Improper Advances (17 page)

“Rustlip’s daughter is pledged to one of your admirers?” He raked his fingers through his black hair.

“Oh, to hell with all of them—I’m too exhausted to make sense of your intrigues.”

Counting on her fingers, she ran through the other names. “Cousin Aubrey and Lady Catherine Beauclerk. Michael Kelly and Mrs. Crouch will sing for us afterwards. I know—my friend Miss Banks appreciates fine music, and so do Sir Joseph and Lady Banks.”

“Not the same Joseph Banks who voyaged with Captain Cook? The president of the Royal Society?”

She nodded. “He collects rare plants and scientific books, and catalogs them as you do your minerals.”

“That’s not all he does,” Dare said. “How did you become acquainted with him?”

“He’s my neighbor.” Leading him over to the window, she pointed to the corner house. “His sister Sarah Sophia and I have much in common, mostly notably singing and horses. She’s teaching me to drive four-in-hand.”

“A large woman in riding clothes? I saw her.” As Dare stared at Sir Joseph’s residence, he yawned.

“When did you arrive in town?”

“Today, after three nights on the road. Sleepless nights, no thanks to you. Do you keep brandy?”

“With that queue of gentlemen at my door, I’d be foolish not to.”

His hand cupped her cheek. “My apologies for that. I was angry.”

This time his kiss was tender, contrite. Hers was forgiving.

How long, Oriana wondered fatalistically, before this dangerously intense friendship would be publicized by the
Oracle
or the
True Briton,
or one of the newssheets? She trusted Dare’s promise of discretion. But despite her servants’ similarly good intentions, she had scant faith in their ability to keep silent. In London, any new-minted gossip about Ana St. Albans was currency too valuable to waste.

Oriana planned Dare’s first shopping excursion as rigorously as a general prepared his military campaign, leaving nothing to chance.

“Why did you make this list?” he asked, as they cut across the square. “It’s no use at all—I can’t read a word you’ve written. Whoever formed your penmanship did a miserable job of it.”

“My parents provided me with many a music master, but I never had a governess. I learned my letters from Mother, and Mrs. Lumley, our housekeeper, showed me how to use a pen.” With noticeable self-consciousness, Oriana admitted, “You might say I educated myself. I was schooled at a convent in Brussels very briefly. My mother told me if I didn’t succeed as a singer, I could become a postulant—because my father needed someone to pray for his soul.”

“What did the sisters teach you?”

“Prayers and hymns. When I lived in Italy, I sang at a convent ceremony. Several wellborn young women were being received into the church—they were magnificently dressed and covered in diamonds.

I always wonder what their lives were like after they bade farewell to the wicked world to live in the cloister.”

“Do I detect a note of envy?”

The curling plume on her bonnet waved as she shook her head. “The peace of the place would appeal to me only if I could have my pianoforte and music books. I suspect I’d soon pine for the theaters and concerts, and race meetings. The worst of it would be wearing the same black dress every day.”

Although she laughed when she said this, he could tell she meant it. “Is that ruffly bit hanging from your skirt the famous St. Albans flounce I’ve heard about?”

“It is.”

“And what do you call that fetching little jacket?” He liked the way the shiny yellow fabric outlined her splendid curves, flaring out slightly above her hips.

“A St. Albans spencer.”

“How fortunate I am to have the guidance of the best dressed lady in London. As well as the most beautiful.”

“With the worst handwriting,” she said airily, brushing off the compliment. Coming to the corner of a broad and busy thoroughfare lined with shop fronts, she announced, “This is Oxford Street.”

Dare consulted the paper in his hand. “The first cabinetmaker listed here appears to be called Abdomen Wreck.”

“Abraham Wright.”

Mr. Wright’s establishment offered a variety of handsome household objects, carved from the finest woods and exquisitely finished. After studying the pattern-book, Dare roamed through the showroom.

Everything he saw, he liked—especially the beds.

His craving for Oriana was at odds with her determination to keep their relationship platonic. Never doubting that she was aware of his ulterior purpose, he saw no reason crassly to state it and risk a certain refusal. He had no rival to defeat; the only obstacle in his way was Oriana herself. Somehow he must win out over her vigorous independence and her dread of scandal. She’d stated plainly, with a bluntness he could respect but not like, that she wouldn’t be his mistress. His campaign of seduction must be subtle.

