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

by Hollingsworth, Suzette

  “Even what I’m good at is used against me!” Alejandro sniffed as he sat up in his bed. “Didn’t you see the cartoon where they made me look huge and clumsy? They called me ‘the Loggerhead Prince.’”

  “I have seen it.” He had hoped that Alejandro hadn’t. He wondered how to respond. Anyone might feel the same, longing for the day when one’s persecutors received their just rewards.

  “It isn’t true!” Alejandro exclaimed.

  “No, it isn’t.” Esteban took Alejandro’s hand. As he studied Alejandro’s forlorn expression, he knew that the child would not survive if he did not learn to dismiss his enemies from his mind. “Indeed, they deserve God’s vengeance and judgment, but it has already been taken care of.”

  “It has?” Alejandro beamed as a smile expressed itself for the first time that evening since producing the letter.

  “Yes, being who they are is the worst punishment. We must pray to God that we would not do harm to another in that way, thanking God for the kindness that is in our own hearts. And pray that we might be even better.” He pulled the covers up around Alejandro’s neck.

  “Even better?” the child asked, as if that were an impossibility.

  “You will survive, Alejandro. And you will shine like a beacon of light for España. You might always carry your heartache, but you will also know who you are and why you were born on this earth. And you will contribute more of value in a day than they will in an entire lifetime of spreading their slanderous lies.”

  The child took some moments to reflect before answering. Slowly he replied, a sincerity of purpose in his manner, “I wish to pray for you, Señor Esteban. And then, let us pray for my family and…for España.”

  As Esteban studied the child, it was his turn to discover a tear in his eyes. At eight years old, Alejandro de Bonifácio, crown prince of Spain, had left his childhood behind.

  Chapter Four

  If you don’t love me, I love you

  And if I love you…

  Watch out for yourself!

  —Georges Bizet, Carmen

  Entirely against his will, he was being absorbed into the story unfolding before him. He was Corporal Don José to her Carmen. She wooed and enticed him, all the while telling him that she would never be his.

  Every note she sang stabbed at his heart while sending him into ecstasy.

  Could he follow this woman, forsaking his home and betraying his country as Don José had done?

  Not a chance in hell.

  He made certain that he was always in control where the gentler sex was concerned and that he kept his heart intact. He knew full well that women represented the one area of his life that he did not give to Spain, and he resented fully that part of his heart which he had selfishly withheld— and despised himself for it.

  He never allowed any woman to dictate his actions and most certainly not his thoughts and his feelings.

  Even through the unbearable pain, he refused. He would never let anyone compromise his values. She would have to kill him first.

  Which was beginning to seem likely…

  “You cannot be serious! I will not stand for it!” Alejandro exclaimed, his anger mounting. It wasn’t possible. Once again, the place where his heart dwelled was being ripped from his body. At fifteen years of age, there was nothing left to live for except his duty. He stared straight ahead at El Anselmo’s headmaster, who delivered the news from behind a massive walnut desk, crouching in his chair as if a piece of furniture might protect him from his conscience or the fury of a young prince.

  “I–it was not my decision, Your Highness,” stuttered El Anselmo’s headmaster. “I would never suppose…that is to say…” His eyes nervously darted about the room while his neck remained immobile, held in place by a very tall, very stiff collar, which was turned over and pressed into wings. The headmaster wore a cutaway morning coat and a high-buttoned waistcoat. He had a full beard and moustache in contrast to his balding head. He fidgeted with a pipe in his hand, apparently purchased to further complete his contrived persona of the Spanish gentleman. “The king has decreed it.”

  “Of course. And did the king give a reason for his arbitrary decision?” Alejandro studied his white knuckles as he attempted to regain his composure, biting his lip. Whatever else happened, he would not cry. He would not let his grief be a source of amusement for others.

  Besides, it wouldn’t make any difference. Just as yelling would not make any difference.

  “King Don Bartolomé feels…he believes…that Señor Xalvador is no longer suitable to…uh…educate you.” The headmaster was noticeably shaken under Alejandro’s outburst and subsequent scrutiny.

  “Suitable.” Alejandro slammed his fist on the table and jumped to his feet, causing the headmaster to jump in his chair before resuming his hunched-over state. “Might you explain to me what is meant by suitable, Señor Claudio?”

  Someone as cold and unfeeling as his father, he supposed. Someone who would make his every waking moment hell, as it had been before Esteban had taken an interest in him.

  With lightning speed Alejandro played all the possible explanations through his mind. He had spoken warmly of Esteban Xalvador on his Christmas and summer holidays to his family, and now, by an odd coincidence, Esteban was being removed.

  How could I have been so stupid? Alejandro hadn’t thought his father would exert himself to this degree on his behalf--he had not for seven years since sending him away.

  But apparently it was not enough for the king to withhold his own love. He wanted to ensure that no one else had the opportunity to care about him either.

  He wanted to kick himself, he wanted to scream, he wanted to bash his head in two. He had misjudged, and now the innocent would suffer because of his lack of comprehension. He clenched his fist in fury. He had sought intimacy with his father and been punished severely for it.

  Never again will I make that mistake.

