Improper Advances (13 page)

But it appeared only in his fitful dreams, and nowhere else.

“Shall we stop at the carpet seller’s, sir?” suggested Wingate, after they exited the warehouse.

“Tomorrow,” Dare decided. “You’re dismissed for the rest of the afternoon.”

Four days ago he’d disembarked from the
Dorrity
with every intention of finding Oriana, confident that he could locate her in this familiar city. But his systematic and, in his opinion, brilliantly orchestrated search, had turned up not a speck of evidence that she was here now, or ever had been. Mrs. Julian was not included on the subscription list for the largest circulating library. Not a single maker of musical instruments had ever heard of her. She was not, he had determined, a benefactress of the local infirmary, the Seaman’s Hospital, or the charity school-he’d visited all. He’d attended the most recent gathering in the Town Hall Assembly Rooms, to no avail; he hadn’t encountered her there. None of the dressmakers or shopkeepers recognized her name.

Each time he pieced together the events of their last day together, desperate to make sense of them, he inevitably failed. The Mellon woman’s letter had distressed Oriana. She had responded to his lovemaking with uninhibited passion. And after making him the happiest—and most hopeful—of mortals, she’d vanished from his glen.

Tonight he would continue the hunt at the Theatre Royal.

He might as well use those concert tickets his friend had procured at his request. A review of the first performance had appeared in this morning’s newspaper. Disregarding the flowery compliments to the London vocalist and rebukes to the unruly spectators, he’d scanned the names of the most celebrated attendees. No mention of a Mrs. Julian, but his hopes had soared when he learned that a Miss Mellon and her mother had been spotted in the audience. If Oriana’s friend was in Liverpool, she must be here also.

Until he saw her again and received the explanation he was due, he must endure this hateful uncertainty. His dismay at her abrupt departure had given way to a burning indignation, and he suspected that listening to an overweight soprano screech in gibberish at the top of her lungs—for hours on end—was only going to make it worse.

The dressing room lacked a door, affording no privacy whatever, and the stage manager had failed to rig a curtain. Oriana hadn’t bothered demanding one, though, for she’d arrived at the theater fully dressed and had spent all her time on the stage. And with no acquaintances in the house tonight, Oriana wouldn’t linger in this dismal little room.

Francis Aickin rushed in, crying exultantly, “Another triumph! Gad, I thought the clapping and shouting would never cease!”

Oriana arched her brows. “During my recital, or after?” She would remember this night’s audience as the most unruly she’d ever faced, far worse than on Tuesday evening. In a contest with the Italian cabal at the opera house, she would choose the Liverpudlians as the more disruptive group.

“I hope your warm reception in this city has softened your resolve to leave it so soon,” the manager went on. “Won’t you agree to an additional performance, out of consideration for those poor souls who had not the privilege of securing tickets?”

His question was so blatantly self-interested that she burst out laughing. Her work was finished, and she was so glad to be free of Aickin that she found his persistence—and greed—more humorous than aggravating.

Turning toward the door, the Irishman said invitingly, “My dear sir, if you identify yourself, I’ll gladly present you to Madame St. Albans.”

Still smiling, she turned around to see who was there.

“No need for introductions,” said Sir Darius Corlett, his voice harder than Manx granite. “She knows who I am.”

A thunderous tide of alarm washed over her. He’d followed her to Liverpool—had actually attended her concert. Dear heaven, he’d looked as though he wanted to strangle her, and no wonder!

The manager’s speculative gaze darted from Oriana to her visitor and back again. He grinned and winked at her, then said, “I’m sure you and your gentleman prefer privacy. We shall continue our business discussion at another time.”

His insinuation sparked her temper. “No need to scurry away till the matter is settled,” she said sharply. “As I’ve told you repeatedly, Mr. Aickin, I cannot sing again in Liverpool. I should be most grateful if you would pay out my fee immediately, so I can depart for London.” It was lowering to plead for her salary in front of Dare, but her pride must not get in the way of her livelihood.

“Certainly, certainly. My treasurer is still reckoning tonight’s receipts, and tomorrow you’ll receive your share.” With a shallow bow to Oriana and another to the baronet, Mr. Aickin made a speedy exit.

