Eleanor smiled with affection. “I think it is perfectly lovely. Age is not always the best indicator of how young at heart you feel.”
“It is fortunate that we commissioned new gowns for my house party. I had thought to save the lavender satin until then, but I think I will wear it tomorrow instead. And you should take special care with your appearance as well, my dear. You want to look your very best for the prince.”
“I intend to, aunt,” Eleanor said with all seriousness.
Like her aunt, Eleanor chose to wear one of her new ball gowns the following evening, a stylish confection of rose-hued mousseline de soie that boasted an Empire-waisted bodice seeded with tiny pearls. She dressed carefully and had her hair artfully coiffed by her aunt's dresser, so that her short raven curls were threaded with rose ribbons and pearls.
They would not arrive fashionably late to the ball as was Lady Beldon's custom. Instead, they would strive for promptness, since Beatrix wished to in fluence the seating arrangements and also to be prepared to dance the first set with the signor.
The event would likely prove a crush if the receiving line was any indication, Eleanor decided as she and her aunt slowly made their way into the ballroom. They had to wait for nearly ten minutes to be greeted by the silver-haired Lady Haviland and the tall, raven-haired nobleman standing beside her.
Lord Haviland's features were more rugged than Damon's, although perhaps not as intense, Eleanor thought, unconsciously comparing the two men. But like Damon, the dangerous edge of Haviland's appeal was enough to make every female head turn.
His smile, too, was just as arresting, and his eyes were rimmed by heavy lashes like Damon's, although the earl's eyes were a vivid blue, nearly the same color as her own, rather than midnight brown as Damon's were.
As her aunt had predicted, Lady Haviland was intent on matchmaking for her grandson.
“I am delighted you have come, Lady Eleanor,” the elderly dame pronounced. “You will make Haviland an exceptional dance partner… will she not, my dear?”
“Indeed,” his lordship responded easily. “I would be honored if you would oblige me with a set, Lady Eleanor.”
“It would be my pleasure,” she answered in the same vein. Haviland seemed prepared to take his relative's scheming with good grace, and the appealing glimmer of amusement in his eyes made Eleanor like him all the more.
Once they were through the receiving line, however, she shifted her attention to the swelling crowd and began searching for one particular guest. Her aunt spied Prince Lazzara and his distinguished older cousin first-in the far corner of the ballroom, seated before a cluster of potted palms-and led Eleanor over at once.
The prince rose with the aid of a cane and bestowed a fond smile and a deep bow on her. “I deeply regret I cannot dance with the most beautiful lady in the room, Donna Eleanora,” he murmured once the salutations were made. “But you would do me a great kindness to keep me company for a short while.”
“Of course, your highness. I would be very pleased,” Eleanor replied, taking the chair beside him while her aunt stood conversing with Signor Vecchi. “I am sorry your injury is so severe.”
Prince Lazzara's mouth turned down in a woeful expression. “It causes me no little pain, but now that you are here, it will all be forgotten. And since you mean to sacrifice on my behalf… permit me to provide you with refreshment.”
He waved a hand imperiously at a footman, who brought her a cup of punch similar to the one the prince was drinking. Eleanor politely sipped hers and made small talk with the Italian royal, and yet she found her mind wandering as she surveyed the assembly. She was thankful she saw no sign of Damon and held out hope that perhaps he would not attend tonight's ball.
Lamentably, her hope was short-lived.
She became aware of Damon within seconds of his entrance. But what else did she expect from a bold, dynamic nobleman who always commanded attention? Garbed in formal attire-charcoal gray coat, silver brocade waistcoat, and white satin knee breeches-he was taller, more vital, more striking than any man in the room except for perhaps Prince Lazzara and Lord Haviland.
His physician friend, Mr. Geary, was with him, Elea nor noted. They made an odd pair, since Mr. Geary was short and portly and more plainly dressed, with bright red hair and a freckled complexion.
A moment later Damon glanced around the ballroom and found her in the crowd. Eleanor stiffened, cursing the irritating response her heart made whenever he merely looked at her.
