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

by Hollingsworth, Suzette

“Excellent,” she purred as she ran her hands along his chest. “Then give me what I need.” She threw her arms around him, and her lips captured his. His body melded to hers, and she was surrounded by his desire for her, as if the dam had burst.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  That sounds so glorious

  That sounds so beautiful

  Never have I heard or seen such a thing

  —Amadeus Wolfgang Mozart, The Magic Flute

  What came over me? He must be a sorcerer. Nicolette was beside herself with shock. She had thrown herself at Alejandro like a wanton.

  She had become the person he believed her to be. She had…Oh, God, I wish I had.

  In the end he had picked her up, called for his bodyguard, and demanded that she be taken home with what appeared to be the greatest of will.

  She shivered to recall his expression, as if it were torture for him to send her away. She felt her body tingle as she envisioned his chocolate-brown eyes, begging her to stay, saying that he wanted her desperately.

  At the same time she had been escorted from the opulent room.

  Throwing the English-rose-and-olive covers from her bed, she stretched her legs out before her. She pushed her way through the sheer mauve chiffon extending from the ring canopy some eight feet overhead. Throwing on her pale-aqua India-silk dressing gown, she began pacing the room, the box pleat at the back of the gown creating a train of sorts.

  As she walked, the wide lace frills extending from the gold bands at her elbows flapped back and forth, tickling her arms. Hurriedly, she opened her bedroom curtains, rang for her morning tea and toast, and moved to sit at her dressing table.

  I do not know myself anymore. Gazing at her reflection in the gilded mirror, she tapped her fingers on her dressing table. The aquamarine eyes staring back at her had a touch of mischief in them, it seemed to her.

  What could I have been thinking? She had been ready to bed a man who would not marry her. She had never in her life stooped so low as to throw herself at a man.

  She watched a slow, sensuous smile come to her lips in the reflection. And I would do it again.

  Glancing out her window, she caught a view of the statue of Saint Geneviève, a virgin consecrated to God from her earliest childhood.

  Nicolette shook her head. She had nothing in common with her namesake.

  And yet she could not take her eyes from the gentleness somehow hammered into the stone. Saint Geneviève had guided kings, fed the poor, performed miracles, cast out demons, and even stood firm before the Franks and Attila the Hun.

  Bravery she could muster. Virginity? That was something she was anxious to part with. As long as the recipient was Alejandro.

  No one else.

  Nicolette stood abruptly and paced the room, overcome with the memory of his gentle touch upon her skin, so at odds with the ferocity of the need in his expression.

  She hugged herself. Every inch of her had tingled as he kissed her, and her skin shivered again as she recalled his kiss. She had never felt this way about any other man.

  Why have I pursued a man I have no hope of winning? Returning to her mirror, she attempted to remind herself of who she was and how impossible this situation was.

  Was it because he rejected her on every level that she sought him out? In bedding him, she could only increase her pain. If the connection was deep now to the point of torment, would it not be more so afterwards?

  Possibly something worse. Once a man relieved his urges, he often lost respect for the woman. Deplorable but true. She was playing with something powerful she didn’t understand.

  Oh! She clenched her fists, cradling her head and closing her eyes. Love should not be painful.

  Alejandro’s face came to her mind and she opened her eyes, as if it might will him before her. In his pushing her away, did she take it as a challenge and determine that she would make him see her? Was she determined to break through his barrier?

  She was setting herself up for failure.

  Nicolette shook her head slowly, showing her staunch disagreement with her mirrored image. Alejandro might not be fully alive, but he had certainly brought her to life. He had this effect on people, and when they responded to him, he felt none of it. No, she did not pursue the prince for the challenge, though he certainly posed a great challenge.

  She pursued him because her heart would allow her to do nothing else.

  Tap-tap-tap. It sounded like her maid at the door.

  “Come in.” Emily set tea and toast on a table adorned with a vase of pink peonies beside the view window. “Thank you.” Nicolette smiled.

