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

by Hollingsworth, Suzette

  In his view, everything about Nicolette Genevieve was ravishingly beautiful.

  What is wrong with me? He was not accustomed to being his own worst enemy. He needed this woman, but he did not need to bed her. He had many who could fill that bill.

  “It is a very personal experience for me, Señorita.” He cleared his throat again.

  “Incidentally, Your Highness, Carmen knew how to wield a sword.” Her expression grew suddenly determined, as if she could read his mind. She smiled, but he knew she was quite serious. “As do I.”

  “I am forewarned, Señorita Nicolette. But I can assure you that never in my life have I forced myself upon a woman. And never will I.”

  “Out of your great regard for a woman’s wishes, no doubt.”

  “Because it would make an otherwise enjoyable endeavor repulsive to me.” His lips formed a slow smile as he took another bite of caramel-drenched caramel ice cream, popping the cherry in his mouth while motioning for more coffee, glad for the additional company that the waiter afforded. He felt it safer to keep his eyes from Señorita Nicolette for the moment.

  When he found the strength to return his eyes to the depth of those lovely turquoise waters, he saw that she was shaking her head decidedly.

  “I cannot agree to your arrangement or your terms, Prince Alejandro.”

  He clutched his spoon. It was all he could do to keep from dropping it. He had not anticipated this.

  “I shall sing for you under one condition, Prince Alejandro.”

  “Which is, Señorita?” he managed to utter.

  “I desire a singing career. In order to have one, it is necessary to be a leading soprano, and you can help me become one. These are my terms.”

  “Ah, yes.” Alejandro’s relief was so profound that he started to breathe again, unaware he had been holding his breath. “Monsieur Beaumaris mentioned your poor reviews. I was, frankly, astonished. I never beheld a more amazing performance in my life.”

  “I thank you, Your Highness.” She swallowed hard and then leaned closer to him across the table, whispering, “I need to be seen with you, Prince Alejandro.”

  “Seen with me?” He was well aware of the benefit he could confer upon this aspiring singer, but he pretended otherwise.

  “Riding in the park. Attending events—the more populated the better—and dining as we are.” She motioned with her hands.

  He looked around and noted that almost every eye in the room was on them despite the fact that there were many present who were equally famous in their own right.

  “My schedule is very busy while I am here, Señorita.” Now they came to the point. “Many important affairs of state, you understand.”

  “I desire that you should attend my performances, Your Highness,” she continued in a low voice. “My public performances.”

  “Possibly that can be arranged, Señorita Nicolette. I am not fond of the crowds, as you have no doubt surmised.” His eyes were ever watchful, but he behaved nonchalantly and disinterestedly.

  “I cannot be your puppet, Prince Alejandro.” There was a true determination in her voice. “I must be true to my character and my values; this is what makes me who I am and enables me to give the quality of performance you observed.”

  “My puppet, Señorita Nicolette?” If only. He laughed despite himself.

  “I will sing for you, nothing more. I do not wish to fear that, because I will not bend to unreasonable demands, you will take a dislike to me and decide to destroy me.” He had never heard anyone utter such words, and it fascinated him.

  “After all the insults you have hurled at me, and still I have sought you out, you can even consider such a possibility, Señorita?”

  “You must promise me, Your Highness”—her lips quivered into a questionable smile, but her expression remained serious. She ran her gloved fingers along the blue-and-ivory cameo at her elegant throat—“that whatever your feelings, I shall give you your performance, and you shall do your best to elevate my career. You shall complete your side of the bargain.”

  “Agreed,” he replied without hesitation, when he should have stalled. His voiced lowered, he added, “And you shall promise to give me the private performance I require, exactly as performed on the stage, Señorita Nicolette.”

  “As you wish, Prince Alejandro.”

  “I have your word, Señorita Nicolette?”

  “I have already given it, Your Highness,” she retorted.

  “Let me hear it from your lips, Señorita,” he replied gravely, leaning toward her.

  “You have my word,” she whispered, breathless. “You will call on me for a stroll in the Tuileries Garden tomorrow then?”

