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

by Hollingsworth, Suzette

  He watched the opera attentively, the story unfolding real to him. She was Carmen, who played with men as if they were toys. When she tired of them, she tossed them aside. Her initial conquest did not want her, but she determined to have him.

  This woman in black made the character believable. She lived by her own rules, for no one else, absolutely true to herself with a courage and determination to match his own.

  His eyes glued to Carmen, he could imagine a man would give up everything, even his honor, to be the recipient of her desire.

  For only an hour, to be wanted by this woman.

  “An exquisite performance. She plays the seductress very well, don’t you think, Alejandro?” Esteban murmured to him, the only person present who had the nerve to interrupt his reverie. Was he attempting to bring him back to earth?

  It wouldn’t work. Not today.

  Alejandro shrugged, returning his eyes to the stage in dismissal. But it was not necessary. He was only aware of her. Her very presence was electrifying.

  On or off the stage, he would stake his life on it.

  Suddenly a slow smile came to Alejandro’s lips as a tantalizing thought occurred to him. She was an opera singer and not a woman of high society, as he had initially believed. The irony was that he might actually have a chance of bedding her.

  A very good chance, he should think. He had never known a woman who earned her own livelihood who would hesitate for an instant to align herself with wealth and royalty. Her lack of interest had been an act—after all, that was her profession—to further entice him.

  The thought filled him with anticipation. He turned his chair to fully face the stage, positioning it against the pillar, and leaned back into the red velvet cushion, stretching his legs. He rubbed his hands along the armrest, feeling the soft velvet underneath his fingertips as he watched her move across the stage.

  The only peace he knew, the only happiness he knew, was when he was in the arms of a beautiful woman, making love. In that moment in time, he forgot everything but the sensation of being surrounded by desire and adoration.

  Everything that he needed and wanted.

  Women practically fell about his feet, and he came alive in their reaction to him. He loved everything about women at their best. He loved their beauty and their grace. He loved their nurturing and their sensitivity, their sweetness. He loved that women were astute and noticed that which men missed. He loved that the feminine mind favored conversation and connection to the jovial game of cards or the meaningless jousting match his male friends preferred. He loved their depth and their complexities. He even loved their coyness and manipulations.

  And he loved them in his bed.

  He had first realized at fourteen years of age that women responded to him. His friends always wished him to accompany them on their outings because, wherever he went, invariably women materialized. He was quiet and shy, strikingly handsome, looked much older than he was, and was, of course, the prince of Spain. He could sit and say absolutely nothing, and women were almost fainting simply looking at him, not knowing a damned thing about him. He suddenly was surrounded by devotion and need after a childhood absent of these feelings.

  It gave him an identity. Almost as if he existed.

  Almost.

  In the arms of a woman, he bought into the illusion for a brief moment of time.

  There was the irony—his station in life allowed him to create a situation to forget his station in life. If he had no station in life, would he exist?

  He wondered.

  Women were his only vice, and he was in no hurry to give them up. If bedding a willing partner was what it took to find the will to do his job for the next forty years or so, it was the reality of his life.

  She turned and looked back at him over her bare shoulder, her shawl lowered just enough to tantalize, tossing her hair as she did so. Madre de Dios! He felt the sweat trickle down his brow.

  “Perhaps she had better be the one to ‘watch out,’ as she put it.” Saint-Cyr chuckled, motioning with his head to Alejandro.

  “Are my intentions that obvious, my friend?” Alejandro smiled momentarily at Saint-Cyr.

  “Crystal,” remarked Esteban.

  “But I didn’t say anything.” He shrugged, his eyes returning to the stage.

  “Precisely,” replied Valentinois. “You have made remarkably little effort to entertain us all evening. Most unusual for you. Now, if Saint-Cyr were a dead bore, that wouldn’t surprise me, but you…”

  Laughter ensued, but Alejandro’s eyes returned to the stage, ignoring his social responsibilities once again with surprising ease.