  Emily curtseyed and turned to leave when Nicolette heard herself speaking. “Emily, are you happy here?”

  “Yes, ma’rm. It be the best job I hae ever had. All me family be so proud.”

  “May I be so bold as to ask, do you have a young man?”

  “Yes, ma’rm.” Emily smiled wider. “He ’ar a footman. We be engaged to be married in a yar ’ar so.”

  “Is he a fine young man?” Nicolette asked.

  “Cracking.” Emily nodded, her expression suddenly shy.

  “I wish you very happy.” Nicolette sighed.

  “Thank ye, ma’rm.” Emily curtseyed again and left the room.

  The sun streamed through the window. She loved the morning sun. Combined with the fact that her wallpaper was almost gold in tone, it was so wonderful to wake up to. She sat down at the table and began buttering her toast, followed by a thin layer of strawberry jam. She poured cream in her tea and took the first heavenly sip of the warm liquid.

  The scent of the tea and cream and strawberries wafted up to meet her nose. Nicolette glanced at the painting that depicted a scene from La Bohème, the young Bohemians. Starving artists. Full of life, fervor, and love. Their dreams as real to them as their friends, and their friends more dear to them than their possessions. All one needed to be happy in life.

  Had she thrown herself at Alejandro because she was determined that he should be awake?

  No, the passion she had sought was not for him. It was for her. She did not wish to marry—her love of music held her captive—but she wanted this one experience of rapture. And she wanted it with Alejandro, no one else.

  She might never want another man, and this was the man she wanted. As she recalled his dark hair waving over his shoulders, she shivered. There was no doubt about her choice. She wanted to have this experience where love and desire came together.

  Oh, dear God. These feelings were so new to her that she truly did not know if her reaction was licentiousness, pure and simple, which, she was ashamed to admit, did not alarm her. She loved being a passionate, spirited woman.

  But love? That was far more frightening than the possibility of being a wanton! Alejandro de Bonifácio, the crown prince of Spain. She threw her head into her hands. She had truly gone mad.

  She opened her mouth and shut it several times in amazement at herself. Could it be?

  Her eyes followed the trail of the sunlight until it rested on her nightstand, where her books were piled. The Tripitaka, the Bhagavad Gita, the Koran, the Upanishads, the Vedas, the Bible.

  All the books that people both based their lives on and utilized to determine who they would kill and hate. Did any of these books have the power to unite her with her Maker? To transform? Was this not the only goal of these writings?

  Only music does this for me. Music was her muse, her life, her reason for being, her connection to the divine.

  Was she evil? Was she a lost woman?

  She would make no apologies. From the moment of her birth, she had given herself fully to life. She had been open to everything, and these were the moments in which she had most felt God to be with her.

  She must follow her heart above all else. In the end, if she was wrong, she would set a new course. For now she would live according to her convictions and her heart.

  All anyone could do.

  Why Alejandro? Questions kept nagging at her, tes
ting her resolution. Why not someone who could give back?

  Because I sense something wonderful in Alejandro, something so far above the usual. She sighed as she ran her fingertip gently along her lips, attempting to recapture a sensation. She bent down to smell the blossoms at her dining table. Most men she knew lived primarily for their own pleasure. Alejandro lived for the well-being of others: his entire being was devoted to it. He had a higher calling, but he had never met the Sender of the calling. He was like the obedient servant who had never entered his master’s chambers.

  Prince Alejandro had yet to feel the love of the One who had sent him. He doubted himself continually, enumerating his faults as inadequate to the job.

  He did not know what it was to be the beloved.

  Did she love him? Or was he merely the means to an experience? Nicolette laughed, shaking her head, amused with her attempts to even fool herself.

  She loved him. There, she admitted it. But not as the love that completed her. There was only music for her.

  Alejandro had refused her anyway: he would not let her in. His heart was intertwined with Spain.

  She glanced at the statue of Saint Geneviève, and before her eyes the rendition that had seemed so real to her turned to stone. Cold, hard stone.

