Secrets of a Soprano

by Miranda Neville

  “Do your worst then,” she murmured.

  He surveyed the damage with an eye that held a glint of something not commonly seen in the assessing look of a modiste or ladies’ maid. A wide expanse of bare skin offered itself to his examination and she was nervously aware that the tiny bodice of the dress barely covered her nipples.

  He stood up. “I think I should sit on the other side.”

  “But the tear is on this side.” The protest came out in an unmelodious squeak.

  “You’ll see.”

  She was rather afraid she would. And that he would. See too much.

  He reseated himself on her left and, since there wasn’t much room on that side, his thigh, rock hard yet palpably alive, jammed against hers. Heat emanated from him like the Italian midday sun and a flush infused her from her scalp down to the tips of her gold-enclosed toes. Bending his long torso across her, he inserted his left hand into the edge of the bodice where the lace was damaged. Trying to escape the arm that rested across her chest, she shifted around and leaned back into the cushions, giving him better access.

  “Good,” he said, and lowered his head. His face was inches from her bosom and sultry breath warmed her skin. “Now keep still or I will prick you.”

  An earthquake couldn’t have budged her. Exposed and embarrassed, half reclining on a sofa completely at his mercy, she closed her eyes and reveled in her prostration. The soft cloth of his sleeve, closely fitted so she could feel the quivering muscles within, caressed her. She imagined Max’s bare skin against her own and ventured to peek at his face. The hard planes were set in concentration as he applied himself to the task of placing the rent lace against the satin. Yet she caught his gaze flickering downwards to the breasts pushed up by her specially constructed singer’s corset. When their eyes connected she hastily lowered hers. To his mouth. Had she ever noticed how beautiful his lips were? Not full, but well-shaped, they softened his harsh features with creases along the cheeks when they broadened into a smile or, as now, into a grimace of concentration. For some reason her nipples hardened. No, she knew the reason.

  Having arranged the tear to his satisfaction Max held it in place with his left thumb while the back of his hand lay flat on her shoulder under the gown. Tessa’s whole world narrowed to that spot. She fought to breathe.

  Carefully he inserted the needle through the fragile lace and the heavy satin beneath, drew it through and extended his arm. The look on his face turned comical when the thread followed all the way and swung useless and free.

  “You’re supposed to tie a knot at the end,” she whispered.

  “I forgot that bit.” He frowned. “We’ll have to start again.”

  “We?” Her nervous tension had slipped away like the thread, leaving her relaxed, amused.

  “I will have to start again. Don’t move.”

  She had no intention of moving when she was enjoying herself so much. Watching him make heavy weather of his simple task, that internal warmth blossomed into tenderness. He looked so young, so much like the old Max.

  When the strand was knotted to his satisfaction, he repeated his arrangement of the gown. Tessa watched his long fingers, more adroit this time, and drifted into a state she scarcely identified. Happiness, perhaps. A clock ticked but otherwise there wasn’t a sound in the room except Max’s breath. His dark hair brushed her cheek and prickles of excitement arose at his slightest touch on her skin. A tremor emanated from somewhere inside her, centered on the left side of her chest.

  The knot held. With infinite care and without a single prick he affixed the lace back to the satin with long inexpert stitches that made her ache with tenderness.

  Too soon he straightened to survey his handiwork. “What do you think?” he asked, raising a smile at the eager pride in his voice.

  “The Parisian dressmaker who made the gown couldn’t have done better,” she said with a hitch in her voice, and meant it. She rather thought the dress she’d earlier donned with such revulsion might become her favorite.

  “Now how do I detach the thread?” he mused.

  Before she could suggest scissors he bobbed his head close to the shoulder, bit through the silk filament and tossed the needle aside. His lips had to move less than an inch to find the sensitive skin over her collarbone where they lingered a long moment before progressing up her neck. It was a smooth move, and the thought glimmered that he’d been planning it. She really didn’t care. She heard a little moan of pleasure—hers? his?—as he nipped her lobe then sent warm breath into the hollow of her ear, followed by a gently probing tongue.

  “Oh God, Tessa!” he whispered, drawing her close. “You’re so beautiful.”