His regard was more intent than usual, however… drifting over her gown, lingering on her bodice. Somehow she knew he was not merely admiring the rich design of the seed pearls. No, he was recalling what had happened between them two nights ago, the wanton way she had responded to his scandalous caresses… devil take him.
Eleanor felt her skin flush with heat, even before Damon's gaze lifted and met hers. When their eyes locked, she experienced that same idiotic, overwhelming feeling she always had around him… breathless, spellbound, captivated.
For the space of several heartbeats, the noise and bustle of the ballroom faded away, and it seemed as if she and Damon were the only two people in the room, enveloped in their own private world.
The spell was suddenly broken as several young ladies hurried toward him, yet Eleanor couldn't help watching in resentful fascination as Damon greeted them with his alluring brand of male charm.
She was not the only one watching, either. Beside her, the prince muttered a low oath in his own language, having spied Damon.
“Must he appear every time I have you to myself? His ubiquitous presence is growing tiresome.”
“I agree,” Eleanor murmured wholeheartedly.
Lazzara's brooding gaze was still fixed on Damon. “He seems to be pursuing you, Donna Eleanora.”
“If so, it is completely against my wishes, I assure you.”
Tearing his gaze from across the ballroom, his highness gave her a considering look. “Wrexham is a wild and reckless sort. Not the ideal a young lady such as yourself would wish for in a suitor.”
The comment was posed more as a question than a statement, and when Eleanor responded, “Most certainly not,” the prince seemed satisfied with her answer and turned the conversation to less controversial topics than her choice of suitors.
After perhaps another quarter hour had passed- during which a number of their acquaintances came up to greet them and sympathize with the prince over his injury-the orchestra began playing the opening minuet. When Signor Vecchi led Lady Beldon onto the ballroom floor, Eleanor was left alone with Prince Lazzara.
“It is quite warm here, is it not?” he asked after a moment.
To Eleanor's surprise, his face appeared abnormally flushed and a sheen of perspiration covered his forehead.
The ballroom did indeed feel rather oppressive with the heat from myriad chandeliers and the press of so many elegantly clad bodies, but no more than usual, she judged.
“Perhaps you will take a turn with me outside, where the air is cooler,” the prince suggested.
“Should you be walking, Don Antonio?”
“I may walk with my cane, even though I cannot dance. And I would very much like to have your attention all to myself.”
Eleanor did not have to feign a smile. The prince was offering an opportunity for them to be alone, and she intended to take full advantage of it. “I would like that as well, your highness.”
He took her punch cup and set it on the floor beside her chair, along with his own half-empty one. Then rising, he lightly grasped her elbow and guided her behind the bank of potted palms, through an open French door.
“This is significantly better,” he remarked when they stepped out onto a balcony overlooking the side gardens. “The night air is much cooler here.”
Eleanor murmured her agreement. She was comfortable in her short-sleeved ball gown, in part because she wore long kidskin gloves that covered her arms, but also because the mid-September evening was unseasonably mild.
“In my country our young ladies are not permitted to be alone with a man,” Lazzara observed. “It makes courting rather difficult.”
His voice had dropped a level and held a husky undertone, she realized. Eleanor glanced up at him, seeing that his handsome features were illuminated by dim moonlight.
“In my country, the rules are not quite as strict,” she replied, wondering if he intended to kiss her. He had a rakish reputation after all. But reluctant to leave the outcome solely to him, she lifted her face slightly, offering silent encouragement.
He did not seem to need further invitation. Bending his head, Lazzara pressed his mouth to hers.
His lips were full and soft and unaccountably… tame, Eleanor thought, unable to suppress her disappointment. She had expected the prince to be more assertive, at least. He was treating her like a fragile blossom, nothing like the way Damon treated her when he kissed her-
Irked that she would be thinking of Damon when she was being embraced by another man-and even more irked that she was not enjoying the prince's kiss as she should-she raised her hands to his shoulders and offered her mouth more fully…