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

by Hollingsworth, Suzette

  “Mademoiselle, may I beg your acquaintance?” His smile was dazzling. It surprised her that he exerted the effort.

  “You may. If it pleases you.” She barely nodded, but she kept her eyes glued to his face, growing increasingly annoyed with his effrontery. She was no man’s student, nor did she wish to engage in any game and call it love. He had best look elsewhere. Love must be love and nothing else. Like music, love must be pure and rich and encompass everything. It must swallow one whole.

  Why am I concerning myself with him? Nicolette raised her chin, her forced expression cordial, she was sure, but her mood anything but. In contrast to his languid movements, which bordered on condescending, in his eyes was the unmistakable look of raw passion. No doubt he lusted after the stage singer, as did many men, and assumed that she was an easy target, eager to become the rich man’s mistress. The worst kind of suitor: one who intensely desires the woman while determined to teach the object of his desire her place.

  Well, I know my place.

  What is keeping me here? She didn’t know why she hadn’t simply turned and left.

  The elegant gentleman appeared startled at her dismissal. Marvelous. Something told her he was not accustomed to begging—or even asking. He would soon gain an education in manners. Why the fact that she was not at all impressed by him should momentarily stun him, Nicolette did not know, but it appeared to be a new experience for him. True, he was exquisite and wealthy, but this did not preclude rejection.

  “I would prefer to please you, Mademoiselle,” he remarked slowly, his tone both tempting and bewitching, as if he were wavering between commanding and placating. “And how might that be accomplished?”

  Suddenly a little man appeared out of nowhere, clearly intending to announce the gentleman’s presence—how outmoded! She smiled in spite of herself. He displayed a practiced arrogance that implied the announcement was generally not needed but that she, in her unrefined foolishness, required it.

  Her eyes moved to the attendant, who formed an odd sort of duo with the gentleman of consequence. He was a short, wide man, muscular and solid. He wore a complete black evening dress but without the decorative braiding and facings, as was the accepted style of manservants. This lack of showiness was more than made up for in his hairstyle. He had a moustache that curled up at the ends, and his beard consisted of a single inch-wide line of dark hair down his chin, which accentuated his poofy cheeks. His hair was slicked to one side. He wore a light scent of perfume, which was unheard of in a servant. All in all, he had the appearance of a bull who had been given a day at the beauty parlor and was vastly pleased with the outcome.

  She returned her eyes to the elegant gentleman who had cleared his throat, an apparent signal to her to answer him. She happily obliged him. “That is not information which should be necessary for me to reveal. One who was truly interested would discern it.”

  The page observed her lack of deference with an unconcealed desire to correct it as he hovered beside her polished intruder in overt dismay, his moustache bobbing.

  This delighted Nicolette all the more.

  “Mademoiselle, have I offended you? The very idea pains me. Let us take the first step toward reconciliation and actually meet. It is the greatest wish of my heart.”

  Those residing in hell wish for a glass of water, but I should not expect them to get it. She lowered her eyes in an effort to hide her mirth. “And mine, I assure you.”

  “Your servant, Mademoiselle.” His manner was polite, but his positioning prevented her from advancing. He reached for her hand to kiss it in a gesture of introduction.

  She denied her hand. Simply because she was an opera singer did not mean that she owed men an audience or free access to her body.

  He was clearly astonished that she refused him her hand, his practiced demeanor suddenly stupefied. Much to her amusement, this was far more than his companion, the perfumed bull, could endure. The attendant grew red in the face and rushed forward, sputtering, “The crown prince of Spain, Alejandro de Bonifácio, wishes to make your acquaintance, Mademoiselle.”

  Oh, my. This is a most distressing development.

  So she had refused to grant the prince of Spain his every wish, had she? Well, not the best thing to do, she supposed, but he couldn’t expect her to know who was demanding her hand.

  Wasn’t that who her parents…?

  The little bull cleared his throat much more loudly than was necessary, commanding her to attention.

