for his chance encounter with the Halfords on Newmarket Heath, he wouldn’t have known that Baron Garvain’s lady had produced an heir for Castle Cashin. The Earl of Ballacraine, the infant’s grandsire, planned a grand gala feast in September. The duke and duchess would attend, and so would all the island’s gentry-folk—except Dare.

  At the conclusion of the first piece, a multitude of gloved hands clapped approvingly, his included. But Lavinia’s proximity required him to temper his enthusiasm.

  The next offering was “No, my love, no!” Composed by her friend Michael Kelly; it was currently the most popular song in London. She then embarked on a selection of Manx airs. When she sang the opening line of “Arrane y Lhondhoo,” Lavinia turned her startled face in his direction. Her surprise was succeeded by a frown of confusion.

  “I never thought to hear ‘The Blackbird’s Song’ per formed in England,” she murmured to Dare during an interval. “I doubt Madame St. Albans has visited the Isle of Man, or knows anything about it.”

  “Perhaps she bought the song off a ballad singer in London,” Garrick suggested. “Many performers do that.”

  “I suppose it’s possible,” Lavinia said doubtfully.

  Dare could have offered an explanation. But, he told himself, he hadn’t actually met the singer Ana St.

  Albans on the Isle of Man. Oriana Julian, a widow, had rented Glencroft.

  In order to change the subject, he asked if Lavinia missed her girlhood home.

  “I love Castle Cashin,” she responded, “but I never expected to remain there. My family depended upon me to make a good marriage, and I always knew my fate would be settled in London.”

  “It was,” said her husband, “the instant I first set eyes on you.”

  “He was a complete stranger, and he walked up and kissed me as I was walking along Cork Street,”

  Lavinia said.

  “And it changed your life.”

  Dare remembered the night in his Ramsey house, when he’d behaved with similar boldness.

  Ignoring her spouse, Lavinia said, “I’ve lived very happily with that amorous stranger for five years, in Venice and in England. And now that he has his dukedom and the Langtree estate and so many responsibilities, we’re tied to this country. But we’re immensely fortunate; I have no reason to complain. I can’t often return to the island, but I carry it with me always, in my heart and my memories.”

  Her cheerful declaration comforted Dare. Skyhill House belonged to him, whether or not he lived there—exactly as Damerham did. The Glen Auldyn mine, like the Derbyshire ones, continued to provide employment and produce ore.

  “I do want my children to see the place where I grew up,” she continued. “I’ll show them the castle’s east tower, where my smuggling forefathers watched for the return of their ships. We’ll climb North Barrule together—perhaps we’ll make it to the summit of Snaefell!”

  He didn’t doubt that this intrepid and energetic young mother would achieve her ambition.

  Before the
recital resumed, the master of ceremonies shifted Oriana’s chair to face the audience and placed a music stand beside it. When she reappeared with her mandoline, a hush fell over the room.

  Supporting her instrument’s rounded body between thigh and knee, she plucked the strings with her quill end; her fingers danced upon the frets. Her songs were in Italian or French, some lively and others very soothing, and she performed a long piece without vocal accompaniment. Relinquishing her mandoline, she returned to the harpsichord to play a sonata. For an encore, she sang another Manx song, ” Ta traa gall thie, as goll dy lhie.”

  “Time to go home, to go and rest.” After many busy weeks in England, the sentiment found favor with Dare. If only they could steal away to his peaceful glen, far from curious stares and probing questions.

  After she made her final curtsy, the master of ceremonies led her over to the Duke of Grafton, who kissed her on both cheeks in the French fashion. The concertgoers mingled, chatting to one another, or headed for the adjoining refreshment room.

  “I wish to speak with her,” said Lavinia in a determined voice. “Garrick, I’m sure you need to discuss racing with Grafton— don’t you?”

  The duke obediently escorted his duchess across the room, and Dare, as their guest, went with them.

  When they had all praised the singer’s artistry, Grafton stated, “I take full credit for luring her here—this could rightly be termed a command performance. A most talented creature, my kinswoman.” To Dare he said, “Like me, she’s a direct descendant of Charles II—by a different mistress.” With a smile, he explained to Oriana, “Sir Darius here is a fresh convert to our favorite pastime.”

  “I was at my cousin’s paddock when he bought the filly,” she responded.

  Addressing his fellow duke, Grafton said, “We must convince Sir Darius to join us in the hunt, Halford.”

  “I’m not a hunting man,” Dare admitted. “The country ‘round Damerham is ill suited to the sport, and on the Isle of Man we’ve got no foxes.”

  “You should take it up,” Lavinia urged him. “When we lived in Venice, hunting was what I missed most about England.”