The Serenade: The Prince and the Siren [Daughters of the Empire 2] (BookStrand Publishing Romance) (15 page)

Alejandro opened his eyes and turned to discover the source of this magic, oblivious to everything but that first moment of seeing the angel who had delivered this intoxicating experience.

No.
It couldn’t be.
The soprano and the woman in black were one and the same.

He had been ensnared by an
opera singer
.

Chapter Eleven

On the day that I saw her, I forgot every other

—
Gioachino Rossini,
The Barber of Seville

“
Damnation!
”
he whispered under his breath as he clenched his fist. The reality of her identity was a slap in the face. For an instant he forgot the beauty of her voice. He had been made to look like a fool by a
stage singer
. An
actress.

How did I allow that to happen?
Alejandro shook his head in self-recrimination as his irritation grew. He should have been more discerning and picked up on the clues. Had he not observed her unusual style of dress? How could he have not seen it?

Distance provided him with a more objective view. The hem of her dress did not even reach the floor. His eyes moved eagerly along the outline of her legs and her figure before being drawn to her face. How could each visual be more beautiful—and scintillating—than the last?

“Do you know her, Alejandro?” asked le comte de Saint-Cyr, waving a lavender glove toward the stage.

“Not precisely. But…
I will
. Very soon.” His eyes remained fixed on the stage as he shook his head.

Not for a moment had he suspected her identity. Reluctantly he admitted the truth to himself. He had been too besotted to notice anything but
her
.

“I am pained even now for her inevitable broken heart.” Le duc de Valentinois chuckled, his dark, mysterious looks in contrast to his jovial nature.

And still the reality of her identity amazed him. Despite her delightfully revealing dress and shocking display, there was nothing cheap or inelegant about her. Nothing groveling or grasping for approval. Even now she seemed as if she were from the upper echelons of Parisian society despite every evidence to the contrary. Her speech, her deportment, her confidence—everything had proclaimed education and breeding.

“She is…
enchanting.
I may have to cast her in my next novel.” Gaston Leroux watched her intently while a card slipped out of his hand unnoticed.

It was imperative that he be able to read every person and every circumstance. And the fact that he had been so easily mislead was a painful reminder of his sure failure as a ruler.

Alejandro experienced a stab of pain as he remembered the stage actress of his salad days. Something about actresses, he supposed. They seemed to be his weakness.

And still there was something vastly different about
this
actress.

If only
. Alejandro shook his head. If only actresses were the only arena in which he could be fooled. He feared this deception pointed out a bigger flaw in his character.

“And who will be her dark lord, her benefactor, my romantic friend?” Saint-Cyr asked. “Give her a lover as mysterious and elusive as she.”

“A phantom dark lord?” Leroux asked, barely audible.

“A crown prince, perhaps?” Valentinois asked.

“Madre de Dios!”
He cursed under his breath. The last incident, also involving an actress, had only hurt his heart. That was no matter. But what if his gullibility led to an assassination, leaving Spain without a sovereign? Or to the theft of top security papers? Or to an event that threatened the financial stability of his country?

I must overcome this weakness
.

As he watched her slink across the stage, it seemed an impossibility.

Involuntarily he set his indignation aside as his eyes remained glued to her, entranced by her performance. She was the most enchanting, the most provocative, the most desirable woman he had ever seen. And, if the truth be known, he was the fool, not her. She had merely played along with the game he had set into motion.

“It is your turn, Alejandro. Play your card then return to your evil scheming.” Saint-Cyr shrugged and placed his card on the table.

Would she have eventually told him? He had no way of knowing her character because he had played his hand too early, fatal to the diplomat.

“I am finished playing,” he replied with finality, tossing the queen of diamonds on the table.

“But you won, Alejandro,” Saint-Cyr protested.

Far from it.

She held the audience captive in her hands. He watched her with a growing desire. As she moved across the stage with the most alluring of movements, every man in the opera house had his eyes glued to the stage. Her movements were sensual and graceful, her hips swaying as her chest arched subtly but provocatively.

Holding nothing back, she flaunted her power over men, promising that she knew how to delight. She took pleasure in both the jealousy of the women and the lust of the men. Her movements and her voice escalated, blending with and feeding the intensity of the audience’s reaction at the same time.

“
Love is a rebellious bird that no one can tame, a thing no force can hold. You call it in vain if it chooses not to come
.” Once she had every male eye on her, desiring her, she warned her admirers against the dangers of desire, singing in French, “If you don’t love me, I love you. And if I love you
, watch out for yourself
.”

There was a collective gasp in the audience. She slinked across the stage, and Alejandro’s mouth went dry. Without thinking he reached for the expensive champagne, which was even more tasteless than he recalled.

Why was he responding in this manner to a mere stage production? The fact remained that she was an actress playing a part. This was preposterous.