  She entered into a powerful aria. Carmen’s sentiment might be less than admirable, but her voice was that of an angel. He had never before heard such a range, her voice reaching to the heavens. She delivered the notes effortlessly. Her high notes were of such a crystalline lightness and purity that, as he listened, he could not help but be swept away. Her embellishments, trills, and runs, were unbelievable to the ear.

  Suddenly and unpredictably there was a shift in his longing that he could not have anticipated. It wasn’t that he no longer desired her, but somehow in hearing her sing, all his needs were met in that moment. For an instant, he knew no need, no lack, no desire for anything unrealized. He had far more than he wanted or had ever dreamed he wanted in that instant in time. He felt pure…bliss. Joy. He forgot himself and was himself all in the same moment.

  Just as abruptly, terror encroached upon his happiness, crushing the present with a forbidden memory.

  It was happening again—the moment of abandonment. His entire life flashed before his eyes in a matter of minutes.

  Vividly real.

  Excruciatingly real.

  Swaying.

  The room stopped spinning. He opened his eyes, and his blurred vision came into focus. He began to breathe again.

  His head was so light. As was his heart…

  This time, instead of devastation and shattering, his pain dissolved into something sweet, something divine. The reality of reliving that memory he had so long suppressed, so long avoided, was horrible.

  And not nearly so bad as his anticipation of it. He felt suddenly light, almost…free. He was feeling not pleasure but something unnamable…

  The audience was clapping. Cheers. Deafening noise. Flowers falling from the sky.

  No, no! He didn’t want this moment to end. He was almost to the finish line, this close to resolving the most devastating experience of his life.

  I was so close. He threw his head into his hands.

  “Alejandro! Your Highness!” Esteban was shaking him. “Are you all right? Speak to me!”

  Chapter Twelve

  I know well that it is the hour

  that you will kill me

  But whether I live or whether I die

  I will not give in to you

  Free I was born

  and free I will die

  —Georges Bizet, Carmen

  Why does he watch me so intently? She must keep her mind on her performance. No doubt His Royal Highness was not interested in her other than in a superficial way, so there was no reason to feel flattered. He did not even know her.

  The one thing he did know about her he did not hold in regard.

  Which was, coincidentally, the only thing that mattered to her in this world.

  And the one possession which no one, prince or pauper, would take from her!

  Nicolette curtseyed, threw a kiss to the audience, and retreated backstage with Caruso amidst a whirlwind of flowers falling from the sky while the audience roared.

  She and Caruso embraced backstage, where a photographer snapped their picture.

  Waiting in the wings to greet her were her grandparents, Lady Elaina and Dr. Jonathan Stanton, who had traveled from London for her opening-night performance.

  “Sensational, my dear,” Lady Elaina pronounced breathlessly. “I have never seen or heard anything to equal it.”

&
nbsp; “We are so proud, Nicolette.” Dr. Stanton kissed her cheek.

  “An incredible performance, Enrico,” she exclaimed, turning to Caruso even as she savored the most glorious experience of her life. “Without you…You must join us for dinner.”

  She beheld the young singer with amazement. The thought crossed her mind that he would influence the singing style of all future tenors. And yet, despite his enormous talent, there was a humility and openness about him which surprised her in an artist of his genius.

  “Without me?” Caruso demanded, laughing as he bowed. “You are the greatest bel canto soprano I have ever heard, Signorina Nicolette. And the coloratura—che bello. But yes, I would love to join you.”

  “The Marchesi demands it! She insists that one be a coloratura specialist!”

  “A coloratura soprano adds ornamentation to the written music, requiring much in the way of fast scales and cadenzas,” Lady Elaina explained to her husband, nudging him.

  “Ah, yes.” He nodded in understanding. “And were you nervous, Nicolette, dear?” he asked, his sapphire-blue eyes intent upon her, especially vivid against his graying temples. In his black evening wear, he looked to be more the gentleman of leisure than a world-famous scientist.

