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

by Hollingsworth, Suzette

  “Bon.” Monsieur Beaumaris smiled. “His Royal Highness has an escort and carriage waiting for you outside the Palais Garnier to take you to lunch in precisely one hour, Mademoiselle Nicolette. The opera’s wardrobe is at your disposal in the event you have nothing appropriate to wear.”

  “But what of our practice?” She gulped, wondering what outfit he would consider appropriate if not what she was wearing. She decided not to ask.

  “You do not need any more practice, Mademoiselle Nicolette. What you need is a miracle.” He sighed. “And that you have.”

  “Monsieur Beaumaris. Did you happen to mention my birth—my relations—to the prince?”

  “Mais non.” He nodded with refinement. “I am not engaged in chitchat with the crown prince of Spain. He speaks, I listen.”

  Excellent. She felt a slow smile come to her lips.

  Chapter Seventeen

  I am quite well behaved,

  As sweet as honey.

  My disposition

  is bright and sunny.

  For I am gently bred

  when I am gently led,

  It all depends on what you do.

  If you push me ’round

  then I will stand my ground,

  The final joke will be on you

  I’ll get my own sweet way

  —Gioachino Rossini, The Barber of Seville

  Her heart pounded with the knowledge that a complete stranger had control over her dreams, her future. Her life.

  A stranger whom I have no reason to believe I can trust.

  “Mademoiselle, please follow me,” the maître d’hôtel requested, leading her forward.

  She was escorted past Louis XVI crystal chandeliers, antique beveled mirrors, and large bay windows framed in rare marbles toward Le Jardin d’Hiver, the garden room, in Le Meurice. The interior was lavish in cream, olive green, and light blue, and there were pink roses everywhere.

  The smell of roses, dark French coffee, buttery pastries, pâté, and caviar filled the air. There was a certain quiet elegance, which, surprisingly, increased her anxiety level, accentuated by the sound of her shoes clicking noisily on the white-and-black marble.

  Please, dear God, let his demands be something I am able to meet without compromising my virtue. She dug her fingernails into her palms. Because if seduction is his true intent, I will have to refuse him unequivocally, and my life’s work will be destroyed.

  Even the flowers appeared to be mocking her as she entered the garden room.

  But that was nothing to the strangulation. Her shortening breath was proof that the plants that surrounded her were reaching for her neck, her chest, to cover her nose.

  Or so it felt. Her eyes searched for the prince even as she forced breath into her lungs.

  Breathe. She did not see him, but her head was pounding with the knowledge that she was very close to the man who would determine her future. She was a master of breath control, she was an actress, her body was a trained instrument, so why was she having so much difficulty doing that which she could do without conscious thought?

  Nicolette glanced at her gown in one of the floor-length mirrors. She had wished to wear a crisp white blouse and a man’s tie. The prince was old-fashioned to the extreme—he was still living in the 1700s!—and such an outfit would no doubt annoy him.

  But annoyance was not her purpose, as much as she would like it to be. In the end, she dressed in a most feminine style—lace at her collar held in place by a cameo, an S-bend corset, which accented her shapely figure, frilled bishop sleeves, a lavish hat, and an aqua chiffon gown trimmed with ecru lace and brown velvet ribbons.

  Hopefully that was outmoded enough to suit him.

  All too soon the Spanish royal came into view. He was seated at a secluded table next to a large picture window. His posture was stiff and dignified, almost watchful.

  And then he surprised her. When Prince Alejandro saw her from across the room, his anxious expression turned to something in the vein of relief, followed by pleasure.

  He stood immediately, which was not a necessary protocol for royalty.

  He had clearly been watching for her. When they first met, he had bathed her in his desire, not to mention his arrogant confidence. His belief in her eventual submission was evident. At their second meeting, when he had invaded her dressing room, his manner was decidedly changed—equally confident but almost businesslike in manner. He had scrutinized her like a jeweler examining a new stone for the slightest flaw, his knife at the ready. Even worse, he had treated her like a courtesan. She tightened her lips as she relived the insult. He might have been superficially cordial, but everything in his demeanor had reflected his resolution that she was a woman who could be bought.