  Nicolette sighed, regret filling her. She ran her finger along the rim of her cup and almost jumped from the heat radiating there.

  It was a bloody shame. They were both incredibly passionate people within an inch of each other. Rather like an eternal sleep, side by side, with their fingers almost touching.

  Only she had lost her chance, and it would never come again. She could feel him drifting away even now.

  As she bit her lip, she felt a tear roll down her cheek.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  How can I find the words to describe her?

  She is graceful

  she is charming

  a lovely figure

  cheeks as red as roses

  and long black hair

  eyes that smile so sweetly...

  —Gioachino Rossini, The Barber of Seville

  He looked about the terrace, and everywhere he looked he saw Nicolette, her white gown shimmering in the moonlight against the Eiffel Tower. And then he saw her in the black silk with the plunging neckline, a red rose glistening between full, creamy-white breasts.

  Even when he turned away he saw her, flinging her hair and tantalizing him with her black lace shawl, much as a bullfighter tempts the bull with his red cape.

  And he felt her. He felt her everywhere around him and within him, deep within his heart.

  Alejandro stepped onto the terrace of the Belle Etoile, wearing his gloves while carrying his mask and foil in one hand. Esteban walked behind him, his movements swift and precise. As was traditional, Esteban, being the instructor, wore the black fencing uniform and he the white. Both wore the breeches and formfitting jackets, which made their muscular forms evident.

  The full-circle terrace was ideal for a fencing match. Even with the plants lining the iron balcony there was ample width. The small trees on the terrace provided some need for awareness, as in real life, and the wooden furniture had been moved after their breakfast.

  “Your Highness.”

  Placing his sword on a table, he began to put on his mask when he was interrupted by the sight of Pancho at the terrace door, who clicked his heels before traversing the terrace with a penguin’s gait. The manservant then presented a telegram with a bow.

  Alejandro sighed, setting his mask beside the foil and opening the telegram. He frowned as he felt the full impact of the missive.

  “What is it, Alejandro?” Esteban asked with concern, swinging his sword as he loosened his muscles for their morning practice.

  “Esteban, we must depart for Spain immediately.”

  “Is it bad news?” Esteban demanded, his expression concerned.

  “Si, mi amigo.” Alejandro nodded distractedly, crumpling the note in his hand. “The king has fallen ill.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Since yesterday I’ve been chilled

  to the bone

  He left me last night,

  Saying: It’s all over

  —Giacomo Puccini, La Bohème

  “May I come in? I believe it is something of some urgency.” There was a strange misgiving in her mother’s voice, audible even through the thick mahogany wood

  Nicolette jumped from her bedroom seat, where she had been enjoying her morning tea at the garden window, unaccustomed to hearing anything but perfect calm in her mother’s voice, and hurriedly put her silk dresser on. She rushed to open her door, fabric swishing as she walked.

  As she opened the door, Emily followed her mother, carrying an enormous flower arrangement of a dozen white roses, a dozen red roses, and a single fire-and-ice rose in the center. Nicolette bathed in the scent filling her room, astonished as her mother handed her a note and a box. A very large box. Speechless, she opened the elaborately wrapped package.

  “Oh my,” Lady Ravensdale murmured, leaning over her shoulder. “Impressive. Antonio Muñoz Degrain.” In her hands was the painting she had admired on the evening she had sang to Alejandro. She stared down at Sancho and Don Quixote discussing their windmill adventure on a lonely stretch of road.

  Frantically she opened the white linen envelope sealed with Spain’s royal seal.

  As you requested, flowers and a painting. To the incomparable Lady Nicolette, who transformed a ravaged soul and reawakened a lost life. You are truly my angel and the fire to my ice.

  Alejandro—Ice? Hardly. Nicolette somehow managed to release her breath.

  She continued reading. You gave me the ability to dream again.—Prince Alejandro.

  “What is it, Nicolette? Is anything wrong?” asked Lady Ravensdale, her countenance far from her usual tranquility.

