She didn’t believe all this was about his honor—or even hers. The real problem was he was unable to open his heart to someone he cared about.
Did he have the same intensity of longing towards her as she did for him? No.
He is in love with my singing. Thus far, he had proven unable to share his heart with her.
The only way they could be together was in a public setting which provided some sort of framework in which to enjoy each other’s company. When they were alone together, their passion burst into flames.
In response, in order to keep his heart in check, Alejandro’s mind fixated on his honor, his duty, and her future. It was admirable of him to be concerned for her future, but it was also his way of protecting his heart. It was very tiresome and not a pattern Nicolette wished to repeat again. She might as well have a fun day out with Rafael.
If Alejandro wanted to find her, he knew where her room was.
I will make him want to break down that lock with his bare hands.
51
Full of Spirits
“Confound it all!
A girl should be like a wine glass:
Shapely and full of spirits!”
- Figaro, The Barber of Seville by Gioachino Rossini
“May I recommend a wine for you, Senorita Nicolette?” Rafael asked attentively. He wore a variation of the matador's costume: tight, high-waisted bright blue pants and a white ruffled shirt unbuttoned to reveal his chest. On his feet were something akin to ballet shoes, no doubt to maximize his ease of movement, which did nothing whatsoever to detract from his masculinity.
“By all means, recommend.” Nicolette smiled. “But I shouldn’t drink it. I have already had one glass, Senor Ortega.” She was not inclined to over-indulge in spirits, generally having no difficulty enjoying herself without the added incentive, but the drink was superb, the luncheon divine, and she felt like throwing caution to the wind. Besides, it was such a sweet drink there was surely not much alcohol in it.
“Our red wines are unequaled in all the world. But none so intoxicating as you, Senorita Nicolette.” Rafael kissed her hand.
“It is a lovely wine. What do you call it?” she asked.
“Sangria. It is a wine mixed with fruit juices, including the Valencia orange.”
“Then I won’t feel guilty.” Ordinarily she was preparing to sing and could not indulge. But for someone who had been summoned here to sing she was doing very little of it.
His smile was sensuous. “I never do.”
Rafael’s delivery was a bit trite, but his smile was dazzling. He was amusing when he wasn’t flattering her, and even when he was. Nicolette returned the smile with pleasure, finding Rafael’s company and attentions to be utterly delightful.
Watching her, Alejandro looked anything but delighted, which increased her enjoyment. It didn’t feel good to offer oneself and be discarded, and this had become a habit with Alejandro. Never had she allowed any man to treat her thus.
“You must celebrate the day with me, Senorita Nicolette. There is no cause for sadness today.” Rafael was eager to pick up what Alejandro had discarded, despite appearing a bit ruffled by king’s obvious irritation. This was no small matter since the handsome toreador was accustomed to raging bulls.
“Certainly.” She caught Alejandro’s eye. “I hope it may be a day of new horizons for me.”
A bountiful buffet picnic had been laid out for the king's personal party resplendent with Spanish delicacies from the sea in savory sauces, skewered lamb and beef with vegetables, cheeses, olives, breads, fried peppers and onions, custards, pastries, and an overabundance of wine. The ranch, about ten miles out of Madrid, was beautiful and peaceful, surrounded by Scot's pine and Pyrenean oak. Nicolette found this trip to the tienta, the testing of young bulls, unpredictably enjoyable and peaceful. Clearly, the Spanish people loved socializing, good food, laughing, and overall partaking of life's bounty.
Except for their ill-humored king, who has a different view of things.
“You see, the tienta is like a mini-fiesta,” Rafael explained. “It allows the bull owners to learn which are the bravest bulls, it is an opportunity for the matadors to practice the cape work, and the select guests are honored to see behind the scenes as to what a bullfight involves.”
As Rafael got up from the table to procure a glass of Sangria for her she placed a succulent prawn in her mouth, enjoying a favorable view of his departure.
