Isabelle Goddard - Society's Most Scandalous Rake

But rumour had named him the lover of any number of married women, including Charlotte Severn. Could rumour have possibly lied? In her heart she knew it could not. Mr Marchmain was a thorough-going rake and, if the sensations of her own unruly body were anything to judge by, he did not have to work too hard for his success. The shaft of intense desire that had pierced her so suddenly and so unexpectedly signalled clearly that she was in danger of being drawn into a whirlpool of feeling, with him at its centre. It was well for her that he was not here this evening.

‘My lords, ladies and gentlemen, I give you the illustrious soprano, Bianca Bonelli.’

The duke led the famous singer, who had journeyed from Milan at his request, to a raised platform, kissing her hand enthusiastically while the string quartet began to play the opening piece of music. Domino set herself to listen with what she hoped was a thoughtful expression.

A late-arriving Joshua, hovering in the doorway, spotted her immediately and almost laughed aloud at her face, screwed up in concentration—or was that pain? If it was, it was a pain he shared. He made a swift escape to the library, where he would not be disturbed, but from where he could still hear the concert’s end.

And end it did, with a great deal of relief on Domino’s part. Carmela wore her usual severe expression but her spontaneous applause made clear her enjoyment. Hardly surprising, Domino thought, for the music had evinced a moral seriousness sufficient even for her cousin. The latter seemed eager to meet the musicians personally and, when the duchess suddenly appeared at their side, Carmela was whisked away for introductions and Domino found herself led by Charlotte into an adjoining salon where liveried footmen were circulating with drinks and canapés.

Her Grace deftly lifted two large flutes of champagne from a passing tray and said with an enticing smile, ‘I am so pleased you were able to come, Miss de Silva, as I collect your father has been forced to post back to London on urgent business.’

‘Indeed, Your Grace. He sends his most sincere apologies and will make every effort to join us this evening.’

‘I understand,’ she cooed, ‘and really it matters not. You are my prize, after all. I was entranced when we met at the Chapel Royal on Sunday and have spent all week wishing to know more of you.’

Domino doubted that very much. The woman’s insincerity was blatant, but she managed a gentle smile in response.

‘Tell me, do,’ the duchess continued, ‘how long are we to have the pleasure of your company in Brighton?’

‘For the Season, ma’am. I have undertaken to stay with my father while the Court is absent from London.’

For a moment the expression on her hostess’s face suggested she was not best pleased by this news, but she rallied immediately.

‘How delightful, for we are also destined to be here until the Prince returns to Carlton House. Let us toast our new acquaintanceship, Miss de Silva. I am sure we will be the best of friends.’

Domino could not think so, but politely raised her glass. Champagne bubbles shot up her nose and she had difficulty in preventing herself sneezing.

‘You see,’ Charlotte continued, ‘one meets so few new people in Brighton, the same dreary crowd year after year. So when a bright new star appears, one is drawn immediately towards them.’

Domino concluded that she must be the bright star, but was at a loss how to answer. She need not have worried, for the duchess was now in full flow.

‘You are so beautiful, my dear, and have such charming manners, that I prophesy prodigious success for you—you will be the toast of the town.’

This was so patently absurd that Domino was hard put not to laugh aloud. She knew herself to be well enough but, against the duchess’s blonde perfection, she was nothing. And she certainly had no ambition to take Brighton by storm. Quite the opposite—she anticipated several agreeable months by the sea, close to her father, before she returned to Spain to make the decision of her life.

The duchess continued to talk while she sipped her champagne. The drink was gradually becoming more acceptable, and when her companion substituted her empty glass for another fizzing to the brim, she hardly noticed. When the older woman took her by the hand, she allowed herself to be expertly steered through the crowd towards a smaller chamber at the far end of the salon.

‘In proof of my friendship, Miss de Silva—but may I call you Domino? Such a sweet and unusual name—I would very much like you to meet some particular friends of mine. Just a few congenial spirits whom I know you will esteem.’

Her head had begun to spin a little, but she retained enough caution to remind her hostess that Carmela should be with them.

‘But naturally, my dear. I shall introduce you to a few dear companions and then collect your cousin and bring her instantly to you.’

They were through the door before Domino could protest further. The room they entered, though smaller than the salon, was still a substantial size, thickly carpeted and curtained, deadening all sound and cutting the space adrift from the outside world. A number of people were gathered around three large tables set at different angles in the room; even in her befuddled state, she knew instantly that this was a gaming room. She pulled back sharply.

‘I am honoured, Your Grace, that you should wish to introduce me to your friends,’ she stumbled, ‘but I do not play cards or any other game of chance.’

‘Allow me to advise you, my dear, since you are still so very young.’ The duchess’s voice was honey. ‘You have undertaken to play the role of hostess for your father. In England, you know, polite society expects always to have the opportunity to indulge in games of chance and a hostess must be as well versed in them as her guests.’

‘I thank you again, Your Grace, but I do not gamble.’

‘Who said anything about gambling? Just a few friendly games, my dear.’

Domino felt deeply uncomfortable. She was finding it very difficult to continue refusing her hostess, but games of chance, whether money passed hands or not, were something she had sworn never again to engage in. She had learned her lesson all too well the last time she was in England. Gambling had a fatal attraction for her and she could not risk getting involved. But she could hardly say this to someone she barely knew, to a woman who occupied such an exalted position. Her head was definitely swimming now and her legs feeling decidedly unsafe. She felt the duchess’s hand on her shoulder and began to sink downwards to the waiting chair. The faces around the table looked up at her expectantly. In the distance other faces at other tables blurred into a misty vision. She longed to get away but she could not, in politeness, leave. Surely just one hand of cards would not matter. She would satisfy the demands of hospitality and then depart straight away. She took hold of the arms of the chair, making ready to sit down, and the support made her feel slightly less shaky. She smiled hazily at the assembled company and then, out of the blur, a face swam into her vision. A dark, wolfish, horribly familiar face. Leo Moncaster!

She gave a sudden choke, shaken by an irrational panic, and would have collapsed but for a supportive hand at her elbow.

‘Miss de Silva? How nice to see you here,’ Joshua Marchmain was saying smoothly. ‘I hope you found the music to your taste.’

‘Yes, indeed, thank you,’ she stuttered.

He was holding his arm out to her and she took it. Nervously she glanced at the woman who stood at her left side. Charlotte Severn’s eyes were narrowed, but there was no mistaking the daggers she was sending forth.