Improper Advances (22 page)

“We’ve entered the most disreputable part of the gardens,” Oriana said, as they ventured down the long, narrow alley. “The Druid’s Walk, it used to be called.”

“A popular place of assignation, I gather.”

“Here the light skirts parade their wares before the gentlemen of the town, and many an innocent girl has met with ruin. I’ve not come to the Lover’s Walk for several years.” Her hood fell back as she gazed up at the treetops. “Did you hear? A nightingale!”

“Poor creature, she must have felt sadly inferior when you were signing.”

“Oh, Dare,” she sighed, “that’s a lovely compliment.”

“Allow me to improve upon it.” He studied her shadowed countenance. “Your eyes shine like the rarest of fine gems. Your lips look as if they were carved from pink coral. Your teeth are like pearls—”

“No, no, I’d rather hear you praise my music. I was born with this face, but I’ve spent a lifetime training my voice.”

As the bird completed a series of trills, Dare said, “Your singing reaches into my soul. And that wondrous rich voice resides here, in a throat so delicate that my fingers can almost encircle it.” His fingers curled around her slender neck. “The first song you sang tonight—I heard it in Liverpool, didn’t I?”

”
‘Frena le belle lagrime.’
Restrain not your lovely tears. Herr Abel composed it—Queen Charlotte’s court musician.”

“I had no idea what you were singing about, I knew only that it was the most poignant tune I’d ever heard.”

“The lyric comes from a poem by Pietro Metastasio. His verses are beautiful, and many composers have set them to music.
Non destarmi almeno nuovi tumulti in seno,”
she quoted softly,
“bastano i
dolci palpiti che vi cagiona amor.
Rouse not new turmoil in my breast, great is the sweet throbbing that love causes there.”

His hand crept inside her cloak and sought her bosom, feeling its erratic rise and fall. “Yes, there is a turmoil here.”

“Don’t,” she pleaded, “or I shall feel even more wretched.”

“Clearly I need to improve my technique.”

His wry comment produced a feeble burst of laughter. “No—as it is, you are difficult to resist. I shouldn’t have come here.”

“One kiss.”

“You won’t stop at that—you never have done. You’ll want more.”

“Much more,” he drawled. “You promised I should have my answer tonight.”

His reminder increased her agitation. “You might be content to dally with me for a little while, to pass the time in town, until you meet some suitable heiress with twice the riches you already possess.

Eventually you must return to your home, with or without a bride.”

He bestowed another chastening look. “You form your judgments of me, and your expectations, by the way other men treated you—particularly that cad Thomas. Remember your anger and hurt when I treated you as one more in an endless parade of fortune hunters? It’s unfair—and very foolish—to let our past misfortunes rob us of pleasure. Trust me, Oriana.”

“I’m trying.” Staring down at their joined hands, she confessed, “And I’m afraid.”

“You needn’t be. I seek only as much as you’re willing to give. But if you say I must surrender all hope of having you, I must go away—soon. I want you too much,” he said quietly.

This craving was leagues beyond merely wanting—his whole being pulsed with the need to possess, a force as powerful as it was elemental. Her heart, her soul, her mind … her naked body, wrapped in his arms.

He was desperate enough to suggest that she marry him. But should he?

No. Even if she wanted another husband—and she’d never hinted that she did—pride wouldn’t permit him to wed a woman who wasn’t in love with him. That was one mistake he would never repeat.

But the fact that her heart wasn’t fully his wouldn’t prevent him from sleeping with her.

“Twice you deserted me, yet my desire for you grows stronger rather than weaker. Believe me, Oriana, your present wretchedness cannot possibly surpass mine. So many years I’ve evaded the snares of designing females, only to become enamored of a lady who cares nothing for me.”

“I care,” she broke in.

“Prove it,” he challenged her.

She moved in closer, until her hips were framed by his and her long velvet cloak and silken skirt crumpled against his legs. Her hand reached for the back of his head, gently forcing him down to meet her parted mouth. The dart of her tongue between his lips sent a shudder through his frame. He clutched at her, and wondered how long he could survive this exquisite agony.

After the kiss, he told her, “You’ve proved very little, only your ability to torment me.”

