Chapter Seven #2
Francesca laughed affectionately, ‘Nic, like Sanzio, is self-made. They both grew up poor in Rome. Nic has a tendency to refer to Cesare as ‘the illustrious Conte’ in a distinctly sardonic way. I can’t break him of the habit!’
‘Well, Cesare can do the lordly, you have to admit, Franci,’ Adrietta put in.
‘Perhaps,’ Francesca conceded. ‘Anyway, I’m very glad you’ll be there—and for your own sake, Eleanora.’
‘You disappeared off the map!’ Adrietta complained.
‘I went off to live at my father’s palazzo,’ Eleanora said by way of explanation. ‘It’s Sanzio’s now—he’s restoring it.’
‘That’s great!’ Adrietta enthused.
‘It’s worked out well,’ Eleanora allowed.
Because it had—on that she was honest. Saving the Palazzo was why she had married him, and seeing it come back to life again was all the justification for her marriage that she needed. Yes, Sanzio had another motive because of Tonia jilting him, but that was his concern.
But the reasons for their marriage had nothing to do with anything personal between them… Anything romantic.
He doesn’t think of me that way. I have to accept it. Be glad, rather, that we are companionable together. Comfortable.
She had to keep that firmly in mind when, as promised, Sanzio took her clothes shopping again in the afternoon.
She saw his eyes light up in approval as she showed off the dress she thought would work for dinner with the Falcones the following evening.
A creamy yellow slub silk with a boat neckline, it had a structured bodice, three-quarter-length sleeves and a fuller skirt than the amber dress.
‘That one, definitely!’ Sanzio declared. His eyes rested on her appreciatively. The warmth in them was like a balm, but she knew it must simply be because she would look good for him.
As his trophy wife.
A little pang shot through her. She wanted to look good for his sake, because he wanted her to look good—but also, she was honest enough to admit, it was wonderful, oh, so, so wonderful, to know that she could look the way he’d shown she could, after always thinking ill of her appearance compared to her dazzling sister.
But however much better she could look now, it still wasn’t enough, was it? It was Tonia imprinted on him, Tonia he had wooed, desired and planned to marry.
That’s why he keeps me at arm’s length. Why that kiss, that evening after the Falcone, was so wrong for him. He wanted to make me feel beautiful—but that kiss was for my sake, not his. It’s Tonia that he desires, not me.
There was beauty and there was desire—and in Tonia there was both. For Sanzio.
He might think me beautiful now—but not to desire. Not like Tonia.
So, whatever she might want, yearn for, from him, would not, could not, happen. She shook the oppressive thought from her.
Sanzio was speaking again. ‘Right, that one’s in the bag. OK, let’s start thinking about upping the game, get you something to wear at the gala. We’ll take a look here, but if nothing strikes us, we’ll try somewhere else.’
In the end, though she felt uncertainty strike again, they found a gown that Sanzio declared was ‘the one’.
Eleanora was less sure—could she really carry it off?
A sheer, shimmering ivory silk, cut on the bias, moulding every contour of her slender figure, its draped neckline dipped to expose the gentle swell of her breasts, leaving her shoulders and her arms bare, the long skirts pooling to a demi-train.
She saw Sanzio looking at her in the spacious private dressing room where she was trying on the evening gowns.
There was an expression on his face she had not seen before.
A glitter in his eyes. A tightening of his mouth.
‘Perfect,’ he said.
‘I feel very exposed,’ Eleanora said uneasily. ‘Just these tiny spaghetti straps.’
The commessa moved forward. ‘Perhaps a wrap, or stole?’ she suggested.
‘Oh, yes, that would be good,’ Eleanora said immediately.
The commessa promptly produced several to choose from, and Eleanora went for one in ivory chiffon with silver threads.
Next there was the question of shoes—strappy, high heeled evening sandals—and another Fabian clutch, this one in matching ivory silk with crystal beading.
Sanzio sat back in the armchair provided for attendant partners and watched the proceedings.
That strange, unnerving expression on his face still, he was watching her, his hands resting on the upholstered arms of his chair.
Eleanora was glad to change back into her daywear, another of the outfits Sanzio had bought for her on their first outing, which had been suitable for lunch with Adrietta and Francesca, a simple but stylish moss-green shift with a short jacket to go with it, which had held its own against the sisters’ equally stylish designer outfits.
Shopping finally done, she and Sanzio took a taxi back to his apartment.
‘How did lunch go?’ he asked genially. That unnerving look had vanished from his face, and Eleanora was glad of it.