  As he pictured his father, strangely an image of Esteban flashed before his eyes. The boy on the verge of manhood saw everything about his teacher in great detail. Even in grief he felt his heart lighten as the waistcoat embroidered with peacocks came to mind.

  Everything Señor Esteban did was undertaken with great forethought and attention to detail. But it was far more personal than the expression of conspicuously unique clothing and jewelry.

  When Esteban looked at him, Alejandro felt that he was the only person in the room.

  He felt that he wasn’t even present with everyone else. Señor Esteban was the only person in the world who made him feel visible.

  “I do not propose to know the mind of the king,” replied the headmaster nervously.

  “You will tell me, Señor Claudio.” Alejandro fixed his gaze upon him, ready to rip the headmaster’s throat out for the answer. The humiliation of having to be told by a second party that which should have come from his father’s lips was not lost on him.

  Señor Claudio must have understood the intent in Alejandro’s eyes, as he sat still for some seconds before answering. He cleared his throat and quickly took a drink of water, spilling some of the liquid down the front of his perfectly pressed shirt.

  The older gentleman’s eyes remained fixed on Alejandro. “His Royal Highness f–f–feels…King Don Bartolomé believes that you need someone s–s–stricter…harsher…who can prepare you for your imminent entry into military school.”

  Harsher. Alejandro understood “harsh” very well and had no further need of instruction in that arena. King Don Bartolomé could not be troubled with a personal visit to impart this information, which removed the only person who loved Alejandro from his life, nor was input sought on this decision that impacted him so dramatically.

  Never in his life had Alejandro defied his father, even when he was torn from his family at eight years old. He had obeyed and done his best.

  And he would continue to do so.

  Exiting the headmaster’s office, he hurried for the stables, saddling his own hor
se as he frequently did. His independence combined with his complete adherence to rules would pay off on this day.

  He leapt upon his Andalusian stallion and rode. Only this time he took a unique turn and jumped the northeast-corner fence, easily accomplished with his horse. He rode for many hours straight until he reached his destination.

  It felt like an eternity later.

  As the Palacio Real came into view, it pained him to realize that it no longer felt like home. He had never before visited his family without a formal invitation, which came at Christmas and at school holidays. This place was not his home, and El Anselmo was not his home.

  My home is wherever Esteban dwells.

  And now his duty lay elsewhere. He patted the magnificent white stallion whose ancestors were brought to Spain eight thousand years ago by the Moors, the best horse breeders of their time. “I have driven you hard today, Adonis, and you have borne my temper with patience. There shall be a reward for you, my friend.”

  Adonis neighed and jerked his head, his long, lush mane and tail swishing in unison.

  After issuing his orders as regarded his stallion and inquiring after the king’s whereabouts, Alejandro strode through the Plaza de Armas toward the royal throne room of the largest palace in all of Europe in sporty riding dress. Glancing in one of the many floor-to-ceiling mirrors surrounded in gold, he checked the appearance of his close-fitting beige riding pants, knee-length black boots, and navy-blue jacket, all showing signs of the five-hour journey. The chiseled lines of his face revealed that he was becoming a man—he needed the reassurance today—but he had a slim build yet. His dark-brown hair was overlong, which he knew his father would not like, and his lush eyelashes gave him a pretty look, which annoyed him.

  “How did you get here?” demanded King Don Bartolomé, seated upon his throne, staring suspiciously as if he suspected the person before him of being an imposter.

  “I got on my horse and rode, Father.” Even after five hours of hard riding, Alejandro was still livid with anger, but his manner was calm and his delivery polite. He stood before the throne, two bronze lions facing him. He was surrounded on all sides by embroidered-velvet red walls, and he did not need to look overhead to see the elaborate fresco painted on the domed ceiling which depicted gods, titans, and the numerous vast and magnificent regions of the world once under Spanish dominion.

  “Where are your body servants?” King Don Bartolomé sputtered. The king wore formal riding dress designed for show rather than riding. It consisted of snow-white pants, black-leather boots to his knees, a red-and-gold riding jacket, and a blue sash. Even his long moustache, curled up at the ends, overcame its natural tendency to emulate a smile.

  “It was quite simple for me to leave the grounds, as I have never before attempted to do so,” Alejandro replied cordially.

  “This is preposterous, Alejandro!” King Don Bartolomé’s heavy eyebrows rose. He turned to the servants present and dismissed them. Furious, he returned his gaze to Alejandro. “You could have been hurt or killed. And what of the future of España then? Do you think only of yourself?”

  “I honestly thought another attempt on my life for the newspapers might please you, Father. That this one is planned by me instead of by you is of no moment.” Alejandro was surprised to hear the words come from his own mouth, but he was too angry to care.

  The king began to sputter, but Alejandro’s mood was stone-cold, and he had no intention of wasting any more time. “You have made me a pawn in your game long enough, Father. That I can and will endure for the sake of my country. But I will not stand by while you hurt innocents.”

  “What nonsense are you speaking, Alejandro?” King Don Bartolomé’s expression was one of genuine surprise.

  Alejandro sneered. It did not surprise him that though King Don Bartolomé had only just dismissed the person his son loved most in all the world, he had no inkling of what might be the source of his firstborn’s distress.

