Improper Advances (33 page)

As the day of the performance grew closer, the amateurs’ tempers wore thinner and the quarrels over costumes and properties were more frequent. Harriot Mellon acquitted herself nobly, and with great patience. Oriana, busy at the harpsichord, remained aloof from the proceedings, but from his makeshift prompter’s box Dare saw how often she pressed her lips together in mute frustration.

“Will they be ready, do you think?” he asked after a particularly harrowing session.

“It hardly matters. Their audience will consist of relations and neighbors, who will dismiss any errors—the ones they notice.”

They were the last to leave the orangery. A thick evening fog had descended upon the gardens, and the house’s lighted windows seemed farther away than they really were.

“Are you wishing I hadn’t dragged you into the wilds of Cheshire?” Oriana asked.

“I was perfectly happy to be lured here, and my sole regret is our lack of privacy. I’m begging off from tomorrow’s shoot. That poor spaniel has worn herself out on my behalf and needs to rest, and I’ve been neglecting my correspondence. I mean to write Melton and a Derbyshire acquaintance. And I’m determined to meet you some where alone, if we can manage it without drawing attention to our absence.

What about that place where we had the picnic, that stand of trees far beyond the park?”

“I’m supposed to help the ladies with finishing touches to their costumes. But I could easily steal away for a little while,” she said.

“Make it a long while. I’ve got a week’s worth of pent-up kisses to bestow.”

“That sounds heavenly.”

“Stop smiling at me like that,” he commanded softly. “Or I’ll give you one right now.”

She paused on the pathway and extended her hand. “Hand me your prompt copy.”

“Why?”

“You’ll see.” When he held it out, she took it. “Oh,
dear,”
she said, before deliberately dropping the book. “Where did it fall? Can you help me find it?”

They both knelt down at the same moment. He placed his hands on her shoulders, she clutched his lapels, and their mouths merged. The furtive contact was brief, and left him wanting much more.

“Here it is,” she said, retrieving his book and returning it to him. “Pray forgive me, sir.”

Following her example, he let the volume fall once more. “Clumsiness has its rewards,” he said, and stole another kiss.

The next day, after writing his letters, Dare visited the earl’s stable to inspect the horses and lingered there until he saw Oriana leave the house. After a circuitous ramble through the park, he found her waiting for him in a coppice offering the seclusion they craved.

Her face was luminous, her hazel eyes reflected all the colors of the surrounding wood—green and brown and gold. “I’ve never made love
alfresco,”
she told him, with a shyness that was unique in a mistress, and utterly bewitching. The excited tremor in her voice assured him that she welcomed her new adventure.

His lips ravished hers, expressing his savage need. Her eyelids fell, her neck arched. The delicious contact could not satisfy him long. He was eager to take her, his refined, royal-blooded singer, in this uncivilized setting. They sank to the bare ground, cool and hard, unlike the beds they’d shared. Their bodies crushed the grass, releasing its fresh scent, and he could imagine himself in Glen Auldyn again.

Opening her bodice, he discovered that she’d dispensed with her corset—and her petticoat, too.

Beneath the simple gown, easily removed, she wore only her chemise. He let her keep it but pulled it down her shoulders to gain access to her creamy breasts, warm and smooth.

Her hands were in his hair, he felt her nails against his scalp. Her ardent pleas delighted him, and he gloried in this proof of her desire. His fists clutched her skirt, bunching the fabric and pushing it out of his way. Between her legs he found heat and slick moisture. He slid his rampant flesh into the gap and was welcomed, as always, with a moan of joy. Her desire fanned his into a flame, and he drove into her.

Every time was like the first time—the heady sense of exploration, the rewards of discovery. He could endure days of privation, their careful pretense of a platonic relationship, knowing this magnificent creature was his to enjoy and to pleasure.

“I’ll never stop wanting this,” he declared in the aftermath of climax.

Oriana should have made a similar admission, and her quietness disturbed him. As she nestled against him, he longed to know the state of her heart. In her lovemaking she lost her inhibitions; when it ended she locked her emotions away. The one plausible reason for such reticence, he mused, was her protective instinct—she hadn’t relinquished her lingering fears of pain and loss.

