Improper Advances (10 page)

She looked up to find Dare stuffing those bright, shining stones into a canvas pouch, by the handful.

“I want you to have these quartz crystals—they’re remarkably fine.”

Thomas Teversal had given her diamonds. They sat in her banker’s vault, a lustrous, glittering array of crushed dreams … her hoard of frozen tears, which she’d banished to eternal darkness.

Their hands brushed when he presented his gift. Blushing like a schoolgirl, she asked, “Will you show me the washing area Ned described, where the ore is taken from the rocks?”

“Certainly.” His dark eyes were bright with intimate intensity, and his tone was amused. Her discomfiture was evident, and he’d probably guessed the cause.

Seven days, she reminded herself, and she would sail for Liverpool with her sack of shiny stones, souvenirs of a charming holiday.

“Afterward,” he continued, “we’ll ride to Skyhill, and you can tell me what you think of my new villa.”

“She refused, Buck.
Refused!”

“Why?”

“Wouldn’t be proper, she said. I couldn’t sway her, not even when I swore that no one would ever know she’d gone there. I was annoyed—and said so. She went all silent and stiff, as though I’d insulted her.”

“You said you wouldn’t show the house to anyone,” Buck Whaley reminded him, “until it’s fully furnished.”

“I thought she’d want to see it.” He didn’t admit how much he’d wanted to see her
in
it. Dare released his frustration by pounding his fist on the solid mantel of finely carved Carrera marble. “I’m determined to mend this rift between us before she leaves the island. I only wish I had some of your Irish eloquence. I’m too blunt and tactless. Everything I say comes out wrong.”

Said Whaley, “I have no doubt you’re persuasive enough to land a reluctant female in your bed. I assume that’s where you want her.”

“At this point, I just want a little encouragement. I’d like to know whether she finds me as irresistible as I find her.” Dare reached for his brandy glass and took a sustaining gulp of fiery liquid. “She’s so skittish. If I touch her, she scurries out of reach. When our eyes meet, she’s the one who looks away. But she’s no innocent—she had a husband. And she came here to escape an unwanted offer of matrimony.

It’s possible, given her family’s prominence, that she’s a pawn in some dynastic chess game. Alternatively, if her relatives oppose this match, as they did her previous one, perhaps they sent her away for her protection.”

“Sounds to me like you’re the one in danger.”

Facing his host, Dare said, “She fascinates me in so many ways.”

Her bright beauty and her dark mystery enticed him, to be sure. But it was her independent spirit that held him in thrall. He had no desire to subdue it, but he definitely wanted to test its boundaries. He dreamed about making love to her, and in his desperation had even tried to sketch her—without any clothes.

Facing his host, he said, “She’ll never be ‘willin’ fer a
skillin,’
like those lasses over in Douglas. Your knowledge of womankind exceeds mine, Buck. What should I do?”

“The only way to win her affection—and whatever else you desire—is to give her what she most wants.”

“How do I find out what it is?”

“Ask her.” Whaley crossed to the window and stared out at the broad sweep of Douglas Bay, its golden strand and deep blue waters. “When I first came to live on this island, I brought my mistress, the mother of my children. Because she wished it so much, we passed ourselves off as husband and wife.

Though she used the name Mrs. Whaley, she went to her grave Miss Courtenay.”

“Why didn’t you wed her?”

“As a member of the Irish Parliament, I must cultivate useful political connections, and the best way to do it is through matrimony. Don’t give me that look—how often have you said no bride for you, unless she’s a great heiress?”

“I don’t care about having more money. I’m trying to avoid fortune hunters.”

“You’re keeping this paragon of beauty and charm well hidden. You should bring her to one of the assemblies at Douglas and Castletown. Or are you afraid I shall steal her away from you?”

Dare didn’t dignify this jest with a response.

From his friend’s house, Dare proceeded to the Liverpool Coffeehouse to read the latest newspapers from England. Poring over a creased and much-handled copy of London’s
Times,
he looked for items that might interest Oriana. A new play by Mr. Sheridan was causing a sensation, but most of the columns contained political reports.

