Secrets of a Soprano

by Miranda Neville

  “I have no doubt of that,” he said. “I hope one day to hear you sing it at the Regent.” Personal recollections gave way to a vision of Foscari singing Rosina at his opera house, every corner of the house filled with her admirers. Excitement at the idea led him easily to what was, after all, the point of this meeting. “I think you’ll find the Regent superior in every way to the Tavistock. Regardless of your contract with Mortimer, if you would agree to come and sing there for a single night, a benefit performance—”

  “Oh Lord!”

  The sky had darkened unnoticed and fat drops of rain stained the blue silk of Tessa’s spencer.

  “Holy Saint George,” she cried in alarm. “I must get home. My throat!”

  Max needed no explanation. Most people might regard a head cold as a trifling risk; to an opera singer it was a looming catastrophe.

  “We’re near the Grosvenor Gate,” he said, seizing her arm. “I’ll find you a hackney.”

  Foolish thought! Whoever finds a hackney in the rain? By the time they reached Park Lane, with no vacant vehicle in sight, her clothing was soaked, the Parisian silk clinging to her body. Resisting the distraction, Max shrugged out of his coat and threw it over her shoulders. She huddled into it, shivering and unhappy. Her maid arrived at a run and fussed around her mistress, emitting distressed Italian squawks.

  “I live only a step away,” he offered. “I know it wouldn’t be quite proper…”

  “Never mind about that. I must get dry immediately.”

  A few minutes brought them to Max’s house on Upper Grosvenor Street where one of his footmen admitted them. Tessa said a few words to Angela, then to Max.

  “Would you be good enough to have your footman find my maid a hackney? She’ll return to the Pulteney and bring me dry clothing.”

  “I’ll send her in my carriage. Joseph, send word to the mews. Where is Babson?

  “He’s out, my lord,” the footman replied. “I’m the only one here.”

  “Hughes too? What about Antoine?”

  Both valet and cook were out on errands, along with the butler and the second footman. Since he didn’t entertain much, Max kept a small, all-male staff with cleaning women coming in by the day.

  “Hurry to the mews first, and return at once.” He turned to Tessa. “You’ve caught my household unawares. I’ll show you to a room myself.”

  Tessa and Angela followed him upstairs to the second floor where the door of the spare bedchamber closed behind them. Irked that he could offer only such inadequate hospitality, he returned below and paced the hall feeling useless.

  The carriage appeared at the door just as Angela descended the stairs, asking for something in Italian. Max had never studied the language, though he’d picked up a fair amount at the opera. It wasn’t hard to grasp that Signora Foscari would like some tea, but the maid’s other request was a mystery.

  What the Devil was asciugamani? In response to his look of blank incomprehension the maid resorted to mime, vigorously rubbing her arms and torso.

  “Soap? A sponge?” he guessed.

  She shook her head. Trying to understand her he noticed, irrelevantly, that her nose was crooked, perhaps broken at some time in the past.

  “Towels?”

  She nodded vigorously. “Si, tow-elles.”

  Not a word often featured in an operatic libretto.

  “I will take care of your mistress,” Max said as he saw her into the waiting carriage, with no idea if the Italian woman understood him. “I’ll find the asciuga-things.”

  He sent the reluctant footman down to the kitchen to make tea. Joseph didn’t seem to think it was his job; Max firmly insisted he was better qualified for the task than his master.

  But where the hell were the towels?

  Finding them took some ten minutes of rummaging in chests and closets, all the time picturing Tessa falling into an ague. There wouldn’t even be a fire in the bedchamber, he fretted. Never once did it occur to him that La Divina sick meant good business for the Regent.

  *

  Stripped of every garment—she had been soaked to her shift—Tessa opened the wardrobe and found it empty. Really, it was foolish of her to dismiss Angela before she found something to wear. She wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry at the irony of her situation: stark naked, in Max Hawthorne’s bedchamber. Not his bedchamber, she amended hastily. In a bedchamber. In Max Hawthorne’s house.

  A knock came at the door.