This, he reminded himself, was what he’d wanted ever since she’d come to his Ramsey town house.

He should be thoroughly satisfied with their undemanding arrangement. She willingly bestowed all that he’d sought. Why, then, did he feel a greater hunger gnawing at him?

Because she’d imposed silence and secrecy upon him, and he yearned to acknowledge their bond—to claim her as his love and to declare himself her lover. This being impossible, he was determined to provide her with a token of his affection. No one, not even Oriana, could refuse a birthday present.

Turning his head to gaze upon her, the creature who had altered his life in the most marvelous way, he hoped there would not be too lengthy a drought until the next flood of passion.

Anticipation and excitement reigned at Rushton Hall on the day of the theatrical performance.

Servants bustled about the house readying its reception rooms, while the kitchen staff prepared a grand dinner for the invited guests. The young gentlemen abandoned their sport in order to rehearse once more.

Only Dare, who had excused himself the previous day, accompanied the earl to the moors. From her window, Oriana had watched the two men set off on foot, with dogs and guns and attendants.

In her effort to be useful, she was helping Suke with the final embellishments to the ladies’ costumes.

As they plied their needles, she detected an anxiety in the deft-fingered young woman.

“Did you find trouble at home, Suke?” she inquired. “You’ve been very quiet since you came back from Chester.”

The maidservant set a few more stitches before raising her pretty face. “Not for any bad reason. A wonderful thing has happened—
might
happen. I wanted to mention it, only I wasn’t sure how to begin.

Mr. Wingate went with me to my parents’ house. He wished to meet them.”

Oriana’s hands settled in her lap, crushing the satin gown she was trimming. “He’s courting you.”

“He is, ma’am.”

The disclosure brought relief and sadness both. “Then you’ll soon be giving your notice.”

“I should like to continue in service, if Jonathon—Mr. Wingate—and I could work in the same household. But because you’ve already got Mr. Lumley, you don’t need a butler.”

The Lumleys had served her mother and herself devotedly and would always have a place in her home. But their advancing age made it unlikely that they could continue their duties for more than a few years. Wingate would be a valuable addition, if she could avoid ruffling the sensibilities of her valued retainers.

Before she could speak her mind, Suke continued, “Jonathon—Mr. Wingate—would be sorry to leave his master. He’s been with Sir Dare twice as long as I’ve been with you.” After a very long pause, she said softly, “The Isle of Man, as he describes it, seems a pleasant place to live.”

“It is.”

Her maid was explaining, as delicately as possible, that her marriage would sever this relationship.

Dare, she realized, had not only suspected this could happen, he’d even tried to prepare her. Fondness for her efficient, discreet handmaiden required her to conceal her distress.

In a neutral tone, she said, “Sir Dare has a lovely new home and will require a larger staff. Be assured that I shall provide you with a highly favorable recommendation—although he knows your merits well enough by this time.”

“Mr. Wingate posed a question to me, concerning you and his master, but I didn’t know how to answer. It’s not my place to ask, ma’am, but we’ve both wondered if perhaps you and Sir Dare might become engaged yourselves.”

“There are a host of reasons why I shall not marry Sir Dare Corlett.” Fearing that she might have given the erroneous impression that he might want her to, she added, “Nor do I expect an offer from him.”

She returned her attention to the garment, stabbing the shiny fabric with her needle.

“Mr. Wingate hasn’t yet stated his intentions,” Suke confided. “But he spent half an hour with my father.”

“Very proper of him to request permission to pay his addresses,” said Oriana. “And though it may be a trifle premature, I wish you both every happiness in your marriage.”

“Thank you, ma’am. I’ve been saving up my money, as my mother told me to, for a dowry. But I never imagined meeting anyone who’d want me for his wife.” Ducking her head, the young woman sliced a thread with her scissors.

“Whyever not, Suke?”

As soon as she asked the question, the logical answer presented itself. A maidservant’s reputation matched that of her mistress. Suke Barry, therefore, shared her notoriety and had been similarly damaged by it.

“I’ve always been too busy for a sweetheart. Just like you, ma’am.”

A diplomatic response, intended to spare Oriana’s feelings—which did absolutely nothing to quell her remorse.

