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

by Hollingsworth, Suzette

  “It was said that I was an unfeeling, bitter woman driven by selfish ambition. Women like me would destroy the fabric of the family. When I began working for political reform and universal suffrage, I was either too strong or not strong enough—and the devil’s tool, either way.” Lady Elaina shrugged. “Now we can scoff, but it was very painful at the time, with far-reaching consequences. I lost everything.”

  “But this isn’t like nursing, Grandmamma.” Nicolette’s heart was sinking. “This is the stage.”

  “You must be like Caruso and laugh in the face of cruelty.” Lady Elaina took her by the shoulders. “What was the prank he played on Melba?”

  “Oh, not now, Grandmamma. Now is not the time to reminisce.”

  “It was La Traviatta.” Lady Elaina snapped her fingers. “Now I recall. She—”

  “It was in La Bohème. But I do not see—”

  “Ah, yes. And did not Melba play the tender Mimi, delicate and ill, dying in fact?”

  “Yes, she is made for a role like that. She—”

  “And Caruso played her lover, Rodolfo.”

  “A young, handsome poet without a penny to his name.” Nicolette smiled to herself as she recalled the vivacity and earnestness Caruso had brought to the romantic role as the understudy when the lead tenor had fallen suddenly ill.

  “They had just met, and there is a beautiful scene in which Rodolfo takes Mimi’s hand and sings Che gelida manina, se la lasci riscaldar. How does that translate into English, precisely?” Lady Elaina asked pointedly, demanding an answer.

  “What a cold little hand, let me warm it,” Nicolette replied softly. Slowly she released her breath, reveling in the memory. “It is very touching. I sang Mimi’s part for the sultan of Constantinople years ago.”

  “Did you indeed?”

  “And to think that the warrior king was an easier audience than Paris’s critics.” Nicolette smiled slightly despite herself, recalling the performance as if she were there. “Except that it set me on a path which could never be fulfilled.”

  “It is critical to the scene that Mimi is frail and shy,” Lady Elaina persisted, ignoring her pity.

  “Which Melba is not!” Nicolette turned abruptly to stare at her grandmother, whose mischievous smile caused her to giggle. “The role calls greatly upon Melba’s acting ability to appear docile and sweet. She must not let her fierceness of character or her drive reveal itself.”

  “And in the midst of this tender scene, what did Caruso do?”

  “Oh, Grandmamma, you know very well what he did. At the moment he sang, ‘What a cold little hand, let me warm it,’ Enrico pressed a hot sausage into her hand that he had hidden in his pocket.”

  Lady Elaina burst into laughter, as if she were hearing the story for the first time. “This called upon every ounce of control Melba had to stay in character.”

  “But Grandmamma”—Nicolette giggled at the memory, but a gloom quickly washed over her—“what does that have to say to my situation? Am I to press warm sausages into the critics’ hands?”

  “In a manner of speaking.” Lady Elaina smiled calmly. “Melba had tormented Caruso and everyone in the cast mercilessly. Did he cry in his bed and resign himself to the persecution? Did he give up?”

  “No, but—”

  “And he has had an almost identical challenge to this.” Lady Elaina shook her finger at Nicolette. “You know very well that he was spurned in his own hometown of Naples, a man of such enormous talent. Inconceivable.”

  “How that must have pained him,” Nicolette murmured. It suddenly felt very real.

  Lady Elaina picked up the newspaper and opened it again, scanning the columns. “Here’s one,” she announced. “Let us read this.”

  “No, I don’t think I can endure any more,” Nicolette gasped, her world spinning out of control, feeling all of her dreams being crushed, her dreams that she had devoted her life to.

  Lady Elaina ignored her and began reading. “‘Stupendous performance, positively enthralling,’ writes Depardieu. ‘With Nicolette Genevieve and Enrico Caruso in the leading roles, one felt oneself to be in Madrid as they sang. One could not be anywhere else but on the stage with them. This was the performance to bring the house down, the experience of a lifetime. Mademoiselle Genevieve and Monsieur Caruso gave their hearts and souls to this performance. A truly memorable performance with phenomenal voices.’”

