The Serenade: The Prince and the Siren [Daughters of the Empire 2] (BookStrand Publishing Romance)

by Hollingsworth, Suzette

  I hear

  Music

  which I spin into flowers…

  As she sang the aria, the tender moment when Mimi introduced herself to the handsome poet Rodolfo became unexpectedly real to her. A picture of the beautiful, lonely boy she had seen flashed before her eyes, and her heart filled with concern for him. She saw once again the gentleness in his expression, and she was sure that it was the same expression that Mimi must have seen in Rodolfo.

  Nicolette became Mimi, delicate and sweet, genuine and open. She saw Rodolfo from Mimi’s eyes. Suddenly the music became far more important to her than the codes of recital conduct. She gave herself to the world she was creating heart and soul. Longing and love filled her heart, and she abandoned her stiff stance as her entire being entered into the music. She retrieved her lace handkerchief embroidered in flowers, showed it to the audience, and then caressed her cheek with it, closing her eyes.

  They call me Mimi

  I live by myself

  I eat alone—sometimes I forget

  I don’t often go to church,

  My life is my prayer

  From the window of my tiny white room

  I can see the Paris rooftops,

  the moon and the stars…

  When spring comes

  A rose blossoms in my vase,

  I breathe its perfume, petal by petal

  The flowers I make, alas,

  have no scent

  But when spring comes

  She whispers in my ear

  The sun’s first rays are mine

  April’s first kiss is mine!

  She made a circle with her arms to the sky as she sang, “The sun’s first rays are mine,” hugging herself. A pang of guilt for her lack of discipline crept into her consciousness even as she felt herself yielding to the music.

  And when she sang, “April’s first kiss is mine!” Nicolette did the unthinkable—she fell to her knees and clutched her handkerchief to her heart. In that one instant she could not regret it—she owed it to the music. Regaining her senses, her eyes scanned the audience as she prepared to exit in disgrace.

  How could I have been so unaccomplished as to succumb to my feelings? There was a long moment of silence, and her heart fell.

  A thunderous applause ensued. She saw tears in the eyes of some. One gentleman pulled a single rose out of a nearby vase and threw the deep-crimson flower to the floor at Nicolette’s feet.

  Four or five more roses followed with no apparent remorse or embarrassment for rearranging the Red Assassin’s flower arrangements.

  She learned a valuable lesson that night. In giving herself to the music, she imparted those emotions to everyone present. And she received something unexpected.

  Their hearts reached out to meet hers.

  “There are few who can actually bedazzle an audience, but you, my dear, are one of those few,” Lady Ravensdale whispered as she hugged her.

  “Oh, no, Mama. I don’t wish to draw attention away from the music. I wish to be the music.” She heard the truth from her own lips for the first time. And I want to do this every day for as long as I live.

  “Come to me, child,” the sultan commanded.

  Her father took her hand, and his touch reminded her that she was safe. The earl of Ravensdale was dressed in the full military garb of The Princess Royals, the 7th Dragoon Guards, reminding her that he knew how to fight—if indeed she needed such a reminder.

  Even she had to admit that the captain of the 7th Dragoon Guards looked quite dashing in his uniform. He was tall and slim, and he wore a red jacket sporting his captain’s insignia, black pants with a wide claret stripe down the sides, and black leather knee boots. He carried a steel helmet adorned with a long black tassel. An enormous sword was strapped to his side.

  Her hand firmly resting in her father’s, curiosity became her overriding emotion as she approached the dark man upon the throne. She turned to look at the captain of the guard, who did not appear to share her enthusiasm for the experience. He kept his deep-blue eyes straight ahead, never wavering from the sultan.

  The sultan studied her from the throne for a long while before speaking. The supreme ruler of Constantinople was wearing his traditional military dress as well. The impression of ferocity he conveyed was furthered by dark, piercing eyes, a moustache, and a pointed beard, not softened in the least by the addition of a fez hat. There was no doubt in her mind that she stood before a person of great power.

