hoping to be asked to sit with them for the rest of the show.
It seemed to Eleanor that every guest whom she knew in the slightest came by her loge. It would have been more gratifying if she had not thought that the majority of them came more out of curiosity than out of any real liking for her. And most of the curiosity, she suspected, at least among the women, was for Dario.
She dutifully introduced him to them, and watched with some amusement as they flirted and laughed with him. Dario, of course, reacted just as she expected, smiling in a way that was guaranteed to break a few hearts, flattering them outrageously and sending smoldering glances from under his thick black eyelashes.
Mr. and Mrs. Colton-Smythe appeared, bringing with them Conte di Graffeo. Eleanor cast a quick glance over at Dario, unsure how he would respond to this man whom he obviously disliked. However, he was polite, if rather stiff and uncharacteristically taciturn.
The count bowed over Eleanor’s hand with Latin charm and grace. “Lady Scarbrough. It is a pleasure to meet you at last.” His voice was warm and deep, somewhat at odds with his cool, restrained mien.
“Conte,” Eleanor responded. “Perhaps you know Mr. Paradello, my late husband’s friend?”
He spared a glance and a short nod for Dario. “Yes, of course. Buona sera, signore. ”
Dario made a terse reply, and the count turned back to Eleanor. “Allow me to offer my condolences on the death of your husband, my lady. The music here cannot compare to that of Sir Edmund Scar-brough. He was a genius. He will be much missed, not only here, but in Italy, as well.”
His words were perfectly polite, but there was an odd, almost watchful, expression in his eyes as he talked to her that made Eleanor uncomfortable. It was almost as if he were studying her to see what her reaction to his words might be.
“Thank you, Conte di Graffeo,” she replied formally. “We all miss him very much.”
He bowed again, and there were formal goodbyes all around. Then the Colton-Smythes left with their obviously prized guest. Eleanor frowned, trying to figure out what had made her feel so uneasy about the count.
“Do not let him worry you,” Dario told her in a low voice. “He is not worth it.”
Eleanor glanced at him. Dario’s words seemed an odd thing to say. There had not been anything worrisome in the Italian count’s words, despite the unease she had felt. Had Dario sensed her mood, or had he heard something in the man’s condolences that bothered him, too?
Before she could open her mouth to ask Dario what he had meant by his comment, there was a tap at the door and Anthony stepped in.
Eleanor stiffened, her hand tightening on her fan, all thoughts of the Conte di Graffeo fleeing her head. “Lord Neale.”
“My lady.” Anthony nodded at her, then turned to look at Dario. His glance was swift and encompassing, and when he turned back to Eleanor, there was a question in his eyes.
It was obvious that he was waiting for an introduction to the man. So, with just a trace of wryness, Eleanor said, “Pray allow me to introduce you to Mr. Paradella, my lord. He was a friend of Sir Edmund’s.”
“Ah, I see. And you have come to visit your friend’s widow, all the way from Naples. How kind.” Anthony’s tone and gaze were equally cool.
Dario did not look offended, only faintly amused. “It is my pleasure, my lord, I assure you.”
“Indeed. Will you be staying long?’
“I had not decided quite yet,” Dario responded amiably. “It will depend, in part, on Lady Scarbrough.”
Anthony made no response to this statement, merely turned toward Eleanor and said, “I understand you are planning to visit Honoria to discuss Edmund’s will.”
“Yes. And to bring his ashes home to the family vault,” Eleanor replied.
“Honoria has asked me to attend, as well,” he told her.
“Of course.” Eleanor kept her face and voice as bland as he.
“Pray, allow me to escort
It seemed to Eleanor that every guest whom she knew in the slightest came by her loge. It would have been more gratifying if she had not thought that the majority of them came more out of curiosity than out of any real liking for her. And most of the curiosity, she suspected, at least among the women, was for Dario.
She dutifully introduced him to them, and watched with some amusement as they flirted and laughed with him. Dario, of course, reacted just as she expected, smiling in a way that was guaranteed to break a few hearts, flattering them outrageously and sending smoldering glances from under his thick black eyelashes.
Mr. and Mrs. Colton-Smythe appeared, bringing with them Conte di Graffeo. Eleanor cast a quick glance over at Dario, unsure how he would respond to this man whom he obviously disliked. However, he was polite, if rather stiff and uncharacteristically taciturn.
The count bowed over Eleanor’s hand with Latin charm and grace. “Lady Scarbrough. It is a pleasure to meet you at last.” His voice was warm and deep, somewhat at odds with his cool, restrained mien.
“Conte,” Eleanor responded. “Perhaps you know Mr. Paradello, my late husband’s friend?”
He spared a glance and a short nod for Dario. “Yes, of course. Buona sera, signore. ”
Dario made a terse reply, and the count turned back to Eleanor. “Allow me to offer my condolences on the death of your husband, my lady. The music here cannot compare to that of Sir Edmund Scar-brough. He was a genius. He will be much missed, not only here, but in Italy, as well.”
His words were perfectly polite, but there was an odd, almost watchful, expression in his eyes as he talked to her that made Eleanor uncomfortable. It was almost as if he were studying her to see what her reaction to his words might be.
“Thank you, Conte di Graffeo,” she replied formally. “We all miss him very much.”
He bowed again, and there were formal goodbyes all around. Then the Colton-Smythes left with their obviously prized guest. Eleanor frowned, trying to figure out what had made her feel so uneasy about the count.
“Do not let him worry you,” Dario told her in a low voice. “He is not worth it.”
Eleanor glanced at him. Dario’s words seemed an odd thing to say. There had not been anything worrisome in the Italian count’s words, despite the unease she had felt. Had Dario sensed her mood, or had he heard something in the man’s condolences that bothered him, too?
Before she could open her mouth to ask Dario what he had meant by his comment, there was a tap at the door and Anthony stepped in.
Eleanor stiffened, her hand tightening on her fan, all thoughts of the Conte di Graffeo fleeing her head. “Lord Neale.”
“My lady.” Anthony nodded at her, then turned to look at Dario. His glance was swift and encompassing, and when he turned back to Eleanor, there was a question in his eyes.
It was obvious that he was waiting for an introduction to the man. So, with just a trace of wryness, Eleanor said, “Pray allow me to introduce you to Mr. Paradella, my lord. He was a friend of Sir Edmund’s.”
“Ah, I see. And you have come to visit your friend’s widow, all the way from Naples. How kind.” Anthony’s tone and gaze were equally cool.
Dario did not look offended, only faintly amused. “It is my pleasure, my lord, I assure you.”
“Indeed. Will you be staying long?’
“I had not decided quite yet,” Dario responded amiably. “It will depend, in part, on Lady Scarbrough.”
Anthony made no response to this statement, merely turned toward Eleanor and said, “I understand you are planning to visit Honoria to discuss Edmund’s will.”
“Yes. And to bring his ashes home to the family vault,” Eleanor replied.
“Honoria has asked me to attend, as well,” he told her.
“Of course.” Eleanor kept her face and voice as bland as he.
“Pray, allow me to escort
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