  And that his will would reign supreme.

  Now they met for the third time, and his countenance was, yet again, far different! She shook her head, almost amused. His was not the look of a man bent on seduction, Nicolette observed with surprise as she grew closer, an intent that he had made no effort to conceal at their first meeting.

  The dashing prince’s expression was one of hopefulness, it seemed to her. Uncertainty, even confusion. She was filled with bewilderment at the same time she was more inclined to approve of him.

  Was this a single individual or a series of look-alikes? She knitted her eyebrows in perplexity. Definitely a new development.

  He remained standing, watching her attentively as she approached him.

  Oh, who am I attempting to fool? She had no doubt imagined the hesitancy in his expression—the frantic last wish of a rebel being taken before the firing squad. He had won.

  The revolting truth is that I need him. She fought the desire to wrap her arms around her waist and stood even straighter, her chin held high.

  Moving toward his table with a new resolve, she took a deep breath and increased her pace. There was no point in attempting to read him. She would know his true motives sooner than she wished.

  She curtseyed very low when she reached him. “Your Highness,” she murmured, even as the maitre d’ bowed and departed.

  “Mademoiselle Nicolette,” he offered in low tones, and she liked the sound of his voice in spite of herself. And then he surprised her further by bowing very deliberately before seating himself.

  She had read him correctly: he was affording her far more respect than he had in their previous two meetings. Miraculously, the pronounced muscles in his thighs were now functioning, she noted.

  His masculine scent she recalled and identified in her mind as the smell of the hunt, a decidedly woodsy smell. He wore an olive-and-brown cashmere Cheviot suit, which complemented his wavy, dark-brown hair. His manner was formal but warm, almost as if he were a child begging to come out and play. He tilted his head and nodded as he smiled slightly with the left corner of his mouth.

  But she knew from experience that his warm and inviting manner could turn fierce in an instant.

  “Mademoiselle. Thank you for coming. I am in your debt.” He took her hand before she could withdraw it—he was determined that he should have her hand, it seemed!—his baritone voice deep and resonant. He looked up at her through long, dark eyelashes, his brown eyes taking on a very slight golden tint in the light against even darker hair. “May I call you ‘Señorita’? It is so much nearer to my heart to speak your name in my own tongue.”

  Ah, so now I reside near to his heart. As she moved her chin slightly she gazed into chocolate-brown eyes, deep and intense.

  She began to believe it was true. His hair was brushed back, but when he bent to kiss her hand a portion of his bangs fell forward and brushed against his eyebrows and along his cheekbone. It was…provocative. She glanced up at him under the rim of her wide-brimmed straw hat, a turquoise feather forming a welcome obstruction.

  Mentally she admonished herself. She might act the part, but she mustn’t forget whom she was dealing with.

  “Certainly, Your Highness,” she replied, forcing herself to nod in acquiescen
ce, her voice strained. She could not take her eyes from his. He was having a strange effect on her.

  There was a new element to his countenance. Not humility, no, never that, but sincerity possibly.

  Oh, she did not like dealing with this man! She curtseyed once again, giving herself the opportunity to attempt to regain her composure.

  His address was proper, but the forcefulness of his longing shook her. She did not know why she was so unnerved: she had been courted by persons of rank before. But this was different.

  “Señorita Nicolette, would you care to partake of a light lunch?” he asked before seating himself.

  “Thank you, Your Highness, yes,” she murmured, relieved to discuss a subject she understood.

  His attendant held the chair for her, and she lowered herself onto the white silk cushion with relief. He nodded to a waiter, and instantly four waiters came forward, bearing every manner of food and explaining to her what each dish was. She quickly became aware that the elegant repast set before her was anything but “light.” Eggs and prawns in brioche. Quiche camembert with salmon. In addition, there was a classic English afternoon tea, complete with a four-tier silver tray of finger sandwiches, fresh strawberries, traditional scones served with clotted cream, French pâtisseries, and a wide selection of teas, hot chocolates, and coffees.

