demanding vocal exercises, would help her fling off her depression.
The clouds looming over Skyhill threatened rain—this was no day for a stroll. A chill might settle in her throat, or her lungs, and a lingering cold would affect her performance at her upcoming concert.
Leaving the table, she went to the parlor to pen letters to her relatives and friends back in England.
From her sportsmen cousins Lord Burford and Lord Frederick Beauclerk, she requested racing news.
To their father, the Duke of St. Albans, she scribbled her regret that her Liverpool engagement would prevent her from attending his birthday dinner. Harriot Mellon and Michael Kelly could supply the current gossip in theatrical and operatic circles; Lord Rushton might be amused by her humorous description of rural living. She dwelled on its delights and glossed over the inconveniences. Only to Harriot did she reveal her greatest aggravation thus far—the arrogant, brusque, conceited, masterful, and unfairly attractive invader of her privacy and destroyer of her peace.
He’d tried, he really had. But Oriana Julian cared nothing for his apology.
During a long and wakeful night of watching over the invalid, he had decided that a show of remorse was required. Unfortunately, it hadn’t conveyed his sincere regret. Now he was even more determined to smooth the lady’s ruffled feathers.
While Tom Lace chatted to Ned in a flow of Manx Gailck, Dare wondered what sort of friendly gesture or gift would earn his forgiveness.
She was fond of flowers. She smelled like flowers. But a floral offering was too loverlike.
She liked animals. He’d detected a wistful note when she’d mentioned her girlhood pet. Buck Whaley’s household teemed with dogs—perhaps he could spare a King Charles spaniel. But that wouldn’t do, either. For years to come she’d remember him every time she looked at it, caressed it, kissed it.
She enjoyed poetry. However, a book of poems, on any subject, would be too personal an offering.
And ladies’ fashion journals were unavailable in this part of the island. His scientific treatise describing the island’s rocks and soils wouldn’t interest her.
A lump of lead ore? He grinned, imagining her reaction if he gave her one.
Soon after Tom Lace departed, Dr. Curphey returned to Glencroft and declared himself satisfied with his patient’s condition.
“Did he sleep the night through?”
Dare nodded.
“You don’t look as if you did. I’m sending you back to Ramsey—doctor’s orders. Mrs. Stowell is here, and you couldn’t leave the lad in better hands. As for Mrs. Julian—in Ned’s place, I’d rejoice at having so lovely a nurse. Wouldn’t you?”
Dare gathered that the question was rhetorical and didn’t require an answer.
“Shameful, the way she keeps to herself. Mrs. Curphey agrees. Do you think she’d accept an invitation to dine with us at Ballakilligan?”
“I’ve no idea,” Dare admitted.
“We must ensure that she returns to England praising our Manx hospitality.”
His own failings in that regard chafed his conscience as he accompanied Dr. Curphey out of the cottage. The colorful wildflowers swayed in the breeze as they stood talking together. Then the doctor mounted his horse and trotted down the drive.
Dare studied the nodding blossoms, recalling Mrs. Julian’s affinity for them. Before he could gather a handful for her, she opened the parlor window and summoned him over.
“Pardon my boldness, Sir Darius, but I require a favor.”
“Anything,” he promised rashly.
“When you return to Ramsey, could you post these for me?” She held out a collection of letters.
When he took them from her, she thanked him, then cut off the conversation by closing the casement.
He called to Donny Corkhill to ready his horse and gig. He was ignoring the doctor’s advice to return home and instead would drive all the way to Douglas town. Weather permitting, the mail packet to Whitehaven would sail that
The clouds looming over Skyhill threatened rain—this was no day for a stroll. A chill might settle in her throat, or her lungs, and a lingering cold would affect her performance at her upcoming concert.
Leaving the table, she went to the parlor to pen letters to her relatives and friends back in England.
From her sportsmen cousins Lord Burford and Lord Frederick Beauclerk, she requested racing news.
To their father, the Duke of St. Albans, she scribbled her regret that her Liverpool engagement would prevent her from attending his birthday dinner. Harriot Mellon and Michael Kelly could supply the current gossip in theatrical and operatic circles; Lord Rushton might be amused by her humorous description of rural living. She dwelled on its delights and glossed over the inconveniences. Only to Harriot did she reveal her greatest aggravation thus far—the arrogant, brusque, conceited, masterful, and unfairly attractive invader of her privacy and destroyer of her peace.
He’d tried, he really had. But Oriana Julian cared nothing for his apology.
During a long and wakeful night of watching over the invalid, he had decided that a show of remorse was required. Unfortunately, it hadn’t conveyed his sincere regret. Now he was even more determined to smooth the lady’s ruffled feathers.
While Tom Lace chatted to Ned in a flow of Manx Gailck, Dare wondered what sort of friendly gesture or gift would earn his forgiveness.
She was fond of flowers. She smelled like flowers. But a floral offering was too loverlike.
She liked animals. He’d detected a wistful note when she’d mentioned her girlhood pet. Buck Whaley’s household teemed with dogs—perhaps he could spare a King Charles spaniel. But that wouldn’t do, either. For years to come she’d remember him every time she looked at it, caressed it, kissed it.
She enjoyed poetry. However, a book of poems, on any subject, would be too personal an offering.
And ladies’ fashion journals were unavailable in this part of the island. His scientific treatise describing the island’s rocks and soils wouldn’t interest her.
A lump of lead ore? He grinned, imagining her reaction if he gave her one.
Soon after Tom Lace departed, Dr. Curphey returned to Glencroft and declared himself satisfied with his patient’s condition.
“Did he sleep the night through?”
Dare nodded.
“You don’t look as if you did. I’m sending you back to Ramsey—doctor’s orders. Mrs. Stowell is here, and you couldn’t leave the lad in better hands. As for Mrs. Julian—in Ned’s place, I’d rejoice at having so lovely a nurse. Wouldn’t you?”
Dare gathered that the question was rhetorical and didn’t require an answer.
“Shameful, the way she keeps to herself. Mrs. Curphey agrees. Do you think she’d accept an invitation to dine with us at Ballakilligan?”
“I’ve no idea,” Dare admitted.
“We must ensure that she returns to England praising our Manx hospitality.”
His own failings in that regard chafed his conscience as he accompanied Dr. Curphey out of the cottage. The colorful wildflowers swayed in the breeze as they stood talking together. Then the doctor mounted his horse and trotted down the drive.
Dare studied the nodding blossoms, recalling Mrs. Julian’s affinity for them. Before he could gather a handful for her, she opened the parlor window and summoned him over.
“Pardon my boldness, Sir Darius, but I require a favor.”
“Anything,” he promised rashly.
“When you return to Ramsey, could you post these for me?” She held out a collection of letters.
When he took them from her, she thanked him, then cut off the conversation by closing the casement.
He called to Donny Corkhill to ready his horse and gig. He was ignoring the doctor’s advice to return home and instead would drive all the way to Douglas town. Weather permitting, the mail packet to Whitehaven would sail that
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