  “Oh, Mama,” she gasped. All too soon Nicolette knew the reason for her mother’s uncharacteristic anxiety. A great sadness overtook her as the full impact of the missive began to form. “Prince Alejandro has returned to Spain unexpectedly. The king has taken ill.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  My room is a squalid den…

  I’ve no fire

  The cold north wind comes in

  and blows all round

  She sings and smiles,

  and remorse assails me

  —Giacomo Puccini, La Bohème

  “En garde, Diablo!” his opponent commanded.

  Devil? Alejandro picked up his rapier with an instinctive swiftness. “Your Majesty might have been a more appropriate greeting. Absent the sword, of course.”

  “Prepare to perish, Your Majesty!”

  Ah, there it was. One must never omit the niceties. Society would otherwise fail to flourish. His opponent lunged his saber toward him, apparently bent on killing him. The double-bladed weapon was reminiscent of the Napoleonic wars, built for war.

  Alejandro was happy to oblige. He felt like dying. But he would not die today. It was back to duty and drudgery, an existence he had grown very accustomed to and had fully accepted before meeting Nicolette.

  His eyes had been opened—no, his heart had been opened—and now he truly knew what he was missing.

  A life that was completely impossible.

  “You have seduced my wife, you scoundrel!” his opponent boomed. There was not the slightest hesitation in either his tone or his movements, swift and unforgiving.

  Oh, how he tired of hearing those words.

  “No, sir, you mistake the matter.” He grinned broadly. “She seduced me. I merely obliged her.”

  “You lie!” Momentarily, the tinkling of swords was the only sound in the secluded park, perfect for just such a meeting.

  “Would that she had satisfied me,” he murmured under his breath.

  Alejandro staved off his opponent, but he did not go on the offensive. There was so much to do, and he had little energy for anything. His body and soul ached for Nicolette. She
who was utterly unattainable.

  His opponent closed, and the two swordsmen found themselves locked together hilt to hilt, pushing strongly against each other for the advantage. Alejandro quickly sidestepped, leaving his opponent pushing against thin air. The man was too good to stumble, but he was forced to swing a wild slash behind him, hoping to parry a thrust that did not come. His expression deadly serious, he returned to Alejandro with a furious assault.

  As the clinking sounds of the clash of swords grew louder, he resolved to see Nicolette one last time. Assuming that he survived.

  He needed to see her. He must devise a way.

  Allow yourself to receive love. He heard the words coming from her lips yet again, and they thrilled him, captivated him, filled him with the hope of something he never thought he would have.

  But he would never have her love. The love of the most amazing woman he had ever met. A woman who did not lie. Unlike himself, who lived a lie and rarely spoke the truth to anyone.

  His opponent lunged again, and a furious battle ensued, traversing across the grounds. He met the aggrieved man’s onslaught with ease, as if he were painting a canvas in delicate strokes rather than combating lightning-fast thrusts from a rapier. Sidestepping again, he evaded a treacherous slash and placed the edge of his weapon against his opponent’s jugular. The gentleman fell back.

  He knew that he should deal the final blow, but what was the point? He had no heart for anything. Instead, he turned and began to walk away.

  “Is that the best you can do?” the gentleman rasped.

  “It will suffice.” Alejandro turned and studied the fallen man.

  “You did not give your best.” Esteban rose from the ground, dusting his knees. “Your mind was elsewhere.”

  “I beat you, Esteban.”

  “You began beating me when you were sixteen years of age. That is not what I said. You did not give your best. What is the matter?” He studied Alejandro with concern.

  “Nothing which can be resolved, mi compadre.” He set his saber down on the edge of the Fuente de las Conchas in the royal gardens, a fountain marking the dramatic half mile entryway to the west facade of the Royal Palace. He removed his mask and set it beside his sword before sitting on the edge of the fountain to stare at the sculptures of three children holding conches, each ignoring him as they stared at their shell treasures.