  “Do you find anything to your liking, Señorita Nicolette? Or would you care to order a more substantial lunch?”

  “It is more than sufficient, I assure you, Your Highness.” She giggled in spite of herself. “I am accustomed to eating a lunch of omelet or fish, fresh fruit, toast, and hot tea, so this is indeed bountiful.”

  “Would you prefer that I order these dishes for you, Señorita Nicolette? It can easily be arranged.” For some reason, his vigilance discomposed her even further.

  “I should never forgive you if you do, Prince Alejandro!” she heard herself protesting, placing a bite of strawberry and cream cheese crepe in her mouth. He seemed startled at her remark as laughter escaped from his lips. He had the expression of a man who had never laughed before in his life, and she found herself joining him.

  Even so, they were each stiffly reserved in comparison to their previous interactions. Prince Alejandro was all that was polite and attentive throughout the luncheon. He was well informed without boasting or inflating himself—this was a welcome change—with a pronounced desire to amuse and please her, and he even ventured a few remarks about the music and landscape of Spain.

  “And what is your favorite opera, Señorita Nicolette?”

  “My favorite? Oh, I have many, Your Highness.” She observed that he awaited her answer and was not merely making conversation. “Hmmm, I should say La Bohème, The Magic Flute, Carmen, Lakmé, The Pirates of Penzance, and, most assuredly, The Barber of Seville.”

  “Ah, I see you favor the comedies,” Prince Alejandro commented.

  “Only two of these can be said to be comedies, but yes, I enjoy laughter.”

  “I suppose that one likes to be amused.” He shrugged. Ah, the man she remembered was returning.

  “Do you not attend French theatre while you are in Paris, Your Highness?” This royal was quite perplexing.

  “If I must.” He tried to hide a smile, but the left corner of his mouth raised slightly.

  “If you must? French comedies are delightful! People think the French are snobbish—only because they are a people who value wit and intelligence.”

  “Perhaps it is because the French make fun of everyone.”

  “True…but they make fun of themselves as well in the bargain!” She tilted her hat so that her eyes were not fully visible to him, and she saw that he strained forward. He could not seem to take his eyes from her. “Their lightheartedness and cleverness, their study of human nature, is mistaken for hauteur. The French know how to laugh. They don’t take life, themselves, or anything too seriously. They eat, they drink, they love, they live.”

  “Would that they did not paint,” he murmured, patting his lips with his napkin. “And you, Señorita Nicolette. Do you take yourself seriously?”

  “Very.” She tapped her gloved hand along her lip. He didn’t reveal much, masquerading behind questions.

  “I take you very seriously as well, Señorita Nicolette.” She felt her heartbeat increase under the caress of his rich brown eyes. “I can honestly say that no other woman has perplexed me more.”

  “There is no mystery to me, Your Highness.” She met his gaze with the force of the fire in her soul. “At least I am consistent in my behavior.”

  “And which behavior do we refer to?” he asked tersely.

  “I am not a person who floats through life. I am very clear on what I want—and I don’t rely on anyone else to give it to me.”

  “I am baffled by your repulsion to gifts, Señorita.”

  “I must say that I would not expect it to be so puzzling to an educated man of the world.” She smiled and poured a touch of cream into her jasmine tea before taking a sip.

  “Educate me further, Señorita.”

  “Anything worth having comes deep from within, don’t you think, Your Highness?”

  “Is there anything worth having, Señorita Nicolette?” He cleared his throat, seemingly startled by her conviction—and his own remark.

  She stared at him, aghast. She was searching for a reply when he made an unconcealed decision to change the subject.

  “And why The Barber of Seville, of all the operas, may I ask?” He smiled stiffly.

