Free Improper Advances by Margaret Evans Porter Page A

pleasure. But that shaming final confrontation had occurred at the King’s Theatre. Before a watchful crowd of elegantly dressed lords and ladies, Thomas had flirted blatantly with his betrothed—while Oriana, his former mistress, sang of love unrequited, ruinous passions, and cruel betrayal. Her pathos had summoned dozens of lace-edged handkerchiefs. She’d held back her own tears until she was alone and in bed.
    “Lurking in the corridor—can you be eavesdropping? I’m appalled.”
    She spun around. “Whatever you and Ned were saying, I didn’t hear.”
    “I was telling him his days as a bedridden invalid are numbered. Dr. Curphey says he can be moved soon.”
    “Where will he go?”
    “I invited him to come to my house in Ramsey, but he refuses to leave the glen. Tom Lace and his wife wish to take him in, and he prefers to stay with them.”
    His reference to the doctor reminded her of a development she needed to discuss. “I had a note from Mrs. Curphey, inviting me to dine at Ballakilligan this evening.”
    “I know. I volunteered to collect you at the designated hour and return you to Glencroft.”
    “That’s most kind of them—and of you. But I cannot go.”
    His black eyebrows arched. “You have a prior engagement?”
    His question was a tease. He knew perfectly well that she was friendless, and her nights were free.
    “You should have explained my reluctance to mix with local society.”
    “How could I, when you haven’t given me your reasons?”
    Ignoring his complaint, she said, “I’ll have to send a note saying I’m unwell.”
    “You’d soon have the doctor at your doorstep, and your fraud would be exposed.”
    She pressed fisted fingers to her mouth, considering her dilemma.
    “I’m the only other guest,” he told her. “Mrs. Curphey’s dinners are widely praised, and I’ve already dropped a hint about your preference for fish and poultry.”
    “I haven’t got anything suitable to wear,” she protested, grasping at any possible excuse.
    “That pretty jade green gown you wore the other night will do nicely.”
    He probably remembered it because the bodice was cut so low. “Do you mean to select my shoes as well?” she asked tartly.
    “Gladly, if you need assistance. I’d like to see the entire collection, for I don’t think you’ve worn the same pair twice. I’ll wager you’ve even got dancing slippers. I mean to find out,” he declared, and bounded into her chamber.
    Determined to chase him out, Oriana followed. She was too late—he’d already opened the wardrobe, containing an array of garments ill suited to country life.
    Fingering the crimson-silk gown she’d worn at her Chester concert, he commented, “I’ve not seen this. Or this.” He held up a long sleeve of sapphire satin.
    “You shouldn’t be here,” she objected. “What if Mrs. Stowell catches you pawing through my clothes?”

    “This cottage is mine; I’m entitled to an inspection. I have to assure myself that my tenant is responsible and hasn’t harmed my property in any way.” He leaned down to peer into a dark corner of the compartment. “Ah.” He picked up a pair of kidskin shoes with flat leather soles. “What have we here?”
    “My personal possessions.” She snatched her slippers from him and held them behind her back. “Go away, Sir Darius.”
    “Dare.”
    Oriana shook her head.
    “We’re alone—in your bedchamber. What better place for familiarity?”
    “Ned could hear,” she warned. “You’ll make him suspicious.”
    “On this island, we’re not so quick to the think the worst.”
    “No? As I recall, on first meeting me you assumed I was a trollop. Until quite recently, you regarded me as a fortune hunter.”
    He laughed, much too loudly. “Not any longer. The lavishness of these dresses proves that you’ve got plenty of money of your own, Oriana.”
    “I prefer that you call me Mrs. Julian,” she said primly, although she couldn’t repress a smile.
    “Only in