  The sensible thing to do would be to get into bed, but that wasn’t where she wanted to be discovered. She pulled the counterpane off the bed and wrapped it around her body from the breasts down. Her shoulders were bare, otherwise it wasn’t much more revealing than an evening gown.

  “Come in.”

  Max entered. And stopped. He stared at her, his eyes so dark they looked black, and she turned hot all over, despite the lingering damp on her skin.

  “I brought you some towels,” he said hoarsely.

  “Thank you.” She remained where she stood, hugging her arms to her sides to keep the makeshift gown in place. Of a stiff material, it didn’t flow easily around her body and would likely slip off with any sudden movement. She extended an arm and he leaned forward, awkwardly laid the linen cloths over it, then hastily stepped backward.

  But not very far. Nor did he take his eyes off her. She concentrated on the carpet, a red and blue pattern, thick and soft under her curling toes. Now she was almost naked, in a bedchamber, with Max Hawthorne.

  “It’s chilly in here. I’ll light a fire,” he said. His voice sounded strangled.

  “There’s no need, really. You’ve been too kind already. Perhaps one of your servants…No, they’re all out. I’ll manage. Angela will be back soon.”

  “She could take an hour or more in this traffic.”

  She fell silent since she’d lost the power of speech save for incoherent babbling, and perhaps he felt the same way. Risking a peek at his face, she found him as still as a statue, his rigidity contradicted by his burning gaze.

  She lowered her eyes and raised a hand to her sodden hair. Half the elaborate braids had descended. She must look a mess. She reached for the remaining pins but the towels got in the way of her free hand.

  She couldn’t think properly when he stood so close to her. Hastily she stepped back and her heel caught the trailing bedspread. The fabric slipped to the floor in a stiff silent mound and she lost her balance, about to follow the makeshift costume. Instead she found herself, without a stitch of clothing, in Max’s arms.

  “Well, well,” he said, making no move to release her. Quite the contrary.

  She was completely naked, in a bedchamber, in Max Hawthorne’s arms.

  Her face nestled into his disordered neckcloth and he smelt of starch and cool rain. His waistcoat and shirtsleeves were still damp despite the heat of his body. She was surprised they weren’t steaming. His arms were like brands around her naked back. Drawn closer, her breasts rubbed against silk twill and her belly sensed a swelling through the rough fall of his breeches.

  “Tessa,” he whispered.

  Her singer’s throat couldn’t even summon a word.

  “You are so beautiful.” No hostility, no suspicion. He was her Max again.

  Instinct told her to sink deeper into his embrace, to explore the six feet of hot, hard, muscled—albeit clothed—masculinity pressed against her skin. She hadn’t reacted thus to a man in years, but apparently she wasn’t dead to this kind of sensation after all. Warmth streaked downward through her veins. Instead of panic, she felt the beginning of desire, and that was even more frightening.

  “Let me go,” she breathed, pushing at his chest.

  “I wouldn’t want you to fall,” he said, low but with a teasing note.

  “I won’t,” she said, louder this time. “Let me go, please, and turn your back.”

  As his arms slackened she almost changed her mind. But she knew it was the sure route to madness.

  When he released
her, she dived for the counterpane and swung it round her shoulders like a cloak, a shield against temptation. Disobedient to her command, his dark gaze never wavered from her face. She glared at him and took a—very careful—step away.

  “I’ll find you something to wear,” he muttered and left the room.

  A minute later he thrust a blue silk dressing gown through the door.

  “Put that on,” he said from the passage. “Then I’ll see to the fire.”

  “I told you, there’s no need.”

  “You must warm up. I’m coming back in.”

  In a trice she snatched up the robe. It smelled of Max. It had touched his skin. She held it closed at the waist with her crossed arms. He came through the door and his lips twitched. Clearly he found her discomfort amusing, the blackguard.

  “You look better in my dressing gown than I do.”

  Trying to look unconcerned, she feared her acting skills had deserted her. She perched on the foot of the bed, intending to dry her hair, but she couldn’t keep her eyes off Max.

