Society's Most Scandalous Rake Page 2

  ‘I’m determined to enjoy this evening, Flora,’ she pronounced, her dark eyes sparkling with anticipation. She had begun to feel the old excitement returning even though she was once more about to enter the lion’s den.

  ‘Of course you are, miss, why ever wouldn’t you?’ her maid asked innocently.

  ‘When I agreed to come to Brighton in Lady Blythe’s place, the prospect of helping my father entertain seemed nicely distant. But now!’

  ‘You’ll be fine, Miss Domino, you always know exactly the right thing to say and do,’ Flora soothed.

  ‘My aunts have schooled me well, it’s true, but this is the very first ton party I have ever hosted.’

  And it had arrived rather too quickly, she thought. It seemed as though they had hardly settled themselves in the elegant town house on Marine Parade before Alfredo announced that he wished to give a reception. But it was more than that. Her last foray into the social life of England’s top one-hundred families had ended in disaster. She saw the young girl she had been, so open to all the pleasures of that first London Season: balls, picnics, exhibitions, ridottos, Venetian breakfasts. How young and foolish! She had fallen in love with the wrong man and fallen foul of one who meant her nothing but dishonour.

  ‘It’s time you went downstairs, miss. I’ve just heard Miss Carmela’s door close.’

  The maid fussed around her, adjusting a tendril here, a fold of the dress there. Domino bestowed a warm smile on her. ‘Thank you so much, Flora. You’ve had magic in your fingers this evening. I hope I shall live up to your handiwork.’

  ‘You will, Miss Domino, for sure. You look fair ’ansome.’ Flora grinned, betraying her rural heritage and forgetting for the moment the town bronze she was painfully acquiring.

  The hall had been sumptuously decorated with tall vases of early summer lilac and as Domino walked slowly down the marble staircase, their perfume rose in a sensual spiral to meet her. The main doors were open and in the still evening air she could hear the rhythmic beating of waves against stone parapet. Her father and Carmela were already waiting by the front entrance to receive the first of their guests, her cousin having forsaken her usual black gown for a slightly less funereal mauve. They looked up at her approach and Alfredo glowed with pride; even Carmela gave her a tight smile of approval. So far, so good, but her nerves were taut. Would her planning stand up to the ton’s stringent demands? Could she perform the role of hostess with aplomb? She had not long to find out.

  * * *

  Lord Albermarle was the first to arrive and his bluff good nature put Domino immediately at ease. Most of their guests that evening would be men—an inevitable imbalance in a diplomatic reception—and she had not been certain whether to feel this as an advantage or not. But Lord Albermarle’s gentle compliments and genial smile decided her. Far better to make her début without female whispers to disparage her efforts. Soon the ground floor of Marine Parade was throbbing with life. Most of the guests were involved in some way with the Court or with Parliament, but there were a few without any diplomatic or political interest who came simply to look over the new ambassador and his household. They appeared to like what they saw.

  Sir Henry Bridlington spoke for many when he observed, ‘Señor de Silva seems a very good sort and his daughter is bound to make a stir in Brighton this season.’ He took a long pinch of snuff. ‘The girl has looks, breeding and she’s no fool. Refreshing to meet a woman with opinions!’

  ‘It depends on the opinions, I imagine.’ The man who spoke was flaxen haired and his tawny eyes glittered with amusement.

  ‘Nothing outlandish, I swear,’ Bridlington responded. ‘In fact, I thought she spoke most sensibly. And a very attractive face and figure, don’t you know.’

  ‘Ah, now you’re talking sense. A woman’s opinions are as changeable as the sea. But her looks! That’s a different matter entirely. I must ensure I make the acquaintance of this nonpareil.’

  * * *

  So it was that Domino, busily circulating among her guests, came face to face with her tormentor of the morning.

  He smiled lazily down at her while a flush gradually suffused her entire body as she realised who was barring her way. He had looked complete to a shade during this morning’s encounter. Now he looked simply splendid. He was dressed in the satin knee breeches and black long-tailed coat befitting a gentleman attending an evening party, but the way he wore them singled him out from every other man in the room. His clothes fitted him impeccably—the work, she surmised, of a master tailor—and clearly suggested the perfect male body beneath. A dandyish silk waistcoat of maroon-and-grey stripes was countered by the restraint of a crisp white neckcloth, tied in an elegant trône d’amour and fastened by a single diamond stud. Her gaze travelled slowly over him, but always came back to those amber eyes, sensual and appraising.

  ‘Miss de Silva, I imagine? Joshua Marchmain, at your service.’ He bowed with a languid grace.

  She bobbed a bare curtsy and inclined her head very slightly. His smile deepened at her evident reluctance to recognise him.

  ‘Forgive my somewhat unorthodox approach. I lack a sponsor to introduce me at the very moment I need one.’

  She remained tense and unsmiling, but he affected not to notice.

  ‘I am forced therefore to introduce myself,’ he continued. ‘I would not wish to leave this delightful party before thanking my hostess—that would be grossly discourteous.’

  ‘Discourtesy should not concern you, sir. You seem to have a fine stock of it.’