  “Could one critic make a difference?” Nicolette experienced a wave of hope, but it was quickly diminished. She fluffed her dressing gown around herself involuntarily.

  “Of course it can! People will want to see what all the fuss is about.”

  Nicolette raised an eyebrow.

  “You see, Nicolette, you have one of those voices,” Lady Elaina pronounced. “It disturbs as many people as it thrills. And it awakens them all.”

  “In my profession, unfortunately, one must be liked to be successful,” Nicolette countered hopelessly. As she rose to pace the room, her bishop sleeves opened into gathered frills as she waved her arms about her. She considered her grandmother’s words and realized that her original assessment had not encompassed the full magnitude of the problem, as hopeless and terrible as she had believed the situation to be. She moaned, “And not just me. I might damage my father’s lifework as a diplomat. Like me, his profession means everything to him. It is his raison d’être. He has won great notoriety in facilitating the Entente Cordiale, but he is not untouchable. Reputation is everything in the field of diplomacy.”

  “There can be no doubt about it!”

  “As long as I was to be successful, I did not worry about my father’s career—and I never supposed I would be anything but successful. But if I am made to look ridiculous, it could truly harm him! The association cannot long be hidden.”

  Lady Elaina thumbed through the paper, ignoring her once again, much to her aggravation. “Here’s one, my dear. Alejandro de Bonifácio, the crown prince of Spain, was asked his opinion of the performance set in his native land. Prince Alejandro replied, ‘Magnificent. I have never been as impressed with anything I have seen or heard in Paris. I was enraptured throughout the whole of Mademoiselle Genevieve’s performance.’

  “Impressive, my dear.” Lady Elaina smiled widely, dropping the newspaper into her lap and looking like the proverbial cat who had swallowed the canary. “The prince of Spain. This royal’s opinion may very well have just saved your career and set back Renault’s and Le Strange’s.” She chuckled as she held the newspaper out to Nicolette. “Look, Nicolette, here is a picture of the prince in his full regalia beside his remarks. He is dashingly handsome, is he not?”

  “Oh, no!” she gasped.

  “No?” asked Lady Elaina, perplexed. “Not handsome?”

  “I mean, yes, he is.” Nicolette stared at her grandmother as she felt the color draining from her face and covered her mouth with her hand. If the damage others inflicted on her did not complete her demise, she had a gift for stepping in where they left off to finalize her own obliteration.

  “What have you done, Nicolette?” Lady Elaina asked suspiciously as she scrutinized her.

  “What have I done? Oh, Grandmamma, I have merely destroyed my only hope for success!”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Why do you occupy yourself still

  with a heart which no longer belongs to you?

  —Georges Bizet, Carmen

  She refused me. Had any stage singer in the history of time refused to dine with royalty? He sincerely doubted it. And yet she had refused him.

  “What troubles you, Alejandro?” Esteban asked as they drank their breakfast café au lait on the stone terrace of the Belle Etoile. The wooden garden furniture, simplicity of the stonework, and small potted trees were in stark contrast to the spectacular 360-degree view of Paris from the seventh floor of Le Meurice.

  “The soprano from last evening. She declined to dine with me.” As Alejandro’s eyes rested on the Eiffel Tower, he took a bite of an exquisite
fresh chocolate croissant, which he washed down with rich French coffee.

  “Ah, an exquisite talent. Señorita Nicolette I believe her name was?”

  “It was not her name which interested me,” Alejandro grumbled as he reached for another serving of cheese soufflé.

  “So she is your next conquest?” Esteban raised his eyebrows.

  “It doesn’t appear so, Esteban. As I said, she refused me.” Alejandro turned to stare pointedly at his friend, who was fully dressed and unfashionably debonair at this early hour. He himself had not shaved yet, his hair was tousled, and he was wearing a royal-blue velvet smoking jacket.

  “Only temporary, I assure you, Alejandro.”