  Kneeling on the hearth, he placed coals in the grate and struck tinder to coax a flame; she found his concentration on the humble task touching. He was going to a lot of trouble to ensure her wellbeing. She gazed at his broad shoulders and the way the muscles of his back rippled beneath the linen rear panel of his waistcoat. His genuflecting position could have been designed to display his narrow waist and hips and well-defined buttocks. Tessa began to feel warm again, and not because of the fire, which was yet in a state of infancy. Her flesh tingled in recollection of his touch against her nakedness. A seedling of undefined emotion—perhaps hope or joy—sprouted in the confusion that possessed her brain.

  “The footman will be up soon with tea,” he said, still intent on the immature flame.

  How could he be so cool? Had she imagined his response to their embrace? Perhaps it had been merely an instinctive male reaction, not because he was attracted to her. She only wished for the same state of indifference. If a man was going to make her feel again, why did it have to be Max, the very last one she needed?

  Turning her attention to her damp hair, she plucked out the remaining pins and shook it loose. To avoid further accidents, she clung to the edges of the robe and used her other hand—not very effectively—to towel her head. The temperature of the room rose as the flickering coals settled into a red glow. Surely he’d leave now. Pray God he’d leave now.

  He rose to his feet and turned around. Whatever his expression reflected it wasn’t indifference. Surveying her from the tips of her toes, curled with embarrassment in the soft plush of carpet, over her silk-covered body, up to her hair, now lank and wet on one side and, doubtless, rumpled and fuzzy on the other, his eyes widened. His austere features relaxed into creases that meant pure mischief. Oh God! She remembered that look.

  “Let me help you with that, Tessa.” Once again he called her by her familiar name. Husky and amused, the tone curdled her insides.

  He moved towards her.

  “No.” The word emerged in a whisper. La Divina had lost her voice.

  He removed the towel from her nerveless grasp, and, using both hands, leaned over and applied it to her head. Staring at her lap, she stayed passive on the bed, as he worked the long strands of hair on either side, then rubbed her scalp. He applied the towel gently, with much less vigor than Angela would have used, as though he was afraid to hurt her. Peering through her lashes she observed a look of intense concentration on his face. Enjoying the gentle massage, she allowed herself to sink into a warm pool of contentment as he cared for her. Yet her ease was tempered by the keen knowledge that this was Max—Max—touching her and her flesh hummed in response.

  “I think you’re dry enough now,” he said, running his hand around her head.

  “Thank you, Max,” she whispered and raised her eyes to his. Oh no, not indifferent at all.

  He dropped the towel onto the floor and took her hands in both his and she nearly swooned. Lying on the bed…not a good idea. She stiffened her back, allowed him to draw her to her feet. And found herself in his arms.

  It felt good. So good that the fleeting urge to be free slipped away like late morning mist, forgotten in the rush of heat that suffused her at the sensation of skin against silk against warm male. It had been a long time since she’d reveled in the embrace of a man’s body.

  Did he speak? Did he use a hand? Surely she would have felt the withdrawal of one of those encircling arms. However it was, he directed her to look up and she complied and raised her face for his kiss.

  He’d learned a lot since he’d kissed her in the churchyard of São Francisco. At first his lips, cool and firm, seemed familiar, propelling her back to a magic moment in a Portuguese evening in 1807. Then he opened them to ravish her mouth with a heat and passion beyond the capacity of the younger man. But he tasted the same. He was still Max.

  He was no innocent now, and neither was she; every thrust and nip she returned with interest. Weaving eager fingers into his hair she urged him on, drawing him closer as his mouth swept the line of her jaw with a hot caress and down the curve of her neck to the sweet spot where her pulse hammered.

  She was incapable of coherent sound; the renowned throat of Europe’s most celebrated soprano emitted only low moans.

  Nor was he any more articulate. Between kisses he made hoarse rasps that might have been words, but conveyed no meaning but that of want. His large hands, stroking her back and kneading her behind, pulling her against the evidence of his desire, carried the same message.

  Something bumped the back of her thighs. The bed.

  No! This isn’t wise.