  “Pancho, I need no further assistance,” the prince proclaimed curtly and with a decided air of finality.

  “Your Highness,” she murmured in perfect Spanish, curtseying very deeply and bowing her head.

  Still, she did not offer her hand, which she now needed to maintain her balance in the required obsequious genuflection. “Please forgive me. I did not know. I am not much about town.”

  The veneer of his polished expression wavered for the merest instant. His facade was so practiced and so exact, his clothing and appearance perfection, as if he had been parading as someone else almost from the moment of his birth.

  She could not like him.

  And then the corners of his mouth formed a slow smile, with the merest laughter in his eyes, and for an instant her resolve to dislike him melted.

  Just as quickly the steel returned to his eyes, and her resolve returned as well. She pursed her lips.

  Oh, this is all a waste of time. She had wished to inform the box office that her parents would not be attending this evening as expected, her mother having caught a cold.

  There was no time for that now. She assumed that the box office would have it well in hand, but one did not like to be inattentive to detail.

  “Think nothing of it, Mademoiselle. That will allow you to forgive me for not knowing who you are. I beg you will enlighten me.”

  “You truly do not know who I am?” Nicolette looked up suddenly in midcurtsey, unable to suppress a giggle. He was here at the Palais Garnier Opera House, she was dressed for the leading role, and yet he did not know who she was.

  She had thought it was all a guise. In light of his persistent pursuit of her name, now bordering on frustration, she was inclined to believe him. She supposed that, without her makeup and her hair done in wild disarray, she might not be recognizable to all.

  “I am attempting desperately to amend that oversight, but I must beg your cooperation, Mademoiselle.”

  She thought the page would have a heart attack right there in front of her, his face turning red and white in succession in a sort of rhythmic fashion as his lips puckered silently on the off beats.

  “How could I refuse you anything, Your Highness?” Oh, she was enjoying herself.

  “You seem to manage, mademoiselle.”

  “I long for you to know who I am. And I am determined that you shall!”

  “Excellent news.”

  She looked up at him, searching his eyes. She wanted to believe that he hadn’t sought her out because he thought her a loose woman, though she couldn’t fathom why she should concern herself with the inner thoughts of a spoiled royal. If indeed he had any.

  Her index finger lingered on her lips as she studied him. Had she met him before? She supposed that all royals shared a certain familiar characteristic.

  “Oh, I comprehend,” she murmured. She stifled a grave disappointment as she suddenly realized the reason he did not know her: she was the understudy. It was not her picture that was plastered everywhere.

  “And?”

  Why am I still here? The first bell sounded, indicating that patrons should exit the Grand Foyer for their seats. I am Cinderella, and the clock is striking twelve, and still I stand here, staring…

  “Are you a lover of music, Your Highness?” she asked, watching for his reaction. He had a pleasing manner now that she observed him more closely.

  “I am a devoted patron, Mademoiselle.” He cleared his throat awkwardly. “But I must admit that I prefer the classics both in art and
music.”

  “The classics?”

  “I do not actually understand the new music. Puccini and Verdi are much too modern for me. Forgive me if they are a particular favorite of yours.”

  “Very much so.” She giggled. “If you find Puccini and Verdi elusive, you will not like Bizet, I fear, Your Highness. He is unabashedly modern and greatly misunderstood.”

  “Oh, have you heard tonight’s opera, Mademoiselle?” he asked with polite interest, though it was plain his interests lay elsewhere and he had resigned himself.

  “Once or twice,” she replied. “The tenor is marvelous though not yet known.” Being an understudy, she was singing with a little-known tenor as well although, unlike her, he had already sung one starring role.

  To be sure, despite their respective talents, both of their careers were yet to be made and teetering on a tightrope.

  “Indeed?” he remarked graciously. “Possibly this evening will establish his fame.”

  “Without question, Your Highness. I have never heard anyone with a voice like his.” He had struggled initially. His voice had faltered with every attempt to reach the B-flat in the “Flower Song.” But he was the only other person in opera as tireless as herself. With extreme force of will, Enrico Caruso had added a tenor’s soaring golden register to his natural rich baritone voice.