Nervously playing with the tassels dangling from the gold cord around her waist, she admitted to Dare, “For the past two days, I’ve been writing a letter for you.”

“How very thoughtful.” The stony voice contradicted his polite words. “My compliments on your remarkable performance. Not only here, but also while you lived at Glencroft.”

“You’ve every right to be angry. But I had a very good reason for—for—”

“Duping me?”

“There was no deception, Dare. Not exactly.”

She felt so odd standing before him in her green-satin stage dress, designed to resemble Turkish attire, her cheeks rouged and powdered, brilliants in her hair.

“Where were you seated? I didn’t notice you down in the pit.”

“My tickets entitled me to a box, but I neglected to send my servant to hold my place, and someone stole it. I was high up in the one-shilling gallery, squeezed between two boisterous fellows who made such ribald comments about your anatomy that I wanted to shove my fist into their leering faces.”

A sharp rap on the doorframe interrupted their tense dialogue.

Tentatively the harpsichordist asked, “Madame St. Albans, may I beg a moment of your time?”

She moved across the room, giving Dare a wary glance as she swept past him.

“It’s unlikely we’ll meet again, and I wanted you to have this.” The musician presented a rolled-up paper tied with a crimson ribbon. “I made a clean copy of our music for the Manx song.”

Blinking back a sudden rush of tears, Oriana said, “Thank you, I am most grateful—and shall always treasure it.”

“Playing for the
protégée
of my idol, the great Haydn, has been an honor. And a pleasure.”

Touched by this accolade, she replied, “If you ever seek employment in London, come to my house in Soho square. I’m on good terms with the managers of all the theaters, and the opera house.”

“I’m not sure my wife would care to live anywhere but Liverpool,” he admitted, before taking his leave.

When she turned back to Dare, his face was even grimmer than it had been before the interruption.

“That fellow knows more about you than I do,” he fumed. “He was speaking of Haydn the composer?”

“Yes. During his residence in London, he befriended me.”

“And how many other men have done so?”

If Dare was jealous, she reasoned, his discovery of her identity had not obliterated his affection for her. On a faint laugh, she said, “Herr Haydn is an old gentleman, very grandfatherly. There was no impropriety in that or any other professional relationship.”

“You never sang for me,” he said bitterly. “Were you hoarding your talents for the paying customers, Madame St. Albans?”

Deep in her abdomen, she felt a painful twinge. Being a female had its hellish moments, and this was definitely one of them. Soon her emotional turmoil would be compounded by the grinding ache that came once a month.

“This face paint and satin gown are the real disguise-it’s what my
paying customers
expect to see.

Underneath, I’m the same person who sought refuge in your glen. I did not lie to you, I never told an untruth. Oriana Julian is my lawful name. I eloped with a soldier, who died in India. It was my choice to give out only those essential facts. Do not forget, you didn’t extend the warmest of welcomes. And I’m unaware of any law, English or Manx, requiring me to share my full history with an unfriendly stranger.

Which you were.”

“My attitude changed, as you well know.”

“I’m not in the habit of confiding in people,” she replied.

“Or trusting them?”

“In London I am constantly scrutinized and criticized. During those weeks I lived in your glen, I found the solitude I had been seeking.”

“At the moment, Oriana, I care very little for the differences between your public and your private persona.”

He
did
care. If he were indifferent, he would have left the theater without confronting her.

“At our last meeting,” he continued, “your famous reticence was notably absent. We achieved a particular closeness.” He moved in, lancing her with his dark eyes. “Your hasty departure from Glencroft, was it prompted by that letter you received, or what we did together in my library?”

She braved his piercing stare. “Both. I was expected here in Liverpool. With Harriot stuck in London, we risked losing our rooms at Mrs. Waddell’s house. And then after my—my recklessness complicated the situation, I didn’t want you thinking I’d set a snare to trap you and your fortune. Knowing you wouldn’t care to see me again, I left.”

“You assumed I
wanted
to be rid of you? If so, why in hell’s name would I make love to you?”

The answer was so obvious that she didn’t bother to voice it. He was a man, one accustomed to having whomever or whatever he desired.

