Nicole Jordan - To Romance a Charming Rogue

However, she hadn't yet decided how seriously she wished to be considered as Prince Lazzara's future princess. Admittedly she was attracted to him. His sensual voice and melting dark eyes were the very essence of romance. He was also handsome, engaging, charming, and witty-and from all reports, as much of a rake as Damon had ever been.

And after her disastrous betrothal to Damon- followed by a second, even briefer betrothal to another nobleman shortly afterward-Eleanor was adamant that the next time she became engaged, it would be for good. More crucially, she would only marry a man whom she loved and who loved her in return.

Just then a hush fell over one end of the hall. Eleanor suspected that Prinny had entered with his entourage. But when her aunt stiffened and muttered “Speak of the devil” under her breath, Eleanor realized that it was not only His Royal Highness who had attracted attention.

Damon Stafford, Viscount Wrexham, stood beside the Regent, drawing all eyes, including hers.

The company began bowing and scraping fawningly to Prinny, while Lord Wrexham casually surveyed the elite gathering-and the gathering returned the favor.

In some vague corner of her mind, Eleanor was aware of the excited murmur of feminine voices remarking on the noble newcomer, yet in truth all she could register was Damon… his height, his muscular vitality, his charisma. He seemed to fill the hall with his presence.

His features, which boasted strong brow, cheekbones, and jawline, were rawly masculine and just as striking as she remembered, although his complexion was more sun-bronzed now by his travels in Europe. His hair was the rich color of sable, without the blue-black hue of her own ebony. His eyes, set off by heavy eyebrows and thickly fringed lashes, were still dark as midnight and just as bold-

Eleanor's wits abruptly scattered when those penetrating eyes found hers in the crowd.

Despite all her self-warnings, she simply froze as Damon locked gazes with her. It was peculiar, how one could experience heated flashes and cold chills at the very same time. How the air could be drawn from one's lungs so swiftly, making it difficult to breathe.

The impact of seeing him again was like being struck by a lightning bolt; that same sizzling jolt she had experienced when she first laid eyes on Damon just over two years ago.

Her hand stole to her breastbone in a futile effort to calm her heart, which was somersaulting painfully in her chest. Her heart was not the sole victim, either. Her palms had grown damp and her knees felt absurdly weak.

But of course, she was foolish to expect any other response. No man had ever fired her blood or touched her deepest emotions the way Damon had…

Suddenly scolding herself, Eleanor straightened her spine. I will not make a scene, she vowed silently. Not with so many denizens of the ton watching.

The hall was currently abuzz with speculation as the crowd's gazes shifted to her. All society knew that she had jilted Viscount Wrexham because of his rakish ways, and clearly the guests present were eagerly waiting to see how she would deal with him now.

“I have brought you champagne, Donna Eleanora, as you see.”

When the deep, velvety, Italian-accented voice broke into her chaotic thoughts, Eleanor had never been more glad for a distraction in her life.

Tearing her gaze from Damon's, she turned her back on him and flashed Prince Lazzara a brilliant smile. She refused to let her former betrothed's arrival spoil the evening for her.

For tonight, at least, she was fiercely determined to ignore the bittersweet memories of her hapless romance and the wicked rake who had caused them.

Eleanor's determination lasted the better part of two hours, until Prince Lazzara invited her to take a turn outside in the gardens. Glad to have a moment's respite from the warmth and the genteel din of Carl-ton House, Eleanor left her aunt in the charming company of the distinguished Signor Vecchi and took the younger Italian's royal arm to stroll along the gravel paths.

Prinny's taste in decor was considered questionable at best by most of the haut ton, but Chinese lanterns hanging at intervals lent the gardens a fairy-tale aura. The flickering golden light reflected in various fountains and pools, bringing to Eleanor's mind a memory of another glittering evening-and another shimmering fountain that had played a unique role in her brief engagement to Damon the first time he'd kissed her.

It was only when the prince called her attention to her distraction that Eleanor recalled her companion. “Why do you keep staring at that fountain, mia sig-norina?”

Why indeed? Eleanor wondered, scolding herself si lently even as her cheeks flushed. She had no business remembering Damon's stolen kiss or its aftermath, when she'd pushed him into the nearby fountain for his bold impertinence.

“The sight is lovely, don't you agree?” she equivocated.

Prince Lazzara nodded. “My palace at home boasts many beautiful fountains. Perhaps you will have the opportunity to see them one day.”

His teasing smile hinted at the reason she might have for visiting-as his bride-but Eleanor could not put too much stock in his suggestive remark, since the prince was known for his skillful ability to flatter and entice the fair sex.

“Will you tell me about your home, highness? I have never been to Italy, but I hear there are many spectacular sights.”

To her relief, Don Antonio launched into a warm recitation about the southern half of his country- which recently had been designated the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies by Europe's ruling powers-and the principality he ruled over near the Mediterranean.

Eleanor listened politely, although with only half an ear. Much to her dismay, she couldn't stop herself from dwelling on her past memories of Damon.

Barely a few days after meeting him at her aunt's annual house party, he'd taken more liberties than she could even have dreamed of from a gentleman, stealing a kiss and earning himself a thorough drenching. Inexplicably, her unconventional response to his seduction had only intrigued him more.

A fortnight later they were engaged to be married.

Eleanor had lost her heart to him, not because he was wealthy, titled, and sinfully handsome. Nor was it even due to Damon's charm, his wit, or his effortless ability to make her believe she was the most desirable woman in the world. It was because he chal lenged her and made her feel alive. Because he eased her loneliness, the sense of aloneness she had felt since childhood.

Her attraction went beyond the physical, with an almost instant meeting of minds. She could talk to him about her yearnings, her dreams. Could tell him her innermost thoughts and secrets.

Damon, however, was far more reticent about sharing his feelings. It was as if he kept part of himself hidden from the world-and specifically from her.

She'd been so confident that she could eventually break through the walls he erected. And since they seemed to be so ideally matched in spirit, wit, and passion, she was certain Damon would eventually come to love her, despite his reputation as a heart-breaker.

Then she discovered that he hadn't given up his long-term mistress as he'd led her to believe. He had broken her trust irrevocably. Trampled her pride, crushed her vulnerable young heart.

The pain had subsided over time. Now Eleanor felt only a bittersweet ache-or at least she had until tonight when she realized she would have to meet Damon face-to-face.

It should be a matter of sublime indifference to her whether or not he'd returned to London. She still harbored a measure of resentment and anger toward him, true, but little thought of revenge or violence or serious ill will. In fact, she had braced herself to meet him with equanimity.