  “Nervous?” Lady Elaina laughed, her auburn coiffure bobbing. “Nicolette performed like a seasoned singer! She was in complete control from start to finish. She controlled herself, the audience, the mood, everything.”

  “Control? No. Far from it! I felt myself to be the water when the dam burst!”

  “Water? What an interesting analogy, my dear,” Dr. Stanton mused.

  “You are not the water, Lady Nicolette,” argued Caruso. “You are the bull, eh? Ready to kill the matador? Or the tenor, in this case?”

  “You are in no danger from me, Enrico!” Nicolette gurgled, even as they all joined in the joke.

  “Bellissima.” Caruso kissed his fingertips. “Sopranos with her range, the very few who have it, have light, small voices.” He wrinkled his nose in disdain. “Hers is at once sultry and rich. However did you develop it, signorina?”

  “Well, since I am among friends, I will tell you. My father had, of course, initially forbidden me to sing on the stage.” She did have an unusual voice, full and rich with an enormously high range, which she owed to a strange and unusual set of circumstances. “But, even at that young age, I could not envision a life without singing.”

  “I blame myself,” interjected Lady Elaina. “I kept a bottle of iodine as a treatment for colds and influenza in the medicine cabinet. “

  “You can’t be serious, signorina!” exclaimed Caruso, obviously seeing where the story was going.

  “I was only twelve,” Nicolette defended herself. “Even then, I knew how absurd it was, and I didn’t want to do it. But my despair was great and I had not yet learned to control my temper.”

  “She still hasn’t,” remarked Dr. Stanton, rolling his eyes.

  “I have seen her temper.” Caruso chuckled.

  “I thought of my father refusing to allow me even voice lessons—such a small request—and in the anger that overwhelmed me in that instant, I took a quick gulp on impulse.”

  “Did it cure you of acting on impulse, signorina?”

  “The burning was worse than any pain I could have imagined. It was as if all of hell had taken up residence in my throat.”

  “In the end, the earl determined that even a daughter on the stage was better than no daughter,” added Lady Elaina.

  “And, strangely enough, my now-blackened throat had an improved depth of range.” She laughed. “But it is not a method that I recommend.”

  “You are like me, signorina. You combine two voices into one—the alto and the soprano. I was a baritone and by force of will made myself into a tenor.”

  “You are a tenor, only this, Enrico.”

  “Hear! Hear!” seconded Dr. Stanton.

  “And a brilliant performer. You have a rapport with the audience which makes them feel they are on the stage with you.”

  “But you were onstage with me, signorina. That is why you felt that way. Have the compliments already gone to your head? Do you forget already?”

  “We all felt that we were on stage with you, Signor Caruso.” Lady Elaina giggled, looking like a schoolgirl in Caruso’s presence.

  “It occurs to me, Enrico, that you may be the greatest tenor the world has ever known.” Nicolette kissed him on the cheek, and at that moment, a photographer snapped their picture. “Besides a great friend.”

  “Though you try to outshine me, you hide your intention well, Signorina Nicolette,” Caruso murmured in hushed tones with a wink.

  “Enrico!” Nicolette stared at him, aghast. “We can only add to each other’s countenance.”

  “Signorina Nicolette, do you recall the night of tenor John McCormack’s London debut?”

  “Of course.” She nodded somberly. “A marvelous tenor.”

  “What happened?” Dr. Stanton raised his eyebrows in concern even as Lady Elaina pursed her lips with a knowing smile.

  “John naturally moved forward to take his bow with Melba on the stage, and she literally shoved him behind her, saying, ‘In this house, no one takes a bow with Melba.’”

  They laughed together, but in her heart she thanked the heavens for someone who had made her opening night a success: it would determine her future.

  “You once met Melba during the course of your voice lessons, did you not?” asked Lady Elaina.

  “I did,” Nicolette answered, recalling the day when she was in the midst of performing an aria during her precious voice lesson and the door had flown open, Melba storming in. “Believe me, before that day I had been driving my mother to distraction.”

