The Serenade: The Prince and the Siren [Daughters of the Empire 2] (BookStrand Publishing Romance)
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Daughters of the Empire 2
The Serenade: The Prince and the Siren
Love finds him, in the most devastating manner possible.
In the terror and shock of being abandoned by his beloved family, the young Prince Alejandro denies his feelings and his very being, bonding irrevocably to the only thing he has left—España. As he was born and bred to do, Alejandro gives his life to Spain. Now grown, Prince Alejandro is charming, handsome, the most powerful man in his country—and unable to connect to either himself or anyone else.
It’s the clash of the titan egos between a Parisian diva opera singer and the crown prince of Spain. The prince cannot tolerate Nicolette when she speaks, but he must confront the bizarre truth that when she sings, this prima donna is the miraculous key to his transformation.
Genre: Historical
Length: 122,991 words
THE SERENADE:
THE PRINCE AND THE SIREN
Daughters of the Empire 2
Suzette Hollingsworth
ROMANCE
www.BookStrand.com
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A SIREN-BOOKSTRAND TITLE
IMPRINT: Romance
THE SERENADE: THE PRINCE AND THE SIREN
Copyright © 2012 by Suzette Hollingsworth
E-book ISBN: 1-61926-201-0
First E-book Publication: March 2012
Cover design by Jinger Heaston
All cover art and logo copyright © 2012 by Siren Publishing, Inc.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission.
All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.
PUBLISHER
www.BookStrand.com
DEDICATION
To King Juan Carlos, who saved a country and returned Spain to her people
To Jolene Kelly, Mary Jo Dugaw, Mary Denison & Charlsie Sterry, sopranos who once gave me a magical day
And to Harvey Gover, who truly was my “Esteban”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The hero of The Serenade is a fictionalized prince of Spain, as is the royal family, inspired by the unbelievable life of the current king of Spain, King Juan Carlos, Franco’s heir who shocked everyone by relinquishing his role as dictator and turning Spain into a democratic monarchy at great personal peril. Paul Preston wrote the marvelous page-turner, Juan Carlos: Steering Spain from Dictatorship to Democracy.
Well-brought-up girls with titled fathers did not become opera singers around the turn of the twentieth century. And yet I found one who did just that! A more delightful person with a more interesting life would be difficult to find: The Extraordinary Operatic Adventures of Blanche Arral by Blanche Arral and Ira Glackens.
This novel is a blend of historic and imaginary figures and alternate and actual plots, and I hope to take you on an amazing journey. But whatever I might write is not more fantastic than what actually did happen.
THE SERENADE:
THE PRINCE
AND THE SIREN
SUZETTE HOLLINGSWORTH
Copyright © 2012
Chapter One
Love is a rebellious bird that no one can tame…
—Georges Bizet, Carmen
Paris Opera House
September 4, 1903
Anticipation permeated the air like a sweet frosting drizzled across a warm cake. It was in the tinkling of champagne glasses, the shimmer of satin, and the nervous chatter among the social elite of Paris. It was in the sparkle of a thousand candelabras and the exhibitionist tendencies of the fashionable. It was woven into the heavy, red-velvet curtain, which began to rise and, with it, the impatient murmurs of expectancy.
Alejandro de Bonifácio, the crown prince of Spain, had his back to a magnificent stage framed by four stories of private opera boxes affordable only to the very rich—and available to an even smaller clientele.
“Please, Your Highness, grace us with the royal pronouncement. What is your opinion thus far?” pleaded le comte de Saint-Cyr, waving a ruby-laden finger toward the stage, his bobbing blond curls adding redundant twinkle to vividly blue eyes. Seated with the prince in the private box were his bodyguard and his few select friends, for the most part sons of high-ranking Parisian officials.
“I wonder how many royal navy men are such arts aficionados?” murmured le duc de Valentinois while winking at Saint-Cyr, evidencing their long-standing friendship.
“As many as are crown princes, I suspect.” Saint-Cyr chuckled. “What do you say, Alejandro? Do you not find this music sinfully alluring?”
Being in one of the choice box seats, Prince Alejandro and his party were on the first level, so close to the stage that they might have leaned over the balcony and touched the singers. Alejandro detested being so close, but it was Saint-Cyr’s box, and the count of Saint-Cyr had always to be at the height of fashion.
“It has a certain musical novelty,” Prince Alejandro finally offered, wishing his companions’ attentions were directed elsewhere, but it appeared no one would continue on with their trifling chatter until he deigned to answer.
