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

by Hollingsworth, Suzette

  As a child he had loved the fountains, shady trees, and winding paths of the Campo del Moro royal gardens. To behold them now was a strange mixture of nostalgia and the memory of being banished from his beloved home.

  It was strange to truly belong here—but who should belong at the palace more than the king?—the same place from which he had been exiled for so long. He glanced into those trees and saw guards keeping their distance but nonetheless surrounding him.

  “There is a solution to every dilemma, Alejandro.” Esteban took some of the fountain’s water in his hands and splashed it on his face.

  “Not always.” Alejandro shook his head, letting his eyes wander to the top of the statue marked by a child hugging a dolphin. The sea-green water flowed through the fountain, and he was instantly reminded of Nicolette’s eyes.

  I must conquer this relentless longing. “Sometimes there is only compromise and acceptance. It takes wisdom to know the difference.”

  “I thought for a time you had changed, Alejandro.” Esteban studied him, worry in his eyes, as he sat down beside him.

  “No one can expect more than one miracle in a lifetime,” he replied softly. “And…I am changed, Esteban.”

  “You seem heavily burdened again.” Esteban stroked his beard. “This view could be your downfall as a ruler. There is little hope in you, Alejandro. Only acceptance and plodding ahead.”

  “Ave Maria, Esteban! Of course I am heavily burdened! The king has died, my coronation is two weeks away, and I must build a coalition between parties of the far right and the far left, in all likelihood impossible. I think I know that which can be changed and that which cannot be changed.” He added resolutely under his fallen breath, “And that which must be attempted anyway.”

  “No, Alejandro, no you don’t. You are different.” Esteban shook his head, stretching his legs out before him and shaking his now-wet hair. “And yet, I fear that you still view events through the eyes of that small boy who had everything which mattered taken from him.”

  “Yes, some things never change. And yet one can’t lose that which one never had.” Alejandro returned his eyes to the children, so focused on their treasures. What a sight they must make, Alejandro mused. Just the two of them. And the three children. And the twenty guards.

  “That child who thinks that nothing is for him,” Esteban murmured.

  “No, Esteban, I have you.” He patted his friend’s hand, and his voice grew somber. He glanced at the Palacio Real, the royal palace, built of granite and white stone and twice as large as Buckingham Palace. It was his, and it meant nothing to him. “And though I have lost, as you say, someone dear to me, something remains.” He touched his heart. He closed his eyes momentarily, feeling a sudden optimism despite his somber mood.

  “I hope it is enough,” Esteban sighed.

  “And what if I am saddened and despairing?” He shrugged. “Even as a child with a broken heart I courted political alliances with both the left and the right.”

  “You did all that through sheer determination, Alejandro. I have never seen a person with a stronger will or more discipline. You have done all these things in spite of having no hope, not because of it.”

  He let his hand trail in the water, and the temperature began to cool him, but he made no comment.

  “En garde, Señor.” Alejandro stood abruptly, thrusting his sword into an imaginary foe before turning to Esteban. “I shall beat you again, but this time in a manner which pleases you.”

  As he fought, he was centered and complete, as one with the sword. In an instant, he realized what the lesson of Nicolette’s glorious serenade had been. He must rule, he must live, as he fought, connected to himself, trusting of himself, entirely aware.

  He was an imperfect man, but if he had any chance of success at all, it was to be found there. There was a time for doubt and for self-review, but it could never involve discarding himself, a mental exercise he had learned from his father and mother and was now unlearning through startled attempts.

  He lunged and dealt the fatal blow.

  To abandon oneself was to be dead.

  Alejandro bowed to his teacher. He tapped his sword on the ground. Esteban was the one staple in his life, always there for him.

  “And what would you have me do, Esteban?”

  “Whatever it is that concerns you, I want you to believe that there is a solution. Such an outlook opens the way for wisdom to reveal itself to you.”

  “Even complex political matters appear simple next to”—he shook his head as sorrow engulfed him—“affairs of the heart. The one thing that often cannot be resolved. Especially when one is king.”

