Improper Advances by Margaret Evans Porter

brandy, and ushered her back to the parlor. A series of impersonal questions about the price of dress goods in London alleviated Oriana’s fear of personal conversation. The good lady merely sought assurance of her favorable impression of the island—its residents, its scenic beauties, the cheapness of provisions.
    “I’ve never lived any other place,” Mrs. Curphey acknowledged, “so I’ve naught to compare it with.

    Sir Darius tells us you’ve lived in Brussels. Did you visit other cities on the Continent?”
    “Paris and Vienna,” Oriana answered, as Dare and the doctor entered the room. “And my mother and I spent several years in Italy.”
    She continued to dole out select morsels of her past for her Manx friends to feast upon, feeling guilty about the many facts she withheld.
    Because Dare had posted those letters, and was hearing her vivid descriptions of foreign scenery, he had revised his opinion of her. In truth, he knew her no better now than when he’d believed her to be a marriage-hungry vixen. He pursued a friendship with respectable Mrs. Julian, well-connected soldier’s widow. If she had visited his island as Ana St. Albans, he would either shun her or expect to sleep with her. She wanted no repetition of the indignities she routinely suffered in London.
    During their moonlit drive through Glen Auldyn, Dare asked whether she’d enjoyed the evening.
    “Very much.” Spoiled by a lifetime in public view, she’d rather missed being the focus of attention. As long as the attentiveness was polite and undemanding.
    “Confess, you’re accustomed to more exalted company than a Manx country doctor, his wife, and the owner of a lead mine.”
    Secretly amused by his unsubtle attempt to elicit information, she replied calmly, “I occasionally dine in the home of a duke, yet I spent several months as a soldier’s bride in a garrison town. Make of that what you will.”
    “Your time in Italy must have been interesting.”
    A soft laugh escaped her. “Too interesting, sometimes. Mother and I were constantly on the move.
    We wintered in Milan. We spent spring in Venice, summer in Florence, autumn in Rome, and Christmas in Naples. After the New Year, we returned to Milan and began again.”
    Lessons, recitals, performances—she had never worked harder. She’d sung for aristocrats, sometimes for royalty, in the most notable opera houses, and had provided entertainment for many a private fete. She’d sung in churches and convents. Although the Italian critics’ assessments of her abilities had been encouraging, they saved their highest accolades for native divas. Her talent was remarkable—for an English girl, and one so young—but too many people believed that Italian opera was written for Italian voices. Yet she had her partisans, and because there was no debate about her budding beauty, she achieved a moderate success.
    “Tell me about Mount Vesuvius. You must have seen it when you were in Naples.”
    “It’s hard to miss,” she told him. “There it is, looming in the distance, puffing smoke.”
    “Did you climb it?”
    “Every tourist does. One evening we rode donkeys from Portici up to the very top of the volcano.
    We gazed into a deep cavern filled with waves of liquid fire—terrifying, like a vision of hell. A few weeks later, black smoke began pouring from the mountain. There was a powerful noise—loud blasts like thunderclaps, and red cinders bursting up toward the night sky. Afterward there was a great flow of lava down the sides of the mountain.”
    “I envy you that sight,” he said. “I imagine the rocks of that region are very black.”
    She nodded. “I gathered up a handful, as souvenirs.”
    “You were happy there?”
    “I wasn’t unhappy. But four years was a long time to be away from London, and I was thankful to return to Soho Square.”

    The gig heaved up on one side and slammed down hard. Oriana fell against Dare, whose arm curled around her shoulders. Inwardly