Society's Most Scandalous Rake. Isabelle Goddard

is young and naïve, yet sends his heartstrings singing.’

      She bit her lip viciously, Moncaster observed with a sly glance. ‘Don’t say, my dear, that you’ve fallen in love with him. Not a good policy, not at all.’

      ‘Joshua and I understand each other very well.’

      ‘I wonder.’

      ‘What do you mean by that?’

      ‘I wonder how well. After all, you knew nothing of this girl.’

      ‘That is because he made her acquaintance only yesterday.’

      ‘And who is this paragon of unsullied innocence?’

      ‘Her name is Domino de Silva. Domino, what a ridiculous name! Why, what’s the matter?’ The man beside her had stiffened imperceptibly.

      ‘De Silva, you say?’

      ‘Yes, do you know her?’

      ‘Shall we say I have had dealings with her.’ It was Lord Moncaster’s turn to look grim.

      ‘It sounds as though they were not entirely to your liking.’

      ‘They were not. I have a score to settle.’

      ‘I see.’ Charlotte Severn glanced covertly at the polished man accompanying her. He took his time before he spoke again.

      ‘Are you interested, perhaps? We might work well together.’

      ‘We might,’ she replied consideringly, ‘but for the moment I prefer to see what I can accomplish alone.’

      ‘Then let me give you a hint. Gaming.’

      ‘Gaming? In what way?’

      ‘A small chink in the armour. It is so fatally easy, is it not, when one is young and inexperienced, to find oneself adrift in a world one does not understand? Fatally easy to lose money, for instance, that one does not have. Then think of the shame, the scandal that would necessitate instant withdrawal from society.’

      ‘You are a wicked man, Leo.’

      ‘A practical man, my dear. And practical is what you should be. Marchmain may be the gentleman you profess, but he is a man, and a very attractive one, too. Think of that.’

      The duchess did think of it. She hurried away to her chambers, a frown on her otherwise unblemished forehead, and immediately called for paper and pen.

      Domino thought little more of Charlotte Severn. If her invitation ever materialised, she was sure she could depend on her father to rescue her. Alfredo was busier than ever and it seemed to Domino that whole days passed when she barely saw him. Looking for occupation, she decided to seek out one of the many art galleries that had sprung up in and around Brighton under the Regent’s patronage. Prince George loved art and so, by default, did his courtiers—or, at least, they maintained the pretence that they did. But rather than attend the Picture Gallery on Grand Parade, which boasted an unrivalled collection of Italian and French art, she chose a newer and much quieter gallery situated to the north of the town. It was an unfashionable area and little visited by the nobility, but Domino had recently seen a flyer advertising the Grove Gallery’s latest exhibition and had been intrigued by the more experimental art it was offering for sale. Mindful of Carmela’s repeated injunctions, she took Flora with her.

      It was a beautiful early July morning when they struck inland towards New England farm and the scattering of modern houses that had been built nearby. A delighted Flora chattered incessantly as they walked, for accompanying her mistress was a rare treat and she was determined to provide amusement on the arduous walk uphill. Listening to the unending flow with only one ear, Domino hoped fervently that her maid would run out of words well before they reached their destination.

      Thirty minutes walking had brought them to the top of the Dyke Road, the main thoroughfare north out of Brighton, and Flora was still talking. They found the gallery easily enough, the only building apart from a scattering of new villas, set amongst fields where cows were placidly grazing amid the shadows. Not even Carmela could find dangers lurking in such a tranquil setting, Domino thought, and felt justified in asking the garrulous Flora to await for her outside. Gratefully she trod over the threshold and felt the silence fall like a gentle cloak on her shoulders. The interior was bright and airy, a large rectangular space, its walls hung with green baize and its floor covered by a rough drugget. The paintings were displayed seemingly at random, but the brilliant light emanating high up from latticed casements that encircled the entire top of the rectangle illuminated them perfectly. She looked about her with pleasure and began to relax.

      The paintings were certainly unusual. She wasn’t at all sure she liked them, though they were for the most part ingeniously executed. But there was one landscape that caught her eye and slowed her steps: the Downs on a tempestuous day, the grass, the bushes, the trees, all bending seawards in the westerly wind, seeming to tumble unstoppably towards the troubled and racing waters in the distance. A glorious sense of freedom, brought to life so strongly in the painting, swept through her. She wanted to awake every morning to that wild landscape, feel its energy and be invigorated. But the price tag was far beyond her means. Perhaps, she thought wistfully, she could return next year when she had inherited the very large fortune that awaited her—but then someone else would hold the purse strings. Perhaps that someone else would have a love of art too, would see how very special this picture was. But no, that was too fanciful. If he took any pleasure in painting, it would not be an English landscape that would hang in his bedroom. Our bedroom, she thought, and quaked at the thought of the intimacies that must be shared with a virtual stranger.

      ‘Are you going to buy it?’

      Joshua Marchmain! The man seemed forever destined to disturb her peace. He had expressed a strong interest in art, but why had he chosen to visit this morning, and this gallery? The latter was soon explained.

      ‘You would be doing a friend of mine a favour if you did—buy it, I mean.’

      His voice was light and amused. She looked at him smiling lazily down at her, a shaft of sunlight pouring through the glass atrium above and reflecting pinpoints of light in the gold of his hair. As always he was immaculately dressed: a perfectly cut coat of dark blue superfine, an embroidered waistcoat of paler blue and close-fitting cream pantaloons. Despite the fashionable dress, he was no dandy. Domino was acutely aware of his body so close, so taut and hard, a body a woman could easily melt against. A wave of desire suddenly knotted her stomach and began its destructive trail through every fibre. She was genuinely shocked at her response and there was an uncomfortable pause before she was able to gather her wits together and wish him a prim good morning.

      ‘I take it that your friend is the painter and this is his exhibition.’

      ‘It is, and he is doing the painterly thing and starving in a garret.’

      ‘Then, surely, you should be helping him.’

      ‘I am very willing, but he won’t hear of it. He maintains that he must live by his brush and his brush alone, and there are only so many paintings one individual can buy. So you see how important it is that you purchase his most treasured work. It’s a splendid scene, is it not?’

      He wondered if she would listen to the alarm bells clanging in her head, murmur something innocuous and move on, but her reply was one of genuine warmth.

      ‘I think it wonderful—so wild and natural, so full of energy and joy.’

      ‘Now I wonder why those qualities should appeal to you.’

      The familiar flush flamed her cheeks and, seeing it, he made a vow to tread more carefully. He was intrigued by this delightful girl and, if he wanted to know her better, he would have to be sure to confine his remarks to the unexceptional. He offered her his arm.

      ‘Since we are both here, Miss de Silva, do allow me to escort you around the rest of the exhibition.’

      She hesitated for a fraction and he was relieved when good manners triumphed over churlishness. A lace-mittened