Studying his cards with boredom, Prince Alejandro took another sip of fine champagne, which he mentally assessed as flat despite its price tag of one hundred francs per bottle. He glanced momentarily at his exquisitely ornate surroundings—the Louis XVI card table, plush chairs, fresh flowers, chilling champagne, and hors d’oeuvres created less than an hour ago by Le Meurice’s top chefs. Prince Alejandro did not need to look further to see that which he already knew. Everything in the Palais Garnier opera house sparkled to excess. The three-tier crystal chandelier, the blaze of lit candles, the glistening diamonds on the straining white necks of the overcurious upper classes.
“Ah, the voices join the orchestra,” Valentinois remarked as the overture of the opera concluded and the chorus entered the stage, singing. “This will turn your head, Alejandro,” promised le duc de Valentinois.
“That would require an act of God with this musical score,” he replied without so much as a glance. “I prefer the classics. This is much too modern for my taste.”
“You don’t like the art nouveau, Your Highness?” asked Gaston Lerou
x, disbelieving. Leroux was a friend of Saint-Cyr’s and never one to be dissuaded from a thorough enjoyment of the arts—ordinarily his one redeeming feature, in Alejandro’s mind.
“I have no objection to art nouveau, though I find it silly—and dull. This I would scarcely call art nouveau, however,” replied Alejandro with disinterest. He was grateful for his capacity for focus. The woman in black whom he had met in the Grand Foyer had him far more agitated than he wished to admit, and the card game was a welcome diversion. “Who is the composer?”
“Bizet,” answered Leroux.
“Bizet?” Alejandro considered. “Who is he? What unfortunate country claims him as its native son? Did he study music? The composition has a foreign sound to it. Not French—that is good—even though it is sung in French—that is bad—but not Spanish or Italian either. What is it?”
“Portuguese,” answered Saint-Cyr definitively, flipping his blond curls. “It sounds Portuguese to me.” Like his companions, the count of Saint-Cyr wore a coat shaped to the waist with tails two inches above the back of the knee, an evening coat faced with silk lapels, and a white silk bow tie. But his friends wore white gloves to his lavender, and white pearl buttons to his gold-and-amethyst buttons. His shirt had a full three-inch standing collar, he added a gold watch fob to his attire, and his hair was longer and curled in contrast to Valentinois’s short, coal-black hair.
“My dear Comte, you do not have a drop of Latin blood in your entire body. You are one hundred percent French, so you cannot be the judge of such a matter,” pronounced Alejandro coolly, slowly raising his eyes from his cards, suppressing a smile. “And do not insult Portugal in my presence.”
“Latin?” repeated Saint-Cyr indignantly. “Your Royal Highness, do you forget your ancestry? You are Austrian, of the Germanic line, descended from Prince Albert, whom you strongly resemble.”
“No, Saint-Cyr.” Valentinois shook his head, clearly in disagreement, chuckling. “I mean yes, he does—Alejandro has the German build and height, but with his sultry brown eyes we have no chance with the ladies when he is about.” He laughed. “No, my foolish friend, Alejandro is decidedly Latin. And you are wrong about the music as well, le Comte. The music is untamed and uncivilized. Risqué, you know.”
“You see what I mean? No one knows what it is,” Alejandro pronounced. “And no one cares.” What he did care about was the woman in black who refused to give him her name knowing full well who he was! Never in his life had he encountered such hauteur!
It excited him.
And he had no idea how to find her again.
Which infuriated him.
“Le Prince, if I may beg your indulgence, please illuminate the matter,” persisted Saint-Cyr. “If you would not classify the music as art nouveau nor as Portuguese, how would you classify it?”
As rubbish. “You are the fashion virtuoso among us, my friend, how can it escape you?” replied Alejandro, sighing heavily. “It is, of course, part of the movement which is referred to as ‘abstract art.’”
“Abstract art,” repeated Saint-Cyr in awed tones, covering his mouth with his lavender gloves as if he had just been given the key to the kingdom. “What is it?”
“It is the musical equivalent of a child cutting out geometric shapes and gluing them together in a slapdash fashion with such inexpertise that it ceases to amuse and begins to offend.”
“I take it, Your Highness, that you are not a lover of the abstract—in music at least,” mused Leroux, appearing deep in thought. “May I inquire if you favor the abstract in paintings and sculpture?”
This question incited a round of unconstrained laughter from Saint-Cyr and Valentinois, causing Leroux to blush.
“It is…an affront to the senses, an abomination to the educated, and an insult to all who have gone before. Are there no standards in Paris?” demanded Alejandro coolly, slowly raising his eyes from his cards even as Saint-Cyr and Valentinois shared a knowing glance. “There is no discipline to it. I shall take up a paintbrush myself if this is what the world has come to.”
“And what will you paint, Alejandro?” Saint-Cyr laughed, barely containing himself as he waved his lavender glove in front of his face. “Beautifully plump women? White horses with feathered plumes? Eighteenth-century naval ships engaging in a battle to the death?”
Alejandro felt a smile tugging at his lips against his will.