  “No, it seems that Señorita Nicolette was far from impressed with me, though I am at a loss to know why.” Damnation! How anyone could look so utterly comfortable in the most formal clothing imaginable was beyond him. The stiff, pointed collars of Esteban’s shirt formed two triangles above a thin maroon silk tie. There was a white silk scarf in his pocket, a white rose in his lapel, and an overabundance of gold buttons along each sleeve. His breakfast of chocolate croissants, cheese soufflé, sausages, and fresh-squeezed orange juice was only half-eaten, and he smoked a pipe while he sipped on his coffee.

  “Not impressed with you?” Esteban drawled, taking a puff on his pipe. “Extraordinary.”

  “At first I thought it was an act, but now…” Alejandro moved his finger along the gold rim of his coffee cup.

  “What did you say to the Señorita to displease her?”

  “We barely spoke, and if anyone was improper in address, it was she.”

  “She was improper toward you?” Esteban made no attempt to stifle his laughter, which annoyed him even further. “Do elaborate, Alejandro.”

  “I am quite serious, Esteban. She refused me her hand, knowing full well who I was, and she concealed her identity from me.”

  “She withheld something from you? The impertinence.”

  “Clearly a woman without manners or breeding.” Alejandro ignored the sarcasm, as it was Esteban’s predominant mode of expression.

  “Most unusual, one must admit.” Esteban took a sip of coffee while tapping his fingers on the wooden table, his expression pensive.

  “She is very likely the wanton she portrayed so well.” And she had the nerve to refuse him. Agitated, he let his eyes wander along the horizon, where he saw the magnificent Notre Dame, Arc de Triomphe, Place de la Concorde, Louvre, and the newly constructed train station, the Gare d’Orsay.

  “In light of these sad facts, the wise course would be to forget her and to find another beautiful woman to occupy your time. That should not tax your abilities, my dear Alejandro.” Esteban studied him intently as he took a puff on his pipe.

  “No, Esteban, it isn’t the Señorita’s beauty which sets her apart from other women.” He was surprised at how much he was revealing, but his emotions had been churning uncontrollably since last evening, begging for an outlet. He added more sausages to his plate.

  “You forget that I saw Señorita Nicolette myself.”

  “Yes, then, it was her beauty.” Alejandro looked up at Esteban through his eyelashes. “And it wasn’t.”

  It is everything about her.

  “It wasn’t her beauty?”

  “No.” He shook his head. “Her features are not delicate. Her lips are overfull, her nose is not disproportionate but not aristocratic either, her cheekbones are defined, I grant you, and her eyes…” Those eyes could lead a man into a storm.

  Esteban laughed. “Are you saying that the Señorita is not feminine?”

  “There is no sweetness about her. No softness.”

  “Because she said no to you, my friend. Simply because she exudes confidence, charisma, and purposefulness does not make her unfeminine.” He took his pipe from his pocket and placed it on the table, adding softly, “Quite the contrary.”

  “You know, Esteban, she is much shorter in person. Too short, I should say. It is astonishing that someone who is larger than life on the stage is, in fact, petite.” A hellion in a small package.

  “Petite…and quite…shapely,” Esteban mused.

  “Extremely.”

  His thoughts tortured him, throbbing inside his head. He must see her privately. He needed to see her. How could he make her understand? Why didn’t she believe that his intentions were honorable?

  On that he could not fault her—he didn’t believe it himself. But why was he in such disfavor with her? What could account for it? Surely she didn’t prefer staid Englishmen who never expressed their desires honestly and had no feeling about anything—he had more passion in his little finger than they had in their whole bodies.

  “You interest me greatly, Alejandro,” murmured Esteban, taking a slow sip of coffee.

  “Hmmm. Why is that?” He hoped Esteban wouldn’t press him. He was having difficulty ignoring his feelings.

  “I have never heard you speak thus.”

  “It is her singing, Esteban. Something happened to me when she sang,” Alejandro blurted out, unable to contain himself any longer. He ran his fingers through his hair.

  “Something happened? What do you mean, Alejandro?” Esteban leaned toward him, setting his coffee cup on the table.

  “I relived a terrible memory. Only, this time it wasn’t terrible.” There. He had said it.

  “Of what do you speak, Alejandro?” Esteban sat up in his wooden chair, which caused it to scrape against the stone slightly.

