Improper Advances (2 page)

Aught that is ill, but the suspicion too….

—Ben Jonson

Ramsey, Isle of Man

May 1799

This birthday, Sir Darius Corlett reflected from the head of the long table, was the last he would spend in his town house.

Within weeks, he’d move into the countryside villa he’d designed and built for himself. His spirits soared higher as he imagined some future dinner party in its elegant, oval dining room. He and his guests would converse and play cards in the spacious drawing room, surrounded by paintings of the Manx landscape—scenes of mountains and seaports and coastal cliffs.

As if guessing his thoughts, his architect cocked a grin and lifted his glass and they shared a silent toast. David Hamilton, a canny and talented Scotsman, had transformed Dare’s rudimentary sketches into an impressive structure of locally quarried stone, with plenty of tall windows to take advantage of the views from Skyhill.

Wingate, the butler, opened a mahogany cellaret containing several decanters—cognac, brandy, rum, port. Familiar with each guest’s preference, he served them with brisk efficiency. Then the birthday toasts began. Dare accepted congratulations on attaining his thirtieth year and endured many a jest about his advancing age. He received two bottles of whiskey, one from the Scotsman and one from the Irishman, and each of his fellow islanders presented him with a rock.

“For your collection,” said his cousin, Tom Gilchrist.

Dare held the specimens close to the candelabrum. “Granite, veined with quartz. Graywacke, a common form of Manx slate.”

“We couldn’t think what else to offer the man who has everything,” Tom explained.

“Buck and I considered providing you with another present,” George Quayle stated, “which was certain to excite you—and satisfy you. But young Tommy disapproved of our plan.” He sipped his rum, then asked, “What name have you chosen for that fine new dwelling of yours, Dare? Mr. Hamilton’s plans and drawings are labeled
Villa for Sir Darius Corlett.
Surely you can improve upon that.”

Tom leaned forward. “You say you’ll not be happy till you’re living up there on your hill. Perhaps you should call your place Happiness.”

Dare frowned. “Sounds like something a woman would choose.”

Accustomed to his habit of plain-speaking, Tom laughed.

Buck Whaley said, “When I christened my mansion, I chose a name with military connotations: Fort Anne.”

The suggestion had merit. “My property was the site of a great battle, hundreds of years ago.

Unfortunately, the Manxmen surrendered to the victorious Godred, who proclaimed himself king of the island. I wouldn’t care to commemorate their defeat by an invading force.”

“It’s the new fashion to give island houses English names,” George Quayle pointed out. “The Elms, perhaps. Or if you prefer Manx, Ny Lhiouanyn.”

Dare smiled. “That would be a cruel trick on my
Sostnagh
friends from across the water, whose tongues would never get round the Gailck. I’ve no prejudice against an English name. After all, the money that built the villa was carved out of my Derbyshire lead mines.”

“Now that you’ve got the home of your dreams,” said Hamilton, his voice thickened by a Scots burr, ”

‘tis time you found yourself a wee wife to share it.”

“Dare? A
wife?”
Tom chortled. “He won’t have one. His betrothal gave him a distaste for matrimony.”

The architect, a devoted husband and proud father, wanted to know why.

“The young lady fancied my money more than she did me.” Dare made a joke of it, yet his voice retained a hard edge. “If ever I marry, my bride’s wealth must match mine. Better still, exceed it.”

In a tone of reproof, his cousin said, “If you were wed, you wouldn’t need to visit the house of pleasure in Douglas town.”

“And if you ever went there yourself,” he retorted, “you’d find out that most of the clientele
are
married gentlemen.”

“Now that his building project is completed,” said Whaley, “Dare has more time for his favorite diversion. What a pity there’s no brothel here in Ramsey.”

Quayle gave a rude guffaw.

Wingate entered on silent feet and approached Dare’s chair.

“A visitor requests your immediate attention, sir. Should she return another time, or do you prefer to receive her now?”

A female, at that hour? “Who is she?”

“She seemed to regard the question as an impertinence. I can tell you only that she’s English, and elegantly dressed.”

“Old or young?”

“The latter, sir.” The butler’s meager lips stretched into a semblance of a smile. “Her features are most appealing.”

“He’ll see her,” Buck Whaley stated.

Curiosity got the better of Dare. “I believe I will.”

