Improper Advances (6 page)

The implication of his silky speech was perfectly clear: She was not a candidate for the position of Lady Corlett. Conceited creature, he assumed that she wished to wed him!

Her pride scalded, she bobbed up from the chair. “Your matrimonial requirements,” she snapped, “do not interest me in the least, Sir Darius.” Head high, spine stiff, she moved to the door. Pausing, she spun around. “Here’s a piece of advice. When you do meet that fine lady of your dreams, place
her
needs above your own, and you’ll have a better chance of winning her heart. I bid you good night, sir.”

She closed the door behind her with a bang, regretting it when she heard Ned Crowe’s sharp cry of alarm, followed by the baronet’s voice soothing him.

My refuge is safe no longer,
she mourned.

When Sir Darius Corlett had hinted that he considered her beautiful, charming, and witty, her weakness had become all too apparent. She was barely acquainted with him, and she didn’t want him for her husband. Yet his decree that she was unmarriageable, by his standards, wounded her.

Because, she thought unhappily, it was all too true. Not even as an
incognita,
her name and profession shrouded in secrecy, could she win the respect of a respectable gentleman. Disheartened, she retreated to a cold and empty bed.

With feigned indifference, Oriana took her place at the dining table. The man she wished never to meet again was seated across from her, and she relied on years of stage training to overlay her enmity with an icy civility. His opinion of her was low enough already; she’d not lay herself open to a charge of bad manners. She should have felt at an advantage, for she’d slept on a proper mattress and was wearing a fresh gown. His rumpled garments were testament to the hardships he had suffered during the night. But his unshaven face heightened her awareness of his potent masculinity. Large, brash, broad-shouldered—this room seemed too small to contain him.

He reached for an oatcake on the platter Mrs. Stowell had placed in the center of the table, then pulled his hand away. “I was very tactless last night, Mrs. Julian. My judgment was clouded by the day’s events, and the late hour.”

His attempted apology for his rudeness failed to mollify her. The damage could not be undone by a few contrite phrases. He deemed her unworthy of a position she had not sought, and it disturbed her more than their first meeting, when he’d kissed her with a wild exuberance that she’d enjoyed far too much.

“I suggest, sir, that we forget the conversation ever took place. How is Ned this morning?”

“He’s not much interested in the
poddash
Mrs. Stowell is trying to feed him, and says he aches all over. He doesn’t remember his fall, or much else about yesterday.”

“Dr. Curphey warned you that his memory might be impaired,” she reminded him, pouring tea for herself.

“Tom Lace will have spread the news by now. It’s possible he and some of the other miners will stop by. They’re good men, but to your refined eyes and ears may appear rough in their speech and dress.”

“If they speak Manx, I won’t know what they’re saying,” she said reasonably. “I’m not so particular about the company I keep.”

“I’ve noticed.” He passed his hand along his jaw. “And despite extreme provocation, you haven’t yet tossed me out of Glencroft.”

His smile was devastating to her equilibrium. A powerful wave of emotion—complex and contradictory-crashed upon her.

“As you say,” he continued, “my ill-considered remarks are better forgotten. I only hope they can be forgiven.”

His conscience was uneasy; he sought absolution.
But he doesn’t really deserve it,
thought Oriana bleakly. “Could you pass the cream jug, please?” Murmuring a perfunctory thanks, she returned her attention to her food. Her bread plate was less intriguing than the baronet’s swarthy countenance but much safer to study.

For several silent minutes she wove an appealing fantasy, wherein her handsome table companion grew hopelessly and helplessly enamored of her. She imagined longing glances, whispered endearments, eager kisses, desperate persuasions—all of which she repulsed with dignified grace. And after declining a highly flattering proposal of matrimony, she boarded a ship for England, leaving the distraught and lovelorn Sir Darius standing on Ramsey docks.

While indulging in her vengeful fantasy, she spied a shabby stranger lurking at the window. He rapped on the pane and beckoned to her companion.

“Tom Lace—he wants me,” he said unnecessarily, leaving the table.

She heard the men’s voices, followed by the tramp of booted feet on her stairs.

Her planned retaliation was impossible. Hurt and angry she might be, but she couldn’t follow Thomas Teversal’s example, and torture the baronet with the sort of duplicity that had wrecked her own happiness. Besides, if she tried to entice Sir Darius into flirtation, she’d confirm his ridiculous assumption that she was chasing him.

