“Then why don't you proceed? I will keep his highness entertained in your absence,” Damon asserted.
Entertained? That possibility worried her exceedingly, Eleanor thought, experiencing a fierce urge to tell Damon to go to the devil. He was clearly amused by her struggle to hold her tongue.
Annoyed that she amused him, she smiled graciously at Don Antonio and said aloud, “If you will excuse me for a moment, your highness…?”
“Naturally, mia signorina.”
Yet Eleanor felt a strong measure of trepidation when she left the parlor and went upstairs in search of her maid, Jenny. She didn't particularly trust Damon alone with the prince. Not after his gibes about her using Fanny's book to attract her royal suitor.
The remembrance made her want to squirm. Yet who was he to judge her attempts at romance? Eleanor muttered to herself, still piqued that she was required to defend her actions to Damon.
Somehow he had known that the sparks were missing from her current courtship. She felt a physical attraction to Prince Lazzara, true, but nothing whatso ever like what she had felt for Damon. At least not yet. Then again, it was still early in their courtship. She hadn't had much opportunity to apply Fanny's sage advice.
She meant to remedy that very shortly. She intended to rouse Lazzara's ardor-and increase her own ardor for him at the same time.
It would be far more difficult with her former betrothed underfoot, but she would manage, Eleanor vowed. Moreover, she reminded herself with a determined surge of optimism, wooing another nobleman should go a long way in helping her crush her continued foolish captivation with the provoking rake who had once meant so much to her.
Keeping his hands clasped over his lap as he settled again on the sofa, Damon crossed one booted leg over the other and surreptitiously arranged his breeches to hide his swollen arousal. Kissing Elle had left him woefully hot and painfully hard.
A rather unseemly state, given that he was face-to-face now with her royal courtier.
Damon was glad to have this opportunity, however. All his instincts shouted that Lazzara wasn't the right match for Eleanor. She was not precisely gullible where men were concerned, but she genuinely liked most people. As a result, she would be too willing to overlook Lazzara's faults and fail to examine his character closely enough in favor of his more superficial qualities of charm and physical appeal.
Especially since she was set on using that damned advice primer to help her win his affection.
Damon felt a muscle flex in his jaw. He had pretended amusement at Eleanor's professed determination to entice the prince into marriage, but there was nothing amusing about it.
Of course, he admitted rather grudgingly, jealousy was possibly driving him in addition to his determination to protect her.
And from Lazzara's expression as he took a seat opposite, the prince was feeling a strong measure of jealousy himself. They were like two bucks sizing up each other before battle, fighting over the same doe.
However, the prince's next words surprised him. “I understood, Lord Wrexham, that you no longer have any claim to Donna Eleanora. Was I mistaken? Shall I consider you a rival for her hand?”
Although appreciating that Lazzara had come straight to the heart of the matter, Damon sidestepped a direct reply. “I gave up my claim to Lady Eleanor some time ago, as she will attest. But that does not mean that I am not concerned for her.” His regard intensified. “What are your intentions toward Lady Eleanor, your highness?”
Lazzara lifted his chin with royal hauteur, as if wondering how anyone dared to ask him such a thing.
Damon held back a tight smile. It was ironic that he was questioning Eleanor's latest suitor just as Marcus had questioned him two years ago when he'd sought her hand in marriage.
“You presume a great deal, sir,” the prince finally said.
“Her elder brother, Lord Danvers, is a friend of mine,” Damon replied, shading the truth a little. “In his absence, I feel obliged to keep an eye out for her.”
Which was only partly accurate. His callous treatment of Marcus's sister had cost Damon their longtime friendship. Indeed, Marcus had threatened to carve out his liver if he didn't leave London immediately so the sensation could die down. It was fortunate that the warning had coincided with Damon's need to pursue his own goals in the warm, dry climate of the Mediterranean.
A hint of anger flashed in Lazzara's eyes, while his reply was dismissive of Damon's concern. “My court ship of Donna Eleanora is my own affair, my lord. I need not explain my intentions to you or anyone else.”
Damon felt his jaw clench at that unsatisfactory answer, but he settled for a warning of his own. “It would be a mistake,” he said in a silken tone, “to think you could escape retribution from Lady Elea nor's family and friends were you to hurt her in any way, even unintentionally.”
Lazzara hesitated, evidently reconsidering sparring with Damon. His scowl disappearing, he instead offered a smile meant to charm. “I promise you, my lord, she is quite safe with me.”
Damon put no trust in such a pledge, though. Nor would he be deterred by it.
He intended to observe Lazzara's courtship of Eleanor closely and would act to end any serious romance between them. It would be a challenge, devising ways to interfere without earning her scorn. But he meant to keep Eleanor from making an irrevocable mistake, even if it meant going against her express desires.
The Pantheon Bazaar, situated between Oxford and Marlborough Streets, offered a wide assortment of wares by mercers, milliners, hatters, tobacconists, and perfumeries, among many others.
This was Damon's first visit to the Bazaar, since it had opened barely a year before he'd left London. The large, airy building, he noted when their small party entered, was furnished with numerous stalls on the ground floors and with galleries above.