“And myself,” she admitted, her eyes dark pools of uncertainty. “You seek a mistress—your own Nell Gwynn or Sally Vernon. And that is what I never wish to be.”

“I am less familiar with such arrangements than you,” he conceded, “but I do know they entail an exchange of money or property for sexual favors. I’m making no such offer. No allowance nor house, not a shilling of my money will you get. I won’t barter for a bedmate. My greatest dream, my most fervent hope, is that from this night onward, we will belong exclusively to one another.”

“While I dwell in London, and you on the Isle of Man? You’re overlooking a crucial detail—geography.”

“A minor problem with a simple solution. I’ll divide my time between both places.” He tried not to think of his lovely villa, empty and neglected, and the elegant furnishings he’d been choosing so carefully.

And he closed off all thoughts of the Corlett Mining Company. His most vital concern stood before him—reluctant, undecided, breathtakingly beautiful.

“Constant travel grows wearisome,” she said. “I might not be worth the trouble.”

“If you weren’t, I wouldn’t be standing here,” he pointed out. “That determination was made many weeks ago. Just when I was settling into complacency, my future clearly charted, you walked into my house and showed me what was missing. I didn’t realize it then, but you do have impeccable timing.”

“So say the critics,” Oriana murmured. “Perfect pitch, also.”

“Our greatest difficulty,” he said heavily, “is that we’ve both grown too cautious. Maybe I should stop talking about what I intend to do, and do it. Now. You’d enjoy it—yes, you would, though you might not admit it. And I’d feel a hell of a lot better while it lasted. But afterward you’d be angry, and I’d be ashamed. And I can’t let it happen that way. Why are you smiling at me like that, you witch?”

“Because you’re the only man I’ve known who felt compelled to apologize for his decency.”

“I don’t. I curse it.” Capturing her hand, he held it tightly. “My affection and devotion are yours. Not to mention fidelity, respect, and honesty—or as you might say, bluntness.”

She said reflectively, “This is exactly how we began, all those weeks ago. You wanted to sleep with me before you even knew my name.”

“It wasn’t sleeping I had in mind, then or now.” His hand smoothed her shoulder, brushing the nap of her garment. “That night I discovered my greatest weakness—a lovely lady in a blue-velvet cloak. Refuse me tonight, and I shall ask you again tomorrow. And the day after, and the day after …”

“I don’t want to refuse.”

At those wistful words, relief stilled his heart.

“I think about you all the time,” she told him. “From morning to evening. When I lie in my bed, when I’m practicing at the pianoforte. I remember what happened at Skyhill, and wonder why I can’t let it happen again. It isn’t a lack of desire that holds me back, Dare, or a wish to make you miserable.”

“Then why?”

“When I said I was afraid, I didn’t mean that I feared you. It’s scandal I dread—as you should.”

“I’ve no intention of doing anything scandalous. I didn’t set out to conquer Ana St. Albans to raise my own profile. I’m no sportsman, like your London rakes; I derive no great pleasure from the chase. I’m a miner, a seeker of treasure. Whenever I obtain a valuable gem, I hold on to it. I tell no one, and I hide it away in a private place. You may depend upon my discretion.”

“I need more than that. I’m asking you to keep our-our liaison secret from everyone. No one can ever know about it.”

“I promise. Will you be mine?”

“I think perhaps I already am.”

“Look at me, Oriana.” When she obeyed, he framed her face with his hands. “Say that again, leaving off the ‘perhaps,’ and I’ll be the happiest of men.”

“I’m yours—I am.”

He rewarded her with a scalding kiss, striving to melt any icy remnants of resistance. And he did, setting free the wanton, willing creature she’d been in his library at Skyhill.

A loud titter broke through the nightingale’s aria. When Dare turned his head, the silk flowers in Oriana’s hair tickled his chin. He could just make out a couple sprawled across a nearby bench—the flighty Hetty and her swain Ralph. He spied their young friends farther on, the girl backed up against a tree trunk, her escort nuzzling her neck and bared breasts.

Oriana tugged on his coat button to get his attention. “Have you tired of me so soon?”

“No, but I think we should find a better place to consummate our pledge.” He pulled up her hood and fastened her cloak to cover her.

“Where? And when?”

After much misery, he’d won what he wanted—or soon would. Now he could afford to toy with her.

