style="font-size:15px;"> ‘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
