heart. “I will be honored to escort you.”
I T WAS GOOD to be out in society again, Eleanor thought to herself as she swept into the opera house on Dario’s arm the following evening. It made her think a little wistfully of the operas that she and Sir Edmund had attended together, but there was more sweetness in the memory than pain. And she realized how much, during her semi-seclusion after Edmund’s death, she had missed the panoply and bustle of such an event. She paused for a moment, drinking in the noise and the movement of the throng, the glitter of jewels and the sumptuous richness of brocades, velvets, satins and silks, ranging in every color from the demure white of debutantes to the vibrant hues of fashionable matrons.
Eleanor herself had opted for half-mourning again, an elegant satin evening gown in black with white accents, with a pendant necklace of diamonds as clear and sparkling as ice and a matching scatter of diamonds pinned in her dark hair. She knew, even before Dario’s exclamation, that she looked her best, and she could not help but wish that Lord Neale would be at the opera that night, just so he could witness her splendid entrance. He would see that she was not cowed by him or anyone else—and she could not help but think with smug satisfaction that the sight of her might have a deleterious effect on his pulse.
Not, of course, she reminded herself, that that had influenced her decision to go. After all, Anthony might very well not even be there. And she was not, she added as she glanced all around the spacious lobby, looking for him.
Eleanor could see heads turning toward them as they made their way up the marble steps and around to her box. They made, she knew, an arresting couple. Dario was a handsome man in his black evening suit and white shirt, with a snowy white cravat centered by a pigeon’s blood ruby the size of Eleanor’s thumb, and his obviously foreign air and looks would have made him stand out in any case.
There would be gossip, of course. She had been given a grudging entrée into the ton by virtue of her marriage to Sir Edmund, but she knew that she was not considered one of them and never would be. There would doubtless be those here tonight who criticized her for forsaking full mourning after six months. She wondered how much Lord Neale and his sister would add to the rumor mill.
When she and Dario had settled in their seats, Eleanor took out her opera glasses to peruse the rest of the audience, much as everyone else was doing. She saw the dreadfully dull Colton-Smythes, who had sailed from Italy to England with her. They were standing in a box across the way from her, talking to a middle-aged man who looked vaguely familiar to her. He was handsome, with dark eyes and a rather ascetic face, his black hair silvering at the temples.
Colton-Smythe was watching her, and when his eye caught Eleanor’s, he bowed to her in greeting. She inclined her head to the couple, knowing that at intermission they would doubtless make their way to her box.
Eleanor turned toward Dario to tell him about the couple and found him watching them already, his eyes narrowed.
“Do you know Mr. and Mrs. Colton-Smythe?” she asked, faintly surprised.
“That woman in the unfortunate colored dress?” he asked. “What do you call that?”
“Frightful,” Eleanor replied. “But I think the name of the color is puce. It is not a color most people should wear. The woman is Mrs. Colton-Smythe, and the balding man beside her is her husband. You looked as though you recognized them.”
“They are, perhaps, somewhat familiar, but I do not know them, really. It is the man with them I have the misfortune to know. Alessandro Moncari, Conte di Graffeo.”
“Ah.” Eleanor recognized the name. Dario was one of the earnest, intellectual young men of Naples who desired a more democratic government for that city-state, as well as a unified country of Italy, rather than the collection of small states
I T WAS GOOD to be out in society again, Eleanor thought to herself as she swept into the opera house on Dario’s arm the following evening. It made her think a little wistfully of the operas that she and Sir Edmund had attended together, but there was more sweetness in the memory than pain. And she realized how much, during her semi-seclusion after Edmund’s death, she had missed the panoply and bustle of such an event. She paused for a moment, drinking in the noise and the movement of the throng, the glitter of jewels and the sumptuous richness of brocades, velvets, satins and silks, ranging in every color from the demure white of debutantes to the vibrant hues of fashionable matrons.
Eleanor herself had opted for half-mourning again, an elegant satin evening gown in black with white accents, with a pendant necklace of diamonds as clear and sparkling as ice and a matching scatter of diamonds pinned in her dark hair. She knew, even before Dario’s exclamation, that she looked her best, and she could not help but wish that Lord Neale would be at the opera that night, just so he could witness her splendid entrance. He would see that she was not cowed by him or anyone else—and she could not help but think with smug satisfaction that the sight of her might have a deleterious effect on his pulse.
Not, of course, she reminded herself, that that had influenced her decision to go. After all, Anthony might very well not even be there. And she was not, she added as she glanced all around the spacious lobby, looking for him.
Eleanor could see heads turning toward them as they made their way up the marble steps and around to her box. They made, she knew, an arresting couple. Dario was a handsome man in his black evening suit and white shirt, with a snowy white cravat centered by a pigeon’s blood ruby the size of Eleanor’s thumb, and his obviously foreign air and looks would have made him stand out in any case.
There would be gossip, of course. She had been given a grudging entrée into the ton by virtue of her marriage to Sir Edmund, but she knew that she was not considered one of them and never would be. There would doubtless be those here tonight who criticized her for forsaking full mourning after six months. She wondered how much Lord Neale and his sister would add to the rumor mill.
When she and Dario had settled in their seats, Eleanor took out her opera glasses to peruse the rest of the audience, much as everyone else was doing. She saw the dreadfully dull Colton-Smythes, who had sailed from Italy to England with her. They were standing in a box across the way from her, talking to a middle-aged man who looked vaguely familiar to her. He was handsome, with dark eyes and a rather ascetic face, his black hair silvering at the temples.
Colton-Smythe was watching her, and when his eye caught Eleanor’s, he bowed to her in greeting. She inclined her head to the couple, knowing that at intermission they would doubtless make their way to her box.
Eleanor turned toward Dario to tell him about the couple and found him watching them already, his eyes narrowed.
“Do you know Mr. and Mrs. Colton-Smythe?” she asked, faintly surprised.
“That woman in the unfortunate colored dress?” he asked. “What do you call that?”
“Frightful,” Eleanor replied. “But I think the name of the color is puce. It is not a color most people should wear. The woman is Mrs. Colton-Smythe, and the balding man beside her is her husband. You looked as though you recognized them.”
“They are, perhaps, somewhat familiar, but I do not know them, really. It is the man with them I have the misfortune to know. Alessandro Moncari, Conte di Graffeo.”
“Ah.” Eleanor recognized the name. Dario was one of the earnest, intellectual young men of Naples who desired a more democratic government for that city-state, as well as a unified country of Italy, rather than the collection of small states
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