His mischievous intent showed in his grin when he replied, “At a time and place of
your
choosing.”

The oars lay idle in their locks, for the steady current and an outgoing tide was drawing the rowboat downriver, toward Westminster Bridge. It was a heavier craft than the long, flat wherries that skimmed the water, carrying other revelers back to the city. It floated along in the pool of reflected light cast by the lanterns hanging from its bow and stern, and the candelabrum thoughtfully and generously supplied by the Vauxhall management.

Oriana, perched on the bench in the bow, was still dazed by her acceptance of Dare’s proposition.

Her choice was made, her fate was settled. Was this a surrender or a victory? A compromise, she decided. After a difficult siege, she’d succumbed to her own desire and his enticements, but in so doing had conquered her ingrained fear of sharing herself.

With uncharacteristic eloquence, he had revealed an emotional commitment that was gratifying as it was alarming. Neither of them, she suspected, could accurately define their feelings, but he’d been brave enough to try. After all, he was a scientist, accustomed to labeling specimens, and drawing conclusions about them. He’d courted her without mentioning love, offering in its stead his affection, devotion, honesty, faithfulness, and discretion. Few wives, she reflected, had received such firm assurances. But to make their bond more secure, she must become what she had vowed never to be.

What use was virtue, she reasoned, if by guarding it she lost Dare? Whether she did or didn’t share her body with the Manxman who had pilfered her heart, she’d continue to be damned by the gossips and the caricaturists and the printers of Fleet Street.

No longer content to let the silence drag on, she said, “My desire for concealment must seem strange to you.”

“Not at all,” he answered. “You’ve been performing since you were a little child. Fine ladies copy your clothes and hats. Girls in the street sing your ballads. Men follow after you when you walk in the Park.

It’s natural you should want to close off something of yourself from scrutiny. Even as a public figure, you have every right to lead a private life. I mean to help you in that effort, Oriana, not hinder you.”

Propelled by his forceful stroke, the little craft surged ahead, cutting through the black waters. The lanterns wobbled, the candleholder tipped, and drops of wax spilled from the tapers. Oriana, mindful of the danger to her flounced hem, pulled up her skirt.

“Madame St. Albans, you’re a wicked tease.”

“I mustn’t spoil my new gown,” she defended herself. She refrained from pointing out that his coatless condition and open-necked shirt strained her own composure. She held out the goblet. “Here’s the last of the champagne.”

He released one oar to take it from her. After finishing it off, he said, “If only we had pen and paper, we could stick a note in the bottle and set it adrift.”

Feeling about in her cloak’s inner pocket, she reported, “I’ve got a pencil stub. And a crumpled playbill.”

His grin flashed in the evening gloom. “If
you
write the message, it will be unreadable.”

Bent on retaliation, she dipped her hand into the river and flicked cold water at him. It splashed upon his face and neck and dampened his white shirt. Where the material stuck to his dark skin it was nearly transparent, revealing dark skin and a delicate etching of black hairs.

“Do it again,” he urged.

His eager response roused a yearning to pleasure him in other ways, and her whole body seemed to tingle with anticipation.

When he returned the wineglass, she let him have the pencil and paper. Resting her elbows on her knees, she watched him scribble, pause, then continue. When he presented his composition to her, she held it near the candlelight to read.

United by their pledge of mutual faith and hopefulness, Oriana & Dare, Saturday, 6 July,
1799.

Rolling the paper into a scroll, she tucked it inside the champagne bottle.

“Let’s each contribute an item of personal significance.” He dropped his cravat pin inside, and it fell with a clink.

Oriana couldn’t settle on a sacrificial object. The St. Albans brooch was a memento of her father; her emerald eardrops had belonged to her mother. She wore no rings. Dare suggested that she give up one of the spangled silk flowers from her hair, so she stuffed it into the neck of the bottle.

To make a strong seal, she dipped the cork in a pool of rapidly congealing wax before inserting it into the mouth. “Shall I release it?”

He reached out to grip the neck, his fingers closing over hers. “Together.”

Gently they laid the vessel in the water.

Oriana sat back to watch it bob on the surface. “I hope it doesn’t wash ashore anywhere near London. Discovering my identity would be no great feat—my stage name is printed on that bill.”