Improper Advances Read Online Free

Improper Advances
Book: Improper Advances Read Online Free
Author: Margaret Evans Porter
Tags: Fiction, General, Romance, Historical, Large Type Books, Scotland, Widows
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coal smoke of Liverpool for Ramsey, this quiet backwater on the Isle of Man.
    The chambermaid appeared with a pitcher of washing water. A poor substitute for Suke, she gawped at Oriana’s nightgown, liberally trimmed with Belgian lace.
    Oriana brushed out her hair and plaited it herself. Softly she hummed a haunting aria from the season’s most popular opera. Next winter, she promised herself, she’d sing it in public, at the King’s Theatre, to the delight of London’s most fashionable citizenry and the chagrin of the Italian cabal, who regularly hissed English-born singers.
    “Is Sir Darius Corlett a native of this island?” she asked the Manx girl.
    ” Ta , that he is, ma’am, but for a long time he lived away. Two years ago he come back from Derbyshire to build his house. My brother, who works at the lead mine in the glen, says Mainshtyr Dare pays a good wage. His smelting works is right here in the town, and his ship is anchored in the bay. His man, Mr. Wingate, is very English. He comes into our taproom on his evenings off.” The girl slid a warming pan between the bedsheets, and withdrew.
    Crawling between her heated covers, Oriana reviewed her brief but telling encounter with the Manx baronet. Bold. Unchivalrous. Intelligent. Tactless.
    Although he wasn’t handsome by conventional standards, he was decidedly attractive—more so when he smiled. And he’d towered over her. She preferred dark men, the taller the better.
    Sir Darius Corlett, whose demanding mouth and roaming hands had so greatly discomfitted her, was someone to avoid. She couldn’t even put him in his place by boasting of her descent from the Stuart kings of England. That fact, like her profession, must remain a secret.
    She didn’t discount the dangerous possibility that some islander might have attended one of her London performances, or the more recent one in Chester. Dread of being recognized as Ana St. Albans had firmed her resolve to hide herself away in the secluded glen.
    By adopting her married name she cloaked her identity. She’d rarely used it because it was connected to a bittersweet chapter in her life, a reminder of her shattering loss. Within months of their daring elopement, Henry Julian’s regiment had been shipped off to India. There he remained, buried in foreign soil.
    In imitation of the heroine in that ridiculous Covent Garden play, she would live in the country under an obscure name—albeit a genuine, legal one. After twenty-three busy years, she looked forward to leading a quiet, ordinary life. No admirers would demand her time and attention, her energies would not be depleted by vocal lessons and rehearsals and concerts. Best of all, she had escaped false rumors and the constant threat of renewed scandal.
    Exhausted from her lengthy sea crossing, she slept the night through without waking.
    In the morning, a thick mist hung gloomily over the port of Ramsey. Undaunted, she bathed in the steaming water delivered by the maid, who pressed the creases from a modish carriage habit of ivy green. In preparation for her new life, she simplified the arrangement of her hair. But she did reach for the cut-glass bottle of French floral water, as she did every morning, and touched her moistened fingers to her neck, her brow, her wrists.
    She broke her fast with plain bread and bitter but sustaining tea, and drove away all thoughts of the immensely gifted Louis, her Belgian chef. On leaving the rickety table, she moved to the window to watch for Sir Darius. When she leaned out the casement for a better view of her surroundings, she saw plain buildings of whitewashed stone and unpaved streets pitted with murky puddles. A large seagull marched across the slate roof; others clawed at the thatched tops of the dwellings.
    Her escort arrived in a gig drawn by a bay pony—fourteen hands high, in her judgment—and halted in front of the inn.
    Waving to catch his attention, she called, “Good morning, Sir Darius.”
    The baronet
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