himself into the pews reserved for the Royal Family a few rows in front of her: the Regent’s brother, the Duke of York. He kept up a constant muttering, hardly audible, but nevertheless highly embarrassing to his companions. Their attempts to stifle him made her smile; for the moment she forgot the dreadful meeting she had just endured and was emboldened to look about her. The galleried church was filled with decoration, its supporting columns and pulpit highly embellished, while a large organ in burnished copper thundered from above the altar. It was a rich man’s building.
She looked sideways across the aisle, scanning a busy canvas of faces, hoping to keep out of Moncaster’s sight. Immediately beneath one of the galleries a countenance she was beginning to know well swam into view. Joshua’s gaze was on her, sporting an appreciative smile as he took in her situation just behind the noisy Duke. She noticed that he was dressed more soberly this morning, but the familiar lock of fair hair trailed over his brow and his sprawling figure exuded his customary confidence. Her glance moved on to the woman who sat next to him; there was something proprietorial in her posture. She was richly dressed in an ensemble of emerald-green Venetian silk and her hair was covered with a headpiece of ostrich feathers. The feathers swayed slightly in the current of air and their height ensured that those who sat immediately behind could see little of the service at the altar.
Domino did not profit from the parson’s homily that morning. She was too conscious of both the men she wished to avoid and was relieved when the final hymn reverberated through the rafters and she was able to walk from the church into a burst of sunshine. The rector was at the door to greet his parishioners and once again they were forced to wait patiently in line before they could pass through the narrow entrance.
‘Pious as well as pretty,’ a voice said softly in her ear. ‘It gets better all the time.’
She turned to face him, grateful that her father was engaged in talking to a fellow communicant.
‘Still accosting unwilling women, Mr Marchmain?’ she snapped back.
‘Never unwilling, Miss de Silva.’
Her face flushed scarlet as she took in the implication of his remark. She was just about to retort angrily when another voice cut across their interchange.
‘Joshua, why don’t you introduce me to your delightful new friend?’
It was the richly dressed woman she had seen sitting next to him in the pew.
A look of irritation flitted across his face, but was gone in a moment.
‘But of course. Miss de Silva, may I present the Duchess of Severn. Charlotte, Miss de Silva—the daughter of our new ambassador from Spain.’
‘How delightful to have you in Brighton, my dear.’
Domino wasn’t sure she liked the woman. She seemed to purr when she spoke and the glances she cast towards the waiting Joshua verged on the covetous. But she curtsied decorously and made her father known to the duchess.
‘You must both come to one of my small soirées as soon as possible,’ Charlotte Severn said smoothly. ‘I will send an invitation this very week. I am sure Joshua will know your direction.’
Domino sensed a hidden meaning, but managed to smile politely and hope that her father would conjure some excuse for their not attending.
‘She is a very fine lady, is she not, Papa?’ she remarked as they made their way back along the promenade.
‘Who?’
‘The Duchess of Severn.’
‘Finely dressed at least.’
‘You don’t sound as though you like her.’
‘I don’t know her, Domino, but I do not like the set she moves in. I would prefer you to have as little to do with her as possible.’
‘Mr Marchmain seems to know her well,’ she ventured.
‘Indeed he does,’ her father said grimly, then abruptly changed the subject.
She was left to puzzle over just what had vexed him so badly.
Chapter Two
Joshua turned abruptly on his heels and headed back towards the Pavilion, his temper frayed. He needed to be alone and Charlotte Severn could easily be left to the escort of Moncaster, whom he had noticed in the distance. He was angry with her for intervening in his conversation with Domino and even more annoyed that she had promised an invitation to one of her celebrated soirées. He didn’t know why, but he wanted to keep Domino to himself, or at the very least not expose her to the intimacies of the Severn household.
He had no intention of seducing the young girl, that was not his style, but neither did he want her knowing a woman such as Charlotte. That lady might be the wife of one of the premier dukes of the land, but she had the soul of a courtesan. The role suited her well and she should stick to it, he thought, rather than attempting to befriend the young and inexperienced. The Royal Pavilion was a suitable milieu for her. Every kind of dubious pleasure was available there and she had a husband happy to look away while she played. His Grace was content in his declining years to puff off his wife’s beauty and retire to the lure of the gaming table. He was one of the Regent’s most assiduous companions, not least because he was so wealthy that it mattered little to him how much money he lost.
Charlotte had access to wealth untold—but that was not enough, Joshua reflected wryly. It hardly compensated for a dull and ageing husband. He remembered when he had first seen her two years ago—Wiesbaden, it was, at the town’s most opulent casino, and seated at the hazard table. She had looked across at him, her eyes staring straight into his, their porcelain blue still and expressionless, but nevertheless saying all they needed to say. That very night they had become lovers and from time to time continued to meet. But for long stretches of the year the duchess could not shrug off the duties incumbent on her position and that suited him well. There were always others happy to keep him company and lengthy periods of absence had until recently staved off the inevitable ennui which acquaintance with any woman produced. Or any woman since that first disastrous love affair.
But things were changing. He didn’t know if it was the sea air stirring his blood and making him restless, but something had altered in him. Charlotte Severn no longer beguiled him and his frustration at being part of the Regent’s sycophantic court was beginning to acquire a sharper edge. And the girl—she had something to do with it, too. It wasn’t just that he wanted to bed her; that was as certain as it was unlikely. It was, he thought, that he had enjoyed their encounters, enjoyed her vitality, her verve, the zest with which she resisted his raillery. He had met her on three occasions and each time behind his gentle mockery he had wanted to explore, to discover more, to begin to know her. Today she had looked enchanting in peaches and cream and yet another rakish bonnet, those dark tragic eyes looking out at him so scornfully from beneath its brim. They could be made to wear another expression, he was sure. If ever he felt mad enough to risk exile again, he would savour the challenge. Charlotte’s companionship had never seemed more irksome; she had stepped between them, muddying the waters, placing her footprint where only his had previously been.
The duchess was waiting for him in the outer vestibule of the Pavilion. If his temper had improved with the circuitous route he had taken, hers certainly had not. He barely had a foot through the door when she addressed him in a voice crisp with indignation.
‘There you are, Mr Marchmain. I had