The toreador had escorted her, so naturally she sat with him. And yet Alejandro rarely took his eyes from her.
For Nicolette’s part, she reveled in the king’s unrelenting attentions.
Watch yourself, my girl. Attentions from afar is all that you are likely to receive.
He doesn’t want me and he doesn’t want anyone else to have me either. Nicolette sighed heavily. How can this be considered a victory?
This is absurd and pointless. She took another sip of wine, glancing provocatively at Alejandro over the rim of her glass. Still, it’s all that I have.
If Alejandro wanted her, he could have her. She wished to remind him of that with every sensual movement, of which she had a significant repertoire.
I will at least enjoy the game. Nicolette smoothed her smart green riding habit. The skirt reached just below the top of her beige leather boots, and a bowler's hat perched provocatively atop her head. She stroked a cameo nestled in lace at her throat, positioning a high-necked white cotton lace blouse. Of all things, she hated to feel invisible. Making a statement with her outfits was an attempt to feel noticed.
No one makes me feel more invisible than the man I love most in all the world.
“Senorita Nicolette,” King Alejandro murmured close to her ear, taking advantage of Rafael's absence, “I am not certain you understand the strength of our wines.” As he leaned forward, his hair fell into his eyes.
I wish he would not look at me that way. Alejandro looked far too dashing in his riding attire: camel colored form-fitting pants, shining black knee boots, a white shirt, a navy jacket, and a riding hat.
“I am glad to learn there is strength in something in Spain.” She laughed, peering at him from under the veil atop her bowler's hat. “I had begun to think I would encounter nothing but milk and water in this country.”
“You have no idea what you are doing, Senorita Nicolette.” King Alejandro frowned.
“I'm sure I don't, your majesty. But I shan't be with you when I begin to understand, will I?” Oh, that was a bit too low, even for her, but she did enjoy seeing the fury in his eyes. “At least I am doing something.”
“How much wine have you had to drink, Senorita Nicolette?” he demanded, as if it were any of his business.
Believe me, it is not the drink which incites my anger.
“Only one teensy glass of Sangria, your majesty. But I may sample the wine as well. As I'm sure Rafael—oh, I mean Senor Ortega, I forget myself—would agree, there is no substitute for experience.” Admittedly, it was considered unladylike to partake of anything more than a small cordial in London. Paris was more accepting.
Nicolette had imagined that, in this illustrious party, she would be repulsed for not being a dignified shrinking violet. It appeared the tienta was more casual. And contrary to her assumptions, Spanish men, in general, did not admire the reserve or pretense of British women. Spaniards were emotional, brave, warm, full of enthusiasm for life—and admired these qualities in others.
Nicolette had never quite belonged in London. Paris was more welcoming of her eccentricities and passionate nature. Something about Spain struck an entirely different chord. She had always heard there was a geographical match to one’s personality. Spain is a perfect match.
Except for Spain’s illustrious king, who was never pleased with her.
I am not entirely pleased with him at the moment either.
“Some experiences will only lead to heartbreak.”
“At least they are experiences. I beg you will not tell me how t
o live, your highness. It is my God given right to make this choice for myself, and I have always chosen to embrace every moment.”
“Nicolette,” he whispered, his expression pleading, “I beg you will not let this stranger take advantage of you.”
“And how is that your concern, your highness?” She raised her eyebrows. For an instant she left the game and faced him straight on. “Please, Alejandro, do not waste your time with me. It is no use and is only hurting us both. You don’t want me, and you don’t want anyone else to have me either. It is too much torture. Let me go and let me enjoy myself a little at least.”
As Alejandro opened his mouth to reply, Rafael returned. This would not have deterred Alejandro's response, Nicolette knew, and Rafael certainly would have stepped back upon seeing he was interrupting something—but there was nothing to interrupt. She excused herself and went to the ladies room where she knew there was no one to disturb her.
