‘It’s time I returned. I’ve been away too long, though I doubt I will be there many weeks. Just long enough to hang my da Vinci before the Norfolk weather drives me to warmer climes.’
‘That is sad. Houses need to be loved, I think. But if you dislike the place so very much, why don’t you sell and buy an estate you find more congenial?’
‘It’s true that I have little love for the house but, in gratitude to my great-uncle, I feel bound to keep it.’
‘Because he made you his heir?’
‘Because he left me Castle March at the right time.’
‘And when was that?’
‘When I’d grown tired of being a vagabond. And a country seat is not to be sniffed at—a gentleman with a large estate always commands respect!’
While they were talking, Flora had sauntered away to mingle a little timidly with the soldiers who were now relaxing at the side of the parade ground. With her maid out of earshot, Domino seemed emboldened to ask a question he had no wish to answer.
‘Could you not have found a home with your brother?’
His face assumed a darker expression and with a jagged motion he pushed back a strand of bright hair from his forehead.
‘My brother and I have nothing in common,’ he said, his tone verging on the curt. ‘In any case, he has a family of his own to concern him and I can only ever be a discomfort.’
‘But why?’
‘He is convention made flesh. I was a constant thorn in his flesh while I was growing up, and once I hit town my conduct was unspeakable!’
‘Whatever you did to make your family disown you is long past.’
Her sweet concern touched him, but the truth was brutal and he had no wish to hide behind pretence. ‘For him, Domino, the scandal lives on. Believe me, it is for everybody’s good that I keep away.’
‘What did you do, exactly?’ she asked shyly.
‘I badly failed two people who were dear to me and who deserved better.’
She looked dismayed and he said tersely, ‘It isn’t a pretty tale and my parents were justified in packing me off to Europe as soon as they could. But I won’t have you think me the victim. The family made sure I had a decent enough allowance.’
‘But still…’ Dismay had turned to bewilderment.
‘My parents are dead, and I have regained a little respectability by inheriting Castle March. Life is easy for me; my brother can be forgiven for wishing to keep a hundred miles between us.’
He watched her closely to see the effect of his words. He had not wanted to have this conversation but, since they had, he hoped it would serve to push her away. She was already too close for his comfort. Last night had been a very bad mistake; he was damaged goods and his was a solitary future.
Despite that, he could not stop himself wanting, intensely, to see her again—and again and again. He found himself saying, ‘What is this I hear about the Cunninghams’ extravaganza on Thursday evening? Something quite out of the ordinary, I believe. Are you invited?’
Lady Cunningham was generally despised as an empty-headed woman who greedily extracted gifts from the Regent and flaunted them in public. But because of her influence over George and because of the opulent nature of the hospitality she provided, her parties were never short of guests. Domino had not liked Lady Cunningham when she met her, nor had she wished to be involved in her lavish preparations; the idea that ladies might perform on stage for their peers seemed of dubious propriety. But a combination of Carmela’s horrified response to the invitation and her father’s reassurance that these days the most respectable of ladies took part in such informal entertainments had persuaded her to accept.
Alfredo had convinced her that he knew the perfect role she could play. He had preserved a single dress of her mother’s, a dress Elena had worn when she was not much older than her daughter, and Domino could appear in tableau as a grand Spanish lady. When she saw the dress for the first time, she had gasped. It was a dress as red as passion; a dress for flamenco. As soon as she’d put it on, she had felt its power. It had needed no alteration, fitting her curves to perfection, and no addition other than a scarlet flower for her hair and a pair of high-heeled black shoes. She had been feeling somewhat disquieted about wearing such a revealing costume, but the thought of Joshua being there made her face flame.
‘Yes,’ she assented as unconcernedly as possible, ‘my father wishes us to attend.’
He chose to ignore the deep blush and replied easily, ‘Then I shall see you there. Meanwhile I must report to the palace on the progress of the birthday plans’, and, lifting his hat once more in salutation, he turned and walked away.
She was left prey to conflicting sensations: about him, about the party. His confession of wrongdoing had upset her. But so, too, had learning of his family’s conduct towards him and his brother’s determination to remain estranged. Whatever Joshua had done in his youth, the two were still flesh and blood. After all these years he must surely have expiated his crime. Was this brother so pure that he had done nothing wrong in his life? Joshua had failed those he loved, had not treated them as they deserved, but wasn’t that true of many others? And she doubted that the case was as black and white as he’d made out. He’d declared his misdeed baldly and for a moment she’d felt dismay, but not for long. She was herself guilty of sufficiently bad things not to judge him: gambling illicitly, falling into debt, falsely eloping with Benedict when they were both minors—the list was worryingly long.
And now the Cunningham party was looming and bringing a new set of anxieties. The dress was magnificent and, wearing it, she was a warrior queen. But how warlike would she feel with Joshua in the audience? And Charlotte Severn and Moncaster, too? Their threat was always present to her, thrumming in the background. Joshua had warned her to be on her guard against them; if she drew attention to herself, what wickedness might that encourage? But unless she told her father of their continued persecution, she could not refuse to perform her part in the evening’s entertainment. And to tell him would be to reveal the whole sorry business of her previous stay in England.
