Improper Advances (26 page)

“I never thought to hear ‘The Blackbird’s Song’ per formed in England,” she murmured to Dare during an interval. “I doubt Madame St. Albans has visited the Isle of Man, or knows anything about it.”

“Perhaps she bought the song off a ballad singer in London,” Garrick suggested. “Many performers do that.”

“I suppose it’s possible,” Lavinia said doubtfully.

Dare could have offered an explanation. But, he told himself, he hadn’t actually met the singer Ana St.

Albans on the Isle of Man. Oriana Julian, a widow, had rented Glencroft.

In order to change the subject, he asked if Lavinia missed her girlhood home.

“I love Castle Cashin,” she responded, “but I never expected to remain there. My family depended upon me to make a good marriage, and I always knew my fate would be settled in London.”

“It was,” said her husband, “the instant I first set eyes on you.”

“He was a complete stranger, and he walked up and
kissed
me as I was walking along Cork Street,”

Lavinia said.

“And it changed your life.”

Dare remembered the night in his Ramsey house, when he’d behaved with similar boldness.

Ignoring her spouse, Lavinia said, “I’ve lived very happily with that amorous stranger for five years, in Venice and in England. And now that he has his dukedom and the Langtree estate and so many responsibilities, we’re tied to this country. But we’re immensely fortunate; I have no reason to complain. I can’t often return to the island, but I carry it with me always, in my heart and my memories.”

Her cheerful declaration comforted Dare. Skyhill House belonged to him, whether or not he lived there—exactly as Damerham did. The Glen Auldyn mine, like the Derbyshire ones, continued to provide employment and produce ore.

“I do want my children to see the place where I grew up,” she continued. “I’ll show them the castle’s east tower, where my smuggling forefathers watched for the return of their ships. We’ll climb North Barrule together—perhaps we’ll make it to the summit of Snaefell!”

He didn’t doubt that this intrepid and energetic young mother would achieve her ambition.

Before the recital resumed, the master of ceremonies shifted Oriana’s chair to face the audience and placed a music stand beside it. When she reappeared with her
mandoline,
a hush fell over the room.

Supporting her instrument’s rounded body between thigh and knee, she plucked the strings with her quill end; her fingers danced upon the frets. Her songs were in Italian or French, some lively and others very soothing, and she performed a long piece without vocal accompaniment. Relinquishing her
mandoline,
she returned to the harpsichord to play a sonata. For an encore, she sang another Manx song, ”
Ta
traa
gall thie, as goll dy lhie.”

“Time to go home, to go and rest.” After many busy weeks in England, the sentiment found favor with Dare. If only they could steal away to his peaceful glen, far from curious stares and probing questions.

After she made her final curtsy, the master of ceremonies led her over to the Duke of Grafton, who kissed her on both cheeks in the French fashion. The concertgoers mingled, chatting to one another, or headed for the adjoining refreshment room.

“I wish to speak with her,” said Lavinia in a determined voice. “Garrick, I’m sure you need to discuss racing with Grafton—
don’t
you?”

The duke obediently escorted his duchess across the room, and Dare, as their guest, went with them.

When they had all praised the singer’s artistry, Grafton stated, “I take full credit for luring her here—this could rightly be termed a command performance. A most talented creature, my kinswoman.” To Dare he said, “Like me, she’s a direct descendant of Charles II—by a different mistress.” With a smile, he explained to Oriana, “Sir Darius here is a fresh convert to our favorite pastime.”

“I was at my cousin’s paddock when he bought the filly,” she responded.

Addressing his fellow duke, Grafton said, “We must convince Sir Darius to join us in the hunt, Halford.”

“I’m not a hunting man,” Dare admitted. “The country ‘round Damerham is ill suited to the sport, and on the Isle of Man we’ve got no foxes.”

“You should take it up,” Lavinia urged him. “When we lived in Venice, hunting was what I missed most about England.”

“An enchanting city,” said Oriana, “despite the absence of horses. It’s unlike any other. And the opera house is magnificent.”

Clearly this comment captured Garrick’s interest. “You performed at Venice?”

“Shortly after it opened,” she replied.

“I suspected you’d been to Venice when you sang the gondolier’s song. Didn’t you recognize it,
carissima?”

