Page 152 of Modern Romance September 2026 Books 5-8

‘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.