Men, she fumed, invariably mucked up her serenity. If her father had tucked her away in a Brussels convent instead of supporting her mother’s plan to put her on the stage, her life would be a great deal simpler. But, she conceded, her innate liveliness and taste for adventure wouldn’t have served her well inside that cloister.

She wished she had access to a musical instrument. Learning a new piece, or an hour or more of demanding vocal exercises, would help her fling off her depression.

The clouds looming over Skyhill threatened rain—this was no day for a stroll. A chill might settle in her throat, or her lungs, and a lingering cold would affect her performance at her upcoming concert.

Leaving the table, she went to the parlor to pen letters to her relatives and friends back in England.

From her sportsmen cousins Lord Burford and Lord Frederick Beauclerk, she requested racing news.

To their father, the Duke of St. Albans, she scribbled her regret that her Liverpool engagement would prevent her from attending his birthday dinner. Harriot Mellon and Michael Kelly could supply the current gossip in theatrical and operatic circles; Lord Rushton might be amused by her humorous description of rural living. She dwelled on its delights and glossed over the inconveniences. Only to Harriot did she reveal her greatest aggravation thus far—the arrogant, brusque, conceited, masterful, and unfairly attractive invader of her privacy and destroyer of her peace.

He’d tried, he really had. But Oriana Julian cared nothing for his apology.

During a long and wakeful night of watching over the invalid, he had decided that a show of remorse was required. Unfortunately, it hadn’t conveyed his sincere regret. Now he was even more determined to smooth the lady’s ruffled feathers.

While Tom Lace chatted to Ned in a flow of Manx Gailck, Dare wondered what sort of friendly gesture or gift would earn his forgiveness.

She was fond of flowers. She
smelled
like flowers. But a floral offering was too loverlike.

She liked animals. He’d detected a wistful note when she’d mentioned her girlhood pet. Buck Whaley’s household teemed with dogs—perhaps he could spare a King Charles spaniel. But that wouldn’t do, either. For years to come she’d remember him every time she looked at it, caressed it, kissed it.

She enjoyed poetry. However, a book of poems, on any subject, would be too personal an offering.

And ladies’ fashion journals were unavailable in this part of the island. His scientific treatise describing the island’s rocks and soils wouldn’t interest her.

A lump of lead ore? He grinned, imagining her reaction if he gave her one.

Soon after Tom Lace departed, Dr. Curphey returned to Glencroft and declared himself satisfied with his patient’s condition.

“Did he sleep the night through?”

Dare nodded.

“You don’t look as if you did. I’m sending you back to Ramsey—doctor’s orders. Mrs. Stowell is here, and you couldn’t leave the lad in better hands. As for Mrs. Julian—in Ned’s place, I’d rejoice at having so lovely a nurse. Wouldn’t you?”

Dare gathered that the question was rhetorical and didn’t require an answer.

“Shameful, the way she keeps to herself. Mrs. Curphey agrees. Do you think she’d accept an invitation to dine with us at Ballakilligan?”

“I’ve no idea,” Dare admitted.

“We must ensure that she returns to England praising our Manx hospitality.”

His own failings in that regard chafed his conscience as he accompanied Dr. Curphey out of the cottage. The colorful wildflowers swayed in the breeze as they stood talking together. Then the doctor mounted his horse and trotted down the drive.

Dare studied the nodding blossoms, recalling Mrs. Julian’s affinity for them. Before he could gather a handful for her, she opened the parlor window and summoned him over.

“Pardon my boldness, Sir Darius, but I require a favor.”

“Anything,” he promised rashly.

“When you return to Ramsey, could you post these for me?” She held out a collection of letters.

When he took them from her, she thanked him, then cut off the conversation by closing the casement.

He called to Donny Corkhill to ready his horse and gig. He was ignoring the doctor’s advice to return home and instead would drive all the way to Douglas town. Weather permitting, the mail packet to Whitehaven would sail that night, and Mrs. Julian’s correspondence would go with it. Curious about the identity of her English acquaintances, he halted outside the receiving office to study her letters. He had enormous difficulty deciphering the scrawled inscriptions; the locations were easier to guess than the recipients.