“Ah, but this opera, Your Highness,” Leroux insisted, placing a card on the table. “It is beautiful—and misunderstood.”
“Misunderstood certainly.” Alejandro frowned. “The musical line could inspire nothing else.”
He listened half-interestedly without turning, placing the ace of spades on the table. “You just gave me the game, Comte.”
Who was she? He knew all the royal-born princesses.
He threw his card on the table. To be sure, he had never seen this woman before. He would have remembered her into the next life.
“And consider, Prince Alejandro, the setting for Bizet’s opera is Madrid, your home,” Leroux exclaimed with a boyish excitement that contradicted his mature appearance consisting of a portly shape, immaculate dress, a thick head of brown, curled hair, and a full beard.
Despite the fact that he was harmless, outside of an annoyingly jovial disposition, Alejandro could not approve of Leroux. He had inherited millions of francs, which he had subsequently lost through wild living. The wastrel had no concept of duty and merely lived for his own pleasure.
But who in his circle did not? He glanced at his bodyguard, the one exception, and then at Valentinois—who, at least, was a fanatical sports enthusiast. Saint-Cyr could be forgiven for his ridiculous extravagances because he was the glue who held the friendships together.
“An unfortunate choice of location,” murmured Alejandro, dealing a new game.
“You shall see, Your Highness, Madrid is the perfect setting for the opera. The only possible setting,” Leroux insisted.
Of all things Prince Alejandro held in disregard, a lack of discipline and control was paramount. He himself had never been happier than when he was in the royal navy. It was pointless to wish for the impossible, but when he slept, his dreams betrayed him. Then he was a commoner and allowed to fight and die in service.
“Lud, the soprano has just entered the stage. She is ravishing,” Saint-Cyr exclaimed.
“Alejandro, I beg you to trouble yourself to turn and look. You won’t be disappointed,” advised le duc de Valentinois, having noticeable difficulty in returning his eyes to the cards.
I will if she is singing music by the same composer who created the overture monstrosity. “Later, Valentinois. At present I am relieving you of your coin, which is necessary to pay for the disappointing champagne.”
“Disappointing? It is the finest I have ever had the pleasure to open,” Valentinois replied indignantly as he ran his gloved white hand along the famous Cordon Rouge, the distinctive red sash of the French Legion of Honor, which was draped across the bottle.
“I would trust Alejandro’s judgment on this, Duc.” Le comte de Saint-Cyr chuckled, his blond curls bobbing. “He has a great deal more experience popping the cork than you do.”
“Le duc is too busy with his hunting and fishing to be bothered, I’ll wager,” Leroux added, even as both he and Saint-Cyr burst into laughter, all semblance of pomposity momentarily dismissed.
Valentinois almost choked on a gulp of champagne, turning red all the while. “I’d rather face a mama lion and her cubs than a French mama with a marriageable daughter,” he muttered.
“And you’d likely fare better,” agreed Alejandro. He intended to elevate the conversation, arguing the merits of the champagne, when suddenly he was surrounded by the most glorious sound he had ever experienced. A voice like a crystal bell, a voice so full of color that she was painting notes rather than singing them.
Alejandro thought he had never heard anything so divine, so intoxicating in his life.
He longed to tu
rn suddenly to find the source of this heavenly nectar, but in his desire to never leave the moment, to remain forever frozen in time, he could not move. He closed his eyes to listen, lost in the enchantment.
The music intermingled with his soul and bewitched him. Her voice danced across three octaves and was unfathomable in its range and diversity. Sliding to her lowest register, her tones were primal and rich, vibrant with feeling and emotion.
He was her willing captive. He felt as if he were floating in a warm stream, lulled into a drugged state, light caressing his face as he basked in a sun of her making.
Alejandro opened his eyes and turned slowly to discover the origin of his astonishment, oblivious to everything but that first moment of seeing the source of this intoxicating experience.
Madre de Dios! It was her. The captivating soprano and the object of his desire were one and the same. He had been smitten—and rebuffed—by an opera singer.
She glanced into his box and smiled, her eyes the color of the Mediterranean, twinkling with mischief. His anticipation grew with every passing glance. She swayed, and he felt himself desiring her more than he had ever desired a woman.
“Her voice might be that of an angel,” Saint-Cyr whispered, leaning in toward him, “but her movements are that of a temptress.”
“With that voice, I would follow her anywhere had she the plainest of looks and the dullest of personalities,” Alejandro found himself replying without willing himself to do so.
But she was anything but dull. She weaved across the stage, every movement charged. Every pronounced slide of her hips, shrug of her shoulders, toss of her lustrous black hair, and lowering of her eyelids was provocative and tantalizing. She dazzled and enslaved with her voice, her movement, her slow, sensual smile.