  “With the presentation of herself as a diva,” remarked Lady Elaina.

  “I did not wish to affect airs, precisely,” explained Nicolette sheepishly.

  “Did you not?” Lady Elaina laughed.

  “It was the path to success.” Nicolette shrugged. “If one is not successful, one does not sing.” And, above all, I would be a star.

  Melba had burst into the room during her singing lesson, her image in stark contrast to her manner. Melba was fragile in appearance, tall and slim with blonde hair and delicate features. She wore a lilac, broad-brimmed hat and a long, flowing, pale-yellow silk gown in the pigeon-breast style, though her slim pencil shape did not have the bosom for it.

  Nicolette had somehow managed to find the courage to continue singing, regardless of her admiration for her uninvited guest.

  Melba initially stopped dead in her tracks, as if astonished that anyone should not cease all activity in her presence, circling Nicolette deliberately, staring at her pointedly, in an unmistakable attempt to intimidate. The colorless room, containing only a piano, a music stand, a desk, and black-and-white photos on the wood-paneled walls, suddenly had grown even darker.

  “I am the Melba,” she pronounced in French with hauteur, her light voice unsuccessful in overwriting Nicolette’s vibrant soprano.

  Surprised, Nicolette had mustered her courage and continued her rendition to the end. Nodding agreeably, she then demurred, “I am honored, Madame Melba. I heard you in Brussels in Mignon and Hamlet, magnificent performances.”

  “Of course,” Melba replied matter-of-factly. Her total arrogance combined with her demeaning stare did not succeed in intimidating Lady Nicolette, who was on more than familiar terms with the technique herself.

  “Your schedule was exhausting, Melba,” the Marchesi interjected. “How ever were you able to sing in a different city every night?”

  “I give just enough to captivate the audience,” Melba replied with a wave of the hand. “Thankfully, that is only a fraction of my talent.”

  “May I inquire, how then can one hold anything back when one is in the midst of the music?” Nicolette asked, genuinely curious. She gave everything to the music—and the audience.

  “I would not expect you, Miss�
��Miss”—Melba raised her eyebrows— “Oh, it doesn’t signify. Whoever you are, you cannot understand the methods of a professional singer.”

  Oh, that was outside of enough! Nicolette was not accustomed to being treated as an inferior. Had she not responded agreeably to Melba’s complete rudeness with politeness? Melba had her own scheduled voice lessons but thought nothing of stealing hers.

  “But one cannot be blamed for attempting to learn.” She steeled herself and made another attempt at civility. She was not her father’s daughter for nothing. She did not wish to offend a great star. “I have heard all the great singers, and no one who has heard you sing can deny that your performance is exquisite, Madame Melba.”

  Melba shrugged, staring at her with ennui. She raised her nose into the air and turned away, irrefutably shunning Nicolette.

  In an instant, adoration turned to shock, followed by acceptance and, finally, amusement. Nicolette smiled warmly at Melba. “And to be quite honest, I prefer Madame Calvé’s performance in Mignon. She is sublime, don’t you think? And yet, you appear to have almost replicated some of the easier points of her technique, Madame Melba.”

  “Certainly not!” Melba’s grandiose expression of superiority expressed its own surprise and just as quickly transformed into calculation. “Her rendition lacks polish—and fails to thrill.”

  “I was positively breathless to hear her!”

  “She is too short to be on the stage,” Melba remarked, her eyes starting at Nicolette’s hair and moving slowly to her feet. “And fat,” she added with emphasis.

  Nicolette had been momentarily startled as Melba’s words struck a chord, causing her to consider for the first time that she might not succeed on the stage.

  She envied the beautiful blonde’s height and deceptively soft appearance in contrast to her own darkly exotic looks and hourglass silhouette. Compared to the ethereal Melba, everything about her was too strong and too much, except her short height, where more would have been a blessing. Even her overly round face did not sufficiently soften her strong presence. She could not compete with Melba’s finely aristocratic facial features displayed beautifully on a perfect oval.