  “Most interesting. I have heard other European music, which I found stale by comparison.”

  She curtseyed. “Thank you, Grand Seignior.”

  “Your music sounds different from Eastern music. Explain this to me.”

  “Europeans sing in half tones rather than in the quarter tones of Eastern music, Grand Seignior. What to the European ear is sharp or flat or out of tune is actually a note to the Eastern ear.”

  “Out of tune?” He frowned at her, and it seemed his beard grew longer and more pointed.

  “The truth,” she added quickly, swallowing hard, “is that Eastern music actually requires extra training. I apologize that I am unable to sing this more difficult music, Grand Seignior.”

  A slow smile came to the sultan’s lips. “I found nothing lacking, Lady Nicolette.”

  “Thank you, Grand Seignior. I am much gratified.” Her courage was waning, and she found that she was having trouble keeping her heart in her chest. Her father squeezed her hand, but his eyes remained straight ahead.

  The sultan snapped his fingers and a servant walked forward, carrying a stunning assortment of silks, satins, mohair, and cashmere. Nicolette felt her eyes open wide at the beauty of the fabrics. One of the turquoise silks in particular would make an exquisite gown for her mother. Unwittingly she smiled widely at the sultan before catching herself and turning to her father.

  He nodded his curt approval, and she bowed her head, murmuring, “Thank you, Grand Seignior. You are most kind.”

  “Sing again.” He nodded toward the center of the room.

  “One more piece, and that shall conclude my daughter’s performance,” Lord Ravensdale stated clearly, bowing, the tails of his jacket swishing behind him. “She needs to eat her dinner and then retire to her room for rest.”

  The sultan frowned but waved his hand in dismissal as he allowed himself to be lulled into a trance under the spell of Lady Nicolette’s performance.

  Chapter Seven

  This evening Love comes before Duty

  —Georges Bizet, Carmen

  She whispers in my ear

  And brings me back to Life

  The music filled his heart as water fills a drowning man’s lungs.

  He fought the pleasure, knowing it to be deception. He had been taught over and over again that every joy was an illusion.

  His life flashed before his eyes. He had imagined himself to be in love with his first, a stage actress. He had written her passionate letters and bought her expensive gifts.

  She sold the letters to the king for a small fortune.

  Remembering that she had traded his affection for money when he would have given her anything and the ease with which she forfeited his companionship, his jaw tightened.

  But the feelings of betrayal only whispered to him. He was no longer controlled by them. His feelings were now only information, nothing more. He had finally learned.

  Just as he had then functioned out of need, others sought the fulfillment of their desires. Could he blame them when he was no different? There was no such thing as love, pure and unselfish. Better that he knew how to obtain that which he wanted while acknowledging that it was all pretense, as was everything in life.

  One played the game in order to procure a desired outcome.

  Finally I will find peace. He welcomed his death. He longed for it.

  He was nineteen years old, the crown prince of Spain, and on his deathbed.

  I have failed at my duty. There is no shame greater than this. In one moment he sa
w his father before him, holding out the crown. In another instant he saw Esteban, his hand reaching out to him while moving farther and farther away.

  Why doesn’t anyone give me water? He felt his mouth go painfully dry.

  It seemed as if he had been begging for water for all of eternity. He shook his head back and forth, struggling to make his will known. The murmurs of strangers escalated all about him, speaking in a strange language he did not know.

  Most of his life had been spent with strangers. Why should his death be any different?

  A breeze caressed his face, carrying the aroma of exotic foods. Probably the thing that had poisoned him to begin with. He felt his stomach churn, but thankfully, there was nothing to expel.

  Where am I? He tried to open his eyes but could not. Frantically he searched his memory. After laboring for what seemed hours, he saw in his mind’s eye dark-skinned men and veiled women staring at him as if he held their lives in the balance.

  He wanted to feel relief as the memories slowly began to fill in, but he could not. The memories were like pieces of one of those irritatingly tedious puzzles, each piece raising one’s expectations only to find that the last piece was missing.