  Her high colour was fading fast and she felt control returning. She was not to be overpowered by this arrogant man; she would make him acknowledge his earlier impertinence.

  ‘How is that?’ He was looking genuinely puzzled and she was reduced to saying weakly.

  ‘I think you know very well.’

  ‘But then I would not have been so discourteous as to mention our delightful…’ he paused for a moment ‘…rendezvous.’

  ‘It was not a rendezvous,’ she remonstrated, ‘it was harassment and you were abominably rude. How dared you accost a lady in that fashion?’

  ‘But, Miss de Silva, consider for one moment, how was I to know that I was accosting a lady? No lady of my acquaintance would ever walk alone.’

  ‘So you feel you have carte blanche with any woman you don’t consider a lady?’

  ‘Let us say that solitary females are not usually averse to my company.’

  Domino seethed at his arrogance; he was truly an insufferable man. ‘You deliberately trespassed on my seclusion,’ she said wrathfully. ‘Despite my pleas, you refused to leave me alone.’

  The golden eyes darkened and not with amusement this time. ‘But naturally,’ he said in a voice of the softest velvet. ‘How could I? You were far too tempting.’

  She felt the tell-tale flush beginning again and longed to flee. But her training stood her in good stead and she drew herself up into as statuesque a figure as she could manage and said in an even tone, ‘I believe, Mr Marchmain, that we have finished our conversation.’

  He bent his head to hers and said softly, ‘Surely not, Miss de Silva; I have a feeling that it’s only just beginning.’

  In an arctic voice she made a last attempt to put him out of countenance.

  ‘I don’t recall my father mentioning your name in connection with his work. Do tell me what your interest in this evening’s event might be.’

  He moved away from her slightly, but his manner remained as relaxed as ever.

  ‘Which is a polite way of saying, what am I doing here without an invitation? You’re quite right, I have no invitation. However, I believe the Prince Regent’s presence was expected and I am here as his humble representative.’

  ‘Then he’s not coming this evening?’ She felt a keen disappointme
nt and, despite her dislike of Joshua Marchmain, found herself wanting to ask more.

  ‘Did you expect him to?’

  ‘My father was told that he might attend.’

  ‘Then I’m sorry to disappoint you.’ He smiled that lazy smile again. ‘George is a somewhat indolent prince, I fear, and only rouses himself to action when he anticipates some pleasure from it.’

  She was taken aback by his irreverence. ‘You are a member of the Prince’s household?’

  ‘For my sins and at the moment, yes.’

  ‘Then how can you speak so of a royal prince?’

  ‘Believe me, it’s quite easy. If one knows the prince.’

  ‘It would seem that you hold the Regent in some aversion. If that’s so, why do you stay?’ she enquired with refreshing candour.

  ‘That is a question I ask myself most days. So far I haven’t found an answer. Perhaps you might provide me with one.’

  She looked puzzled. ‘I cannot see how.’

  ‘One never can at the time,’ he replied cryptically.

  Domino was rapidly tiring of the continual fencing that Mr Marchmain appeared to find essential to conversation, but was too eager to learn of life in the Pavilion to walk away. ‘Is the palace very grand inside?’ she asked impulsively and then wished she hadn’t. She had no wish to betray her gaucheness in front of this indolently assured man.

  He smiled indulgently, seeming to find her innocence enchanting.

  ‘Yes, I suppose you could call it grand; although I would rather say that it is eccentric. But surely you will see the Pavilion for yourself very soon and will be able to make up your own mind.’

  ‘Perhaps. My father has not yet told me of his plans.’

  ‘It is to be hoped they will include a visit to the palace. If so, allow me to offer my services as your guide.’

  Domino had no intention of ever seeking his company, but she made the expected polite response. At least for the moment he was conducting himself unexceptionally. Then out of nowhere he disconcerted her once more with a passing remark.

  ‘I understand that you have been living in Madrid.’

  ‘How did you know that?’ she demanded.

  ‘I ask questions and get a few answers,’ he murmured enigmatically. ‘There’s a wonderful art gallery in Madrid, the Prado. Do you know it?’

  ‘My home in Madrid is close by.’

  ‘Then you are most fortunate. To be able to look on the genius of Velázquez any day you choose.’

  She stared at him in astonishment. ‘You are interested in art?’

  ‘A little. I collect when I can. I have recently acquired a small da Vinci—a very small one—so at the moment I am quite puffed with pride. When you visit the Pavilion, I would like to show you the studio I have set up.’

  ‘You are an artist yourself?’

  ‘I am a dauber, no more, but painting is a solace.’

  If she wondered why a man such as Joshua Marchmain should need solace, she had little time to ponder. Carmela had arrived at her elbow and was hissing urgently in her ear that they were running out of champagne and would she like to come up with a solution. The party had been more successful than they had hoped and people had stopped for longer to drink, eat and gossip.

  Domino excused herself and Joshua swept them both a deep bow. Carmela glared at him fiercely before following in her cousin’s wake. She must warn Domino to keep her distance from that man. She knew nothing of him, but every instinct told her he was not to be trusted and her young relative had spent far too long talking to him. At the best of times it would look particular, but with this man it was likely to begin gossip they could ill afford. Domino was to be married next year and it was Carmela’s job to guard her well until such time as the wedding ring was on her finger.