  “Have you seen it, Prince Alejandro?” she ventured, already knowing the answer. The person who had done everything and felt nothing. Her eyes rested on the silver vase of pink roses on their table. She breathed deeply of the jasmine and rose scents combining in the air.

  “It is amusing.” He nodded to a waiter, who poured both warm, steamed milk and dark, French coffee into a cup from a silver service. She shook her head, preferring the floral-scented teas today. He ran his strong hand along the white linen tablecloth abstractedly, imposing silence until the waiter had stepped back.

  “It is more than amusing, it is delightful. And it is no less than a musical work of genius by Rossini.” She fought the temptation look into his eyes.

  “There is one piece sung with eight different harmonies, as I recall,” he stated. He took another sip of his coffee, but his eyes did not waver from her.

  “Not eight harmonies, but eight distinct musical melodies,” she corrected him. “Can you imagine the difficulty? Combining two distinct melodies to sound appealing is difficult, but eight?”

  “I would think it an impossibility.”

  “And it sounds wonderful! You will not find such a feat accomplished anywhere else. And, yes, The Barber is very funny, but whether tragic or joyful, what is the fundamental principle of Rossini’s work?”

  “Rhythmic zest?” Prince Alejandro stretched his legs out before him. He seemed very interested in her but not in their conversation.

  “Delight, Your Highness.” She laughed, unable to help herself. “Consider the barber of Seville himself.”

  “Figaro?” he asked with polite interest.

  “He is the most irrepressible character in all of opera. And my favorite.”

  “He seems unduly pleased with himself,” Prince Alejandro noted as he took another sip of his coffee and placed a strawberry in his mouth.

  “More than pleased, I should say! Figaro enters the stage early in the morning, anxious to begin his busy day. He sings, ‘Isn’t it wonderful to be alive and to be Figaro.’”

  “And he is only a barber.”

  “Only a barber. Figaro tells us that there is nothing he cannot do or facilitate and that the town would fall apart without him. His confidence is delectable and contagious.” She didn’t know why she was sharing so much with a man who did not appear to be much interested. Possibly she longed to see a spark of life not related to a flirtation in this man. A little bit of Figaro would go a long way to help this royal.
<
br />   “Indeed. A jack of all trades.”

  “He congratulates himself, he sings his own praises to the heavens, he delights in his own company.” She laughed. “He is only a barber, and yet he sings that he is the luckiest, the busiest, the smartest man in town!”

  “Figaro proves to be a competent fellow. I believe he is also a musician and an arranger of liaisons. A businessman, of sorts.”

  “That is not the point, Prince Alejandro.” She shook her head. She bent to smell the roses on the table and found that he was watching her suddenly as if mesmerized. Did he have a dimple in his cheek? No, she didn’t think so, but it was difficult to tell, he so rarely smiled. She breathed deeply. “Figaro expresses complete joy in being alive and in being…Figaro. He loves the experience of his own existence.”

  “He enjoys his own company, to be sure.”

  “I should say he is enchanted by his own company.” She giggled. She studied his broad shoulders, so stiff as he sat there watching her. His cheekbones were strongly defined, as were all of his facial features. He had a strong, square chin. His eyebrows were prominent and created a feeling of intensity about him, as did his eyes, his most arresting quality. “He is not born noble or with any particular advantages, and there is no one he would rather be.”

  “And do you have much in common with this Figaro, Señorita?”

  “I do. I love being who I am.” Until recently. “And you, Prince Alejandro?” She was becoming frustrated. It was almost impossible to discover anything about this man to whom she must entrust her future.

  “I…I…” He cleared his throat and seemed taken aback.

  “And who are you, Prince Alejandro?”

  “Who am I?” he repeated, but no answer came forth. Did he choose not to answer, or did he not know the answer? “How odd. This is the second time in so many days I have heard this question.”

  “And what is your reply?”

  “To be the crown prince of Spain is to—”

  “That was not my question, Your Highness.”

  “Is to serve, Señorita,” he replied with emphasis, ignoring her protestations.