  “At 3:00 p.m.,” he replied automatically.

  “Shall I sing for you Thursday night here at Le Meurice then? I do not have a performance, as it so happens.”

  A wave of regret washed over him, and he was unable to hide the irritation from his voice. “I have a prior engagement. I dine with the British Ambassador to France, a Lord Ravensdale.”

  “How could I have forgotten…” she murmured, tapping her finger along her brow.

  “Oh, did I tell you, Señorita Nicolette? I don’t recall it.”

  “Excuse me? Forgive me, I have a terrible habit of thinking out loud.” She blushed, which astonished him, even as she added with a light laugh, her confidence returning, “Possibly I read it in the gossip columns. It is surprising what constitutes news, is it not?”

  “I would desperately prefer to be with you, Señorita Nicolette. To hear you sing is my singular desire these days, but it is my responsibility and I am duty bound.”

  “I could join you, I suppose,” she suggested.

  He could not stop the disapproval from crossing his face. In an instant he realized the grave mistake he had made.

  Her anger was apparent. Clearly she wished to be true to herself but did not desire his honesty in kind.

  “I see that you would be embarrassed to escort an opera singer on your arm, Prince Alejandro.” There were daggers coming out of those lovely eyes.

  “Not at all, Señorita Nicolette,” he attempted to convince her. “You do not embarrass me personally, I assure you.”

  “If not personally, then of what do you speak, Prince Alejandro?”

  “I have a certain obligation to my country. I must present a particular face before dignitaries. This is a very important acquaintance for my country. Spain’s relations have suffered since the war with the Americans in 1898, and courting high-ranking Britons is of a particular importance.”

  “I understand very well.” But clearly she did not.

  “You will not do anything to harm Spain, Señorita Nicolette?” A sudden apprehension seized him. “This is the one thing I cannot forgive and for which there would be serious repercussions.”

  Her expression hardened, and he saw a certain resolve in her eyes that alarmed him. Slowly, deliberately, she took another sip of tea, drawing out his apprehension as long as possible.

  “Have you ever felt it necessary to prove that you are of royal blood, Your Highness?”

  “Of course not. It would be beneath my dignity.”

  “Just so. And to think I was falling prey to your charm and sincerity. It is really quite outmoded to confuse one’s station in life with one’s character, Your Highness. You continue to consider me without conduct, gentility, or breeding simply because I am a singer.” Her lush red lips pursed momentarily.

  “Your character is not in question, Señorita Nicolette.”

  “I will not diminish myself by attempting to prove my worth to you. If you cannot see it for yourself, I see no advantage to my pointing it out.” She rose from her seat, clearly intending to leave. Suddenly she drew very close to him, and he felt the temperature rise in the room. Her hand moved toward his hand, and he felt his mouth go dry. “How would you view it, Your Highness, if I expected you to prove your worth to me? Would you find it offensive?”

  “Señorita! That is
most impertinent and unladylike behavior.”

  “I am very sorry, Your Highness, but I cannot accept your lovely box or any other jewelry,” she said, closing the lid with a firm snap before handing him the box.

  “Señorita Nicolette, you must try to understand my situation. My personal feelings are irrelevant. Honestly, your reaction is uncalled for.”

  “I expect that you do the best you can, Your Highness.” She smiled a frozen smile. “Still, we have a bargain. No doubt we can find other venues which would be more appropriate to my station in life and where I would be more at home. Possibly there will be a cockfight or a drunken brawl somewhere in the city to which you could escort me.” She beheld him with a haughty disdain that would have done the queen mother proud.

  She turned and left the room, all eyes accompanying her.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Now isn’t she a darling?

  The more I love her,

  the more she seems to detest me

  —Gioachino Rossini, The Barber of Seville

  “Is it necessary to move at such a breakneck pace?” Esteban demanded, tapping his cane lightly against the beveled glass of the window, the various wood inlays of the cane’s knob catching the scant light.

  “It is.” He could ignore his responsibilities no longer. He was amazed that he had done so at all. He never ignored his duty. Or at least he never had before he met Nicolette Genevieve.