His island was self-governing, so he cared nothing for the detailed account of Parliament’s closing session. Back issues of the
Liverpool Advertiser
were more useful to him. He took out the memorandum book he always carried, turned past his field notes describing a coastal rock formation, and on a clean page scribbled down names and locations of furniture dealers and other tradesmen.

Then a boxed notice with a large typeface caught his eye.

Mr. Aickin, proprietor of the Theatre Royal, Liverpool, announces a series of gala evening
concerts, commencing Tuesday, the eleventh day of June and concluding the following night.

Madame St. Albans, the celebrated vocalist from London, will perform English, French, and
Italian airs. This lady’s talents have earned her the adulation of aristocratic audiences in the
British capital, and she is a favorite with revelers at Vauxhall Gardens. Boxes, two shillings and
sixpence. Gallery, one shilling. Seats may be obtained upon application to the box-keeper,
Williamson Square.

Precisely the sort of entertainment the music-loving Oriana would most enjoy. She was sailing for Liverpool about that time, and that’s where he must go to purchase his new chairs and tables and beds and carpets, and everything else he needed to fill his new house.

Proceeding to the post office, he paused at the window where Miss de Grave displayed all the letters to see whether any had arrived for himself or his neighbors or his tenant since his last trip to town. He spied two bearing his name, both from Derbyshire. There was one with a London postmark directed to “Mrs. Julian, Glen Auldyn,” penned in neat, feminine handwriting.

Dare went inside to pay the postage charges. The postmistress’s brother, who served as her clerk, received his money and took down the three letters.

Remembering that he needed to secure tickets for the concert, he borrowed a sheet of writing paper from Peter de Grave. Quickly he dashed off a request to a Liverpool acquaintance, requesting that he make the necessary arrangements on his behalf. He folded and sealed the letter, and surrendered it.

“Can’t miss the next sailing.”

Stealth had never been his preferred strategy, but after considering his options he decided not to reveal to Oriana what he’d just done. As his gig carried him past familiar landmarks along the Ramsey road, he envisioned the day of her departure. He would gallantly escort her to his own dock, where they would board his vessel, the
Dorrity.
He imagined her astonishment and her delight when she learned that he had engaged a box at the Theatre Royal. There could be no doubt that a lady who reportedly had the voice of an angel would greatly enjoy hearing Madame St. Albans from London warble operatically in three languages.

The gray goose responded to Dare’s arrival at Glencroft in its usual fashion, shrieking insults as he climbed out of his gig. From Mrs. Stowell he received a more civil greeting. She sat in the afternoon sunshine, a large bowl of peas on her lap and a flock of scavenging hens at her feet. With lightning quickness, her aged fingers stripped the pods and tossed them to the ground.

“Mrs. Julian wants me to announce her callers,” she informed him.

Dare muttered a curse.

She peered at him over her spectacles. ”
Ta chengey ny host ny share na olk y gra.”

A silent tongue is better than speaking evil.
Ignoring her rebuke, he took away her bowl.

“Announce me, please.”

While waiting the outcome of this new and, in his opinion, unnecessary protocol, he sampled the peas, popping them between his teeth.

When Mrs. Stowell returned, she regretfully informed him that her mistress was not receiving visitors.

This was a personal affront, for he well knew he was the only visitor his tenant might reasonably expect. With grim determination, he marched up to the door. He owned the cottage and would not be turned away at the whim of a capricious female.

Oriana was seated by the parlor window, reading. She lounged voluptuously on the upholstered armchair, feet propped on a low stool. Her russet skirt was bunched up to reveal a petticoat ruffle with a lacy hem and shapely white calves encased by pale stockings. She hadn’t dressed her hair, which streamed over her shoulders and back in rippling waves of reddish brown.

When he came into the room, she looked up from her book, her eyebrows swooping down in an annoyed frown. In a glacial voice, she said, “I told Mrs. Stowell that I mustn’t be disturbed.”

“I won’t create a disturbance. But if you’re so determined to preserve your tranquility, I wonder why you haven’t yet wrung the neck of that pesky goose.”

She was holding in a laugh; he could tell by the way her mouth flattened out, the skin at the corners of her eyes crinkled.

“I’ve brought something nice; it’s in one of my coat pockets. Guess which, and I’ll go away. If not, you pay forfeit.”

“The left one.”

Greatly relieved, he reached into the right one and held up her letter.

