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Society's Most Scandalous Rake
Isabelle Goddard
CAN SHE TAME THE TON’S MOST NOTORIOUS REBEL? Domino de Silva appears quite the most innocent of girls: young, beautiful and pure. Her sparkling merriment charms all who meet her. But all is not what it seems, and a summer spent in Brighton promises every delectable temptation…Mr Joshua Marchmain is reputed to be society’s most scandalous rake: tall and wickedly handsome, with a dangerous allure that can disgrace even the most decent of ladies…An overwhelming force draws Joshua and Domino together – but there are those in society who would stop at nothing to keep them apart…
Joshua was left looking after the carriage, a prey to uncertainty. Domino was to be sacrificed on the altar of family duty and there was little he could do.
He was a disreputable man and could have no voice in her future. That kiss—those kisses, he corrected himself reminiscently—could only ever be an interlude. But what an interlude! It was ridiculous that his heart still sang.
How many kisses had he known in his lifetime? Not like this, a small voice within him argued, not like this. He had known instinctively that she was a girl of strong emotion, that beneath her modest exterior lay a sleeping passion waiting to be roused, and he had been right. He had wanted to kiss her until she begged him never to stop, and she had wanted him to. She desired him as much as he desired her.
Another conquest to add to the many, he thought acidly. All the more reason, then, to keep his distance. Otherwise he would hurt her—and hurt her badly. It was inevitable—for didn’t he damage everything that became dear to him?
About the Author
ISABELLE GODDARD was born into an army family and spent her childhood moving around the UK and abroad. Unsurprisingly it gave her itchy feet, and in her twenties she escaped from an unloved secretarial career to work as cabin crew and see the world.
The arrival of marriage, children and cats meant a more settled life in the south of England, where she’s lived ever since. It also gave her the opportunity to go back to ‘school’ and eventually teach at university. Isabelle loves the nineteenth century, and grew up reading Georgette Heyer, so when she plucked up the courage to begin writing herself the novels had to be Regency romances.
Previous novels by this author:
REPROBATE LORD, RUNAWAY LADY
THE EARL PLAYS WITH FIRE
Did you know that some of these novels are also available as eBooks?
Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk
Society’s Most Scandalous Rake
Isabelle Goddard
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
To Jackie
A generous friend and reader who loves Brighton
Chapter One
Domino de Silva raised her face to the warm sun and breathed a sigh of contentment. The gentlest of waves whispered along the pebbles at her feet and the wide blue dome of the sky spread itself with ease to meet a distant horizon. She closed her eyes in pleasure. For a short time at least she was free; all too soon she would have to return to the house on Marine Parade and her cousin’s inevitable questioning. If only her father would send Carmela back to Spain, she might truly enjoy this last summer before the dreary future she was resigned to. But Papa would not do that. Her stern aunts back in Madrid had only agreed to her acting as his hostess if her cousin accompanied her.
‘You seem to have dropped this.’
She was startled from her reverie by a warm voice, disturbing in its intimacy. Shading her eyes against the sun’s strong rays, she detected the outline of a slim but muscular form. The man appeared to be offering her a crumpled cambric handkerchief bearing all the marks of having been trampled in sand and sea.
She shook her head decisively. ‘Thank you, but no. The handkerchief is not mine.’
‘Are you quite sure?’
‘I think I should know my own possessions,’ she responded a little tartly.
‘Naturally. But you had fallen into such an abstraction, I thought you might not realise if you had dropped something.’
She felt herself becoming ruffled. Whoever the man was, he was intruding on the few moments of solitude that were hers.
‘As I said, sir, I fear you are mistaken.’
Her voice was edged with ice, but it seemed not to perturb him for he took the opportunity to move nearer. She became aware of a pair of shapely legs encased in skin-tight fawn pantaloons and a coat of blue superfine perfectly fitted to his powerful shoulders. Hessian boots of dazzling gloss completed an ensemble ill adapted to a provincial beach.
‘It would seem I was mistaken,’ he admitted, ‘but I shan’t repine. It’s given me the opportunity to speak to a vastly pretty girl.’
She was astonished at his audacity. His voice and dress spoke the gentleman, but no gentleman of her acquaintance would have addressed a lady so.
‘I would be glad, sir,’ she said in the most frigid of voices, ‘if you would leave me in peace to enjoy this wonderful view.’
He let out a low chuckle and for the first time her gaze moved upwards towards his face and she was unnerved by what she saw. She had not realised how young he was or how good looking. His fair hair fell carelessly over his forehead and a pair of golden-brown eyes lingered over her in a way that made her flush with annoyance. A small scar on his left cheek only enhanced his attractiveness.