  “Do you grieve over your father?” Esteban patted Alejandro’s shoulder. “Do you miss him? Is this the pain in your expression?”

  “My father?” Alejandro’s lips formed a tight frown. “No, Esteban, you are standing right here, how could I miss you?”

  For once, Esteban was without words. He hugged him briefly but firmly, and Alejandro saw that Esteban was fighting his emotion.

  “Nor am I worried about my late father. He had his opportunity to serve, and only God can determine how well he fared.” A certain poignant melancholy did indeed wash over him as he recalled the last time he saw his father, holding his hand on his deathbed. Don Bartolomé’s eyes had met his for only an instant. His father then kissed the cross, held it next to his heart, and, in a forced whisper, murmured, “España.” With the word still on his lips, he had died.

  “God and history.”

  “No, Esteban, the sadness I feel comes from a very difference source.” Alejandro closed his eyes momentarily, giving a prayer of thanks that he had met Nicolette prior to his father’s death. She had changed him forever, diminishing the pain that accompanied his father’s departure. Don Bartolomé had not had the same power over him.

  “Ah, Señorita Nicolette.”

  Because his need was so great, he fought it. He began walking toward the Palacio Real, and immediately servants appeared out of nowhere, holding out their hands. The masks, gloves, and Esteban’s sword were deposited into their arms, but Alejandro preferred to carry his rapier.

  “It is time I began thinking of marriage.” Once he had dismissed them and they were out of earshot, he resumed his conversation. “España was never in greater need of an alliance.”

  “And who shall be your queen, Alejandro?”

  “Obviously the most powerful alliance I can manage.” Alejandro stabbed an imaginary foe. “Since the political alliance is not favorable to the lady, I must woo her with my charm.”

  “That should not tax your abilities, Alejandro.”

  Alejandro brushed his hand along the foliage, stretching his shoulder muscles, Esteban keeping pace.

  “And who are the lucky candidates, if I may ask?” Esteban persisted.

  “There are the granddaughters of Queen Victoria and Prince Albert, of course, which would be the most desirable.” Sighing, he turned to look back at the Fuente de las Conchas, now a world away. “Great Britain is one of the most powerful countries in the world, as you are well aware.”

  “Very romantic, indeed. Pure poetry.”

  “Princess Victoria Eugenie of Battenburg, a niece of King Edward’s, is my favorite of her granddaughters.” He swung his sword through the air, making a popping sound. “She is charming. It would be necessary for Ena, as she is called, to convert to Catholicism to marry the king of Spain, so she would have to be very desirous of the marriage indeed.”

  “How could she resist with such ardor as you offer?”

  “The potential is there, I must admit.” He shrugged. “We are on friendly terms, and Queen Victoria favors the alliance.”

  “The passion is blinding. What is stopping you, Alejandro, from kneeling before this woman and promising to love her forever?”

  “My mother prefers Princess Patricia of Connaught.” Alejandro raised his eyebrows.

  “Most understandable. And it fills me with confid
ence in my king to know that he allows his mother to control the truly important decisions.”

  “Either would be an alliance of enormous implications.” Alejandro raised his eyebrows in what he hoped was extreme displeasure, though he knew it would have no impact.

  “Naturally.” Esteban cleared his throat. “And are there any other contenders for your amour, Alejandro?”

  “Most assuredly, my dear friend, there are as many as there are kingdoms.”

  “Do tell. Excite me.”

  “There is Margareta, the daughter of Ferdinand IV, the Grand Duke of Tuscany. Also, Princess Elisabeth, the daughter of the Crown Prince Rudolf of Austria and Princess Stéphanie of Belgium. Erzsi, as I call her, is the granddaughter of Emperor Franz Joseph.”

  “Erzsi? She is…cute.”

  “I am very fond of Erzsi, and she seems receptive.” He tried to picture one of these ladies on his arm as he walked the gardens, and for some reason, no image would come.

