Candace Camp (8 page)

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 that now prevailed there. The Conte di Graffeo was one of the conservative aristocrats who strongly supported the king of Naples and the present government.

“He is despicable,” Dario said with a bitter twist of his lips.

Eleanor was a little surprised by the depth of Dario’s dislike. She had not realized, she supposed, how deeply committed he was to the movement of democracy and unification for Italy.

Dario saw her glance and forced a smile. “We do not agree on many issues.”

Eleanor, who had heard many a discussion among him and Edmund and their other friends regarding the many political ills of the Kingdom of Naples, smiled faintly. “Yes, I know. I remember that Edmund disliked the man also.”

She had been sympathetic to the ideas of the liberally-minded young men of Naples. They had hoped, after Napoleon was defeated and driven from their country, that they would have a new, more democratic government. Much as they had disliked Napoleon’s conquest of their city, they had had little affection for the autocratic kingdom that had existed before Bonaparte. However, the Congress of Vienna had done its best to put everything back the way it was before Napoleon had taken over most of Europe, and as a result, the old Kingdom of Naples was reinstated. The king had continued an autocratic rule, quelling all hope of the blend of monarchy and democratic rule that existed in England.

Eleanor had not felt the same sort of passion for the subject that Edmund had. And she did not particularly want to plunge into the matter right now. She felt in much too good a humor to talk about politics.

So Eleanor returned to her opera glasses, leaving the matter of the Conte di Graffeo. And there, suddenly, looming up in her glasses, was Lord Neale.

Eleanor let out a little gasp and lowered her glasses immediately. Her heart was suddenly pounding. Dario turned toward her curiously.

“Are you feeling unwell?” he asked.

“No. Oh no.” Eleanor gave a half laugh. “I just saw someone I know. I did not really expect him to be here tonight.”

She looked back at Anthony. He was in a box down and across from them, sitting alone. He cast a glance around the opera house, his gaze disinterested. Then he saw Eleanor. He straightened, staring across at her. Eleanor inclined her head toward him, moving just the polite amount and no more. She could feel her cheeks flush under his regard, but she hoped he could not spy that clear across the theater from her.

He nodded back to her; then his gaze flickered over to Dario, sitting beside her, and remained for a moment. He looked back at Eleanor, but she could not read his expression. Her hand tightened around her fan, and she made herself turn her attention toward the stage—anywhere, really, so long as it was not at Lord Neale. She waited for a moment, considering the heavy red velvet curtains across the stage-front with a great deal more interest than they warranted.

After a long pause, she turned her head, letting her gaze wander across the boxes, moving over Anthony again. He was no longer looking at her but idly watching the seats below, in the center of the house. Eleanor looked at him for a moment, unnoticed, then firmly turned her gaze back to the orchestra, where the musicians were tuning up.

Dario, thankfully, was quiet during the performance. Eleanor hated to sit with most fashionable opera-goers, who were more interested in carrying on conversations about clothes, furnishings and the other attendees—often in tones that far exceeded a whisper—than they were in watching the opera.

At intermission, of course, the real purpose of the evening for most of the patrons began. Everyone began to get up and move. Some men went to fetch refreshments for the ladies with them. Others, both men and women, paraded up and down the hall outside the boxes, looking and being looked at. And still others strolled around to pay their respects to those who remained in their boxes, often 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 you,” Dario put in, and both Eleanor and Anthony turned to look at him, surprised.

“I would like to see my friend’s ancestral home,” Dario said by way of explanation, adding, his voice a little roughened by emotion, “It would be good to say goodbye to Edmund there.”

“Yes, of course,” Eleanor replied immediately. “I am sorry I did not think to ask you earlier. I will be honored to have you escort me.”

She glanced over at Anthony, who was looking at Dario now with a thinly-disguised dislike. She would have asked Dario to come in any case, for he had been good friends with Edmund, but she had to admit that Anthony’s obvious disapproval of the invitation sweetened the moment.

“Then I will see you there,” Anthony told her tightly, sketching a bow in her direction. “My lady.”

“My lord.”

She watched as Anthony turned and left the box as abruptly as he had entered it.

“Odd man,” Dario commented, gazing after Anthony.

“Yes.” Eleanor shrugged. “Rudeness seems to be one of his chief characteristics.”

“I do not think he liked me,” Dario said with a smile.

Eleanor shrugged. “He feels the same way about me, I can assure you.”

“About you?” Dario looked skeptical. “I cannot believe that. I would have said the man disliked me because he was jealous about you. My guess is that he is more attracted to you than he would like.”

Eleanor thought about the kiss she and Anthony had shared the other night, and her face warmed at the memory. It had meant nothing, she told herself, just as she had many times since it had happened. It had been a brief impulse, just as quickly regretted—on both their parts. She was sure that Lord Neale wished to forget it just as much as she did.

She hoped that Dario had not noticed the blush that had touched her cheeks. She gave him a quick sideways glance but could tell little from his expression. He smiled at her warmly.

“No man could resist your beauty, my lady, even a cold Englishman. Nor can I.”

Dario was a dedicated flirt, Eleanor knew. It came as naturally to him as breathing. It was hard to tell whether he was giving her those melting brown-eyed glances simply as a matter of course, or if he was actually serious. She hoped it was the former, as she certainly had no romantic interest in Dario. She enjoyed him as a friend, and she could see that he was a handsome man who would appeal to most women. But, as with most of the men she had met in her life, she did not feel any rush of emotion, any feeling of desire.

Indeed, bizarre as it was, there was apparently only one man who had inspired that sort of instant, tingling attraction.

She turned her thoughts from that unproductive path and gave Dario a noncommittal smile. “Come, now, Dario, we both know you don’t mean a word of that.”

“Eleanor!” He put on a wounded expression, one hand to his heart, but then he chuckled, and they both sat down for the second act of the opera.

W
HATEVER HIS MOTIVES
, Dario continued to dance attendance upon Eleanor for the next couple of days, coming to call on her the following afternoon, then insisting that she allow him to walk with her as she went over to the lending library. She felt sure that there must be things he would enjoy more than taking a leisurely stroll along the city streets, but his easy chatter made the walk more enjoyable. Still, when he pressed her to attend a play with him the following evening, she declined, pointing out that his constant presence would soon cause gossip, especially given the fact that he would be accompanying her in two days to Kent.

She had been somewhat surprised by his offer to travel with her to meet Edmund’s mother. He had been a good friend of Edmund’s, of course, but it seemed rather a gloomy thing to do on a trip one had taken for pleasure. She supposed that even though he had attended the funeral pyre on the beach, the very oddness of the situation had left him feeling a bit unsettled. It had certainly been that way for Eleanor, who for weeks after Edmund’s death had found herself listening for the sound of his piano or thinking of something she must tell him before catching herself. She had thought that perhaps it would have been easier to accept that he was gone if there had been a normal funeral service and interment.