  “You speak as if his singing is of great importance to you, Mademoiselle,” he remarked with a contrived lightness.

  It suddenly occurred to her that she was impressed with the patience this royal exerted in pursuing her. Many men of far lower stations would have stalked away by now.

  “Your observation is astute, Your Highness. Caruso’s singing is of enormous importance to me.” Tonight they would make opera history. If she could get rid of this prince, that is. “And who is your favorite Spanish soprano, if I may ask?”

  “I favor the days when men sang all the parts. I admit I am old-fashioned but do not like to see our women on the stage.”

  “Oh?” she asked coolly. “And why is that, Your Highness?”

  “I would think it would be obvious, Mademoiselle. And, please, call me Prince Alejandro.”

  “You consider it degrading for women to be on the stage, Your Highness?” she persisted.

  “That is the general view of things. And how could it be otherwise? Women should be cherished, protected, and revered. How can that be the case when they are flaunting themselves on the stage?”

  “I beg you will excuse me, Your Highness.” She forced a smile before turning to leave, surprised at the magnitude of her disappointment in this man.

  How could she have imagined any other outcome? Why had she wasted her precious time with him? She wanted to kick herself. “I am much honored to make your acquaintance, but I, unfortunately, have a pressing engagement.”

  “Mademoiselle, please. When shall I see you again?” he asked, his voice desperate. Clearly he was unaccustomed to being refused information and did not know how to navigate this situation.

  “Oh, I should think very soon indeed.” Unless I don’t make haste. She could not resist turning to gaze upon him one last time.

  “But I don’t even have your name,” he commanded, his voice now edged with angst.

  “You will, Your Highness.” She bestowed a parting glance upon him before turning and gliding quickly across the Grand Foyer, smiling to herself. “You will.”

  Chapter Ten

  She is dangerous

  She is beautiful

  —Georges Bizet, Carmen

  She had dismissed the crown prince of Spain. She dismissed me.

  Prince Alejandro didn’t know whether to be angered or enamored. He didn’t recall ever being dismissed before except by the king and queen of Spain.

  He stared after her in perplexity. He was accustomed to falseness and facades, to superficial adoration and attempts to impress.

  An annoying behavior that suddenly had a great deal of appeal.

  “What has claimed your attention? You are staring straight ahead at nothing,” asked Esteban, suddenly appearing at his side. “And why are you not surrounded by people—an unprecedented occurrence in a public setting, to be sure. What have you done to offend, my prince?”

  “That is the question, certainly,” he mumbled. “Where have you been, Esteban?” The prince sighed heavily. He supposed he should be grateful that, for once, he was not bored.

  “Merely admiring the architecture of the building. I trust that I did not miss anything of importance?”

  “You did. Something of great significance and entirely unremarkable at the same time.” All feminine eyes were on them as they walked past.

  Had he not been royalty, the two of them standing together would have nonetheless attracted notice. Attentions were always accentuated when Esteban was with him. Both were athletic in build, but to this Esteban always added a fashion statement. Every attention had been paid to his formal dress, his thin moustache, and his short, pointed beard. His companion’s wildly disheveled curls were the only exception to his strict adherence to style.

  “Were there not sufficient fawning women to amuse you, Alejandro?” Esteban’s chiseled, angular face held a forced amusement.

  “That circumstance would have been a tolerable improvement,” Alejandro muttered under his breath. The contrast between his usual effect on women and the mysterious charmer’s reaction to him had left him feeling disgruntled.

  He resolved to correct that.

  The bell sounded, indicating that the first act would begin shortly. The fashionable clientele began to move past them, stealing interested glances. Alejandro averted his eyes to clearly indicate that he did not wish to be disturbed. He was most certainly already frowning.

  Her nature had been brash and genuine. And at the same time openly playful.

  She entrances me.