  “Why not order one of those new motorcars if you wish to go at this speed, Alejandro?”

  “Because I hate the bloody things. So noisy one can’t think, and dust flying everywhere. Inelegant contraptions.” He ran his forefinger along the blue damask lining the walls of the carriage.

  “I see. If one is to die, let one depart with elegance.”

  “My dear Esteban, it is imperative that I look my best, so I prefer the closed carriage. Or don’t you recall that we are dining with the British diplomat to France?”

  “How could I forget? We are racing the devil to get there.” Esteban raised his eyebrows, straightening the charm of the Virgin bordered on one side by a cross and on the other by a horse head, all dangling from a watch chain suspended from his white satin vest. “Are you acquainted with Lord Ravensdale and his wife, Alejandro?”

  “No, but it promises to be a boring affair.” He checked the position of his diamond cufflinks. “Diplomats always are.”

  “The English have been known to surprise you.”

  “This truth crosses international lines: professional diplomats rarely say anything with any content to it. They live merely to please everyone. They fawn and cajole, congratulate and applaud, all the while preening obsequiously. They pretend to speak volumes while saying precisely nothing.”

  “An important skill you must master to be king,” Esteban murmured.

  “Ah, you wish me to take my example from President Loubet?” asked Alejandro.

  “Do not be fooled by his kindness—Loubet’s honesty gets the better of him at the appropriate times. He is known for the clarity of his impassioned speeches.”

  “Yes, Loubet is a perfect ruler,” agreed Alejandro. “An honest man of integrity. With that white hair, full beard, and twinkling eyes, add fifty pounds and the man could be Santa Claus.”

  “He personally pardoned Dreyfus in the Dreyfus affair, I believe,” mused Esteban.

  “Even more unusual in a politician is his bravery. I shall never forget when he walked as the chief mourner behind the hearse of Felix Faure, putting himself in great danger as a target. What supreme ruler walks unprotected behind the coffin of a controversial figure out in public?”

  “Who indeed?” Esteban’s gaze was reflective as he watched Alejandro.

  “A facade of impressive proportions,” remarked Alejandro as they pulled up to the white, two-story home at 14 Rue Auguste Comte, a classic example of French architecture. “Prim, proper, lavish. And stiflingly elegant.”

  “It isn’t an overly large home,” Esteban countered.

  “True, but everything has exaggerated height and is rounded in three-sided semicircles and oval shapes.” Prince Alejandro took note of the tall arched doorways and windows. A white marble gateway surrounded the home. Round topiaries accented the marble entryway of the gate, which opened up to the street, a fountain sputtering the owners’ importance. A wrought-iron balcony surrounded the entire second story.

  “It appears that the home borders the magnificent Jardin du Luxembourg on one side,” Esteban remarked with a strained neck as he peered out the window.

  “Ah, yes, the largest park in Paris at fifty-five acres.”

  “Luxembourg is popular with chess and jeux de boules players. What a marvelous setting for a home…” Esteban murmured with what struck Alejandro as a degree of longing.

  Rather than being comforted by the restful setting, it accentuated Alejandro’s dread of the evening, which was sure to put him to sleep. The perverse pleasure he had taken in his morning was something of a nostalgic memory. During his drive in the park with Señorita Nicolette she had been uncharacteristically aloof—previously she had been either confrontational or engaging, but never aloof. She had made a point to impress all those she saw with the connection, making it clear that his only value was his notoriety.

  Still, he had found her rudeness amusing in a strange sort of way. He was unaccustomed to an honest interchange.

  Upon their arrival, Pancho leapt from his place next to the driver and commenced the exploitation of a large brass knocker. When the door was opened by Lord Ravensdale’s butler, Prince Alejandro and Esteban disembarked from the carriage for the front door.

  As the prince and his companion entered the nondescript entryway, it was observed with interest that the decor was pleasing but surprisingly minimalist, almost mystical in its feel, like a centuries-old Italian monastery.