“Yes,” Lavinia answered. “Madame St. Albans, I was more amazed to hear you sing in my native tongue. From whom did you learn ‘Song of the Blackbird’ and all the others?”

“A Manxman, your grace. A musician.”

“You’re quite clever, for it’s not an easy language.”

Smiling, Oriana replied, “My poor instructor had the harder task by far.”

“My duchess might have preferred your Manx tunes, but I favor the Italian ones,” Garrick told her.

“One doesn’t often encounter a
mandoline
in this country.”

“I acquired mine in Naples, and gathered my music from many sources. I’m sure you are familiar with the operatic piece
‘Deh, vieni alia finestra,
‘ from Mozart’s
Don Giovanni.
The serenades, comic and serious, are popular tunes that I adapted myself, with the aid of my singing master, Signor Corri. The sonata by Gaudioso is one of the few pieces composed for a mandolinist.”

“I sincerely hope that you’ll perform in Bury often,” said Lavinia. “Our London visits are infrequent, and we seldom attend the theater. When must you return to town?”

“Tomorrow.”

The members of the group soon went their separate ways. Dare thanked the Halfords for their hospitality and wished them a safe and uneventful voyage to the island.

Leaving the assembly rooms, he made a swift progress across the cobblestones that paved Angel Hill and hurried up the steps of the hotel.

Even though Oriana expected it, the soft tap on her door made her jump. The old hinges rasped as Dare came into the room. Peering through the parted bedcurtains, she saw him come toward her, a chamber stick in his hand. He placed it on the nightstand beside hers, and removed his dressing gown.

Her heart fluttered in anticipation.

“What are you reading?” Taking away her book, he turned its leaves one at a time, with maddening slowness. “Ah, yes. Your poet expresses my feelings most eloquently.” Holding his finger on the chosen verse, he read it to her.

“This morning, timely rapt with holy fire
,

I thought to form unto my zealous muse,

What kind of creature I could most desire,

To honour, serve, and love; as poets use.

I meant to make her fair, and free, and wise

Of greatest blood, and yet more good than great.”

Flattered by the description, she knew she didn’t deserve it. “The blood of kings runs in my veins, much diluted, but I’ve none of their greatness.”

“For a famous woman, you have a very low opinion of yourself.”

She laughed softly. ‘Truth is, I’ve pride enough for two. As for the rest of it—whenever you’re with me, I’d rather
not
be good.”

He joined her on the bed, and smilingly brushed aside the strands of hair trailing across her breast.

“Are you going to perform another experiment in animal behavior?” she asked hopefully.

“Not behavior.” His fingertip drew a circle around her nipple, and the rosy tip drew itself into a bud.

“Reflexes. Involuntary reactions. Allow me to test the limits of your self-control.”

His palms drifted down her rib cage, along her sides, and spanned her hips. They swept behind to trace the curves of her bottom, then caressed the backs of her thighs. Oh, yes, the sensations he produced defied restraint.

She placed her hand low on his abdomen. His skin felt warm beneath her palm, and his muscles flexed into tautness. As she caressed him, she heard the hissing rush of air through his teeth and saw the upward thrust of his flesh, swollen with promise.

“You have reflexes, too.” This observation earned her a searing kiss. Afterward she said, “You’ve been drinking brandy.”

“You’ve recently eaten marmalade,” he said, the motion of his lips tickling hers. “You taste sugary, but slightly tart.”

That was exactly how she was inside—all sticky and sweet, with a contrasting tangy sharpness. This pleasure was too seductive, deliciously intense, and she didn’t want it to end. Trapped by his greater weight, maddened by desire, she couldn’t remember why she’d fought so hard and long to preserve her celibacy—or her liberty. The joys of surrender were keener by far.

His restless fingers searched for the place where her passion pulsed. As his thumb stroked her sensitive inner flesh, little ripples of delight spread outward through her limbs, building into billowing, surging waves. She tensed, bracing herself for the largest breaker of all, which struck with a force so strong and uplifting that she was swept away entirely.