  He hoped it was playfulness, at least. Did he imagine the note of antipathy in her manner, which seemed to vacillate, as if she were uncertain as to whether or not she approved of him?

  “I am unaccustomed to people not holding me in regard, Esteban,” he blurted out under his breath, surprised that he had been unable to hold his tongue.

  “Everyone likes you, Your Highness. Even the people who don’t like you like you,” Esteban considered, his eyebrows raised indignantly. “And they all adore you.”

  “Not all.” What accounted for her disinclination to approve of him? He had not been impolite. If anyone had been rude, it was she.

  Why would she hold herself above him? He was the crown prince of Spain, for God’s sake. She was not higher born than himself. It was debatable whether anyone was.

  He could not place her—and he knew all European royalty. Diantre, they were his cousins. No, he had never seen this woman before—even in his wicked dreams.

  But I will now.

  “Of whom are we speaking?” asked Esteban.

  “It must be a façade—with some ulterior motive.” How could it be that one who had everything to gain from the association and nothing to lose was displeased with the prince of Spain? And even if she found nothing in him to attract her—that was a first in his experience—what was there to repel? She didn’t know him well enough to make that assessment.

  “What else could it be, Your Highness? You are perfect in every way.” Esteban stroked the short beard confined to his chin. “I take it we speak of a lady? Please, Alejandro, no more married women. It is vulgar—and selfish—to take that which is not yours when you have so much.”

  He noticed people moving toward him, and he turned and began walking to his seat.

  As he thought about her now—he could scarcely think about anything else—it seemed to him that she had been…teasing…him. Teasing him.

  “Find out who she is, Pancho,” he commanded tartly without turning to his page, fully expecting him to be awaiting his every command.

  “But, Your Highness, she is—”

  “I have had enough of your insolence, Panc
ho. One more such argumentative remark and you will be reassigned to a simple post in the royal country estate, do you understand? I begin to think you are in charge here.”

  Pancho’s grunts and pants indicated great distress. Alejandro knew Pancho did not fear his employer. He was the most devoted of servants and was merely mortified at not giving satisfaction.

  “There, there, Pancho, we shall make it right.” He forced himself to turn and bestow a smile upon him. It was his own fault that his manservant was too familiar. “But I shall ask the questions, and you shall answer them henceforth, are we agreed?”

  “Yes, Your Highness, but may I just say that—”

  “And you will tell me who she is by tomorrow morning.”

  “Your Highness, I—”

  “Understood?” Alejandro frowned. This was getting ridiculous.

  Pancho’s lips quivered as if wishing desperately to speak but unable to form the words. His long curled moustache bounced up and down as they walked, as did the blue silk handkerchief in his pocket more befitting of a gentleman, both of which waved at him in unison.

  “Not another word, my friend. Tomorrow morning.”

  Pancho shook his head violently, turning red, his cheeks wobbling like turkey wattles—as if he were afraid to make a sound and yet thought it his duty to do so. There was a sort of “gobble, gobble” emanating from his tightly closed lips.

  He had known Pancho to exhibit self-importance, but he had never before thought him strange. Ah well, he was a good and loyal servant.

  They proceeded up the Grand Staircase, some twenty-five feet wide, until it separated into two diverging stairwells surrounded everywhere by crystal chandeliers, huge marble columns, torch lighting, and gold-leaf sconces. Reaching Apollo’s lyre, they hastened to their opera box.

  Each private box held six to ten people in spacious accommodations and could be decorated according to the patron’s taste. This was a grandiose mistake on a scale with the grandeur of the Palais Garnier to allow le comte de Saint-Cyr free reign in decorating.

  To be sure, the Palais Garnier Opera House seated nineteen hundred people and was five stories high. The private opera boxes next to the stage comprised four stories alone. An exquisite three-tier crystal chandelier hung from a domed ceiling painted by the artist Chagall, inspired by nine musical geniuses: ballet dancers dressed in yellow pirouetted to scenes from Giselle and Swan Lake while Stravinsky’s passion was portrayed in shades of red in Firebird.