Page 172 of Modern Romance September 2026 Books 5-8

* * *

It was the weekend, the fourth since they’d arrived back at the Palazzo. Summer was nearing its end, they’d had rain several times, good for the gardens, Sanzio allowed. The nursery had delivered the plants they’d selected earlier, and they’d been bedded in. Furniture from the antiques specialists in Rome Eleanora had visited had been delivered, and now the grand rooms, both reception saloni and upstairs bedrooms, all freshly painted, architraves regilded, draperies rehung, were starting to be habitable. Soon the Palazzo would be fully restored. He was looking forward to it.

His mood was good, very good. In Milan he’d persuaded Eleanora that even if she liked to dress down, she didn’t have to resort to cheap casualwear, not when she wasn’t immersed in physical labour. Now, when they relaxed or went off shopping locally, or even ate out sometimes, she would wear what he had urged her to buy in Milan, smarter and more stylish, even if not formal and dressy.

All the same, his eyes went to her now, looking good in well-cut, lightweight fawn trousers and an equally well-cut darker collarless shirt with turned-back cuffs, accessorised by stud earrings and a couple of bangles, as they headed off in his car, ready to make a day’s expedition to the region’s principal town some fifty kilometres away—bedlinen and cookware from the upmarket department store was on Eleanora’s shopping list—he wouldn’t mind seeing her glammed up again…

‘Shall we hit Rome again before too long?’ he put to her now. ‘Have some grand nights out! You haven’t worn your finery in a while.’ He smiled encouragingly.

Her answer wasn’t immediate. Then, ‘I’m… I’m happier at the Palazzo,’ she answered.

Sanzio glanced at her. There was something in her voice—her expression—that made him say more.

‘It’s very nearly all done now. We can afford to take our foot off the pedal and have another break from it all.’

‘Yes, it is nearly all done,’ she echoed.

Again, he caught something in her voice, her expression, as he glanced at her again, that made him continue.

‘It’s been quite a slog,’ he mused. ‘When you think what it was like when we first married.’

‘Yes—’

She didn’t say any more. Sanzio frowned, decelerating slightly.

‘Is everything all right?’ he asked. There was something about her today that disquieted him. And not only today. He was being increasingly reminded, he realized, of how she had been in Milan at first. Withdrawn. Distracted.

Then it had been, he was pretty sure, the aftermath to that showdown with Tonia. But what could account for it now? He could think of nothing.

For the most part it was absent, and she was the way she always was with him, had been from the first—except that now, of course, there was so, so much more between them. And in that respect, he felt himself relax again; he had no reason for any disquiet.

In my arms she is all that I want her to be! Clinging to me in her ecstasy as if she would never let me go—

No, that was all just as he wanted.

So why then, at times like this, could he pick up that feeling that she was withdrawing from him? For what reason?

A road junction loomed, and he had to focus on driving. As he made the turn it struck him that she had not answered the question he had just put to her.

‘Is everything all right?’

He wondered why she had not answered.

But he did not want to ask it again. For himself, he could think of no reason why it should not be.

* * *

Eleanora carried the coffee tray, plus some freshly baked savoury Parmesan and rosemary biscotti, to serve as a pre-lunch nibble, out to the pool area. Sanzio was in the water, his powerful body scything swiftly from one end to the other. He’d been talking about having a gym set up in one of the several spare ground floor rooms, another sign that he meant to spend time here at the Palazzo.

She gave a silent sigh. In the distance, carried over the clear air, the attenuated sound of the village church bell some five kilometres away sounded Sunday morning. Memory pierced her. How she and Sanzio had explored the medieval church in that old walled town in Lazio, and she had lit a candle, Sanzio making a generous donation. How long ago it seemed.

How swiftly the time had passed since then. Far, far too swiftly.

She set down the tray on the table, sitting down, pouring herself some water to sip, nibbling at a biscotto.

Yesterday, on the way to buy bedlinen and cookware, Sanzio had asked if everything was all right. She had given no answer.

How could she?