“A reflex,” he whispered. The concentrated flare of the two candles shone upon his face, and their light was reflected in his dark eyes. “There’s a whole collection of words and phrases to identify what you just experienced—some lofty and learned, some extremely crude.” He nuzzled her cheek. “Tonight, Oriana, I mean to explore the process very thoroughly. Clear definitions are essential to the scientist’s understanding, and the term I mean to concentrate on tonight is ‘ravishment.’ ”

Stretched out upon this bed, her body exposed to his view, she should have felt vulnerable. His arousal, visible proof of her desirability, made her invincible. She grasped his rigid flesh and ran the pad of her thumb over its rounded, velvety tip, brushing away a bead of dew. His eyelids fluttered and he clenched his jaw.

Another reflex.

“Who’s ravishing whom?” he groaned, leaning forward and letting her guide him.

When he buried himself in her, she released a shuddering sigh. His body stilled, allowing them a moment to savor their closeness. She felt entirely filled, but wasn’t yet satisfied.

He began to move, and so did she. Their friction kindled a rapturous heat that spread rapidly from her core. Her blood heated to the boiling point, it thickened like the marmalade she’d eaten and flowed sluggishly through her veins. He slid in and out of her, stoking the fire. She didn’t feel ravished—she was burning up, and soon there would be nothing left of her, nothing at all but the scent of smoke in the air.

She cried out; he surged forward, and poured himself onto her embers.

Oriana’s head fell back upon the pillow, dampened wisps of hair clinging to her forehead and temples.

“This isn’t science,” she panted. “It’s magic.”

For a long, lovely while they lay together, limbs entwined.

During the gradual recovery from their passionate coupling, Dare told her about his brief stay at Monkwood Hall and his thriving friendship with the Halfords.

“The children are delightful. Lady Kat sat upon my knee and let me teach her some Manx words.

And I was permitted to cuddle her cat. Jonathon, the Marquis of Rotherfield, is a dignified young chap of two.”

Beneath her hand, his chest heaved and sank in a sigh.

After a thoughtful silence, he asked, “What are your thoughts on motherhood?”

His simple question was an unwelcome reminder of the probable impermanence of their liaison. “If we produced a child, it would be awkward for you, and for me the worst scandal yet. I do what I can to prevent it.”

“May I ask how?”

She stared up at the tester over their heads. “I use a lemon—cut in half.”

He rolled over on his side. “What do you do,
eat
it?”

“Oh, don’t ask,” she pleaded. “You don’t need to know.”

“You’ve made me curious. Who told you about the preventive power of the lemon?”

“My mother. When I was first wed, she taught me how to—where to position the lemon. She visited the garrison for a long talk with Henry, and convinced him that an infant would interrupt my career. He could barely support me, never mind a child. We were young, he said; we could start our family when he returned from India.”

He held up her fingers and kissed each one. “You do smell lemony.”

“The scent is lasting.”

“Your knowledge served you well, I gather, during your involvement that blackguard who treated you so ill.”

She didn’t want to remember Thomas while she was lying in Dare’s embrace. “I didn’t bother with it, because we were soon to marry. Or so I believed.”

Dare’s expression was inscrutable. Perhaps she shouldn’t have spoken so candidly about her past. He might assume that Thomas Teversal was the only man whose child she’d been willing to bear. She could refute it, but the topic of pregnancy was not one she was eager to pursue. He seemed more amused than offended by her effort to avoid conception. Perhaps he was relieved. Most men would be—but then, Dare was in no way ordinary. He continued to hold her hand against his face, drawing her fingertips across his cheek. Reaching for the other, he did the same. “Feels different.”

“Over time, the ends grow firm from pressing down on the mandoline strings. I’ve been practicing so much lately.”

“You deserved all the applause and approval you earned tonight.”

“The audience was genteel and more attentive. These subscription concerts can also be more profitable for me. When I sing at a theater I must share the money with the proprietor, and not all of them deal fairly with performers or pay promptly. The crowds are larger and much noisier, and not very discriminating. They want popular or sentimental pieces—the ones I like the least.”

“And yet you seek employment at the King’s Theatre.”

“I was trained for opera,” she said simply. “And I enjoy it, despite the demands. Not only must I use my voice well, I’m required to interact with other characters.” She laid her head on his shoulder. “You’ll never guess my favorite place to sing.”