Her father had reassured her that all she would have to do was to walk across a small stage, a painted Spanish fan in one hand and a pair of castanets in the other. In general, he said, English people were woefully ignorant of other nations and even a simple appearance in traditional dress was sure to be greeted with interest.
* * *
But when the time came to leave on Thursday evening, she had worked herself up into a ball of terror. Reading the dread in her mistress’s face, Flora ushered her quickly to the corner of the room and angled the cheval mirror.
‘You should take a look, Miss Domino,’ she said gently. ‘Everyone will say you’re all the crack!’
Her maid’s attempt at ton slang made Domino smile faintly and she plucked up sufficient courage to look at herself properly in the mirror for the first time. The red taffeta of the dress fell in ruffled tiers to the floor. Each tier was ornamented with sparkling crystals and the final layer trailed alluringly behind her. The bodice was plain and modestly covered her bosom, but her arms were bare, framed by more ornamented frills. The dress moulded her figure so closely that every undulation, every softness, was accentuated. She caught her breath when she saw the stranger looking back at her. Could she really be this tantalising, sensual creature? She drew herself up to her full height, made prouder by the heeled shoes, and tossed the frilled skirt this way and that in sweeping gestures. Her dark eyes began to glow with anticipation, and when Flora placed a scarlet blossom in the ebony curls, now free from restraint and flowing to her shoulders, she smiled back at her reflection, captivated by the image she saw there. At her right hand, Flora gave a sigh of pure ecstasy.
‘You don’t look like yourself, miss. You look like…’ and she struggled to put her feelin
gs into words ‘…like a Spanish princess.’
‘Dear Flora.’ Domino hugged her. ‘I fear that a genuine Spanish princess would be far too scandalised to wear such a gown!’
She ought to be scandalised as well, she thought, as the dress nipped at her curves and caressed the flowing lines of her young body. But she wasn’t; instead, a strange exultation was rippling through her. She practised a few turns, swishing the deep frills of the gown from one side to another. Then holding the castanets aloft, she began to experiment with dance steps, gradually recalling the flamenco lessons she had taken without her aunts’ knowledge. Another transgression! But it might serve her well this night. She wanted to perform splendidly and she knew why. She wanted to leave Joshua with a memory that he would never forget. She was not destined to be a part of his future, but she was determined to be a part of his history. All she needed was the courage to carry it through.
* * *
Once at the Cunninghams, Domino and her father were soon parted. He was ushered into a large salon, decorated in overpowering crimson, and filled with rows of delicate gilt chairs set out in a semi-circle. The first part of the evening’s entertainment was to be the tableaux and mimes got up by the young ladies Sophia Cunningham had importuned. Later there would be an informal dance to the strains of a professional quartet. Before selecting his seat, Alfredo handed the musicians the gypsy music that would accompany his daughter across the stage. He felt relaxed. Knowing that the Regent had declined the Cunninghams’ invitation, his fears were allayed that the Prince’s recent conduct at the Pavilion might be repeated. There would be no danger from that quarter and taking part in something a little out of the ordinary would keep Domino busy and out of trouble.
Meanwhile she had been whisked to an adjoining room, already awash with nervous young ladies and their personal maids making last minute adjustments to what appeared to be highly elaborate ensembles. Domino herself had little to do but remove the black velvet cloak that covered her flamenco gown. She glanced around at the whirl of activity and was comforted by the sight of costumes a great deal more revealing than her own.
It seemed to be taking an inordinate amount of time for the gaggle of nervous girls to make ready, but at last they were being shepherded towards the rear part of the drawing room which had been curtained off to form the wings of an improvised stage. In no time what had initially appeared a large expanse had been flooded with a bevy of eager girls: Greek goddesses, Virgin Queens, Cinderellas, even Boadicea. Fussing and mingling around her, some of the groups looked askance at Domino’s unfamiliar costume. That only made her hold her head a little higher.
As they waited for their turn to come, the girls could clearly hear from behind the curtain the ripples of polite applause that greeted most of the participants as they made their stately way across the stage, posing a while to enable the audience to absorb fully their finery, some of them embellishing their walk with a twirl, a curtsy or, even more daring, blowing a kiss to the audience. One Cinderella, clad in stylish rags and dolefully sweeping the floor with her birch broom, received a particularly rousing reception. Three girls dressed as Greek goddesses floated on to the stage and formed a small circle. For some minutes they danced fragrantly with each other, weaving a fragile pattern with their gauze robes. At their appearance a murmur of surprise, not all of it appreciative, had travelled around the room. One of the goddesses had been ill advised to wear a damped and transparent petticoat beneath her gauze and the more august members of the audience showed their disapproval of such flagrant exposure.