  Ah, yes. He had come to Constantinople on the king’s behalf and fallen sick almost immediately. King Don Bartolomé would not be pleased.

  He wished he had never been taken from active duty. Once he had finally been allowed to return home, it was the last thing he wanted. He had never been so happy as when he had entered military school. For once in his life he was like everyone else. He was accustomed to discipline and to working beyond endurance, more so than the other young men, and finally his competitive spirit had been given a realistic outlet. His commanders had called him an “animal,” much to his pleasure.

  Now this wild beast was reduced to lying about in silk pajamas, ogled by strangers. It was a humiliating way to die. He who had served, fresh out of military school, on the Almirante Oquendo, a 6,890-ton armored cruiser launched at Balboa, Spain. He had longed to stay in the navy and travel the seas, rising up through the ranks to command his own ship.

  Sweat trickled down his brow. It was no wonder that his mouth was dry. He reached for the cup of water but was unable to pick it up, although his arms searched everywhere for it. Suddenly the chatter grew louder and more frantic, but still no water.

  Where had he been housed? Why was he situated so close to the dining room? He could even hear the clash of dishes and the distant sounds of chatter. No doubt he was adjacent to the doctor’s quarters. Somehow he managed to will his eyes open, which immediately met checkered tiles on the floor. It made him feel dizzy as they danced about him. Blue silks swayed back and forth between large fluted columns, as if to mock him.

  Through slitted eyes he saw the inhabitants of his room and their distress. Their remorse was not personal—how could it be? Only one person alive knew him personally, and he had long ago been removed from his life.

  And yet Alejandro was grieved that those who surrounded him would suffer because of his inability to conquer this malady. It was inexcusable.

  He was so tired. It was near. Not much longer and he would finally be free.

  And then he heard it. Music so enchanting, so exquisite, so deliriously beautiful that he knew he was at heaven’s gate. There could be nothing so rapturous on this earth.

  His heart filled with pleasure, recalling a long-lost feeling. He had to hear more. He opened his eyes and looked around. Still the music continued, and a smile formed on his cracking lips. He heard the rustle of silk and excited, foreign mumblings.

  The strangers smiled back and hurriedly lifted his head. Finally the water drifted between his lips. He swallowed, fighting the urge to cough. He opened his mouth to speak, attempting to thank the hand that assisted him, but no sound came forth.

  As surprisingly as it began, the music stopped and was replaced by abrasive shouts and roars, presenting a sudden jolt to his system. Momentarily he ignored his calamity to question the raucous noise level in the dining room of the sultan.

  All that concerns me is the cessation of the music. Why did he ponder such things in his state?

  Reality set in. In an instant the colors dulled before his eyes, turning everything to gray.

  There would be no more music.

  It was time to get back to work.

  Chapter Eight

  If you wait for it no more, it is there!

  All around you, quickly, quickly

  It comes, it goes, then it comes back

  —Georges Bizet, Carmen

  The wheels of the French Brougham carriage made a noticeable clunking sound as it traversed over the cobblestone streets, offset by the rhythmic clippity-clop of four strong palominos the color and sheen of fourteen-karat gold. The cream-colored carriage might be old-fashioned, but it sported all the landmarks of elegance. Beveled glass, blue damask interior, a glazed front window that allowed the illustrious occupants seated in the enclosed carriage to see forward, top hat storage, and a speaking tube to the driver. The groom sat high on the platform while the passengers sat low inside the carriage, as befitted aristocracy.

  With the disappearance of the sun, the lights were strangely brighter, and the city took on a persona of gaiety to surpass even the daylight hours, a not inconsiderable feat. They passed the Cathedral of Notre Dame, magnificent with an enormous stained-glass rosette above its entryway, then through the Arc de Triomphe to see the Eiffel Tower lit by the night sky.

