Improper Advances (31 page)

In essentials, the bitter, maudlin tirade corresponded uncannily with Oriana’s account of her unhappy love affair.

“Nowadays, she prances ‘round the town just as she always did, and parades herself on the stage. I’m told she plays the whore for any man who asks.”

“You shouldn’t believe everything you hear,” Dare said roughly. Calling someone a liar—especially when he was drunk—inevitably resulted in violence. No good could come of an altercation, although he was sorely tempted to knock the sneer off the man’s face.

“Trust me, I know far more about Ana St. Albans than you do—or ever will. I can tell you things …”

“Don’t,” he warned. “You’ll regret it.” Seeking verification of the suspicion that had swelled into certainty, he asked, “What’s your name?”

“Teversal. Husband of Lady Penelope, son-in-law to the Duke of Wilminster.”

“Thomas
Teversal?”

“M’friends call me Tom. You can, too.”

Dare was no friend to the villain who had lied to Oriana, seduced her, abandoned her, and capped his cruelties by publicizing their liaison.

Teversal put a hand to his brow. “Can’t go to Soho Square—servants would turn me away. This was her last Vauxhall night, and my best chance of meeting her again. Shouldn’t have swilled so much champagne, but I was nervous.”

“I suggest you sober yourself up before presenting yourself to Madame St. Albans,” said Dare. “I happen to know an excellent remedy for drunkenness.”

“If you share it, I’ll be forever in your debt.”

“Gladly.” With a grim smile, Dare guided Teversal toward the river. “Take a deep breath.”

With one mighty push, he sent Oriana’s betrayer into the Thames.

He waited until the soaked, sputtering head bobbed up to the surface, then called out, “Cold water—you’ll want to remember it next time.”

“Bastard!”

He turned to the coterie of oarsmen loitering nearby. Grinning at one of them, he said, “Toss him a rope.”

“Right, guv’nor.”

“I could’ve drowned! You’ll pay for this,” Teversal sputtered. “Don’t walk away, you bugger—I’ll know your name and direction. My friends will call upon you tomorrow, by God. So have your pistols ready!”

Dare ignored the implied challenge and left Teversal to the care of the watermen, who had thrown out a towline.

His rash act had given him some satisfaction. The perfidious Thomas was a greater ass than he’d imagined, and a temporary blot upon his peace of mind. On his way back to the alley where his carriage stood, he congratulated himself on saving Oriana from an unwanted and distressing encounter.

A gloved hand emerged from the post chaise, beckoning, and he quickened his pace. He flung the door open and climbed inside.

“Where were you?” Oriana asked.

“Strolling by the river. I guessed you’d been delayed.”

She sighed. “Three encores tonight. And Mr. Simpson made one of his speeches, telling me how pleased he was with my performances this season. Most gratifying, but I was desperate to get away.

Ned stayed for the fireworks—I wish you’d seen his face when the first rocket went up.”

She was always like this after leaving her stage—talkative, bubbling with energy and spirits. He wouldn’t douse them by bringing up Thomas Teversal.

Her detailed description of the concert concluded with a self-deprecating laugh. “I’ve been chattering too much. Tell me your news.”

“What little I have to share came from Suffolk. I received a report on Combustible’s training regimen and her progress from Nick Cattermole, the Duke of Halford’s trainer. The lameness in her foot troubles her no more, and she joins in the morning gallops.”

“What distance is he running her?”

“Five miles.”

“That’s promising.”

“And he sweats her once a week. Whatever that means.”

“It builds stamina,” Oriana explained. “Her groom piles blankets on her back and her jockey takes her out for a long, hard run. Afterward, she’s led to a shady place to be scraped and dried off before they walk her back to her stable—very slowly.”

“I hope she doesn’t mind. I would.”

“She’s familiar with the routine.”

“Cattermole should direct his letters to you,” he commented wryly. “I’m too ignorant to appreciate or comprehend them. What’s more, that filly should belong to you. I know you refuse to accept gifts, but couldn’t you bend the rule?”

“If Mick Kelly makes good his promise to employ me at the opera house, my income would double. I could afford to buy Combustible, but I wouldn’t be able to race her because I’m a female, and she’d never get her chance to prove herself.” Laying her hand upon his knee, Oriana said contritely, “I’ve saddled you with too much responsibility—and expense.”