Upon proceeding to the bullring, the party positioned themselves outside the ring on simple, plank-like seating, a small rustic stadium of sorts which was utterly charming. Rafael commanded everyone's attention simply by a slight turn of the hand, even in so illustrious a crowd. He had a magnificent presence.
“I will provide a short demonstration before we show our prize bulls.” All eyes were on Rafael. “After which we will bring out the two-year-olds and ask for volunteers.”
Rafael positioned the cape in front of his body, bright pink on one side and canary yellow on the other. He masterfully demonstrated how to hold the cape to the side of one's body, how to pop the cape to maintain the bull's attention, hypnotizing and directing the bull, and how to disengage oneself from the bull and quickly exit from the ring.
It is all quite simple, really.
Perhaps the Sangria exaggerated that opinion. Nicolette dismissed the idea. She had an excellent physical memory, and she replayed Rafael’s movements in her mind.
I might act gay and tipsy for Alejandro's benefit, but I am in complete control of myself.
As they waited for the bull, the party sat together, laughing and drinking. All except for the king. His tanned jaw line was firm and his piercing dark eyes determined and unrelenting. He appeared to be in the worst of spirits.
Good.
Nicolette fumed. Alejandro consistently told her what was best for her, what she felt, and what she should feel.
It is not a communication, it is an edict. He didn’t want anything to do with her—at the same time he wanted everything. How Nicolette longed to bring their relationship into the real world with herself as one of the participants.
Melancholy threatened to descend upon her as she returned Alejandro’s gaze. She felt a sudden longing in her heart as she wished this lovely day had unfolded under far different circumstances: this their first shared outing after a night of making love, new lovers instead of practiced adversaries. She pictured brushing his hand as they spoke and feeling an electricity reverberate through her body. She felt it even as she watched him.
This isn’t right. Every encounter with Alejandro ends in sadness. We can’t be right for each other. Maybe it is for the best…
In her mind’s eye Nicolette saw them giggling and laughing over unimportant observations instead of feuding.
Marriage is not a possibility with Alejandro. Nicolette closed her eyes momentarily. He must marry another royal, and form an alliance.
If I could marry him, would I?
It was all a moot point. She could not love Alejandro as she wished to.
There was nothing Nicolette could do about the turn of events and she was determined to aggravate Alejandro to his limit. Perhaps then he would come to his senses and realize just how precious their time together was.
Snap! Like a flash of lightning in a clear summer sky, Rafael instantly materialized in the ring, his bright pink cape imposing crackling sounds in the air, flashes of pink and gold indistinguishable from each other. At the young bull's first sight of Rafael and his cape, he charged at full ramming speed. Rafael flashed the cape and tempted the bull, yelling.
“Eh, toro, toro!” The bull plowed through the cape, forcing the fabric into the air with a sharp explosive sound.
Before Nicolette had time to blink, the bull whipped around, creating a circular cloud of dust, his own private tornado which attached to his rear hooves. The bull held nothing back in his glaring determination to pulverize Rafael.
Her eyes were glued to the scene before her. She surprised herself that she was able to breathe. It was thrilling beyond anything she had ever seen: enacted before her eyes was man's fight to hold onto life against a ferocious beast determined to deprive him of it.
Rafael moved with the grace and beauty of a dancer, the difference being that he faced death with each performance.
The bull lunged forward, certain to gore Rafael. The matador pulled the cape closer to his body, and just as the beast seemed certain to collide with the cape, Rafael spun around, the bull twisting into empty space like a twirling top.
“Olé!” Involuntarily, the crowd jumped to their feet in unison, simultaneously clapping, shouting, and waving their arms.
Time stood still as she watched the entrancing fluidity of Rafael's movement, traveling at the speed of lightening in the last possible instant. Rafael strutted toward the audience with his back to the bull in an arrogant display of boredom, swinging the cape with one hand and yawning with the other.
There was a collective “Gasp!” In an instant the bull was curved around Rafael's waist, his horns inches from Rafael's body. As the snorting, lunging beast attacked the matador again and again, each of Rafael's calculated movements was an exquisite balance of art and conqueror.
