but Domino had recently seen a flyer advertising the Grove Gallery’s latest exhibition and had been intrigued by the more experimental art it was offering for sale. Mindful of Carmela’s repeated injunctions, she took Flora with her.
It was a beautiful early July morning when they struck inland towards New England farm and the scattering of modern houses that had been built nearby. A delighted Flora chattered incessantly as they walked, for accompanying her mistress was a rare treat and she was determined to provide amusement on the arduous walk uphill. Listening to the unending flow with only one ear, Domino hoped fervently that her maid would run out of words well before they reached their destination.
Thirty minutes walking had brought them to the top of the Dyke Road, the main thoroughfare north out of Brighton, and Flora was still talking. They found the gallery easily enough, the only building apart from a scattering of new villas, set amongst fields where cows were placidly grazing amid the shadows. Not even Carmela could find dangers lurking in such a tranquil setting, Domino thought, and felt justified in asking the garrulous Flora to await for her outside. Gratefully she trod over the threshold and felt the silence fall like a gentle cloak on her shoulders. The interior was bright and airy, a large rectangular space, its walls hung with green baize and its floor covered by a rough drugget. The paintings were displayed seemingly at random, but the brilliant light emanating high up from latticed casements that encircled the entire top of the rectangle illuminated them perfectly. She looked about her with pleasure and began to relax.
The paintings were certainly unusual. She wasn’t at all sure she liked them, though they were for the most part ingeniously executed. But there was one landscape that caught her eye and slowed her steps: the Downs on a tempestuous day, the grass, the bushes, the trees, all bending seawards in the westerly wind, seeming to tumble unstoppably towards the troubled and racing waters in the distance. A glorious sense of freedom, brought to life so strongly in the painting, swept through her. She wanted to awake every morning to that wild landscape, feel its energy and be invigorated. But the price tag was far beyond her means. Perhaps, she thought wistfully, she could return next year when she had inherited the very large fortune that awaited her—but then someone else would hold the purse strings. Perhaps that someone else would have a love of art too, would see how very special this picture was. But no, that was too fanciful. If he took any pleasure in painting, it would not be an English landscape that would hang in his bedroom. Our bedroom, she thought, and quaked at the thought of the intimacies that must be shared with a virtual stranger.
‘Are you going to buy it?’
Joshua Marchmain! The man seemed forever destined to disturb her peace. He had expressed a strong interest in art, but why had he chosen to visit this morning, and this gallery? The latter was soon explained.
‘You would be doing a friend of mine a favour if you did—buy it, I mean.’
His voice was light and amused. She looked at him smiling lazily down at her, a shaft of sunlight pouring through the glass atrium above and reflecting pinpoints of light in the gold of his hair. As always he was immaculately dressed: a perfectly cut coat of dark blue superfine, an embroidered waistcoat of paler blue and close-fitting cream pantaloons. Despite the fashionable dress, he was no dandy. Domino was acutely aware of his body so close, so taut and hard, a body a woman could easily melt against. A wave of desire suddenly knotted her stomach and began its destructive trail through every fibre. She was genuinely shocked at her response and there was an uncomfortable pause before she was able to gather her wits together and wish him a prim good morning.
‘I take it that your friend is the painter and this is his exhibition.’
‘It is, and he is doing the painterly thing and starving in a garret.’
‘Then, surely, you should be helping him.’
‘I am very willing, but he won’t hear of it. He maintains that he must live by his brush and his brush alone, and there are only so many paintings one individual can buy. So you see how important it is that you purchase his most treasured work. It’s a splendid scene, is it not?’
He wondered if she would listen to the alarm bells clanging in her head, murmur something innocuous and move on, but her reply was one of genuine warmth.
‘I think it wonderful—so wild and natural, so full of energy and joy.’
‘Now I wonder why those qualities should appeal to you.’
The familiar flush flamed her cheeks and, seeing it, he made a vow to tread more carefully. He was intrigued by this delightful girl and, if he wanted to know her better, he would have to be sure to confine his remarks to the unexceptional. He offered her his arm.
‘Since we are both here, Miss de Silva, do allow me to escort you around the rest of the exhibition.’
She hesitated for a fraction and he was relieved when good manners triumphed over churlishness. A lace-mittened hand was placed lightly on his arm and they began a stately progress around the gallery. He was hopeful that she would share his enthusiasm for the art and delighted when she willingly joined him in appraising the pictures they viewed, her dark eyes glowing with pleasure.
She was simply dressed in sprig muslin, but its soft folds and pleats revealed an exquisite young figure. From time to time her warm limbs touched his as they walked slowly side by side around the vast space and he felt his body stiffen in response. He wondered what those delightful curves would feel like beneath his hands and how soft that full mouth would be in meeting his.
‘How have you become so knowledgeable, Mr Marchmain?’
Her words cut through this delightful fantasy and he was forced to administer a sharp mental shake before he could reply calmly, ‘I think you might find the experts would quarrel with your use of the word knowledgeable. But I have travelled widely in Europe and have always made a point of seeking out the very best art each city could offer.’
‘And have you kept travelling?’ she asked wonderingly.
His voice when he answered was unusually sombre. ‘There were a few years when I stayed put, years when I rented rooms in a Venetian palazzo. I found that an ideal location for painting.’
‘It must have been. I’ve only ever seen pictures of Venice and I long to visit myself.’
‘Then you must and as soon as possible. I would say that you were made for that city.’
And his gaze swept lingeringly over her: creamy olive skin, upturned nose and sorrowful dark eyes did not make a classical beauty, but something infinitely more charming. She blushed again and he silently chided himself. She was bewitching, that was the problem. She was so serious and yet so full of youthful energy that he wanted to open up the world for her and watch her smile. He was surprised by the force of his feelings.
‘Do you still stay in Venice?’
‘No longer, I fear. I inherited a property in England and it became necessary to return and become a responsible proprietor.’
‘And where is your home now?’
‘I would hardly call it home, but the house is known as Castle March. It’s in Norfolk. Do you know it?’ She shook her head. ‘It is a large estate and needs managing. I ought to spend more time there, but ruralising in the depths of the English countryside is not exactly my forte.’
‘I am sure that country living must have its own attractions.’
‘Possibly—but