  “And which of these ladies incites passion in your heart, Alejandro?”

  “None of them interest me, Esteban,” he heard himself blurt out. Alejandro placed his sword into its sheath with one quick thrust. “They did at one time, I believe.”

  “Tsk. Tsk. What could account for the change of heart?”

  “For some strange reason—possibly a treasonous heart—I can think of no other woman but Lady Nicolette.” Alejandro shook his head, looking into his friend’s eyes. “She has given me a sense of myself I never knew. She has given me my life.”

  “How few people ever know someone who has that effect on them.” Esteban raised his eyebrows.

  “And yet I cannot marry her. I owe España a queen.” Alejandro stared at the Palacio Real, now so close, a huge rectangular prison of immense beauty, and cursed under his breath. “A very dull queen.”

  “Hmmm,” Esteban murmured. “You wish to marry the Señorita out of gratitude, Alejandro?”

  “I did not say I wished to marry her, my friend.” Alejandro laughed. “I merely said I did not wish to marry anyone else.”

  “An interesting distinction. It escapes me.”

  “She thrills me.” He grew suddenly somber. “She embodies rapture. Her complete freedom and aliveness to every moment is like no woman, no person, I have ever known. I have known many women from every walk of life and most are either fashionably subdued or suffocatingly gay. With Nicolette, everything one sees is utterly genuine and alive.”

  “Completely.”

  “And divine,” he sighed.

  “Decidedly.”

  Though he was more whole than he had ever been in his life, he missed her terribly. He missed her connection to everything and everyone around her—and especially to him. She had reached him, and he longed to reciprocate that feeling.

  And he craved her.

  “With your upbringing of facade and deceit, I can certainly comprehend why a genuine nature would appeal to you, Alejandro. And yet, I am greatly perplexed. How is it that a man so devoted to duty should fall for a woman so devoted to her own glory?”

  “Because in so doing, she teaches the rest of us how to live. I cannot marvel at the stars in the sky, delighting in their mystery, and then condemn them for entrancing me.” He glanced sideways at his friend. “Besides, my friend, Nicolette no more lives for herself than I do. She is devoted to something greater than herself. Something I can never compete with.”

  “You intrigue me, Alejandro. Do elaborate.”

  “It is no matter. She would not have me.” He felt his lips form a half smile, though he did not feel amused. “And the fact is that she is far too extraordinary for me.”

  “Lady Nicolette Huntington is too extraordinary for you?” It was Esteban’s turn to laugh. “Alejandro, you are the king of Spain.”

  Chapter Thirty

  One happy day

  You flashed lightly into my life

  And since then I’ve lived

  in tremulous possession

  of that unspoken love,

  The pulse of the whole world,

  Mysterious, unattainable,

  The torment and delight of my heart

  —Giuseppe Verdi, La Traviata

  “My dear Esteban, I am merely a servant of the people, and she is…”

  Alejandro frowned. The sad truth was that Nicolette was not highborn enough to be his queen and was, in fact, more magnificent than any woman he could have ever imagined. As they approached the entryway, he could hear the ceremony of the changing of the guard on the south side of the palace. He looked around and saw that his entourage of guards was coming closer. He slipped through the door with Esteban at his heels.

  “She is…?” Esteban demanded, keeping pace with him with no small amount of difficulty. Alejandro headed for his private apartments, as he wished to bathe before chapel and state meetings. They first passed the Hall of Halberdiers, the guardroom. He hoped that they lost a few there.

  “She is pure bliss. But the fact remains that Lady Nicolette would not leave her vocation for me, not if I were”—he glanced up at the ceiling and saw, framed in gold, Tiepolo’s painting Vulcan Forging Arms for Aeneas, in which Venus appears to Vulcan on the shores of Carthage and asks him for arms for Aeneas—“a warrior god sent from heaven.”