He vented his frustration in a gusty huff. “You understand me about as well as I understand you.

Which is to say hardly at all. When you offered me that most precious of gifts, was it because you were bored by country living? Maybe you were seeking physical gratification, or per haps settling a score. Or is that the way you typically bid a gentleman friend farewell?”

She flushed from her crown to her toes. “No!”

“Then why, Oriana? I deserve an honest answer.”

Marching up to him, she declared, “Because at that moment, I was greedy for all the things I had either lost or had sacrificed. Warmth. Affection. Desire. With you, I felt so alive.”

“Behold me at your service. After my two-week nightmare, I require a bit of enlivening myself. Let us instantly retire to my hotel. Or, if you prefer, to your lodging house.”

She couldn’t tell whether he spoke in jest, or in earnest. “I’m no whore,” she informed him frostily. “A common assumption, but I assure you that singing is my sole source of income.”

Sordid rumors about the Siren of Soho and her string of lovers must be circulating here in Liverpool—why else would her concerts fill the theater? She wanted to hasten away from this smoky, busy city before Dare heard about her sullied reputation. And if he was the type to boast that he’d had his way with Ana St. Albans, she preferred not to know.

Seizing her shoulders, he growled, “Nevertheless, you are wickedly, shamelessly cunning. I might find a way to forgive you for keeping your damned secret, but not for deserting me.”

His kiss was angry, overflowing with recrimination. When her tender breasts brushed against the solid wall of his chest, she recoiled.

Dare released her with a dissatisfied sigh. Glancing at their surroundings, he complained, “Christ, this is the
ugliest
room I’ve ever seen. How can you bear it?” Taking her cloak from the back of a chair, he said, “I suggest we continue this conversation in a more comfortable and civilized location. I’m staying at the Royal Hotel in Whitehall, a short walk from here.”

“I might be recognized. Meet me tomorrow—I’m at Mrs. Waddell’s house in School Lane, Number Thirty-three.”

“Oh, no, Madame St. Albans. I won’t have you repeating your furtive escape from Glencroft. You might slip away from your lodging in the middle of the night.”

“I won’t,” she promised. “I
can’t.
Mr. Aickin hasn’t paid me. When he does, I’ll depart for London.

Unless you knock me senseless and stow me aboard your ship, you can’t prevent me from leaving Liverpool.”

Flashing a grin, he said, “An excellent suggestion. I would greatly enjoy holding you hostage, and exerting some form of punishment. Taking away your clothes-confining you to my cabin—keeping you in my bed.”

Her heart fluttered. If she weren’t careful, this bold and aggravating gentleman would steal it from her.

“I should think you’d want to toss me overboard,” she said. “You’ve already declared me guilty of duplicity and treachery.”

“I’m feeling more merciful now. Your logic is deeply flawed, but your contrition moves me. A few more of your enchanting smiles, a glass of brandy, and perhaps I’ll absolve you of any deliberate intent to wound me. But I withhold final judgment until I’ve heard the complete history of Ana St. Albans.”

Thick, heavy clouds spread slowly across the darkening sky overhead, as Dare escorted Oriana towards his hotel. Mindful of her desire for privacy, he avoided busy Whitechapel and took her down a lesser thoroughfare running to the south of Williamson Square.

In the month of June, nightfall came late, and there was enough light left to study her as she walked silently beside him.

Her poise and grace and her blue-velvet cloak were all that remained of the lady who had lived at Glencroft; in every other respect, she was different. A thick, ropy braid, anchored with diamond-studded hairpins, circled her aristocratic head. Real gems, or paste? Her own purchase, or a lover’s gift? The torture of speculation was driving him mad.

He’d left his island to search for her, a mad notion of marriage whirling about in his mind. When she’d stepped onto the stage, a vision of loveliness in shimmering green satin, his vague but persistent dream of winning her had dissolved.

Her voice, which he’d longed to hear, was incomparable. Its range and power astonished and moved him. His knowledge of music was sketchy, and he’d been too stunned and outraged to take pleasure from her performance, but he had heard in her singing the same passion and need that she had expressed with her lovemaking.

I was greedy for all the things I had either lost or had sacrificed. Warmth. Affection. Desire.