The gold-flecked eyes considered her with lazy amusement. ‘I’m not impervious to your request,’ he drawled, ‘but it places me in an awkward situation.’
‘How is that?’
‘My wish to gratify a lady is at odds with my strong sense of duty.’
Her determined silence did not deter him. ‘My wish to oblige requires me to walk away this minute and leave you to your solitude.’
‘Please do!’
‘If only it were that simple,’ he exclaimed mournfully, ‘but chivalry requires I put my duty first. Since you appear to be entirely without an escort, it clearly behoves me to stay as chaperon.’
‘How fortunate then that I can put your mind at rest! Trouble yourself no further. I am used to walking alone and am well able to take care of myself.’
At that moment she was far from feeling so. Her desire to venture out alone had never before exposed her to such persistent harassment. This man would not be shrugged off lightly.
‘You’re a mere slip of a girl,’ he continued blithely, ‘and it seems unlikely that you’re quite as accomplished as you think in escaping unwanted attentions. Though a most comely slip of a girl, I grant you,’ he finished after a slight pause. His eyes, glinting amber in the sunlight, danced with laughter.
There was nothing for it but to turn tail. He was impervious to disapproval and entreaty alike. She turned quickly to make her way back across the beach and her sudden movement impaled the flounce of her dress on a twisted piece of iron, which had detached itself from the groyne. She was well and truly caught.
‘Allow me.’
And before she could protest he was down on his knees, carefully unhooking the frill of delicate cream lace from the iron stanchion. She stood rigid with mortification, thankful for the cooling breeze on her heated cheeks. But there was worse to come. Before she could stop him, his hands began to rearrange the crumpled hem of her silk gown and for an instant alighted on her ankle.
‘Thank you, sir,’ she said in a stifled voice and fled towards the safety of Marine Parade.
‘Must you go already?’ he called after her. ‘I feel we are only just getting acquainted.’ He grinned at her departing figure. ‘It’s not every lady’s ankles I get to see before luncheon, you know.’
She hurried away, more shocked than she cared to admit. That would teach her to walk unaccompanied. She must stop breaking the rules; within a year she would be married and there would be no more solitary strolls, no more escapes to the sea. And no chance meetings with impertinent strangers. Relieved, she reached the promenade and looked back to the spot she had just vacated. The man was still there, watching her every step, it seemed. He saw her pause and gave a cheerful wave. Impossible! She turned from the beach abruptly and hurried home.
Joshua Marchmain watched her for some time as she strode rapidly over the wet pebbles and began to climb the worn stone steps to the promenade. He had not meant her to flee quite so precipitately and just as things were getting interesting. He would have liked to spar a little more, for it was an unusual young lady who walked alone and disputed with strangers. And she had cut a most charming figure. The encounter had certainly provided a welcome break from the tedium of ministering to George’s whims. How he had become so indispensable to the Regent he hardly knew. For years he had exiled himself from life among the ton and it seemed unlikely that on his return he would become a palace favourite. But he had, and quickly. At first it had been amusing to supplant long-serving courtiers in the Prince’s favour, but now it was simply a dead bore.
A summer spent at Brighton had promised new interest, but the reality was proving very different. Or at least not different at all, that was the problem. The Prince’s life revolved around banquets, gambling, horse racing, music and his love affairs, whether he were in London or Brighton. The sound of the sea was the only novelty. Joshua had spent that morning, as so many others, idling in the hothouse that was the Royal Pavilion but, faced with the six-course luncheon the Regent felt an appropriate midday snack, he had rebelled to play truant in the salt-tanged air.
Almost immediately he had seen her, a small, trim figure in cream silk and lace with a saucy villager bonnet on the back of her head, barely keeping her unruly dark curls under control despite an enormous bow of azure ribbon. Her face, when she’d raised it to look at him, had more than matched the promise of her figure. Her eyes, dark and tragic, set in a heart-shaped countenance, had sent an unaccustomed longing through him. She would never be a diamond of the first water, but her youth and vulnerability spoke to him in a way that perfect beauty no longer did.
The ripple of emotion was over in a trice. Just as well, he thought breezily. Suppressing inconvenient sentiment had made life a good deal simpler over the years. It might have been amusing to dally a while, but in the event the flirtation was over before it had really begun. Regretfully he retraced his steps; it was time to resume his duties before the Regent noticed his absence.
As soon as Marston opened the door to her, Domino knew she was in trouble. Her cousin was in the hall, an apron wrapped around one of the black dresses she habitually wore and a furious expression on her face. The butler made a strategic exit, winking conspiratorially at the young girl as he retired to the servants’ quarters.