  Then he kissed her. Gently at first he nibbled her lips, then harder. Her mouth opened to his on a sigh and he ravished the sensitive flesh with his tongue. Heat spread through her body, unfurled by his kiss. And she responded, pulling him closer with both hands. As a quiet, barely attended corner of her mind acknowledged, this was what she’d craved since the footman had interrupted them in the spare bedchamber of his house.

  She made no protest when a hand found her breast, rather strained to meet it, urgently presenting herself to his caress. His fingers penetrated beneath satin and the silk-covered buckram of her stays to find a nipple that crested to a harder peak at his touch. Never breaking their kiss, he tugged at her clothing. While the miniscule bodice of the gown yielded without argument, the corset was made of sterner stuff and a growl of frustration expressed his failure. His body pressed hers back until she lay semi-reclined, half swooning when the heat of his mouth moved to the tender cleft of her breasts. Fine hair tickled her chin and his scent filled her nostrils while a yearning ache centered itself deep in her fica. Then he pulled at her skirts, struggling to gain a purchase on the stiff satin. The air of the room cooled an ankle, then a silk-clad calf, and his hand reached her knee and the bare skin above her garter.

  “Max!”

  He grunted incoherently and continued the upward progress of his hand. Faint alarm clashed with desire.

  “Max, we should stop,” she whispered.

  He raised his head. “Don’t make me stop. Please.” Brown eyes glowed with a passion she feared and a tenderness she wanted more than anything in the world.

  Could she do this? Could she give in to the importunities of Max’s desire and her own longing without disaster? Should she? Conflicting urges shook her as she met his hot, pleading gaze.

  “Tessa?”

  She couldn’t speak and could answer only with the movement of her head. A shake or a nod? Denial or surrender? Retreat to safety or a step forward into an unknown future that could offer happiness, or agonies worse than any she’d yet suffered.

  “Ahem.” Someone had entered the room.

  “Damnation,” Max muttered, struggling to his feet and standing in front of her to shield her from the newcomer. “Bedeviled by footmen.”

  “My lord. Her ladyship sent me to find you and request your immediate presence in the drawing room.” The liveried servant showed commendable lack of emotion or curiosity and bowed his way out of the room.

  “Next time, my love,” Max said as he helped Tessa adjust her gown—thank God for that intractable corset or things might have been far more embarrassing. “Next time I kiss you I’m going to make damn sure there isn’t a footman within half a mile.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  “Mrs. STURRIDGE respectfully informs the Nobility, Gentry, Subscribers of the Tavistock Theatre and the public that her Benefit is fixed for this Tuesday when will be performed Le Nozze di Figaro with Mrs. Sturridge in the role of Countess Almaviva. Madame Foscari will appear at the entr’acte to sing THE SOLDIER TIR’D.”

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  An urgent matter at his estate called Max out of town and he told himself it was a good thing. He needed to put some distance between himself and Tessa. A few days at Tamworth reminded him how much he loved the place: the rolling Staffordshire acres, the mellow brick of the
Tudor mansion and its multi-styled accretions, appended over the decades as the Earls of Tamworth augmented their wealth and consequence. Despite its grandeur the house still remained a manor house at its core and there was no place in the world Max felt more comfortable than in his boyhood home.

  As he rode and inspected the fertile farmland, he almost convinced himself that there was nothing between him and Tessa but healthy lust and a wistful regret for the past. Once he’d dreamed of bringing her here, of living with her and their children in this enchanted place. Now he couldn’t imagine it. Tessa had grown into a different person. She was a creature of cities, a glorious empress of silks and jewels, ballrooms and theaters, a queen of the night. The idea of her sharing his rural peregrinations, plain cloth riding habit splashed with mud and hair disordered by the wind, was absurd. He didn’t even know if she could ride.

  At times like this a suitable match arranged by Lady Clarissa didn’t seem so bad. Until recollection of an interrupted embrace left him aching and eager to summon his carriage and return to London as fast as a coach-and-six could make it.

  Could he persuade Tessa to be his mistress? Why not? He was at least as rich as most of her lovers. Not quite up to emperor standards, but he could outspend the average duke. Of any country.

