Improper Advances by Margaret Evans Porter Page A

response.
    “I’ll get my shawl.”
    “No need, the air is mild. But you’ll definitely want these.” He collected the shoes lying beside her chair.
    Mrs. Stowell had gone into the thie mooar with her bowl. The chickens continued scratching among the discarded pea pods. Dare’s long-necked gray nemesis had retired to her nest.
    As he handed Oriana into his gig, she told him, “I want my fowls and the other animals to go to Donny’s family. But I do think you should have the goose, as you’re so fond of her.”
    “Only if she’s plucked and trussed and ready for a proper roasting,” he replied. He handed her his gloves. “Take these. You’re driving.”
    The smooth-gaited Fedjag posed no challenge to her abilities, and with commendable skill she guided the vehicle between the gateposts and over the bridge. The metal-rimmed wheels rolled smoothly along his winding drive. As they swept around a bend, the classical facade of his villa came into view.
    The basic design was his own, refined and embellished by David Hamilton. The structure, three stories high, had projecting bays at each end. Nearly all signs of construction had vanished, and grass sprouted in the level ground near the foundation.
    Dare turned to Oriana, seeking her reaction. Was it larger than she’d expected? Smaller? He filled the silence by saying, “All the stone was quarried here on the property.”
    “Yours is the prettiest house on the whole island.”
    Although the compliment pleased him, he pointed out judiciously, “You haven’t seen any of the mansions the wealthy natives and newcomers have built. After living at Damerham, I’m all too familiar with the inconveniences of a large establishment. This suits me better.”
    Dare began the tour at the stables and coach house. He released Fedjag from the harness, freeing her from the thick leather breast collar and belly bands, and guided her to a box strewn with green hay.
    Watching Oriana’s fingers comb through the dark mane and glide across the gleaming neck, he wished that she could establish the same rapport with him.
    Throughout his adult life, females had flocked to him, for all the wrong reasons. Now that he’d found one who pleased him, she shunned his company and spurned his touch. He couldn’t even admire her self-possession, or her caution, because both prevented him from under standing her more fully. Having caught glimpses of a fascinating and complex personality, he was ever more desperate to break through her barrier of reserve.
    In a sheltered area behind the stable was a stand of apple trees, the remains of a venerable but neglected orchard. “A rarity on the island,” Dare said. He parted a cluster of leaves to show the small green fruit dangling from the gnarled branches. “That old cottage has been vacant ever since I can remember. I’ve considered knocking it down.”
    “Oh, you mustn’t,” Oriana told him. “Ruins are quite the rage in English parks, and yours is authentic.
    Have you named your house?”
    “Not yet,” he replied. “I’m Manxman enough to eschew a name that’s overtly English, yet I want something appropriate to the setting. My cousin and my friends have offered numerous suggestions, but none of them seem quite right.” He looked to the valley. “I’ve been considering Auldyn View.”
    Her gaze roamed across the ridge, barren save for the clumps of yellow gorse. “You could call it Skyhill House.”
    The skin at the back of his neck pricked. Wondering why he hadn’t thought of that himself, he repeated, “Skyhill House.” She had provided a perfect name, and he felt certain that he should choose no other.
    He escorted her to the front entrance, adorned with columns; curving iron handrails bracketed the shallow steps. Nearly a month ago, they had stood together on the threshold of Glencroft, Oriana watching intently while he fitted a key into a lock. Since that day, his opinion of her had undergone a profound change.
    He swung the