  “When do these gadflies sleep?” the twenty-seven-year-old crown prince of Spain asked, acutely aware of his surroundings, his eyes fixed on the scene through the carriage window.

  “Indeed, the city of Paris is afire,” his companion remarked distractedly, as if he would have agreed with the prince had he been in a coma, as royalty demanded. Smoothing his tuxedo tails to prevent them from wrinkling, he lifted his opera glasses and proceeded to study the prince.

  “They live for nothing but pleasure and preening in this godless city,” Prince Alejandro pronounced while shaking his head disapprovingly and stretching out his long legs before him, his black silk socks in contrast to his companion’s chartreuse silk socks, which suddenly came under his notice. He frowned at the color.

  “True. It might do you some good were you to join them, Your Highness,” murmured his companion, smiling hesitantly, as if he were not confident of the prince’s response. Was he serious or making an ill-fated attempt at humor?

  “I already attend confession twice a week. I wish to reduce my vices, not increase them.” His eyes rested on the fashionable people strolling along the Left Bank in the moonlight as if it were two o’clock in the afternoon. He felt a strange longing to be one of them, without a care in the world. While at the same time he thought they looked ridiculous.

  “Vice and pleasure are not necessarily the same thing.”

  “Paris is a necessary evil, far too liberal for my taste. Intellectualism and culture permeate daily life. The city has a multinational representation—one can, and will, hear any language one wishes to hear. And several one doesn’t.”

  “Indeed. It is impossible to remain provincial in Paris. She embodies the fashion of the day in every arena—clothing, food, art, even thought. That which is fashionable here will not be seen for years in other cities.”

  “Something to be thankful for,” Alejandro muttered.

  “You don’t feel some amazement, Your Highness, that all this can be found in a single city when it is absent from every other city on the globe?” his companion asked distractedly, straightening the watch chain suspended from his white satin vest while momentarily admiring the charms dangling from the chain.

  “I do not.”

  “I am grieved.”

  Alejandro tapped his gloved fingers on his muscular thigh in disapproval of his escort’s extravagant attire. He, too, was wearing formal dress, but he avoided jewelry outside of pearl cufflinks, the necessary gold pins, and a sapphire ring belo
nging to Ferdinand VI, which he wore in homage to his ancestors. When the occasion called for it, he wore his royal heirlooms and medals. His naval career had proven his bravery and resulted in one medal after another until his father pulled him from the service, calling his behavior “reckless.”

  Thankfully, this evening was not an affair of state requiring that he flaunt his awards—he never liked distinguishing himself from others with his accoutrement, fidgeting far less with his attire than did his companion. He utilized an exquisite tailor, his dress formed to his athletic build perfectly, and, beyond that, he didn’t dwell upon it.

  “One has to be seen in Paris, that is all there is to it,” he responded absently. It increased his popularity both at home and abroad to be seen, and it was necessary to increase his popularity—nothing that he cared for himself, but he had always to think of his future reign and the stability of his country.

  “Your misfortunes are great, Your Highness.” His companion nodded sympathetically.

  “I prefer vacationing in Rome. Rome is at least Catholic.” Alejandro tapped the window with his ebony cane. “Catholicism is the religion of the people.”

  “Begging your pardon, Your Highness, but France is a Catholic nation.”

  “One would never know it from Paris. Rome honors its traditions. Paris has no traditions. Yesterday is yesterday’s news.”

  “Most astute, as usual. Paris is all about progress.”

  “Progress. Do you recall the World Exhibition in 1900, my friend?” Alejandro cleared his throat. “The greatest collection of frivolity the world has ever seen.”

  “Your Highness, I regret to inform you that you are, let us be clear on the point, arrogant,” his companion pronounced matter-of-factly.

  Alejandro redirected his attention to stare at the speaker with a haughty disdain that would have made another fear for his future, but the elegant gentleman, nonplussed, returned the prince’s stare with resolve. His short, pointed beard, thin moustache, and strong, angular features added emphasis to his stare.