‘And where exactly have you been?’ Carmela’s tone was as angry as her face.
Domino did not answer immediately. She had meant to provide herself with some excuse for her absence, a frippery purchased from the stalls in Bartholomews, perhaps, but in the flight from the beach she had completely forgotten. In any case her cousin hardly drew breath before the next onslaught.
‘You do realise that your father is to host a reception here this very evening and you were supposed to help with the hundred and one things that have to be done.’
She did realise and felt a twinge of guilt. As the new ambassador for Spain, Alfredo de Silva was setting great store by tonight’s entertainment. He had only recently presented his credentials at St James’s; though the Court had abandoned a hot and dusty capital for the sea, it was vital that he continue his work among those who surrounded the Prince Regent. Only a few days ago he had confided a rumour to her that even George himself might attend this evening’s event.
‘I’m sorry, Carmela,’ she said quietly, trying in vain to mollify the angry woman, ‘I felt a little unwell—you know how stuffy this house gets in the hot weather—and I thought it would help if I took a short walk in the fresh air.’ Her cousin seemed unable to decide whether to look sceptical or shocked. In the end she managed a mixture of both.
‘It’s even stuffier outside,’ she scolded, ‘and how many times have I told you that you must not walk alone? You are imprudent, Domino. Why do you have a personal maid if it is not to accompany you wherever you wish to go? And why go anywhere today?’
‘I’m here now, so tell me what I can do to help.’
‘Nothing.’
‘Nothing?’
‘Everything is done. As always, I have worked myself to a standstill.’
It was difficult to see how Carmela had worked so very hard. She herself had planned the event days ago and had left the maids to arrange flowers and set tables. The catering firm and their own kitchen had prepared every morsel of food and drink necessary to entertain the cream of the ton. But she said none of this, unwilling to upset her cousin further.
She was sharply aware of the sacrifice Carmela had made. Her cousin was devoted to the family and could even be kind in her own stiff fashion. She had not wanted to come to England, least of all to a scandalous resort known throughout Europe as a den of extravagance, if not downright immorality. But come she had, putting her loyalty to the family before her own comfort and leaving behind the pleasing pieties of her Madrid home. Domino might wish she were alone with her father, but Carmela was part of the bargain, part of the price she had to pay for a few months’ freedom.
Hurrying up the stairs to her bedroom, Domino locked the door with relief; she was out of reach here. Marriage, though unwelcome, would at least deliver her from the endless scolding of relatives. Her aunts had already presented her with the names of three suitors they considered eligible and all she had to do, they said, was choose one. Any of the three would make a highly suitable husband, able to oversee and conserve the vast estate she would inherit at twenty-one and certain to be assiduous in keeping the inevitable fortune hunters at bay. It didn’t matter who she married. After Richard Veryan, it was utterly unimportant. She had loved and lost, and she knew even at this young age that she would never feel so deeply about any man again. It was enough for her to know that he was happy now with the wife he should always have had, and that she was in some small way responsible for bringing them together. But if only …
She was sunk in the customary forlorn dream when a knock at the door roused her. Fearing a resurgent Carmela, she opened it cautiously, but it was Alfredo de Silva who stood on the threshold, a beaming smile on his face and his arms outstretched in greeting.
‘Querida, come with me,’ he ordered, having hugged her until her ribs almost buckled under the strain. ‘I have a little present for you.’
‘I fear that I don’t deserve a present, Papa. Ask Carmela.’
‘Oh, Carmela—what does she know of deserving? I intend to spoil you to death now that you are with me again. I’ve missed you more than you will ever know.’
Her father was hustling her along the landing to his own room where the door stood open and a stunning gown of the deepest rose pink tumbled invitingly on the bed. She snatched it up eagerly and held it against her body. A glance at the cheval mirror in the corner of the room reflected back her creamy olive skin and burnished curls, their beauty heightened by the rich rose of the satin-and-gauze gown. Still holding the dress tightly, she waltzed around the bed laughing with pleasure.
‘Thank you, thank you so much. It’s quite lovely. But far too good for a mere reception, Papa. We should save it for a grand ball at the very least!’
‘A ball? No, indeed. You can be sure that when the time comes, I will find something even better,’ her father said mysteriously. ‘Wear the rose pink tonight and your mother’s amethysts. They will be perfect for the dress and perfect for you—you look so like Elena.’
His voice faltered a little and Domino took his hand and squeezed it comfortingly. ‘I love being spoiled, but you are much too kind to me.’
‘You should know, my dear, that I have an ulterior motive. In that dress you will entrance all my guests and then they will say how lucky Spain is to have such an excellent ambassador!’
She 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.’
