Page 153 of Modern Romance September 2026 Books 5-8

‘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.

‘I want this for yourself, for you to take your place in the world you were born to, that you exiled yourself from. But I also—’ he had been straight with her ‘—am appreciative for myself as well. Yes, my money has got me to the top, I get invitations and the social life that my wealth ensures me, but what I don’t get is evenings like the one tonight. Small, intimate, private gatherings of the kind of people who populate your world, Eleanora. That,’ he had said openly, honestly, ‘is what an aristo trophy wife can bring me.’

Now, as they took their places for dinner in the Falcones’ dining room, Eleanora placed next to the Conte, Sanzio to his Contessa, she could see what he meant. As well as Nic and Francesca, and the Conte and his Contessa—plus Adrietta, greeting her with an exuberant air kiss, her eyes sparkling as she and her husband, the Visconte, were introduced to Sanzio—there were two other couples, both from the upper echelons, all of them from the same world of those born to inherited wealth or status, their families all knowing each other. Insiders, not outsiders like Sanzio—and Nicolò Falcone.

They both married in—Nicolò Falcone to Francesca, Sanzio to me.

His ‘aristo trophy wife’, that was what Sanzio had called her—and now that he’d glammed her up she could perform that role for him. She would do it willingly, if she was capable of it, because he was saving her beloved palazzo. So tonight, she was Donna Eleanora, wearing the beautiful dress he’d bought her, displaying the baroque pearls he’d bestowed on her, another exquisite Fabian clutch lying on her lap. Chatting to people she’d either known, or known of, all her life, simply by virtue of being her father’s daughter.

That was what Sanzio wanted from her.

Nothing else—except companionship, a partner in restoring the Palazzo, someone easy to be with.

All much for her to value, indeed, and yet—

Don’t ask for more.

Her eyes went to him, his tall, powerful body sleek in his bespoke tuxedo, his strong, distinctive features which so drew her eye, emphasised by his formality as he replied to something the Contessa said to him. It brought a quirk to his sensual mouth, and Eleanora felt a hollow form within her.

Then, with a start, she realised the Conte was addressing her.

‘I understand you and your husband are undertaking the restoration of the Palazzo Verano. I applaud you for it.’ There was approval in his voice. He paused a moment. ‘It is good to see a da Verano taking an interest in their heritage,’ he said. His expression was nothing more than courteous, but Eleanora understood. She made her reply as tactful as possible.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘My sister now, with her marriage, of course, will have her focus of interest in her husband and his family in France—there is a chateau on the Loire—so perhaps the mantle of preserving what I can for the da Verano name falls on me.’

‘I believe it has fallen on sound shoulders, Donna Eleanora,’ il Conte said gravely. ‘And you know,’ he went on reflectively, ‘it is also healthy, I believe, for old families to take in new blood. I myself have been so very fortunate in that respect.’ He paused. ‘I think you have too.’

His eyes met hers, and the approval in them brought a flush of colour to her cheeks. Partly because it was praise indeed from someone held in such high regard—but it was also for a less pleasant reason.

He is treating Sanzio and me as if our marriage is real and meaningful—not something pulled together in haste to save my family palazzo before my father could sell it for whatever he could get for it. And for Sanzio to save face after Tonia jilted him—

There was nothing personal about it at all.

‘Thank you,’ she managed to reply. But she could not meet Cesare’s eye as she answered.

If he noticed her sudden awkwardness, he ignored it. ‘Francesca mentioned that while you are in Rome you are hoping to trace artworks from the Palazzo that were sold over the years. I wish you well in that endeavour.’

‘Thank you. The auction house and dealer I’ve contacted so far seemed hopeful that some might be traced. Whether they can be repurchased is a different issue. Some are in museums, I know, on public display, so they must stay there.’

‘The two Titian portraits most definitely,’ the Conte murmured. ‘A cardinal and, I think, a very distant great-aunt of yours?’

‘Indeed, but such great art belongs to the world,’ Eleanora averred, slightly surprised he knew that much about da Verano portraiture. His next words explained it.

‘True. I’ve lent the finest pieces of my own for public display, but I’ve retained lesser ones to display at my castello. I open the gallery and state rooms to the public some of the year.’

‘Palazzo Verano is not quite in that league!’ Eleanora smiled. ‘But I hope we can offer access of some sort, in some way, when restoration is complete.’

She received another nod of grave approval. ‘Those who were born to privilege should endeavour to be worthy of it and provide some social good,’ he pronounced.