  He didn’t want to be that kind of lover. He only wanted Tessa if she wanted him back. For himself, not for money. She claimed to have forgiven him. She’d let him kiss and caress her. They’d have made love on Cousin Sarah’s sofa if that footman hadn’t been sent by his damned interfering mother.

  Tessa did want him, surely. He hadn’t forced himself on her and she had returned his kisses. Hadn’t she?

  The truth was, he wasn’t certain. She hadn’t rejected them. She hadn’t struggled in his arms or pushed away his fevered caresses. But neither had she been an active participant. Some women weren’t of course. He’d had bedmates who preferred to lie still and let him do all the work. Not the most satisfactory arrangement, and he couldn’t believe a woman as warm and passionate as Teresa Foscari would be that kind of mistress. She had kissed him back and they’d hardly got started on other things.

  And yet.

  Just before the interruption she’d asked him to stop. It hadn’t seemed like the “I don’t want to do this” kind of objection. We should stop. Those were her words. They could have meant anything from “we’re at an assembly in your mother’s house and this isn’t the time and place” (a fair argument) to “the state of our relations has not yet reached the bedding stage.” He’d been trying to persuade her to continue—with every confidence of success—when the footman arrived. But he could be wrong.

  His horse snorted, demanding his attention. The compulsion to storm the Pulteney Hotel and sweep her into his arms subsided, leaving him unsure and frustrated.

  On his return to the house he found a letter from Simon Lindo informing him that while the receipts at the Regent continued respectable, there was a distinct leakage of audience back to the Tavistock, especially among the members of the ton. Max read the notice of Nancy Sturridge’s benefit and learned that Tessa was to sing in it. If Sturridge, as shrewd a woman as he’d ever met, thought it advantageous to advertise Foscari’s participation in her evening, then La Divina’s popularity was on the rise again. His debt to her was paid. They were back to where they’d been a month ago, their interests in direct opposition.

  Except everything had changed. He no longer resented the past or wished her ill. He’d be perfectly content if both Teresa Foscari and the Regent Opera House could prosper. More that that, he wanted success for her. She deserved every plaudit because she was a great artist and a woman of character.

  Damn it, why was he trying to fool himself? He wanted Tessa but he wasn’t sure he could or should have her.

  *

  Tessa snatched the card that accompanied the white roses. Were they from Max? Had he remembered the very first flowers he’d ever given her?

  It was just a card. “The Viscount Allerton” engraved in copperplate on a rectangle of pasteboard. Eagerly she turned it over. “Best wishes” in a plain, upright hand. That was all. Not even a signature. With slumped shoulders she gave it a last look, as though those two words might transform into something warmer, more substantial.

  That was it then. A few kisses, a threat—or promise—of a repetition then nothing for days. Seven days to be precise. How shaming to have counted.

  The gossip around the theater was all about the conclusion of Nancy Sturridge’s long negotiation with Somerville. With the marquess no longer in competition, Tessa’s appeal to Max must have diminished. It was nothing but a game to him and, without an opponent, no longer worth the playing.

  But he had been interested. Tessa hadn’t been so long without masculine company that she couldn’t recognize arousal when she felt it. She rather feared things would have reached an unstoppable conclusion if the footman hadn’t interrupted them. She wouldn’t have long resisted Max; at least she didn’t think so. She’d been enjoying herself as much as she had with Domenico, in the days when she’d thought she loved him. Before the incident. A tiny seed of hope that she might once again be capable of love kindled and was resolutely extinguished.

  “Angela,” she called, tossing the card aside along with such futile reflections. “Do you have the jewels?”

  One thing hadn’t changed. Tessa had no desire to be a mistress, a kept woman, Max’s or anyone else’s. Never again would she place herself and her future under the control of another. Now that she had another chance to repair her fortune, she’d make certain she did not squander the takings.

  “I can’t believe you’re wearing the Tsar’s diamonds for that Weibsstück.” That Sofie, recovered from her cold, had used a somewhat impolite term for Nancy Sturridge bespoke the force of her indignation. “Watch out for her. Instead of being grateful to you for singing at her benefit she’ll do her best to undermine you.”