  Yes! Her body, every nerve molten, urged her otherwise. Hands cradled his skull like a gypsy holding a crystal ball while their tongues tangled in a wild fandango.

  No. She was still angry at this man.

  Yes, yes, yes. Forget doubts, forget fear, forget the past, forget everything save this moment, this room, and this man. He reached for the closure of her robe and she leaned in, silently begging for his hands on her bare breasts.

  But his assault on the garment was interrupted by a knock, eliciting a brief but violent oath from him. She broke free, breathing hard, uncertain whether to be glad or sorry.

  “I’ve brought tea for the lady,” said the footman.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Hail, sweet enchantress! Music’s Queen,

  Whose matching tones in mingling measure,

  Have raised my soul beyond the scene

  Of worldly woes or common pleasures.

  Flung on the stage as a tribute to Madame Foscari

  Curled up on the Pulteney’s elegant chaise longue, a soft paisley shawl thrown over her knees, Tessa tried to concentrate on her novel. She’d been enjoying Emma, a tale of quiet English country life given her by Sofie, who’d pronounced the book boring. Sofie preferred tales of headless specters, evil noblemen, damp dungeons, and ravishment. Not Tessa. Her life had been exciting enough without turning to literature for thrills. A life of respectability with nothing to worry about save one’s neighbors’ marriages sounded wonderful. She even envied the heroine her invalid father, wished she had a parent, even a fussy and demanding one.

  But today her mind was elsewhere and she couldn’t keep a foolish grin off her face.

  “You look cheerful.” Sofie, still wearing her bonnet, walked into the sitting room. “Angela told me what happened this morning. How does your throat feel?”

  “It seems to have survived the experience,” Tessa replied. “Sempronio ran through some exercises with me. There’s no reason I shouldn’t sing tonight. I am very well.”

  Better than well, in fact. She felt marvelous, filled with a kind of excited anticipation. “But how about you, my dear? I trust you didn’t get wet. I forgot that you were going out this morning?” She’d never forgive herself if Sofie, who was prone to chills, put her health in danger running an errand for her.

  “I took the carriage and was quit
e warm and dry. Lucky Lord Allerton was there to save you from the rain.”

  “Assuredly,” Tessa agreed. “Though if he hadn’t kept me talking in the park I would never have been in danger of getting wet.”

  “From what Angela told me, Lord Allerton behaved like a true gentleman,” Sofie said.

  Angela didn’t know everything. Tessa wasn’t ready to confess to Sofie that Max had treated her with anything beyond common courtesy. And certainly not that she’d enjoyed it. Dwelling on just how good his kiss had felt made her muddled and stupid.

  Angela had arrived with an armful of dry clothing soon after the appearance of the footman with tea. Max had left the room, but the look in his eyes later when he kissed her hand and helped her into the carriage had spoken volumes. He admired her, yes, but perhaps he’d only kissed her because that’s what men did when they found themselves alone in a room with a half-clad lady of reasonably good looks.

  Did he feel anything beyond casual lust? And what about her? Could she possibly be thinking about Max Hawthorne, whom she’d sworn never to forgive, as a potential lover? He’d been very young when he deserted her. He could have changed.

  “We had an agreeable conversation in the park,” she told Sofie calmly, while inwardly she hugged herself in secret glee. She couldn’t discuss her complicated feelings for Max, but they could still talk about him. She wanted to talk about Max. “He knows opera and his taste is excellent. Perhaps I should consider singing at the Regent next season. What do you think?” Sofie liked him so that should be enough to get her started.

  Instead of launching into enthusiastic agreement, Sofie frowned. “Perhaps. But you should hear what I learned this morning.”

  “Did you manage to find Nancy Sturridge’s woman at the Tavistock?”

  Wishing to improve relations with her fellow soprano, she’d sent Sofie to open diplomatic channels.

  Sofie’s face held the intent look that heralded a particularly succulent piece of gossip. “It seems,” she said, her voice lowering confidentially, “that Miss Sturridge was upset because both Somerville and Allerton asked you to supper after your debut.”