  Or as if French architecture took a walk in the woods. Stone and marble were predominant, with added plants everywhere, and he could hear the sound of another running fountain in the distance.

  Lord and Lady Ravensdale were waiting to greet them. Ravensdale’s wife was a small blonde in a pink gown resplendent with flounces and white lace and gold threads, looking rather like spun cotton candy.

  Lady Ravensdale was small, dainty, beautiful, and sugary sweet—very English and no doubt exceedingly dull. Blonde, pale, and bleached out.

  But wait, except for her intelligent eyes. They were arresting—and familiar. Such a strikingly jeweled green was rarely seen.

  What a strange coincidence.

  No, upon closer observation these eyes belonging to the lady of the house were entirely green eyes—vividly green—without the blue shades that made him feel he was again at sea. Lost at sea.

  Absorbed in Lady Ravensdale’s eyes, forgetting himself and his facade for a mere second, he felt another presence enter the room. He was not accustomed to turning until he wished to do so, and he found himself strongly desiring to do so, turning involuntarily.

  “Your Highness, may I present our daughter, Lady Nicolette,” Lord Ravensdale stated as Alejandro turned to gaze into the sea-green eyes of his opera singer.

  “Your Highness?” Esteban whispered, nudging him.

  Somehow Prince Alejandro found his voice after picking his jaw up off the floor. “I have already had the pleasure,” Alejandro muttered, clearing his throat. He bent to kiss her hand that he might regain his composure. He bent so quickly that he felt the tails of his tuxedo slap the backs of his knees.

  “Oh, you have met?” Lord Ravensdale asked with extreme curiosity.

  Nicolette Genevieve is a British peer of the realm and, moreover, her father moves in international circles. How can it be that an English lord would allow his daughter to sing on the stage? His head was spinning. It is unthinkable.

  Just as quickly, fury washed over him. And why had she not told him?

  He glanced up at her through his eyelashes. She gazed coolly at him, although she did allow him to kiss her
hand.

  How very agreeable of her.

  “The opera,” remarked Lady Ravensdale, nudging her husband.

  “I see.” Lord Ravensdale nodded, but it was clear that he did not see.

  “Are you surprised to see me in polite company, Your Highness?” she drawled with just enough of a giggle to appear playful to bystanders. But her eyes were flashing, and he took her meaning clearly.

  “Yes. N–n–no,” he stuttered.

  He had never felt so much the fool. He had not been caught unable to present a polished facade since infancy. Why had she deliberately set him up to be humiliated and embarrassed?

  I won’t permit it. If the little minx did not know who she was dealing with, he did. He smiled broadly.

  “No, of course not,” he reiterated smoothly. “I am certain you could be polite if you felt it was deserved, Lady Nicolette. I am merely perplexed as to why you were at pains to hide your true identity from me. No doubt it is my shortcoming.” Quickly he turned and faced Lord and Lady Ravensdale, bowing.

  Lord Ravensdale raised his eyebrows at his daughter, but Lady Ravensdale smiled warmly.

  He should have felt pleased with himself, but he felt strangely uncomfortable. It was his policy to present an image that differed from his true thoughts. He was practiced at keeping his observations to himself, and somehow, in Nicolette’s presence, they seemed to escape.

  “We are so pleased that you could join us, Your Highness,” Lady Ravensdale interjected, an expression of charity on her face rather than dismay or irritation, which surprised him. He was not accustomed to genuine kindness. Certainly her daughter, the high priestess of the black arts, had not extended that emotion.

  He allowed his eyes to rest on the scheming enchantress for a moment. She wore an evening costume—he would not call it a gown—of copper-spangled lavender chiffon, heavily embroidered and accented with spangle fringe along the sleeves, hem, and bodice. Her gown was low-necked, accenting her best feature, tantalizing as the eye moved upward to a thin shoulder strap that revealed bare skin at each shoulder in the shape of a circle. Below the circular openings were draped pieces of gauze held with satin folds, meeting together in a satin band around her arm from which flowed sheer gauze. The fringe, gauze, and considerable hand embroidery combined made it a dress that the Maharani would have proudly worn.