  Joshua watched them out of sight, smiling wryly to himself. He knew Carmela’s type well. How many such duennas had he taken on and vanquished in the course of an inglorious career? But Domino appeared to have a mind of her own. That and her youthful charm made her a prize worth pursuing; the next few weeks might prove more interesting than he had expected. He weaved his way through the chattering guests to receive his hat from a stray footman before sauntering through the front door of Number Eight Marine Parade, his step a little livelier than when he had entered.

  * * *

  The next morning was overcast. The sun hid behind clouds and the sea looked a dull grey. The prospect of a walk was uninviting, but it was Sunday and attendance at the Chapel Royal was essential for the ambassador and his daughter. Carmela had refused point blank to accompany them; nothing would induce her to attend a Protestant church, she said. She would stay at home and follow her own private devotions. If Domino and her father felt a little jaded from the previous evening’s exertions, a vigorous walk along the promenade soon blew away any megrims. Tired they might be, but they were also in good spirits. The reception had gone without a hitch and Alfredo was feeling increasingly optimistic for the success of his mission. Domino, too, was cheerful, seeing her father so buoyant. To be sure, entertaining the ton had been a little daunting, but she had come through her first test with flying colours. Apart from the impossible Mr Marchmain, nothing had occurred to spoil her pleasure. And even he had intrigued her. He was an enigma, a man of contradictions. She had thought him nothing more than a highly attractive predator, but then he had announced himself a lover of great art. He was sufficiently wealthy to laze the summer away in the Prince Regent’s very expensive retinue, but seemed to lack the responsibilities that accompanied such wealth. And far from enjoying his exalted social position, it appeared to give him little pleasure.

  A wind had sprung up by this time, blowing from the west, and Domino was forced to pay attention to her attire, hanging on with one hand to the Angoulême bonnet with its fetching decoration of golden acorns, while with the other she strove to keep under control the delicate confection of peach sarsenet and creamy tulle that billowed around her legs. They walked briskly, her father enumerating his plans for the week while she listened, but all the time her mind was busy elsewhere.

  ‘Papa,’ she said suddenly, when he fell silent for a moment, ‘what do you know of Mr Marchmain?’

  ‘Only a very little. He is one of the Regent’s court, I understand, so no doubt expensive, idle, possibly dissolute.’

  She felt dismay at her father’s description. Marchmain was certainly persistent in his unwanted attentions, but dissolute!

  ‘Do not concern yourself, my dear.’ Her father patted her hand. ‘Members of the Prince Regent’s entourage are a law unto themselves. We will have dealings with them only when we must.’

  She tried another tack. ‘How is it that Joshua Marchmain is only a plain mister? Surely if he belongs to the Regent’s company, he should have a title.’

  ‘I believe the young man is related in one way or another to any number of the nobility and has inherited a wealthy estate, which he will certainly need if he keeps company with the Regent for long. But why this interest, querida?’

  ‘No real interest, Papa,’ she said stoutly. ‘He just seemed an odd person to be attending the reception, a fish out of water.’

  ‘I think we can say that Mr Marchmain’s appearance at our small entertainment was the Regent’s overture to Spain. We must accept the overture politely, but still maintain a distance.’

  He took her arm firmly in his. ‘Come, we should step out smartly if we are not to be shamed by our lateness at church.’

  They walked quickly on, the summer wind skirling around their feet and sending up dust and abandoned news sheets into a choking cloud. Brighton was a fashionable resort—almost too fashionable, she reflected—and Marine Parade was a less-than-ideal residence. It was too near the centre of town and attracted promenading society far too readil
y. She had quickly realised that lodgings close to the Pavilion were in general reserved for young bucks, looking forward to a lively few months by the sea, and for the sprinkling of dandies with their pencilled eyebrows and curled mustachios who were always ready to ogle any stray female who crossed their path. She had come to wish that her father had chosen a house on the outskirts of town but, this morning, proximity meant they had only a short way to travel before they arrived at the church a few minutes before the last bell ceased tolling.

  The Chapel Royal was a square building in the classical style with rounded sash windows and a row of Doric columns flanking the main door. It was the custom for visitors without their own pew to be charged an entrance fee and Domino and her father obediently joined a straggling line of people, all waiting to pay their shilling. The queue was moving slowly and they waited for some while to disburse their fee, but as they neared the imposing front door of the church, there was a sudden commotion behind them, a servant pushing his way forwards to clear a pathway for his employer. She turned to discover who this grand personage might be and received a terrible shock; she found herself staring into the eyes of the man she had come to loathe when last she was in England.

  Leo Moncaster smiled grimly at her. ‘Miss de Silva? Imagine that. And there was I thinking never to see you again.’

  Her father had turned around and was looking with surprise at the sneering stranger. ‘Is this gentleman annoying you, Domino?’ he asked her quietly. She was quick to reassure him and he turned back to pay their shillings.