“I don’t complain. Much.”

“When I found out Burford was selling Combustible, I couldn’t let her go to just anyone. Too many owners are ruled by their desire to win at any cost, and their grooms and trainers behave accordingly. If she can attach a victory to her name in her next race, the Duke of Halford might take her. Any horse would be happy at Moulton Heath.”

“Or I could take her to Skyhill. Would you object to that?”

For a fleeting moment, he saw alarm on her lovely face. “Only if you put her to work at your mine.”

“Certainly not. She’s been coddled all her life, and is bred for a different sort of labor.”

For a long time she said nothing.

Curling an arm around her shoulders, he placed his lips against her ear, and murmured a suggestion.

“At the inn,” she replied.

Her reluctance troubled him. He accepted that her mysterious ritual with the lemon was a necessary prelude to lovemaking, and tried to respect her pragmatism. Her unwillingness to bear his child might be a rejection of a permanent bond with him, or it could be that she feared the harm to her career. But she’d admitted to taking no such precautions with Teversal, and that nettled him.

“You aren’t cross?” she asked him.

He shook his head. “A moving carriage is so much less comfortable than a mattress.” To demonstrate his goodwill, he ran his fingers lightly across her cheek. He wished he could know what she was thinking as she sat there still and silent.

Glancing out the window, she observed, “We’ve reached Islington—and later than I expected. Suke will give me up for lost.”

“Is she likely to wait up for you?”

“I didn’t ask her to. She’ll be sleeping in a separate chamber. I’ll be alone.”

“No you won’t be,” he contradicted, squeezing her waist.

Her smile promised many delights, and he felt better.

When they had traveled a little farther, he said, “I’ve noticed Wingate’s interest in the girl. Is she offering encouragement?”

“I’m sure she likes him. But she’s no girl, she’s a year younger than I am. I never interfere in my servants’ private lives, but if your man means to seduce my Suke, I will. I’d do anything to keep her from suffering as I did, after Thomas—” She jerked her head as if shaking off the bad memory.

Completing her unfinished statement, he said, “After Thomas Teversal betrayed you.”

She regarded him through narrowed eyes. Then she asked coolly, “How did you find out his surname?”

“Entirely by chance. I actually met him, less than an hour ago. He knew you were performing at Vauxhall tonight, and would’ve waylaid you—if the doorkeeper hadn’t cast him out for unruliness.”

“He wanted to see me?” She sank against the cushions, her expression one of horror. “If you think less of me for loving someone like that, my only excuse is that he concealed his true nature very well.”

“A pity you never saw him when he was drunk,” said Dare lightly. “Three years ago, he might have seemed dashing and seductive, but tonight he proved himself to be a boisterous sot with a foul tongue. I hope his ducking in the Thames sobered him.”

“Dare, you
didn’t!”

“It was that or challenge him to a duel, which would bring about the sort of publicity you abhor. Don’t fret, I didn’t explain why he had infuriated me. As far as he’s aware, I’m as much a stranger to you as I was to him.” When she pressed her palms together, her face a study in dismay, he said, “Perhaps I shouldn’t have told you.”

“I’m glad you felt you could.”

“You don’t look glad.”

“He’s supposed to be in Wiltshire, not London—his father-in-law gated him. Matthew Powell shares all the best gossip with me, whether or not I figure in it.”

“Do you ask him what people are saying about you?”

“Of course,” she said blithely. “And he always tells. Whenever I ask Rushton for the latest Ana St.

Albans stories, he prims up his mouth and changes the subject. During your weeks in London, you must have heard some choice gossip about me.”

He didn’t deny it. “But I know the truth, Oriana. The only time I was worried was my first day in town, when that imp Merton Pringle said you were immoral and depraved. And sang that detestable ballad.”

“There’s a songbird who makes the most glorious sound,”
Oriana caroled,
“her name is Ana St.

Albans.”

His hand covered her mouth. “Don’t.” The verses inspired by her liaison with Teversal rankled more than ever, now that he’d met the man. Grasping her chin, he turned her head toward him, and declared, “It wouldn’t have mattered if that brat’s slander had been accurate. I wanted you so desperately, an entire legion of lovers wouldn’t have daunted me.”

