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And I know you love opera.’

      The plaintive note in Toby’s voice made Diana feel bad. She owed him a gentle let-down. Reluctantly she acquiesced to his invitation—a corporate jolly for a performance of Verdi’s Don Carlo.

      But when she arrived at the Opera House she wished she had refused.

      ‘You remember Nikos Tramontes, don’t you?’ Toby greeted her. ‘He’s our host tonight.’

      Diana forced a mechanical smile to her face, concealing her dismay. With her own problems uppermost in her mind, she’d managed to start forgetting him, and the discomforting impact he’d had on her, but now suddenly he was here, as powerfully, disturbingly attractive as before.

      Then she was being introduced to the other couple present. Diana recognised the man who had brought Nikos Tramontes over to their table. With him was his wife, who promptly took advantage of the three men starting to talk business to draw Diana aside.

      ‘My, my,’ she said conspiratorially, throwing an openly appraising look back at Nikos Tramontes, ‘he is most definitely a handsome brute. No wonder he’s been able to hold on to Nadya Serensky for so long. That and all his money, of course.’

      Diana looked blank, and Louise Melmott promptly enlightened her.

      ‘Nadya Serensky. You know—that stunning redheaded supermodel. They’re quite an item.’

      It was welcome news to Diana. Perhaps she’d only been imagining that Nikos Tramontes had eyed her up at the livery dinner.

       Maybe it’s just me, overreacting.

      Overreacting because it was so strange to encounter a man who could have such a powerfully disturbing physical impact on her. Yes, that must be it. She tried to think, as she sipped her champagne in the Crush Room, if she had ever reacted so strongly as that to any other man, and came up blank. But then, of course, she didn’t react to men. Had schooled herself all her life not to.

      The men she’d dated over the years had been good-looking, but they had always left her cold. A tepid goodnight kiss had been the most any of them had ever received. Only with one, while at university, had she resolved to see if it were possible to have a full relationship without excessive passion of any kind.

      She had found that it was—for herself. But eventually not for her boyfriend. He’d found her lack of enthusiasm off-putting and had left her for another woman. It hadn’t bothered her—had only confirmed how right she was to guard her heart. Losing it was so dangerous. A policy of celibacy was much wiser, much safer.

      Anxiety bit at her. Except such a policy would hardly find her a husband rich enough to save Greymont. If she was truly still contemplating so drastic a solution.

      With an inward sigh she pulled her mind away. Tomorrow she would be heading back to Greymont to go through her finances again, get the latest grim estimates for the most essential work. But for now, tonight, she would enjoy her evening at Covent Garden—a night off from her worries.

      And she would not worry, either, about the presence of the oh-so-disturbing Nikos Tramontes. If he had a famous supermodel to amuse him then he would not be interested in any other women. Including herself.

      As they made their way to their box she felt her anticipation rising. The orchestra was tuning up, elegant well-heeled people were taking their seats, and up in the gods the less well-heeled were packed like sardines.

      Diana looked up at them slightly ruefully. The world would see her as an extremely privileged person—and she was; she knew that—but owning Greymont came with heavy responsibilities. Prime of which was stopping it from actually falling down.

      But, no, she wouldn’t think of her fears for Greymont. She would enjoy the evening.

      ‘Allow me.’

      Nikos Tramontes’s deep, faintly accented voice beside her made her start. He drew her chair back, allowing her to take her seat, which she did with a rustling of her skirts as he seated himself behind her. Louise Melmott sat beside her at the front of the box.

      His eyes rested on the perfect profile of the woman whose presence here tonight he had specifically engineered in order to pursue his interest in her. An interest that the dossier he had ordered to be compiled on her had indicated he must show. Because she might very well indeed prove suitable for far more than a mere fleeting seduction.

      Diana St Clair, it seemed, was possessed of more than the exquisite glacial beauty that had so caught his attention the other evening. She was also possessed of exactly the right background and attributes to suit his purposes. Best of all about Ms Diana St Clair was her inheritance—her eighteenth-century country estate—and the fact that it was her inheritance, bringing with it all the elite social background that such ownership conferred.

      An old county family—not titled, but anciently armigerous—possessing crests and coats of arms and all the heraldic flourishes that went with that status. With landed property and position, centuries of intermarriage with other such families, including the peerage. A complex web of kinship and connection running like a web across 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

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