‘Very well,’ she said warmly, and with a slight expression of surprise that she had thought it so. ‘It was good to meet up with Adrietta again—she’s such fun! And Francesca is lovely. It was so nice to see—’
She stopped.
‘See what?’ Sanzio prompted.
‘To see two sisters being like that. Getting on so well—being so close. Affectionate with each other. It made me wish—’ She gave a sigh. ‘If I’d had an older sister like Francesca—’
Sanzio cast a look at her. ‘Instead, you got Toxic Tonia.’
‘Yes,’ she said. She swallowed. ‘They don’t like Tonia,’ she said slowly. ‘Adrietta was very blunt about it.’
‘Tonia doesn’t go in for likeable.’ Sanzio’s voice was dry.
‘She doesn’t need to,’ Eleanora said sadly.
‘Perhaps—’ Sanzio’s voice was even drier ‘—she may find that a mistake one day.’ His voice changed. ‘Enough about Toxic Tonia! Since you’ve had a full-on day and we’re out tomorrow evening, shall we have an evening in and just relax? Can you face pizza again?’
She could, happily.
Later, as she curled up on the huge sofa and Sanzio lounged back at the far end, long legs outstretched, channel-surfing for something light to watch, her eyes went to him.
It was so good just to be with him like this—as they had come to be at the Palazzo.
Relaxed, at ease with each other. Comfortable together.
And yet—
The pang came again, deep inside. For all their being comfortable together, she was at one end of the sofa and he was at the other. A short distance apart, but he might as well have been on the moon.
He’s nice to me—so very, very nice to me. But that is all. There’s nothing more.
Nothing more for him, at any rate. For herself, though?
No, she must not go there. It was impossible, forbidden.
It isn’t why he married me.
She must never forget that. However hard it was, however much she had come to long and yearn and hope, so hopelessly, that he might think of her, look at her. Reach for her.
The pang came again. Sharper this time. Deeper.
And yet more helpless.
* * *
‘Ready?’ Sanzio smiled encouragingly at Eleanora as they got out of the car pulled up on the carriageway at the Falcones’ private villa adjacent to the hotel next door.
‘Remember,’ he assured her, hooking her arm through his, ‘this is your world—you belong here. And you are looking—’ his voice warmed, eyes sweeping over the beautiful creamy-yellow dinner dress ‘—wonderful!’
It gave her confidence, though a few butterflies were fluttering inside her. But Francesca’s greeting was welcoming and her husband’s likewise, before he turned to Sanzio.
‘Reinforcements, thank God!’ he exclaimed. ‘I’m drowning in a sea of aristos! You can up the pleb count with me!’
‘Happy to oblige,’ Sanzio answered, and Eleanora caught Francesca rolling her eyes.
‘It’s Cesare,’ she confided to Eleanora in an undertone, as she led them all into the salone. ‘He always puts Nic’s back up—though Cesare is never anything other than punctiliously polite!’
‘That,’ retorted her husband, ‘is exactly the problem.’
As she was introduced to the formidable Conte di Mantegna, Eleanora could see why that might be so. Tall, austere, with hawklike good looks, the Count looked exactly what he was—the scion of one of Italy’s oldest families, and a doyen of Rome’s high society.
He bowed formally over Eleanora’s hand. ‘Donna Eleanora,’ he murmured. ‘I believe we met at Adrietta’s wedding.’
‘So we did.’ She smiled, and then greeted his wife, Carla. The Contessa was a striking brunette and, like Francesca Falcone, a few years older than Eleanora, but with an expression of lively curiosity in her dark eyes.
‘So,’ she opened, ‘you are the secret da Verano sister! Quite a different style from Tonia! I do love your dress.’ She named the designer instantly. ‘And baroque pearls to go with it. Perfect!’
‘Aren’t they beautiful?’ Eleanora agreed, glancing at Sanzio.
He’d bestowed the necklace and pair of matching bracelets on her as they’d prepared to set out.
Her face had lit with delight. They were, indeed, perfect for the dress.
Though she hadn’t received Renata’s ministrations, she felt she’d managed to scoop her hair into a similar, if less perfect, chignon, and, with perseverance, had applied evening make-up well enough. Her reflection had reassured her.
So, far more, had Sanzio’s reaction as she’d walked out into the reception room.
‘Oh, yes,’ he’d breathed, and there had been a sudden light in his eyes.
Then it had gone, and he had picked up the large, flat jewellery box from the coffee table, opening it with a flourish to display the treasures within. He had helped fasten the necklace around her neck, and where his fingers touched at her nape, Eleanora knew she had trembled…
But she also knew that all Sanzio wanted was for her to look her best for the evening ahead—and he was honest as to why.