To the Right Honorable Earl of Bumfold, the

Jockey Club, Newmarket, Suffolk.

Lord Frederick Beersleep, Vicar of Kimpton, Hertfordshire.

To the Right Honorable Earl of Rustlip, Grosvenor Square, London.

Miss Harriot Mellon, 17 Ruffle Street, London.

Mica Nelly, Esquire, Lizard Street, London.

To His Grace the Duke of Stallbarn, Muckfield Street, London.

An impressive list—discounting the obscure Miss Mellon and a gentleman who appeared to bear the name of a common mineral. He hadn’t imagined that she was acquainted with a duke, a pair of earls, and a vicar who sprang from the highest ranks of the nobility. If any one of these personages was a blood relation of hers, then she was too aristocratic for a Manx baronet. Perhaps she was wealthy in her own right, a target of male fortune hunters.

Recalling his idiocy last night, he muttered a curse.

Even if he sought information from a borrowed
Peerage,
he doubted he’d find Bumfold and Beersleep and Rustlip and Stallbarn. Sorting through the collection of letters, he damned the person who had failed to teach proper penmanship to Oriana Julian. Here were clues to her background, and possible proof of her identity.

“Dare Corlett!”

Lifting his head, he found Buck Whaley grinning at him.

“What brings you into town? Lechery?”

“Chivalry,” he replied, holding up the letters. “I’m delivering these to the post office for my Glencroft tenant. An English lady.”

“When you’ve finished your errand, we’ll go to the alehouse for a brandy and a smoke.”

Sorely in need of a drink, the stronger the better, Dare accepted the invitation.

Ned Crowe winced when Oriana spread ointment on his bruised and scratched cheek, but he lay still as a statue while she removed and replaced the linen bandage wrapping his broken arm. What agony he endured she could only guess. After she completed the necessary procedure, he thanked her.

“Mainshtyr Dare will come here today, won’t he?”

“I expect so. What does
Mainshtyr
mean?”

“Master.” Ned sighed. “He won’t let me return to the mine.”

“Do you want to?”

“7iz. But he doesn’t want me there,” the young man replied with sad resignation.

“You suffered a severe injury, Ned, and need time to recover.”

“I’m the one who slipped and fell, yet Mainshtyr accuses himself of being careless,” Ned said, shaking his head. “He believes he broke his promise to
Mummig.”

“What sort of work did you do, before you became a miner?”

“I’m a
fidleyr,
and make the music at weddings and wakes.” The sparkle faded from his brown eyes, and he frowned at his useless limb.

“I’m a musician, too,” she confided. “I play the pianoforte—the harpsichord as well. And the Neapolitan
mandoline,
a stringed instrument. I enjoy singing.”

“Eh, I’m guessing you’ve got a sweet voice. I wish I might hear it.”

She moved to the foot of his bed. Clasping her hands before her, she drew a deep breath. “Begone, Dull Care” seemed particularly appropriate—for each of them. As she trilled the familiar notes, Ned’s fingers on the counterpane tapped out the tempo, tangible proof that he shared her craving for music.

So began one of the pleasantest hours she’d spent since arriving at Glencroft. She required very little urging to run through her repertoire of simple airs suited to
a capella
performance. Her voice filled the small room, and she had the satisfaction of an appreciative listener.

“What was that called?” he asked.

” ‘Triumphant Love.’ ”

“People would pay money to hear such singing,” he told her solemnly.

Oriana couldn’t help laughing, for she earned over a thousand pounds in a good year. “Where I come from, it’s considered unladylike to perform in public.”

“I’ll teach you some of our Manx songs,” he offered. “Till my arm mends, I’m not able to play. But I can lead singing.”

“When you’re stronger,” she replied. “You should sleep now. Later, I’ll read to you from a comic play or a novel.” She always traveled with the works of her literary acquaintances, Mrs. Inchbald and Mrs.

Robinson.

“Ta
, I’d like that.”

She smoothed his sheets and fluffed his pillow, and left his chamber in a happier frame of mind.

For two days she’d been confined to the cottage, deprived of exercise, and was eager to resume her explorations. She intended to walk farther up the glen and view more of the natural beauties that had enticed her to make this her temporary home. And she needed to get away before Mainshtyr Dare, as Ned called him, arrived at Glencroft. The less she saw him, the better.