Improper Advances by Margaret Evans Porter Page A

she melted, but her body went rigid.
    Drawing away from her, he murmured, “Sorry. The wheel must’ve struck a stone.”
    Did he apologize for the bumpy ride, or for touching her?
    She felt flushed all over, despite the bracing night air. The dangerous nature of the suggestive darkness, this deserted road, were suddenly obvious to her. He was a man, she was a woman. He wanted her, and his unexpressed desire wakened a similar need in her, but she must not give in to it. By letting him steal another kiss, whether tender or passionate or merely curious, she’d forfeit what peace of mind she had left. And tomorrow she would have to pack up her belongings and catch the next boat for Liverpool.
    Her heart pounded wildly as she waited for him to pounce.
    As soon as she saw Glencroft’s gateposts, she said, “Set me down, please.”
    “In the lane?”
    Reaching for the reins, she tugged them herself, and Fedjag obediently came to a halt. “Good night, Sir Darius.”
    “I do wish you’d call me Dare,” he complained, as she climbed out of the gig. ‘Till tomorrow, Oriana,” he called after her.
    Beneath the green silk her skin prickled, and not because of the wind.
    Two weeks of tomorrows, she thought, hurrying down the drive to the cottage. Fourteen days and nights of giving incomplete answers to his questions, of refusing to sing for him. And she must never put herself within reach of his hands—or his mouth—unless she wanted to lose the respect she’d desperately tried to cultivate.
    Awfully tiresome, being ruled by prudence. Never before had she felt so restrained by propriety.
    When she liked a gentleman, she enjoyed flirting with him. Inevitably, the gossips turned any agreeable acquaintance into a tawdry affair. Those engravers who specialized in satirical prints would produce yet another grossly inaccurate bedroom scene and hang it in their shop windows.
    On this island she was safe from those who caused her so much distress, yet she dared not take advantage of her freedom. For that reason, her convincing impersonation of a prim and proper widow was sometimes more of a curse than a blessing.

Chapter 7
    Oriana presented her open palm and let the goat nibble the blades of grass she held. The animal’s downy muzzle and blunt little teeth tickled her sensitive skin.
    Her desire for companionship had driven her outdoors. The goose and the hens, busy with their own affairs, ignored her; the milk cow grazed at the distant edge of the meadow. But the goat welcomed her attentions, not caring that often she gazed distractedly toward the lane or that her affectionate murmurs subsided whenever she fell into reverie.
    I won’t fall in love with him.
    She blamed her lack of music for this ridiculous, senseless despondency. While learning Ned’s songs, she’d enjoyed a semblance of her London routine. Now the miner was recuperating in the Lace household. In her idleness, she was prone to unsuitable thoughts about her landlord. This strange mood was temporary; it would dissipate when she began rehearsing her concert. At Liverpool’s Theatre Royal she’d be singing about the love and passion that eluded her off the stage. And by the time she returned to London, her interest in Sir Darius Corlett would have faded.
    His broken romance had stirred her sympathy and roused a sense of comradeship. Willa Bradfield’s deception and betrayal mirrored the actions of the callous Thomas Teversal, who had vanquished her scruples with promises and wrecked her peace.
    On coming to this island, she’d cast off her name and shed past scandals. During her three weeks at Glencroft, she’d convinced Dare Corlett that she was a virtuous widow. For a few days more she must maintain her false—and very fragile—respectability.
    She told herself it would be better if he stayed away. But every fleeting hour with him was precious, and she wanted to carry a hoard of pleasant memories back to England.
    He didn’t come in his gig, as she