The earl’s explosive shot broke the silence of the moor, and his shotgun’s double barrels smoked.

The grouse’s inert body dropped to the ground.

At her master’s command, the setter darted forward.

The other birds, lying low in the covert, suddenly soared above the brushy wasteland.

Dare fired, bringing down one bird, and his lordship, armed with a second gun, took another. The scent of black powder hung heavy in the damp air.

“Well done,” Rushton congratulated him. “A worthwhile outing—our numbers must be equal now.”

“Four birds each, m’lord,” reported one of the servants, slinging a game bag over his shoulder.

Dare wasn’t enough of a sportsman to care about his numbers, but he would have disliked being bested by this man.

They handed over their weapons to the attendants and began their walk back to the Hall. The weary dogs padded along after them, tongues lolling.

Here in his native shire, Rushton was less chilling a personality than he’d been in London. Nineteen years a widower, after his young wife’s death in childbed, he was an attentive parent who had raised his daughter alone and enjoyed a warm relationship with her. His strong sense of responsibility made him seem older than his years—he wasn’t yet forty—but at Rushton Hall he demonstrated a fondness for the company of his friends and neighbors, and his devotion to sport. His hospitality to his guests could not be faulted.

The camaraderie engendered by their morning on the moors had lulled Dare’s jealousy to some extent, and he was consoled by the knowledge that tomorrow he would remove Oriana from Rushton Hall. But all his dislike came rushing back when the earl asked how much longer he intended to stay in England.

“There are vessels that make regular sailings to your island from Liverpool—which is no great distance from here.”

Dare knew he could be home within a day and a half, but wasn’t tempted to go. “I’ve no need to return,” he replied, “for I’ve not yet completed my business in London.”

“Haven’t you?” asked Rushton. “It seems to me that you’ve done exactly what you intended to. You seduced Oriana.”

Loyalty to Oriana demanded that Dare keep silent, and he couldn’t defend himself against the accusation. Flashing an angry glance at the nobleman, he said, “You have a very poor opinion of me. And of her.”

“I hold her in the highest regard, but I know how her impulses lead her into trouble. Has she ever spoken to you about a man called Thomas?”

He nodded.

“His failure to treat her honorably caused her great unhappiness. You can’t possibly understand what she suffered—or why, afterward, she held herself aloof from all men. She found solace in her music, and her professional pursuits. When she sought my counsel, I suggested that she limit herself to the most exclusive engagements and cultivate her blood connection to the Beauclerks. Her efforts to overcome past scandal would have succeeded, had Matthew not scuttled them.”

“Did you arrange Powell’s marriage to your daughter as a means of separating him from Oriana?”

“Certainly not. Their attachment existed long before Matthew met Oriana. He has his faults—volatility, extravagance—but I’m convinced of his devotion to Liza and hers to him. As my sole heiress, she can marry without regard to fortune, and I shall settle the London house upon her when she marries.

She spent the season in town, establishing herself in society and ordering her bride clothes. When a ridiculous household dispute arose over a set of Wedgwood china, Matthew reacted badly. He got drunk, and for consolation turned to Oriana.”

“At the theater. Yes, I know. She removed herself from London.”

“From England, in fact. To my eternal regret, she let a whim carry her off to the Isle of Man.”

One man’s loss was another’s gain. “So I
didn’t
imagine your dog-in-the-manger attitude.”

“I guard what is mine, Corlett.”

“In what sense does Oriana belong to
you?”

“Moderate your tone, sir,” Rushton advised him, “unless you want my servants to overhear.”

He glanced over his shoulder and saw the men ambling behind them, passing a brandy flask back and forth. In a low voice, he asked, “What the devil do you mean, she’s yours? If so, she failed to mention it.”

“Circumstances have prevented me from declaring myself,” he said coolly. “Oriana required sufficient time to recover from the Teversal episode. And I couldn’t create a scandal with an opera singer while planning my daughter’s wedding festivities.”

They were passing the coppice where Dare and Oriana had disported themselves, and his memories bolstered his certainty that she belonged more to him than to Rushton. A shared passion, he assured himself, trumped years of platonic friendship. She’d exchanged a pledge with him.