“One lover is the most I can manage at a time. I’m too busy to entertain any more.” Laying her hand upon his knee, she said earnestly, “I bear no happy memories of Thomas. He tricked me into relinquishing my heart and my virtue. He killed my love for him and trampled on my pride. For a long time afterward just hearing his name made me queasy.” Her other hand crept to his chest as she said, “Whatever the future holds for us, Dare, I shall never regret knowing you.”

He drew no comfort from her words, because the desperation in her kiss disturbed him. Her searching lips communicated uncertainty, perhaps anxiety, and he had no idea why.

Rushton Hall, thought Harriot Mellon, must be the most civilized place in all England. Lady Liza Kingsley, born into privilege, was as gracious a hostess as a guest could wish, and her father’s hauteur was less in evidence here at his country seat. Daily life in their beautifully appointed mansion was perfectly regulated. The household servants carried out their duties with cheerful efficiency, the women in neat gowns and starched aprons, the men in their livery. Her every request was attended to as though she were a lady born rather than a common stage player. And amazingly, her querulous parent had mellowed during their stay—an entire day had passed without a sharp comment or criticism.

Harriot’s cup of contentment overflowed when Oriana arrived. She received the happy tidings while rehearsing her actors, and instantly dismissed them for the day. Together they all trooped out of the orangery and across the garden to the house to greet the travelers.

Eager to see Oriana and her handsome Manxman together for the first time, she was disappointed that the singer and Suke Barry had traveled in one chaise, the baronet and his manservant in another.

Lord Rushton, who hadn’t taken his gun out today because Oriana was expected, smiled upon her approvingly and nodded his silver-flecked head as if pleased.

Lady Liza, with her customary aplomb, presented Oriana to the other guests and various friends from the neighborhood. “And here is dear Miss Mellon, who has the thankless job of transforming us into Suetts and Kembles and Jordans.”

“How does your play progress?” Oriana asked Harriot.

To avoid answering directly—and candidly—she replied, “I’ve offered the ladies and gentlemen advice on timing and inflection, and tell them when to move and where to stand. They’re far easier to manage than professional players, and not so temperamental.”

Said Mr. Powell to Oriana, “Would you be willing to favor our audience with a few of your Manx songs?”

The earl objected to this plan, saying firmly, “Madame St. Albans will not sing.”

“But music is essential to the play,” Lady Liza countered, turning earnest brown eyes upon her father.

“The stage directions call for soft music at Tilburina’s entrances. At the end of the last scene, the entire company sings ‘Rule, Brittania.’ Afterward there’s a grand procession, and for that we must have Handel’s
Water Music,
and a march.”

Her betrothed complained, “We’ve got one of London’s finest harpsichordists here—why can’t she supply the necessary music?”

Oriana poured oil on troubled waters, saying serenely, “I shall. That’s to be my sole contribution, for his lordship doesn’t want me to take an acting role or perform any songs.”

“The distinction strikes me as most odd,” Mr. Powell declared.

Ignoring this comment, the earl turned to Oriana. “My daughter will show you to your chamber and see that you’re comfortably settled. We hope you’ll enjoy your first visit to the Hall.”

Lady Liza led Oriana and Suke up the staircase, the earl retreated to his bookroom, and the young people scattered in many directions.

Rather than joining the other gentlemen in a game of billiards, Mr. Powell remained in the great hall with Harriot. “Ana ought to sing—I’m sure she’d like to. What d’you think of Rushton’s edict?”

“He thinks it unsuitable for professionals to perform with gentlefolk.”

“That’s absurd.”

“It’s the way of the world,” Harriot said simply.
“Your
world, sir. Oriana works at a trade, and so do I—a disreputable one at that.”

“Don’t you mind that sort of prejudice? Does she?”

“I know my place,” she answered, without admitting her desire to improve it. “But my father wasn’t a duke, and neither is my cousin. Unlike Oriana, I’ve known but one side of the footlights.”

Although she gave the impression that she was resigned to her lot, a full week at Rushton Hall had shown her a richer, more luxurious existence that she couldn’t help but envy. During her years laboring in the provincial theater circuits, local merchants and country squires had bestowed their patronage, taking her on carriage rides or inviting her to tea. Their houses, however fine, had lacked the splendor of this one.