the upper classes, binding them together, impenetrable to outsiders.
Except by one means only...
Marriage.
His eyes rested on her, their expression veiled. Would Diana St Clair be his trophy wife?
It was a tempting prospect. As tempting as Diana St Clair herself.
He sat back to enjoy further contemplation of this woman who might achieve what he now most wanted from life.
* * *
To Diana’s relief, the dramatic sweep of Verdi’s music carried her away, despite her burning consciousness that Nikos Tramontes was sitting so close to her, and as she surfaced for the first interval it was to be ushered with his other guests back to the Crush Room for the first course of their champagne supper.
The conversation was led mainly by Louise Melmott, who knew the opera and its doubtful relationship to actual history.
‘The real Don Carlos of Spain was probably insane,’ the other woman said cheerfully, as they helped themselves to the delicacies on offer. ‘And there’s no evidence he was in love with his father the King’s, wife!’
‘I can see why Verdi rewrote history,’ Diana observed. ‘A tragic, thwarted love affair sounds far more romantically operatic.’
She was doing her best to be a good guest—especially since she knew Toby had no interest in opera, so she needed to emphasise her own enthusiasm.
‘Elisabeth de Valois was another man’s wife. There is nothing romantic about adultery.’
Nikos Tramontes’s voice was harsh, and Diana looked at him in surprise.
‘Well, opera is hardly realistic—and surely for a woman like the poor Queen, trapped in a loveless marriage, especially when she’d thought she was going to be married to the King’s son, not the King himself—surely one can only feel pity for her plight?’
Dark eyes rested on her. ‘Can one?’
Was there sarcasm in the way he replied? Diana felt herself colouring slightly. She had only intended a fairly light remark.
The conversation moved on, but Diana felt stung. As if she’d voted personally in favour of adultery. She felt Nikos Tramontes’s eyes resting on her, their expression masked. There seemed to be a brooding quality about him suddenly, at odds with the urbane, self-assured manner he’d demonstrated so far.
Well, it was nothing to do with her—and nor was Nikos Tramontes. She would not be seeing him again after this evening.
It was to her distinct annoyance, therefore, that when the long opera finally ended and she had bade goodnight to Toby, making sure she told him she was heading back to Hampshire the next day, she discovered that somehow Nikos Tramontes was at her side as she left the Opera House. It was a mild but damp night, and his car was clearly hovering at the kerb.
‘Allow me to offer you a lift,’ he said. His voice was smooth.
Diana stiffened. ‘Thank you, but a taxi will be fine.’
‘You won’t find one closer than the Strand, and it is about to rain,’ he returned blandly.
Then he was guiding her forward, opening the rear passenger door for her. Annoyed, but finding it hard to object without making an issue of it, Diana got in. Reluctantly she gave the name of the hotel she and her father had always used on their rare visits to the capital, and the car moved off.
In the confines of the back seat, separated from the driver by a glass divide, Nikos Tramontes seemed even more uncomfortably close than he had in the opera box. His long legs stretched out into the footwell.
‘I’m glad you enjoyed this evening,’ he began. He paused minutely. ‘Perhaps you’d like to come with me to another performance some time? Unless you’ve seen all this season’s productions already?’
There was nothing more than mild enquiry in his bland voice, but Diana felt herself tense. Dismay filled her. He was making a move on her after all, despite the presence in his life of Nadya Serensky. Her hopes that her disturbing reaction to him were not returned plummeted.
‘I’m afraid not,’ she said, giving a quick shake of her head.
‘You haven’t seen them all?’ he queried.
She shook her head again, making herself look at him. His face was half shadowed in the dim interior, with the only light coming from the street lights and shop windows as they made their way along the Strand towards Trafalgar Square.
‘That isn’t what I meant,’ she said. She made her voice firm.
His response was to lift an eyebrow. ‘Masterson?’ he challenged laconically.
She gave a quick shake of her head. ‘No, but...’
‘Yes?’ he prompted, as she trailed off.
Diana took a breath, clasping her hands in her lap. She made her voice composed, but decisive. ‘I spend very little time in London, Mr Tramontes, and because of that it would be...pointless to accept any...ah...further invitation from you. For whatever purpose.’
She said no more. It struck her that for him to have sounded so very disapproving of a fictional case of adultery in the plot of Don Carlos was more than a little hypocritical of him, given that he’d just asked her out. Clearly he was not averse to playing away himself, she thought acidly.
She saw him ease his shoulders back into the soft leather of his seat. Saw a sardonic smile tilt at his mouth. Caught a sudden scent of his aftershave, felt the closeness of his presence.
‘Do you know my purpose?’ he murmured, with a quizzical, faintly mocking look in his dark eyes.
She pressed her mouth tightly. ‘I don’t need to, Mr Tramontes. I’m simply making it clear that since I don’t spend much time in London I won’t have any opportunities to go to the opera, whomever I might go with.’
‘You’re returning to Hampshire?’
She nodded. ‘Yes. Indefinitely. I don’t know when I shall be next in town,’ she said, wanting to make crystal-clear her unavailability.
He seemed to accept her answer. ‘I quite understand,’ he said easily.
She felt a sense of relief go through her. He was backing off—she could tell. For all that, she still felt a level of agitation that was unsettling. It came simply from his physical closeness. She was aware that her heart rate had quickened. It was unnerving...
Then, thankfully, the car was turning off Piccadilly and drawing up outside the hotel where she was staying. The doorman came forward to open her door and she was soon climbing out, trying not to hurry. Making her voice composed once more.
‘Goodnight, Mr Tramontes. Thank you so much for a memorable evening at the opera, and thank you for this lift now.’
She disappeared inside the haven of the hotel.
From the car,