But it was Domino, far more robustly clad, who burst upon the audience with a thunderclap. She crossed the stage in one fluid movement, her heels already beginning to click and rap to the strong beat, her arms gesturing in dramatic flight and the castanets enforcing a compelling rhythm. The beat sounded at first slowly, then more rapidly, first quietly, then more loudly, alternating in tempo, but always there, throbbing, insistent. The musicians accompanying her threw themselves into the moment and music and dancer became one. Gradually the more forceful beat began to dominate, working its way to a crescendo while the dancer’s feet stamped and twirled a mesmerising motif across the floor. Domino’s supple, young body flexed and swayed in one direction while the red taffeta frills swished and coiled in another. The audience were silent, hardly daring to breathe. She had them wholly in her power, thrilled by the mastery of her dancing. At first the dance had appeared so daringly sensual that they could not believe they were watching it in a lady’s drawing room, even Lady Cunningham’s. But as the black heels weaved their sinuous pattern across the stage and the lithe scarlet form twined and turned in sympathy with the music’s yearning, they forgot where they were and gave themselves up to the fantasy.
Standing at the back of the room, Joshua forgot calm detachment. He was caught in the music’s powerful rhythms, caught by the sensuous ebb and flow of Domino’s body, so that he felt he was with her, moving with her, away from her, against her. He wanted to be there, he belonged there, but just when he felt he could not remain apart from her a second longer, the music reached its crescendo and with a last stamp of her heels, a last flourish of castanets, she was still. The applause was tumultuous. Emerging from her trance, Domino realised it was for her and smiled shyly back. Then, as quickly as she could, she left the stage.
After her performance there was little appetite for further tableaux and with one accord the guests began to move towards the dining room where a substantial buffet had been arranged. She felt unable to face her fellow guests immediately, but instead took shelter in a secluded corner of the salon. She had seen Joshua at the back of the room and she had danced for him. He had warned her away and she knew well that the kisses they’d shared would be the only kisses. They were treading separate paths; very soon they would say farewell for good. His future would be a procession of women, one after another, passing in and out of his life. He was sure to forget her, but she wanted so badly for him to remember. If they were destined never to meet again, she wanted him to hold this memory of her. She had danced to stun him, to leave him dumbfounded and dazed. Her cheeks flamed as she thought of the invitation she had offered, but she could not be sorry.
Almost as she thought of him, he was at her side. ‘I won’t ask you where you learned to dance like that,’ he murmured slyly. ‘I imagine your father knew nothing of your talent.’
She looked towards the doorway at Alfredo, still wearing a dazed expression, and inundated with extravagant compliments on his daughter’s performance.
‘Papa insisted I wore a flamenco costume,’ she excused herself feebly.
‘Then Papa got what he deserved!’
‘I should not have danced,’ she conceded shamefacedly. ‘I was supposed only to walk across the stage. The dress was my mother’s, you see, and Papa wanted to see it come alive again.’
‘He certainly had his wish granted.’ A wry smile lit Joshua’s face.
‘Yes, I fear he did,’ she said quietly and then more emphatically, ‘I really never meant to dance, but the music…’
‘You have dance in your soul, Domino. You should not be sorry; you were magnificent!’
She peeped up at him. ‘I was good, wasn’t I?’
He laughed aloud. ‘You were good, my little one. By God, you were good!’
Hearing his laugh as she entered the dining room, the Duchess of Severn glared in his direction.
‘That chit seems to go from strength to strength,’ she remarked acidly to Lord Moncaster, a few steps behind. ‘She leads a charmed life.’
Leo handed his companion a glass of wine and said thoughtfully, ‘She’s a deal too close to Marchmain for her father’s liking. Watch his face.’
They both glanced across at Señor de Silva. He was looking with some alarm at his daughter smiling softly at the exquisite figure beside her.
�
��Can we do nothing?’ The duchess’s voice was sharply edged, her frustration spilling out despite her best efforts at control. ‘I despair of ever confounding the girl.’
‘I understand she is to be married off to some Spanish grandee in the very near future. Marchmain will be history.’
‘Before that happens it would be pleasant to torture her a little. I feel I deserve some small satisfaction.’ The duchess’s mouth twisted into an unpleasant grimace, surprising Moncaster by its ugliness.
‘Hell hath no fury?’
‘Not just for a woman scorned, Leo, but a man baulked of his prey,’ she reminded him.
‘It’s true that I have not yet settled my score with the little upstart. But I have been giving it some thought.’
‘Dare I say, it’s about time? Since that débâcle with Prinny, you have been remarkably silent.’
‘Marchmain skewed our pitch in that instance,’ Moncaster began.
‘Not just in that instance,’ she interrupted bitterly.
‘The joy of this plan, however, is that Marchmain cannot ride to the rescue. Indeed, he will be the very problem—we can use his name against her.’
The duchess looked sceptical and, stung by her lack of enthusiasm, he put down his glass on a side table and drew closer to his companion, almost whispering into her ear.
‘I have a little knowledge of the señorita’s past history that might serve our purpose.’
‘Such as? I hesitate to remind you, Leo, but we have already employed your knowledge of her past and failed miserably.’
‘We won’t this time. She does not yet know the truth about our friend Marchmain. When she does, I am sure it will give her great pain. Her father, too—he will be most anxious to return her to Spain where she belongs.’
‘Tell me!’
Moncaster readily obliged and the duchess’s face was wreathed in an unholy smile.
Society's Most Scandalous Rake Page 13