Wingate nodded, as if he’d expected that response. “She waits in your study.”

Promising to return momentarily, Dare carried his brandy glass out of the dining room.

She stood before his desk, this unnamed visitor who had breached his well-guarded privacy, and frowned down at the jumble of handwritten papers. The elegance his butler had discerned was striking.

Coils of auburn hair were intricately arranged atop her dainty head. Her profile was as pale and as cleanly cut as a cameo; her neck was long and white. She wore a long, flowing cloak of deep blue velvet, its hood hanging down her back. Her gown, doubtless very costly, was cut from a dark, shiny fabric and ornamented with a frivolous flounce at the bottom.

Picking up the shiny rock atop the stack of pages, she examined it closely.

“It resembles gold,” he said, “but it’s pyrite. Common sulpharet of iron.”

Her face turned toward him.

He marveled at Wingate’s talent for understatement, for she possessed an extraordinary degree of beauty.

After a burst of raucous merriment from across the hall, the lady said contritely, “I stole you away from your party.”

Her voice, like sweet music, charmed him as much as her glorious heart-shaped face. He had moved close enough to see that the hazel eyes returning his cautious scrutiny were a combination of malachite green and pyrite bronze, flecked with clay brown. Her mouth was delightfully shaped, full and rosy.

Alarmed by his susceptibility, he fought a losing battle against his desire to smile. “You’re forgiven.”

He wanted to stand there gazing at her for the rest of the night, but felt it necessary to say, “I suspect you’ve come to my house by mistake.”

“My instructions were explicit, and this residence fits the description I was given. Aren’t you Sir Darius Corlett?”

He didn’t need to ask who had given those instructions. Buck Whaley and George Quayle, ignoring Cousin Tom’s protests, had clearly provided that exciting and satisfying birthday present. Where had they found this delectable doxy? Her refinement was unique for a member of her profession.

He dropped his voice to a low, suggestive murmur. “Be patient but a little while. My friends will soon depart.” Taking her gloved hand, he pulled her close enough to kiss the parted lips. Her sudden intake of breath expressed surprise. Holding her, he was conscious of her generous curves, his own superior size—and a simmering arousal.

Swiftly, she pulled away. Her face expressed stunned dismay, and another emotion he couldn’t identify. “You’re very bold, sir. Do you know me?”

“I was beginning to,” he responded.

“But you’ve never seen me before tonight?” she persisted.

“Never. I would certainly remember you.” Not only her face and form, but the floral scent of her. He reached for her again.

She stepped back and bumped into a bookcase, knocking several fossils off the shelf. He didn’t care.

His hands seized her slender waist, and his mouth locked on hers. Her body was rigid, unresponsive—then she trod sharply upon his foot. Startled, he released her.

In a cool, collected voice she inquired, “Are you drunk?”

“Not entirely. Did they advise you to play games with me? I’m a straightforward man; I prefer a bedmate with experience. You needn’t feign virginal innocence to whet my appetite.”

“I’m not a virgin,” she stated with remarkable candor, “or a trollop. I’m Oriana Julian—Mrs. Julian. I’ll be spending several weeks on this island and require a lodging.

Laughing, he said, “And you accuse
me
of boldness! My dear, I’ll gladly keep you here—if Mr. Julian doesn’t object.”

“Captain
Julian died in the service of his country,” she answered soberly. “Six years ago.”

That disclosure hit Dare like a bucket of cold seawater. The enormity of his error silenced him.

Mrs. Julian stepped away, putting more distance between them. “If you’ll stop chasing me around this shockingly untidy room, I will explain. Yesterday, I sailed from Liverpool. An hour ago, I arrived in this town. I asked the landlord at the King’s Head whether he knew of any properties to let in Glen Auldyn, and he told me Sir Darius Corlett owns a villa there.”

In his mind, a warning clanged as loudly as a storm bell. His wariness, temporarily overpowered by her physical attributes, reasserted itself.

A widow—with a weakness for the latest, most lavish fashions. One whose beauty was so seductive that even he, a hardened case, was affected by it. Here was a hazardous combination, positively lethal.

She’s trouble, he told himself, even as he focused on the parted cloak, revealing a well-formed bosom and a narrow waist. Better send her away—quickly.