  “And how, precisely?” asked Tessa with exasperated affection. “It’s not as though we shall be on stage together.”

  “No. She’s out there now singing your role,” Sofie said with a sniff.

  “She’s always wanted to sing the Countess and I suppose it’s her right at her own benefit.”

  “She’s not doing herself any favors,” Sempronio broke in. “We’ve just come from the front of the house and her performance suffers by comparison with yours.”

  Tessa tried to not to feel satisfaction. Usually happy to lend her services for the benefit of her fellow artists, helping Nancy Sturridge stuck in her gorge. Her fellow singer—she disdained to call her a rival—had been all too obvious in her delight at Tessa’s troubles. But not to have appeared on this occasion would have informed the world that La Divina refused to support the other soprano and confirmed every lie about Tessa’s prima donna histrionics. Nancy, equally aware of her power, had exercised it with glee, relegating her adversary to the minor, albeit prominent, role of entr’acte performer.

  Tessa had no choice but to agree for another reason. She couldn’t risk the Tavistock company refusing to perform at her own benefit, scheduled for two weeks hence. Artists performed without pay at benefits and all the receipts went to the honoree. Mortimer had to pay her the proceeds of the benefit immediately, and she was counting on it. Lady Clarissa’s handsome fee would just about keep her solvent until then.

  Angela fastened the necklace around Tessa’s neck and arranged the tiara in her curls. The bracelets went over her gloves and the double-headed eagle brooch was pinned to her red velvet bodice. On stage not even a jeweler would be able to spot that they were fakes. Tessa surveyed herself in the dusty mirror and knew she looked magnificent. A major role or a single aria, it didn’t matter. La Divina’s ten minutes on stage would be noticed.

  *

  Somerville greeted Max in the entrance lobby of the Tavistock Theatre with his usual mocking smile. “Still in pursuit of La Foscari?”

  “I’m here because I want to see wh
at Miss Sturridge makes of the Countess’s role.”

  “Really, Max? You’re a poor liar. Did you know that I installed Nancy in a very comfortable house this week?”

  Max hadn’t heard and didn’t care. About Sturridge.

  “Congratulations. Why did you give up on La Divina?” His curiosity on this subject wasn’t to be repressed.

  “I decided the pursuit would be too fatiguing,” Somerville said.

  “You aren’t usually so easily deterred.”

  The marquess shrugged. “In this case I deduced that the lady wasn’t to be had—”

  “Indeed?” That Tessa had rebuffed the incorrigible marquess gave Max intense pleasure.

  “Wasn’t to be had,” Somerville continued, “by me or likely by anyone else. There was perhaps a moment when I thought otherwise, but I soon saw that this soprano reserves her passions for the stage. It’s a wonder she has such a reputation as an horizontale. Perhaps our continental brethren prefer their women cold.”

  “Are you sure?” Every instinct told him Somerville was wrong, despite his own doubts about Tessa’s response to him.

  “Quite sure. You see, Max, I understand women. It’s the secret of my success.”

  “I thought it was good looks, charm, and deep pockets.”

  “Many men have those. Yourself, for example.” Somerville stroked the tip of his nose thoughtfully. “Indeed, you are much richer than me. But more often than not I win the woman. Think about it.”

  As far as Max was concerned, it meant he had a chance with Tessa. According to every report, Somerville was the kind of man upon whom she’d bestowed her favors in the past. Yet she had repulsed a worldly and generous lover whom she could have had by raising a finger.

  But she hadn’t repulsed Max.

  He wondered if she remembered the significance of the white roses he had sent her this evening.

  *

  Max enjoyed his view from the center of the pit, toward the front, despite the discomfort of his perch on a cushionless bench. Since box holders had to pay for benefit tickets, just like less favored patrons, he’d decided to let his box go for the evening and purchase a single ticket where he could see better. Pity the performance wasn’t better. The absence of Foscari displayed the Tavistock company in all its mediocrity and couldn’t help but please the co-owner of its rival house. Sturridge sang well but she’d have been wiser to stick with the role of Susanna.