Prince Lazzara was then compelled to make known his relative, Signor Umberto Vecchi, a tall, silver-haired gentleman. A diplomat from the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies assigned to the Court of England, Vecchi had responsibility for commercial dealings, chiefly the lucrative trade of Marsala wine. And only he seemed unaware of the sudden chill in the air as they all stood for a moment making genteel but awkward conversation.
Fortunately the tension was relieved when the elderly Dowager Countess Haviland joined them, escorted by her grandson, Rayne Kenyon, the new Earl of Haviland.
The earl was well known to Damon from their salad days at university. Haviland had been an un-apologetic rebel then, and the black sheep of his illustrious family, so it was no surprise that he'd spent many of the intervening years attempting to thwart Napoleon's aim of world domination-reputedly, it was whispered, as a brilliant spymaster for British intelligence.
Clearly his grandmother and Lady Beldon were fast friends. But when another round of introductions followed, Damon noted with some surprise that Lady Beldon seemed to harbor a decided fondness for the handsome Italian diplomat, and that she lost a good deal of her aristocratic starch when speaking to him, almost to the point of coy flirtation.
However, it did not surprise Damon when Eleanor made use of the diversion to take him to task under her breath. “Your machinations are beginning to annoy me excessively, Lord Wrexham. I wish you would stop hounding me in this absurd way.”
Damon raised an innocent eyebrow. “I am hardly hounding you.”
“No? What do you call this?” She waved a hand, indicating the seating arrangements. “You intruded on our excursion yesterday, and now this.”
“I should think you would be pleased to have such a choice view of the performers. Miss Blanchard went to great trouble to accommodate my request. But if you wish, I can ask her to move your party elsewhere.”
With an exasperated huff, Eleanor sent him a quelling look. “You know it is much too late now to relocate. I don't wish to make a scene. But take warning. I will not allow you to spoil my prospects with Prince Lazzara.”
Her words were a challenge, while her flashing eyes pinned him. But wisely, Damon refrained from responding and provoking her further. Then Tess arrived with her spinster friend, Miss Jane Caruthers. Tess greeted him warmly before turning to the others to welcome them to the concert.
Eventually they all took their seats. Tess sat next to Damon, who had settled behind Eleanor and her suitor.
Damon was glad for the opportunity to share Tess's company. A dark-haired beauty with a gracious and serene air about her, she was only a fourth cousin or so, but one of his few relatives and someone he cherished. Tess had been so busy with her various charities, however, they'd had no time for any private conversations since his return to England.
“It is so good to see you again, Damon,” she murmured, leaning closer to be heard over the din of the audience.
“And you, love. You have outdone yourself this evening.”
Her smile was tinged with relief and pride. “I do hope it goes well. If the Prince Regent will only arrive soon, we may begin before the audience becomes too restless.”
The entire theater was resplendent with the cream of society present. The glittering crowd wore their richest finery, and the display of silks and satins and jewels shimmered in the glow of gaslight flame.
Damon had a good view of Eleanor's bare nape and graceful shoulders as she leaned closer to her own companion to discuss the program.
The opening performance would be in English, a chorus from Mozart's Don Giovanni, followed by an aria in Italian from Italy's Gioacchino Rossini, then selections from George Fredric Handel and the Irish composer Thomas Cooke.
He could hear Eleanor questioning Prince Lazzara about opera music-no doubt following the advice of that damned book on how to capture a husband. Her encouragement allowed his highness to boast about the superior nature of his country's contribution to world culture.
“I confess astonishment,” the prince eventually lamented, “that some of your operas are sung in English. The effect will be ruinous.”
Leaning forward, Damon interjected himself into their discussion. “On the contrary, your highness,” he said mildly. “Being able to understand the words makes opera more appealing to the common Englishman.”
Lazzara glanced dismissively over his shoulder at Damon. “What would you know of it, sir? You do not strike me as the sort who would appreciate good opera.”
“You would be mistaken. I enjoy opera greatly. As it happens, I had the pleasure of hearing Rossini's debut of Barbiere di Siviglia in Rome last year.”
Lazzara's eyebrows rose in surprise. “Indeed?”
Damon smiled. “Yes, and since it is just the sort of comedy we English enjoy, I would not be surprised if it were soon to be performed here in London in our language.”
Lazzara gave a delicate shudder, clearly looking down his royal nose at this violation to his sensibilities, while Eleanor frowned at Damon.
He caught her reproving glance, but sat back satisfied that he had at least made her think about the vast divide between their two cultures.
Beside him, Tess watched him with curiosity, but then her attention was diverted by the commotion across the theater in the opposite gallery. The audience was rising to acknowledge the arrival of His Royal Highness, the Prince Regent. Damon could almost feel his cousin breathe more easily once Prinny's entourage was finally settled and the performance began.
On her part, Eleanor sat stewing during the first performance, deploring her powerful physical awareness of Damon behind her. Mercy, he looked stunning in a black evening coat, with the crisp white lace of his cravat a perfect foil for his sun-bronzed skin. It had required a valiant effort to tear her gaze away from him.
At least her efforts to ignore him were helped by her frustration. The vexing rogue kept appearing during her outings with the prince, making an utter nuisance of himself and driving her to distraction.