  “I speak, of course, of Señor Esteban Xalvador’s dismissal,” replied Alejandro, almost in a whisper, striving to maintain his temper.

  “Señor Xalvador is no longer suitable.” King Don Bartolomé waved his hand in dismissal. Alejandro reflected that his father never discussed, he only pronounced.

  Prince Alejandro resolved then and there to never be such a king.

  “Then you shall compensate him accordingly for his years of service, Father,” stated Alejandro with a command in his voice to match the king’s.

  “Remember this, Alejandro,” King Don Bartolomé blustered, inflamed. “I am king. I take orders from no one and most certainly not from my own son.”

  “And you remember this, Father. I swear to you, if you hurt anyone else in my vicinity, I will take a sword to my heart—or to yours, if I deem that better for the future of España.” If he had learned anything in his fifteen years, it was to act through his fear. Even so, he surprised himself at how readily the words came to his lips.

  King Don Bartolomé stared at his son in palpable disbelief, speechless. Alejandro knew that his father had no way of knowing that this remark was out of character, not knowing his own son very well.

  “Do not think I will not do it.” As Alejandro studied his father, he enjoyed the knowledge that his parent had no inkling as to whether he was speaking the truth or not. “This life means nothing—nothing—to me personally. I live to serve my family and my country. But hurting the people I love, I will not allow.”

  “You will not allow?”

  “I only follow your example, Father. You have raised me to think thus. Do not stare at me in surprise.” Suddenly Alejandro felt light-headed under the scrutiny. But he was determined to see this through to the end. “You find it acceptable to sacrifice members of your family for the good of España. Why should I not act as you have taught me?”

  King Don Bartolomé’s eyes remained fixated on his son, his expression fierce.

  Alejandro had trained his mind to function even when threatened, ashamed that he had once not been able to do so. Considering the situation now, he knew well that his father would not change his mind nor would he consider his son’s preferences in the matter. Though Alejandro longed to beg or reason, it would do no good. Therefore, he had to address the only thing he might be able to do—to assist the one person who had ever loved him to exit from his life.

  He observed a flicker of uncertainty cross the king’s face, and it gave Alejandro the tiniest glimmer of hope—enough to present him with an idea.

  He took the opening.

  He turned to the sovereign ruler of Spain and added, “I bow to your judgment on a tutor, though I beg you to reconsider, if my well-being means anything at all to you. If it does not, as I suspect, I expect a generous compensation and an excellent letter of reference for Señor Xalvador.”

  “The only thing any of us ever think of is your well-being! And you have the effrontery, the absolute disrespect to come in here and make demands before your king!”

  “I will wait in the sitting room for your decision and the letter and payment in the event you choose not to reinstate the worthy Señor Xalvador.” He drew very close to his father, deliberately forcing his expression to equal the king’s in severity and determination. “I will not leave without these or a letter of reinstatement sealed by your hand.”

  “You will leave when I tell you to leave!” King Don Bartolomé boomed.

  “Possibly. But if not on my terms, I will leave this world for good.” With these words the crown prince turned on his heel and walked out of the room, slapping his gloves on his thigh once as he walked.

  When he reached the door, he turned and looked back at King Don Bartolomé. “Please send my mother and siblings to me. I wish to pay my respects before departing.”

  He bowed to his father most elegantly, as if they were on the best of terms.

  As the door shut, a slow smile formed on Don Bartolomé’s lips.

  He had made a king after all.

  Chap
ter Five

  My life is…Music

  Which I spin into star shadow,

  Dreams, and laughter

  Opening night.

  Nicolette’s debut performance as the leading soprano. If she succeeded, she had a glorious opera career ahead of her.

  If she failed, her life was over and everything that mattered to her destroyed.

  She stood in the wings of the sumptuous Palais Garnier Opera House, surrounded by gold and red velvet, awaiting her entrance, her heart pounding as the proximity of her performance both thrilled and unsettled her.

  Fingering the gold bangles in her ears, she peered around the corner. Oh! The arrogant prince who had had the audacity to belittle stage performers to her was seated next to the stage!

  Pursing her lips, a calm swept over her as a heightened sense of purpose possessed her. His Royal Highness would never forget this night as long as he lived.

  She would bring him to his knees…

  “I wish to hear her sing,” the sultan of Constantinople and the supreme leader of the entire Ottoman Empire commanded in a tone of voice that indicated that it was not a request.

  “Grand Seignior, a thousand pardons.” Lord Ravensdale bowed, his expression stony. “It is not appropriate in our culture for the daughter of an earl to sing in public. And my daughter has not yet even seen her twelfth birthday. A public display such as you suggest would be disgraceful.”

  En route to his newly assigned position as British ambassador to France, Lord Ravensdale and his family had been directed to visit the palace of the sultan of Constantinople. The man before him was the keeper of great power.

  A fact that did not appear to be lost on the man sitting on the throne.

  “Do you suppose that I would behave inappropriately to your daughter even if she were not a mere child?” The sultan’s eyebrows raised ominously, his determination unabated. “Do you think me a heathen, Lord Ravensdale?” he asked, his fury clearly mounting.