  “Were you aware how unhappy I was when the king—that is, my father—sent me away to school as a child?”

  “Of course, Alejandro!” Esteban replied, his voice uneven. “I never saw a child so distraught and miserable, amplified by your parents’ total absence of contact. They might have telephoned or visited.”

  “My mother later told me that my father decided it was best.”

  “It was very badly managed. Even if it was necessary for national security, which is doubtful at best, there was a far better way to send a child away, enacting considerably less trauma and damage.”

  “I know it sounds strange, Esteban, but when she sang, I relived it. My world crashed down around me. I was…spinning.”

  “Are you quite serious?” Esteban whispered, his eyes opening wide. “I agree that she is a genius at eliciting emotion, and you have always been responsive to music, but…”

  “Never more so, Esteban. Only, when it was over, instead of wanting to die, instead of desperately longing to put a period to the terrible torture of my emotions, I felt lighter somehow.” He took another bite of the croissant, and the warm, dark chocolate oozed around buttery flakes of bread in his mouth.

  Esteban stared at him as if he didn’t believe what he was hearing, his eyes utterly intent upon the prince. He reached out to touch Alejandro’s sleeve.

  “I am changed, Esteban,” Alejandro stated calmly. He patted his mouth, holding his linen napkin in midair as he reflected.

  “You are somehow different, Alejandro,” Esteban enunciated slowly as he scrutinized him. “I haven’t heard you speak so openly since you were a child.”

  “How do you mean, Esteban?”

  “You seem as if you are actually here.”

  “It sounds strange to say, Esteban, but the truth is that I have the sense that my salvation lies with this bewitching seductress.” He heard the words for the first time, and he knew them to be true. He felt a tightening in his stomach.

  “Your Highness.” At this moment, Pancho entered the terrace, standing as straight as a board at the doorway. “As you directed, I have learned who the woman in black is.”

  “Yes, yes, thank you, Pancho. I know all about it.” Alejandro waved his hand, the corners of his mouth stiffening as he relived the embarrassment of learning that the woman who had captivated him was an opera singer. He picked up the marquis from the performance and slapped it on the table between the chairs where they sat. “Señorita Nicolette…Genevieve. You are dismissed,
Pancho.”

  “Your Highness, I beg to inform you—” He waved his white-gloved hands.

  “You are dismissed, Pancho.” Esteban waved him away with an uncharacteristic abruptness, clearly anxious to return to their conversation. “Muchas gracias.”

  “Yes, Your Highness.” Pancho sighed heavily in marked contrast to his straight posture, omitting his usual bow. A white lawn tie clasped the standing collar of his crisply ironed shirt tucked into a white waistcoat. Everything about the movement and appearance of the short, wide man was stiff and pronounced as he retreated to the interior of the suite.

  “He has become impertinent of late.” Alejandro raised one eyebrow toward Esteban. “He was never used to exhibit that behavior.”

  “Go on, Alejandro. You were speaking of the Señorita and her effect on you.”

  Alejandro stood and walked along the balcony. He would spend all his time on the terrace if he could, which he much preferred to the overly ornate suites decorated entirely in the Charles X style: intricate wood paneling with gilt edges, white marble, thick draperies, chandeliers, and murals everywhere. Even an art gallery. He ran his hand along the balcony edge and reveled in the smoothness of it. What a strange thing to respond to. Esteban was right, he was different.

  But not different enough.

  He turned to face Esteban, and a thought broke into his reverie like a beam of light in a heavy fog: how wonderful it was that there was one person he could talk to. Here he was surrounded by priceless treasures, and Esteban was his only true treasure. How much had Esteban forfeited to be his companion?

  Alejandro cleared his throat. The heaviness in his heart reappeared, and he suddenly felt the weight of it. He needed to tell someone.

  “Ah, yes. Señorita Nicolette. There was something of the dark arts in her, and yet I know…I believe…somehow that she could take me to heaven.”

  “How do you know that?” Esteban picked up his pipe and lit it.

  “She has already taken me partially there.”

  “You wish to bed her.” Esteban’s face fell, his disappointment evident.