“That villa will soon become my principal residence,” he informed her. “Mr. Hinde referred to a small untenanted dwelling. Merely a cottage,” he added, with a dismissive shrug.

“I don’t mind. So long as it’s situated in Glen Auldyn.”

With some reluctance, he confirmed that it was. “If you seek an affordable lodging,” he suggested, “you should inquire down in Douglas, the largest of our towns.”

She shook her head, saying decisively, “I do
not
wish to live in a town. I chose this part of the island quite deliberately.”

Moments ago he’d held her, he’d hungered for her. Now he wanted to be rid of her, as speedily as possible. He preferred a warm-blooded whore, eager to earn a few shillings, to a greedy huntress. Mrs.

Julian’s urgency, her expensive raiment, her dubious desire to live hidden away in a desolate valley alerted him to her true purpose in coming to the Isle of Man. In debt up to her pretty pink earlobes, he guessed.

She must have left England in a rush, fleeing an army of creditors.

Cornelius Hinde, proprietor of the King’s Head, had surely described Sir Darius Corlett as one of the island’s wealthiest residents. This female, no doubt as clever and as calculating as she was desperate and beautiful, wouldn’t be the first of that type to pursue him. Or the last, he thought fatalistically.

Plunging her gloved hand into her reticule, she withdrew a folded paper. Confidently she said, “This will help you understand.”

Her handwriting, in contrast to her outward perfection, was atrocious. He struggled to decipher the scrawled phrases and gave up. “You’d better read it to me.”

“Glion Auldin. This retired village makes a pretty appearance from the rocks around it.. .

Sycamores thrive in it… This will be worthy the attention of a contemplative stranger; here he
will perceive that happiness may reside clothed in a retired garb, and far distant from the refined
luxuries of modern dissipation.”

“You copied that passage from a tour book,” he surmised. “Which author—Robinson or Feltham?”

“I have no idea. I found it at the circulating library in Liverpool. Before I finished reading it, I made up my mind to visit this island. Of all the lyrical paragraphs describing splendid scenery and beautiful vistas, that one tempted me the most.”

“Are you so contemplative? You don’t look it,” he said daringly.

Her head came up, and she retorted, “Haven’t you just learned the danger of judging solely by appearances?”

“In the scientific realm, observation is crucial to discovery. Your outward appearance cannot reveal the whole of your character,” he acknowledged, “but it’s highly informative. You employ a skillful and expensive dressmaker, and must have come from a large city where fine fabrics are easily obtained.

Because you haven’t an accent typical of Edinburgh, Liverpool, Manchester, or Bristol, I therefore conclude that you’re a Londoner.”

His discernment earned him a smile. “You know my city?”

“As well as I care to. I’ve not visited for many a year, and have no intention of doing so in future.”

Her smile slipped, a sign that his frankness had wounded her. Making a quick recovery, she said airily, “Being thoroughly exhausted from the ‘refined luxuries of modern dissipation,’ I wish to spend a pleasant month in your quaint little cottage in the lovely, peaceful glen.”

“You’d better see the quaint cottage before you make up your mind.”

“I intend to, as soon as you permit. Are you at leisure tomorrow morning?”

Oriana returned to her chamber at the King’s Head, gratified by her success but not entirely content.

Sir Darius Corlett had reluctantly agreed to show his Glen Auldyn property.

He’d begun the interview by propositioning her—as though he’d known exactly who she was—and ended it disliking her because she’d asked to rent a cottage that needed a tenant.

As a public figure, and a notorious one, she was accustomed to improper advances. More troubling—and mystifying—was his behavior after she’d stated the purpose of her visit. Her simple explanation had wiped the smile from his arresting face and transformed his wry amusement to cool condescension.

His failure to apologize for mauling her still rankled. Country manners, she thought derisively. His lack of finesse reminded her of the raw young squires who paid court to her—but none of them had kissed her so masterfully, or sparked a dangerous desire for more.

In future she would be careful not to arouse him.

Four weeks, she thought, entering her bedchamber. An entire month without employment or responsibilities. But no companion, either, for Suke Barry was enjoying a long leave of absence with her parents in Cheshire. Oriana missed her efficient, soft-spoken maidservant. She must also accustom herself to the absence of lively Harriot Mellon, solemn Lord Rushton, and amusing Matthew Powell.