engaged a box at the Theatre Royal. There could be no doubt that a lady who reportedly had the voice of an angel would greatly enjoy hearing Madame St. Albans from London warble operatically in three languages.
Chapter 8
The gray goose responded to Dare’s arrival at Glencroft in its usual fashion, shrieking insults as he climbed out of his gig. From Mrs. Stowell he received a more civil greeting. She sat in the afternoon sunshine, a large bowl of peas on her lap and a flock of scavenging hens at her feet. With lightning quickness, her aged fingers stripped the pods and tossed them to the ground.
“Mrs. Julian wants me to announce her callers,” she informed him.
Dare muttered a curse.
She peered at him over her spectacles. ” Ta chengey ny host ny share na olk y gra.”
A silent tongue is better than speaking evil. Ignoring her rebuke, he took away her bowl.
“Announce me, please.”
While waiting the outcome of this new and, in his opinion, unnecessary protocol, he sampled the peas, popping them between his teeth.
When Mrs. Stowell returned, she regretfully informed him that her mistress was not receiving visitors.
This was a personal affront, for he well knew he was the only visitor his tenant might reasonably expect. With grim determination, he marched up to the door. He owned the cottage and would not be turned away at the whim of a capricious female.
Oriana was seated by the parlor window, reading. She lounged voluptuously on the upholstered armchair, feet propped on a low stool. Her russet skirt was bunched up to reveal a petticoat ruffle with a lacy hem and shapely white calves encased by pale stockings. She hadn’t dressed her hair, which streamed over her shoulders and back in rippling waves of reddish brown.
When he came into the room, she looked up from her book, her eyebrows swooping down in an annoyed frown. In a glacial voice, she said, “I told Mrs. Stowell that I mustn’t be disturbed.”
“I won’t create a disturbance. But if you’re so determined to preserve your tranquility, I wonder why you haven’t yet wrung the neck of that pesky goose.”
She was holding in a laugh; he could tell by the way her mouth flattened out, the skin at the corners of her eyes crinkled.
“I’ve brought something nice; it’s in one of my coat pockets. Guess which, and I’ll go away. If not, you pay forfeit.”
“The left one.”
Greatly relieved, he reached into the right one and held up her letter.
She reached for it eagerly. Breaking the seal, she carried the pages to the window.
Dare picked up her discarded book and examined its title page. The Racing Calendar, Containing an Account of the Plates, Matches, and Sweepstakes run for in Great Britain and Ireland in the year 1798. Printed by H. Reynell, No. 21, Piccadilly and sold at the Publishers’ Office, No. 7, Oxenden Street. Included in the alphabetical listing of subscribers was the Right Honorable the Earl of Burford, alias Bumfold, Oriana’s noble kinsman.
Refolding the letter, she released a small sigh.
“Bad tidings?”
“My friend was supposed to meet me in Liverpool, but she’s been detained—indefinitely.”
He welcomed the news. “I suggest you extend your stay at Glencroft until she’s able to join you. Your friend’s plans have altered. Why not yours?”
“Because I’m expected on a particular day.”
Dare wasn’t going to press the issue now. Choosing a more promising gambit, he said, “Time to declare your forfeit.”
“I don’t recall agreeing to your conditions,” she objected.
“Too late to back out. You chose a pocket—that’s tacit assent.”
“Oh, very well. What must I do?”
“Go with me to the villa. Now.”
“I don’t understand why you are so determined to take me there.”
“I’m not sure myself,” he confessed.
Her hazel eyes regarded him thoughtfully. “No one will see us?”
“Not a soul. The place is deserted.” He stared at her rosy lips, waiting for her
Chapter 8
The gray goose responded to Dare’s arrival at Glencroft in its usual fashion, shrieking insults as he climbed out of his gig. From Mrs. Stowell he received a more civil greeting. She sat in the afternoon sunshine, a large bowl of peas on her lap and a flock of scavenging hens at her feet. With lightning quickness, her aged fingers stripped the pods and tossed them to the ground.
“Mrs. Julian wants me to announce her callers,” she informed him.
Dare muttered a curse.
She peered at him over her spectacles. ” Ta chengey ny host ny share na olk y gra.”
A silent tongue is better than speaking evil. Ignoring her rebuke, he took away her bowl.
“Announce me, please.”
While waiting the outcome of this new and, in his opinion, unnecessary protocol, he sampled the peas, popping them between his teeth.
When Mrs. Stowell returned, she regretfully informed him that her mistress was not receiving visitors.
This was a personal affront, for he well knew he was the only visitor his tenant might reasonably expect. With grim determination, he marched up to the door. He owned the cottage and would not be turned away at the whim of a capricious female.
Oriana was seated by the parlor window, reading. She lounged voluptuously on the upholstered armchair, feet propped on a low stool. Her russet skirt was bunched up to reveal a petticoat ruffle with a lacy hem and shapely white calves encased by pale stockings. She hadn’t dressed her hair, which streamed over her shoulders and back in rippling waves of reddish brown.
When he came into the room, she looked up from her book, her eyebrows swooping down in an annoyed frown. In a glacial voice, she said, “I told Mrs. Stowell that I mustn’t be disturbed.”
“I won’t create a disturbance. But if you’re so determined to preserve your tranquility, I wonder why you haven’t yet wrung the neck of that pesky goose.”
She was holding in a laugh; he could tell by the way her mouth flattened out, the skin at the corners of her eyes crinkled.
“I’ve brought something nice; it’s in one of my coat pockets. Guess which, and I’ll go away. If not, you pay forfeit.”
“The left one.”
Greatly relieved, he reached into the right one and held up her letter.
She reached for it eagerly. Breaking the seal, she carried the pages to the window.
Dare picked up her discarded book and examined its title page. The Racing Calendar, Containing an Account of the Plates, Matches, and Sweepstakes run for in Great Britain and Ireland in the year 1798. Printed by H. Reynell, No. 21, Piccadilly and sold at the Publishers’ Office, No. 7, Oxenden Street. Included in the alphabetical listing of subscribers was the Right Honorable the Earl of Burford, alias Bumfold, Oriana’s noble kinsman.
Refolding the letter, she released a small sigh.
“Bad tidings?”
“My friend was supposed to meet me in Liverpool, but she’s been detained—indefinitely.”
He welcomed the news. “I suggest you extend your stay at Glencroft until she’s able to join you. Your friend’s plans have altered. Why not yours?”
“Because I’m expected on a particular day.”
Dare wasn’t going to press the issue now. Choosing a more promising gambit, he said, “Time to declare your forfeit.”
“I don’t recall agreeing to your conditions,” she objected.
“Too late to back out. You chose a pocket—that’s tacit assent.”
“Oh, very well. What must I do?”
“Go with me to the villa. Now.”
“I don’t understand why you are so determined to take me there.”
“I’m not sure myself,” he confessed.
Her hazel eyes regarded him thoughtfully. “No one will see us?”
“Not a soul. The place is deserted.” He stared at her rosy lips, waiting for her
Similar Books