To combine battle with art, with such exquisite beauty of movement, all in a matter of seconds, set off an explosion of wonder and excitement in Nicolette's mind. It was, quite literally, a man walking a tightrope between life and death before her eyes.
“And what is your opinion, Senorita Nicolette?” Alejandro moved to sit beside her. “Is it as you expected?”
“It is magnificent.” Thrilled and breathless, Nicolette shook her head, placing her hand over her heart.
“And do you still not approve of our bullfight?”
“I do not.” She let out a long sigh staring straight ahead. “But no one who has seen Rafael in the ring can deny his extraordinary talent.”
“True.”
“In the bullfight, the bull will be killed will he not?” She could not help but turn towards Alejandro, her heart pounding.
“Yes, ideally with one stab of the sword.” His eyes rested on hers, softening as she finally met his eyes. “The audience never condones a lingering death for the bull.”
“I understand it doesn't always happen that way.” She frowned, returning her gaze to the ring. “In fact, the bull suffers horribly. Is not the bull stabbed even before the arrival of the matador on the scene to weaken it and to enrage the beast?”
“Yes, with banderillas, literally little flags decorated with colored paper, placed on the bull's flanks. These further weaken the enormous ridges of neck and shoulder muscle, causing loss of blood while also frequently spurring the bull into making ferocious charges.”
“No doubt it makes the bull angry to be stabbed.” Nicolette shook her head in disgust, turning to study the bulls in the pen. “Even despite the unfavorable odds, sometimes the bull lives, does he not?”
“The bull's final fate is decided by the president of the arena.” Alejandro nodded, seeming to caress her cheeks with his eyes. The words came out, but he seemed a thousand miles away, it seemed to Nicolette. “If the matador performed well, he is allowed to cut off one of the bull’s ears and toss it into the crowd. If he showed unusual bravery and showmanship, both ears are cut off and sometimes the tail as well. And yet, the crowd can override the decision of the president of the arena and spare the bull's life if the bull has shown great courage.”
“How benevolent,” Nicole
tte pronounced with a shaky voice, wishing she could tell this young bull in the ring to stop being so ferocious and brave: he was sealing his fate, just as the fiery Carmen sealed hers.
But how is it possible for someone not to be who they are?
“It is more honorable than the British fox hunt in my opinion,” Alejandro added. “There is no real courage required to chase and slaughter a small animal with the aid of dogs and guns, sitting high atop a horse. And yet we are proclaimed to be barbaric.”
“Shall you aspire to be no worse than everyone else then?”
“Every culture has its outlet for violence. Reform your own countrymen and let the Spanish have their culture, Senorita Nicolette.”
“I only ask you to consider. Everything desired can be achieved without killing the bull, as it is today. Rafael did not kill the bull, and yet he both faced death and showed enormous courage. Much more courage, in fact, because the bull was not weakened. Killing an animal and finding sport in its pain diminishes rather than adds to one's manliness.”
“It seems a subject of great interest to you, Senorita Nicolette.” He raised an eyebrow.
“Manliness? Indeed it is.”
“Actually, I was referring to the bull.”
“Do I have any volunteers?” Rafael suddenly reappeared even as the two-year old bulls were paraded about the ring, younger and with shorter horns. He illustrated with the cape even as he spoke. “Matadors will assist and hold one side of the cape. Although it is safe if performed correctly, you must remember that the bull is still an unpredictable, wild animal.”
“I held the cape closer to my body than is wise in an attempt to create more drama,” he continued. “You must hold the cape here.” Being an entertainer, she understood his ploy: he was attempting to walk that fine line between danger and showmanship, like a trapeze artist without a net. Several toreadors misjudged that line every year and paid the ultimate price.
In that instant, none of the precautions loomed paramount in Nicolette’s head, only the beauty and the thrill of it.
The Serenade: The Prince and the Siren Page 38