She reached for it eagerly. Breaking the seal, she carried the pages to the window.

Dare picked up her discarded book and examined its title page.
The Racing Calendar, Containing
an Account of the Plates, Matches, and Sweepstakes run for in Great Britain and Ireland in the
year 1798. Printed by H. Reynell, No. 21, Piccadilly and sold at the Publishers’ Office, No. 7,
Oxenden Street.
Included in the alphabetical listing of subscribers was the Right Honorable the Earl of Burford, alias Bumfold, Oriana’s noble kinsman.

Refolding the letter, she released a small sigh.

“Bad tidings?”

“My friend was supposed to meet me in Liverpool, but she’s been detained—indefinitely.”

He welcomed the news. “I suggest you extend your stay at Glencroft until she’s able to join you. Your friend’s plans have altered. Why not yours?”

“Because I’m expected on a particular day.”

Dare wasn’t going to press the issue now. Choosing a more promising gambit, he said, “Time to declare your forfeit.”

“I don’t recall agreeing to your conditions,” she objected.

“Too late to back out. You chose a pocket—that’s tacit assent.”

“Oh, very well. What must I do?”

“Go with me to the villa. Now.”

“I don’t understand why you are so determined to take me there.”

“I’m not sure myself,” he confessed.

Her hazel eyes regarded him thoughtfully. “No one will see us?”

“Not a soul. The place is deserted.” He stared at her rosy lips, waiting for her response.

“I’ll get my shawl.”

“No need, the air is mild. But you’ll definitely want these.” He collected the shoes lying beside her chair.

Mrs. Stowell had gone into the
thie mooar
with her bowl. The chickens continued scratching among the discarded pea pods. Dare’s long-necked gray nemesis had retired to her nest.

As he handed Oriana into his gig, she told him, “I want my fowls and the other animals to go to Donny’s family. But I do think you should have the goose, as you’re so fond of her.”

“Only if she’s plucked and trussed and ready for a proper roasting,” he replied. He handed her his gloves. “Take these. You’re driving.”

The smooth-gaited Fedjag posed no challenge to her abilities, and with commendable skill she guided the vehicle between the gateposts and over the bridge. The metal-rimmed wheels rolled smoothly along his winding drive. As they swept around a bend, the classical facade of his villa came into view.

The basic design was his own, refined and embellished by David Hamilton. The structure, three stories high, had projecting bays at each end. Nearly all signs of construction had vanished, and grass sprouted in the level ground near the foundation.

Dare turned to Oriana, seeking her reaction. Was it larger than she’d expected? Smaller? He filled the silence by saying, “All the stone was quarried here on the property.”

“Yours is the prettiest house on the whole island.”

Although the compliment pleased him, he pointed out judiciously, “You haven’t seen any of the mansions the wealthy natives and newcomers have built. After living at Damerham, I’m all too familiar with the inconveniences of a large establishment. This suits me better.”

Dare began the tour at the stables and coach house. He released Fedjag from the harness, freeing her from the thick leather breast collar and belly bands, and guided her to a box strewn with green hay.

Watching Oriana’s fingers comb through the dark mane and glide across the gleaming neck, he wished that she could establish the same rapport with him.

Throughout his adult life, females had flocked to him, for all the wrong reasons. Now that he’d found one who pleased him, she shunned his company and spurned his touch. He couldn’t even admire her self-possession, or her caution, because both prevented him from under standing her more fully. Having caught glimpses of a fascinating and complex personality, he was ever more desperate to break through her barrier of reserve.

In a sheltered area behind the stable was a stand of apple trees, the remains of a venerable but neglected orchard. “A rarity on the island,” Dare said. He parted a cluster of leaves to show the small green fruit dangling from the gnarled branches. “That old cottage has been vacant ever since I can remember. I’ve considered knocking it down.”

“Oh, you mustn’t,” Oriana told him. “Ruins are quite the rage in English parks, and yours is authentic.

Have you named your house?”

“Not yet,” he replied. “I’m Manxman enough to eschew a name that’s overtly English, yet I want something appropriate to the setting. My cousin and my friends have offered numerous suggestions, but none of them seem quite right.” He looked to the valley. “I’ve been considering Auldyn View.”