Or was it?
No woman could play the part so convincingly without possessing the qualities. She exuded sensuality. Every movement, every glance expressed her ability to captivate any man still breathing and to have him—if she so chose. Against his every wish, he felt himself wanting her.

He watched the opera attentively, the story unfolding real to him. She was Carmen, who played with men as if they were toys. When she tired of them, she tossed them aside. Her initial conquest did not want her, but she determined to have him.

This woman in black made the character believable. She lived by her own rules, for no one else, absolutely true to herself with a courage and determination to match his own.

His eyes glued to Carmen, he could imagine a man would give up everything, even his honor, to be the recipient of her desire.

For only an hour, to be wanted by this woman.

“An exquisite performance. She plays the seductress very well, don’t you think, Alejandro?” Esteban murmured to him, the only person present who had the nerve to interrupt his reverie. Was he attempting to bring him back to earth?

It wouldn’t work. Not today.

Alejandro shrugged, returning his eyes to the stage in dismissal. But it was not necessary. He was only aware of her. Her very presence was electrifying.

On or off the stage, he would stake his life on it.

Suddenly a slow smile came to Alejandro’s lips as a tantalizing thought occurred to him. She was an opera singer and not a woman of high society, as he had initially believed. The irony was that he might actually have a chance of bedding her.

A very good chance, he should think. He had never known a woman who earned her own livelihood who would hesitate for an instant to align herself with wealth and royalty. Her lack of interest had been an act—after all, that was her profession—to further entice him.

The thought filled him with anticipation. He turned his chair to fully face the stage, positioning it against the pillar, and leaned back into the red velvet cushion, stretching his legs. He rubbed his hands along the armrest, feeling the soft velvet underneath his fingertips as he watched her move across the stage.

The only peace he knew, the only happiness he knew, was when he was in the arms of a beautiful woman, making love. In that moment in time, he forgot everything but the sensation of being surrounded by desire and adoration.

Everything that he needed and wanted.

Women practically fell about his feet, and he came alive in their reaction to him. He loved everything about women at their best. He loved their beauty and their grace. He loved their nurturing and their sensitivity, their sweetness. He loved that women were astute and noticed that which men missed. He loved that the feminine mind favored conversation and connection to the jovial game of cards or the meaningless jousting match his male friends preferred. He loved their depth and their complexities. He even loved their coyness and manipulations.

And he loved them in his bed.

He had first realized at fourteen years of age that women responded to him. His friends always wished him to accompany them on their outings because, wherever he went, invariably women materialized. He was quiet and shy, strikingly handsome, looked much older than he was, and was, of course, the prince of Spain. He could sit and say absolutely nothing, and women were almost fainting simply looking at him, not knowing a damned thing about him. He suddenly was surrounded by devotion and need
after a childhood absent of these feelings.

It gave him an identity. Almost as if he existed.

Almost
.

In the arms of a woman, he bought into the illusion for a brief moment of time.

There was the irony—his station in life allowed him to create a situation to forget his station in life. If he had no station in life, would he exist?

He wondered.

Women were his only vice, and he was in no hurry to give them up. If bedding a willing partner was what it took to find the will to do his job for the next forty years or so, it was the reality of his life.

She turned and looked back at him over her bare shoulder, her shawl lowered just enough to tantalize, tossing her hair as she did so.
Madre de Dios
! He felt the sweat trickle down his brow.

“Perhaps she had better be the one to ‘watch out,’ as she put it.” Saint-Cyr chuckled, motioning with his head to Alejandro.

“Are my intentions that obvious, my friend?” Alejandro smiled momentarily at Saint-Cyr.

“Crystal,” remarked Esteban.

“But I didn’t say anything.” He shrugged, his eyes returning to the stage.

“Precisely,” replied Valentinois. “You have made remarkably little effort to entertain us all evening. Most unusual for
you
. Now, if Saint-Cyr were a dead bore, that wouldn’t surprise me, but you…”

Laughter ensued, but Alejandro’s eyes returned to the stage, ignoring his social responsibilities once again with surprising ease.

She entered into a powerful aria. Carmen’s sentiment might be less than admirable, but her voice was that of an angel. He had never before heard such a range, her voice reaching to the heavens. She delivered the notes effortlessly. Her high notes were of such a crystalline lightness and purity that, as he listened, he could not help but be swept away. Her embellishments, trills, and runs, were unbelievable to the ear.

Suddenly and unpredictably there was a shift in his longing that he could not have anticipated. It wasn’t that he no longer desired her, but somehow in hearing her sing, all his needs were met in that moment. For an instant, he knew no need, no lack, no desire for anything unrealized. He had far more than he wanted or had ever dreamed he wanted in that instant in time. He felt pure…bliss. Joy. He forgot himself and was himself all in the same moment.