Society's Most Scandalous Rake. Isabelle Goddard

was glad now that she had returned to England to be with her father, despite Carmela and despite Lady Blythe’s warning. Their English cousin had refused to continue as Alfredo’s hostess once he left London; Brighton had been a step too far for Lady Loretta Blythe. Raffish, my dear, she had warned Domino in a letter to Spain, please consider carefully whether you will be comfortable entertaining in such a place. Domino had considered, but the prospect of living with a much-loved parent again, free of her aunts’ strictures, had been too appealing.

      Returning to her bedroom, she found Flora in a fizz of excitement at the prospect of dressing her mistress for the evening’s celebrations. The abigail, the best of a mediocre selection according to Lady Loretta, who had despatched her from London, had never before acted as a lady’s maid and this evening would be a test of the skills she had been practising so assiduously. The rose-pink gown with its assorted underpinnings was soon in place, the very slightest brush of rouge applied to both cheeks and a smear of rose salve for the lips. Taming Domino’s luxuriant curls into the popular Roman style, though, took a little longer, and it was some considerable time before Flora pronounced herself satisfied with the result. Her mistress’s raven locks now cascaded from a carefully arranged topknot to rest lightly in two glistening ringlets on the soft cream of her neck. A careful fastening of the delicate necklace of amethysts around Domino’s neck and the placing of matching earrings completed the toilette. Both young ladies viewed the finished result in the mirror and smiled with pleasure. Whatever Domino might lack in willowy elegance, she made up for in sheer prettiness.

      ‘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