For the time being he must be content with flirtatious banter and, in his bolder moments, a furtive kiss.

Ta’n dooinney creeney shaghney marranyn,
Mrs. Stowell had often told him. The prudent man avoids mistakes.

Steering her toward a bedstead, he asked, “Do you prefer four posts and curtains, or a half tester?

What about this tented version?”

“You must decide which style suits
you
best,” she responded, clearly reluctant to discuss what, for him, was a topic of abiding interest.

Whether he selected a frame that was simple or grand, it would support the best goosedown mattress—large enough for two to tumble about on and covered with sheets of soft Manx linen.

Well, he could dream. Impossible not to, when every time he turned he found another bed, each one reminding him of the ecstasy he’d found with her in his library.

From his perspective there was no impediment to the relationship he aspired to. She was sensitive about her tattered reputation, for reasons that he could understand. He could do nothing to mend it, but neither could he cause further damage. With a steady income and a house of her own, she possessed an unusual—but pleasing-measure of independence. Oriana Vera St. Albans Julian could be the perfect mistress, if only she would stop pretending that a bed was made only for sleeping.

“Mahogany or rosewood?” he persisted. “Plain wood, or gilded? Too many choices, and you’re not being very helpful.”

“It’s your house,” she reminded him, before wandering off to inspect the clothespresses.

Yes, his house. And because of her, he didn’t even know when he’d see it again. He’d left the seclusion of Glen Auldyn to pursue a deliciously seductive and damnably elusive female.

After inspecting a set of drawing-room chairs, Dare asked for the tradesman’s engraved card. He and Oriana exited the shop, and once again he tried to decipher her scrawl. “Where do we go now—is it Deer Street?”

“Dean Street. Just round the next corner.”

A few minutes later they walked past a small hotel. Intrigued by its proximity to Soho Square, and its tidiness, Dare made a mental note of it. A pair of urns with trailing ivy and scarlet flowers marked the entrance, the door gleamed with fresh paint, and the windows shone in the sun.

“We’ll cross over here,” said Oriana. “The address we want is on the other side. Number Fifty-two, Mr. Weatherall’s.”

“Is that what it is? Looks like Wormwiggle.”

While exploring the sizable workshop, he found a pair of Pembroke tables that were perfect for his library. Encouraged, he described to one of the artisans the glasstopped display cases he required, and sketched an example of what he wanted.

“Three tall cabinets with shelves and glass doors,” he said, and jotted down the dimensions. “Three lower ones with glass tops that lift up, and an inner compartment lined with green baize.”

He placed the order, and collected another trade card.

“How will you transport your purchases to the island?” Oriana asked him when they proceeded to the next shop.

“By water. Wind and tides permitting, my
Dorrity
will reach Deptford docks within ten days. She won’t be needed for the Liverpool run. Now that the season for herring fishing has begun, Mr. Melton has fewer men working the mine.”

In Broad Street, Oriana paused to admire a pianoforte displayed in the window.

“Owen and Cox—this shop doesn’t appear on your list.”

“I didn’t think you had any use for what they make here.”

“My drawing room is large enough for musical parties,” he improvised. His drinking cronies—Cousin Tom Gilchrist, Buck Whaley, George Quayle—would be astonished if he ever invited them to attend a concert in his home.

“You’ll do better elsewhere. Broadwood makes a grand-pianoforte—five and a half octaves, two pedals, English action. I purchased mine last year, and am delighted with it. I’d like to have a new harpsichord as well, for they’re not so popular as they used to be and there’s no saying how much longer they’ll be made. But I can’t afford one just now.”

“I thought you earned vast sums for your performances.”

“In comparison to others, I do. But my income waxes and wanes, and I cannot bear to run up debts.

Since returning to town I’ve spent a great deal of money on new gowns.”

“I’ll buy that harpsichord for you. Cost is no object to me.”

“I never accept gifts from gentlemen.”

He didn’t press the point, although he penciled the name “Broadwood” at the bottom of the list as a reminder.

