Society's Most Scandalous Rake. Isabelle Goddard

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 disappointment 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