  “I understand that Lady Nicolette has a great love for music and a great talent.” Esteban appeared perplexed. “But can there be a woman alive who would not wish to be the queen of a country? To socialize with the world’s leaders? To be the mother…”

  “Of the future king?” Alejandro finished Esteban’s sentence even as his eyes remained glued to the painting. Why? He knew very well that Vulcan presents Aeneas with Vulcan’s plumed helmet, enabling Aeneas to enter the Temple of Immortality.

  “And she does appear to be much drawn to you, if I am not mistaken.” Esteban smiled knowingly.

  They were now to the Hall of Columns marked by ten columns of monumental proportions. Of all the rooms this was one of his favorites, beautiful despite its grand opulence. Seventeenth-century tapestries of Raphael’s Acts of the Apostles adorned the walls, astonishing in that they appeared to be paintings rather than woven fabric. On the ceiling was another fresco painting, likewise the size of a small country, The Birth of the Sun and the Triumph of Bacchus by Giaquinto, framed in gold and marble. The walls were pink and white, and the hand-woven circular carpet covering the entire flooring was predominantly in maroon and pale blue.

  “Music is not an outside interest for Señorita Nicolette, Esteban.” Alejandro shook his head. “She is the music. Indeed, she and music are gloriously intertwined.”

  “And you are no small prize, Alejandro, king or no king. I know that you are not oblivious to the effect you have on women.”

  “I do have an effect on her,” Alejandro remarked softly, recalling his last encounter with Nicolette with no small amount of regret. “Which makes the reality of our situations all the more difficult to bear.”

  Why had they bothered to fence? One got all the exercise one needed simply traversing the palace. Not for the first time he missed his small quarters aboard the ship during his short naval career. They sped past the Gasparini Room, the private apartments of Charles III, which took fourteen years to complete and which he called in his mind the “gasp” rooms, or sometimes “the curlicue rooms,” an inconceivably dizzying monument to the Baroque style.

  “Very well, Alejandro, but you are not married yet.” Esteban raised his eyebrows with a nonchalance that worried Alejandro. “And we have a coronation to plan.”

  “Yes, but what has that to do with…?”

  “Music is needed.”

  They reached the staircase, and his guards were almost running to keep pace. He held up his hand, commanding them to maintain their distance, which they reluctantly did. He rested his hand on the head of a life-size statue of a lion flanking the end of the magnificent staircase, and the vision he presented appeared to have some impact on his guards.

 
“True, but…” A slow smile formed on Alejandro’s lips as the full weight of Esteban’s words embraced him. In an instant his spirit soared with the implications. “You are correct, Esteban. Music is needed. Music is desperately needed. Music is…life.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Free and aimless I must flutter

  from pleasure to pleasure,

  Skimming the surface

  of life’s primrose path.

  As each day dawns,

  As each day dies,

  Gaily I turn to the new delights

  That make my spirit soar

  —Giuseppe Verdi, La Traviata

  “Mademoiselle Nicolette! Arrêtez! Arrêtez!” Monsieur Georges Beaumaris came running toward her, waving his arms, his face glowing with excitement as he spoke rapidly in French.

  “Oui, Monsieur?” Nicolette stopped in her tracks as commanded, turning to face him. Never before had she seen the director of Paris’s premier opera company display anything outside of a refined composure. She was challenged to maintain a serene countenance.

  “It is most arresting!” His face was lit like the Palais de l’Electricité she had witnessed at the World’s Fair in Paris four years preceding. His always-neat blond-gray hair was ruffled, and his bowtie was not straight.

  “Monsieur Beaumaris, what is it?” she gurgled. She had no further incentive to contain herself once she was certain that he was happy rather than distraught. She giggled alongside the man before her in cream-colored silk trousers, dashing about and creating a blur of shimmer on the maroon carpet of the Palais Garnier.

  “Do you believe it, Mademoiselle?” He took her hands and began to waltz with her.

  “I most assuredly do not believe it—whatsoever it may be!” She laughed as she danced until Monsieur Beaumaris released her with a flourish.