Mr. Thomas Sheraton’s showroom came next, and there they lingered. Dare studied a recent edition of the famous
Directory,
containing sketches and detailed narrative descriptions, until his head swam with images of chairs, settees, and sideboards. He examined the sample furnishings on display and wrote down the dimensions of a handsome dining table before he and Oriana visited the shops on Gerrard Street and Berwick Street.

“I can stock Skyhill House without ever leaving Soho,” he commented as they emerged from yet another cabinetmaker’s.

“You’ll want to look round St. James’s also,” she replied. “Somebody at Nerot’s can direct you to the upholsterers in Jermyn Street and New Bond Street.”

“You won’t go with me?”

With a sweeping gesture that took in the bow-fronted shops and brick residences, she said, “This is where I’m most comfortable. I rarely stray into the most fashionable part of town, unless I’m on my way to the Park for air and exercise. Or to exhibit a new walking gown.”

“An excellent suggestion,” he approved. “We’ve breathed in enough varnish and sawdust for one day.”

“You’ll have to go without me. My feet are too weary—yours would be too, if you’d been walking about in these.” She raised her skirt a few inches to show him her narrow, sharply pointed slippers.

“With ankles like those, I wonder you didn’t become an opera dancer.”

She dropped her gown immediately. “Dare Corlett, you’re a terrible influence! Whenever we’re together, I find myself doing the most outrageous things.”

“Yes, I remember one thing in particular.” Leaning down, he added, “When shall I have my tour of
your
library?”

Up came her head, and she smiled no longer. “Here we must part. I’ve much to do at home, with a dinner party to plan. And my Vauxhall concert the next night—I must keep practicing for it. Not to mention packing for a week in Newmarket.”

“If I promise not to behave outrageously, will you walk with me in the Park tomorrow?”

“It depends.”

“On what?”

“The weather.”

A succession of showery days forced him to seek indoor pursuits. He submitted to Wingate’s insistence that he visit the most eminent tailors; though his wardrobe was appropriate for Ramsey and Liverpool, in London he was very much behind the mode. Making a foray to the financial district, in the City, he established his account at Down, Thornton, Free, and Cornwall of Bartholomew Lane. When he declared himself a client of its partner bank in Matlock, Arkwright and Toplis, he received prompt and respectful attention. In Ludgate Hill he found the jewelers Rundell and Bridge, and spent a pleasant half hour gazing upon the sort of pretty, sparkly, costly items that Oriana was certain to refuse.

How could he convince her that he was different from all the other men who had courted her favors?

Undaunted by her reluctance to be his mistress, he intended to follow Buck Whaley’s advice and offer whatever she wanted or needed. Not money, not gemstones.

He hadn’t much practical experience of courtship. Willa Bradfield, attracted by his wealth, had been an easy conquest. The genteel young belles of Matlock and Douglas had always sought his company, and though he might partner them in a country dance, he had no intention of courting them. The attentions of those lively lasses in the island’s brothel had been his for a few shillings. They liked him, they satisfied him, and he’d felt a shallow affection for his favorite, before she left to seek her fortune in Liverpool.

Accustomed to being pursued, he eagerly embraced this unfamiliar and interesting role of pursuer.

During his rainy-day outings, he supplied himself with a smart pair of patent shoe buckles, a new hat, and had himself measured for new clothing, thereby winning his servant’s approval. Wingate was less pleased by his abrupt decision to change his lodgings, but Dare turned a deaf ear to all protests.

When the sunshine returned to London, Dare walked to Soho Square. On the way past the garden, he saw young Merton Pringle’s golden head poking through the black-iron railing.

“Do you ever leave your cage?” he asked.

The child reached through the bars, tiny fingers curled into a claw, and growled. “Did you kiss Madame St. Albans yet?”

“A gentleman never tells,” Dare replied.

“If you come into the garden, I’ll let you play with my soldier.”

“I wish I could, but I have an engagement.”

Merton’s cherubic face suddenly bore a striking resemblance to that of a gargoyle, and he stuck out his tongue before ducking back into the shrubbery.

Dare proceeded to Oriana’s door. “Good morning, Lumley,” he greeted the elderly retainer. “A splendid day, isn’t it?”

“For some,” the man responded heavily. “Me missus has been pouring beef tea down me throat—says it’s strengthening. You’ll find Madame St. Albans in the music room.”