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

“Portuguese,” answered Saint-Cyr definitively, flipping his blond curls. “It sounds Portuguese to me.” Like his companions, the count of Saint-Cyr wore a coat shaped to the waist with tails two inches above the back of the knee, an evening coat faced with silk lapels, and a white silk bow tie. But his friends wore white gloves to his lavender, and white pearl buttons to his gold-and-amethyst buttons. His shirt had a full three-inch standing collar, he added a gold watch fob to his attire, and his hair was longer and curled in contrast to Valentinois’s short, coal-black hair.

“My dear Comte, you do not have a drop of Latin blood in your entire body. You are one hundred percent French, so you cannot be the judge of such a matter,” pronounced Alejandro coolly, slowly raising his eyes from his cards, suppressing a smile. “And do not insult Portugal in my presence.”

“Latin?” repeated Saint-Cyr indignantly. “Your Royal Highness, do you forget your ancestry? You are Austrian
,
of the
Germanic
line, descended from Prince Albert, whom you strongly resemble.”

“No, Saint-Cyr.” Valentinois shook his head, clearly in disagreement, chuckling. “I mean
yes, he does
—Alejandro has the German build and height, but with his sultry brown eyes we have no chance with the ladies when he is about.” He laughed. “No, my foolish friend, Alejandro is decidedly Latin. And you are wrong about the music as well, le Comte. The music is untamed and uncivilized. Risqué, you know.”

“You see what I mean? No one knows what it is,” Alejandro pronounced. “And no one cares.” What he did care about was the woman in black who refused to give him her name
knowing full well who he was!
Never in his life had he encountered such
hauteur
!

It excited him
.

And he had no idea how to find her again.

Which infuriated him
.

“Le Prince, if I may beg your indulgence, please illuminate the matter,” persisted Saint-Cyr. “If you would not classify the music as
art nouveau
nor as Portuguese, how would you classify it?”

As rubbish
. “You are the fashion virtuoso among us, my friend, how can it escape you?” replied Alejandro, sighing heavily. “It is, of course, part of the movement which is referred to as ‘abstract art
.
’”

“
Abstract art
,” repeated Saint-Cyr in awed tones, covering his mouth with his lavender gloves as if he had just been given the key to the kingdom. “
What is it?
”

“It is the musical equivalent of a child cutting out geometric shapes and gluing them together in a slapdash fashion with such inexpertise that it ceases to amuse and begins to offend.”

“I take it, Your Highness, that you are not a lover of the abstract—in music at least,” mused Leroux, appearing deep in thought. “May I inquire if you favor the abstract in paintings and sculpture?”

This question incited a round of unconstrained laughter from Saint-Cyr and Valentinois, causing Leroux to blush.

“It is…an affront to the senses, an abomination to the educated, and an insult to all who have gone before. Are there no standards in Paris?” demanded Alejandro coolly, slowly raising his eyes from his cards even as Saint-Cyr and Valentinois shared a knowing glance. “There is no discipline to it. I shall take up a paintbrush myself if this is what the world has come to.”

“And what will you paint, Alejandro?” Saint-Cyr laughed, barely containing himself as he waved his lavender glove in front of his face. “Beautifully plump women? White horses with feathered plumes? Eighteenth-century naval ships engaging in a battle to the death?”

Alejandro felt a smile tugging at his lips against his will.

“Ah, but
this
opera, Your Highness,” Leroux insisted, placing a card on the table. “It is beautiful—and misunderstood.”

“Misunderstood certainly.” Alejandro frowned. “The musical line could inspire nothing else.”

He listened half-interestedly without turning, placing the ace of spades on the table. “You just gave me the game, Comte.”

Who was she
? He knew all the royal-born princesses.

He threw his card on the table. To be sure, he had never seen this woman before. He would have remembered her into the next life.

“And consider, Prince Alejandro, the setting for Bizet’s opera is Madrid, your home,” Leroux exclaimed with a boyish excitement that contradicted his mature appearance consisting of a portly shape, immaculate dress, a thick head of brown, curled hair, and a full beard.

Despite the fact that he was harmless, outside of an annoyingly jovial disposition, Alejandro could not approve of Leroux. He had inherited millions of francs, which he had subsequently lost through wild living. The wastrel had no concept of duty and merely lived for his own pleasure.

But who in his circle did not
? He glanced at his bodyguard, the one exception, and then at Valentinois—who, at least, was a fanatical sports enthusiast. Saint-Cyr could be forgiven for his ridiculous extravagances because he was the glue who held the friendships together.

“An unfortunate choice of location,” murmured Alejandro, dealing a new game.

“You shall see, Your Highness, Madrid is the perfect setting for the opera. The
only
possible setting,” Leroux insisted.

Of all things Prince Alejandro held in disregard, a lack of discipline and control was paramount. He himself had never been happier than when he was in the royal navy. It was pointless to wish for the impossible, but when he slept, his dreams betrayed him. Then he was a commoner and allowed to fight and die in service.

“Lud, the soprano has just entered the stage. She is ravishing,” Saint-Cyr exclaimed.

“Alejandro, I beg you to trouble yourself to turn and look. You won’t be disappointed,” advised le duc de Valentinois, having noticeable difficulty in returning his eyes to the cards.

I will if she is singing music by the same composer who created the overture monstrosity
. “Later, Valentinois. At present I am relieving you of your coin, which is necessary to pay for the disappointing champagne.”

“Disappointing? It is the finest I have ever had the pleasure to open,” Valentinois replied indignantly as he ran his gloved white hand along the famous Cordon Rouge, the distinctive red sash of the French Legion of Honor, which was draped across the bottle.

“I would trust Alejandro’s judgment on this, Duc.” Le comte de Saint-Cyr chuckled, his blond curls bobbing. “He has a great deal more experience popping the cork than you do.”

“Le duc is too busy with his hunting and fishing to be bothered, I’ll wager,” Leroux added, even as both he and Saint-Cyr burst into laughter, all semblance of pomposity momentarily dismissed.

Valentinois almost choked on a gulp of champagne, turning red all the while. “I’d rather face a mama lion and her cubs than a French mama with a marriageable daughter,” he muttered.

“And you’d likely fare better,” agreed Alejandro. He intended to elevate the conversation, arguing the merits of the champagne, when suddenly he was surrounded by the most glorious sound he had ever experienced. A voice like a crystal bell, a voice so full of color that she was painting notes rather than singing them.

Alejandro thought he had never heard anything so divine, so intoxicating in his life.

He longed to turn suddenly to find the source of this heavenly nectar, but in his desire to never leave the moment, to remain forever frozen in time, he could not move. He closed his eyes to listen, lost in the enchantment.

The music intermingled with his soul and bewitched him. Her voice danced across three octaves and was unfathomable in its range and diversity. Sliding to her lowest register, her tones were primal and rich, vibrant with feeling and emotion.

He was her willing captive
. He felt as if he were floating in a warm stream, lulled into a drugged state, light caressing his face as he basked in a sun of her making.

Alejandro opened his eyes and turned slowly to discover the origin of his astonishment, oblivious to everything but that first moment of seeing the source of this intoxicating experience.

Madre de Dios!
It was
her.
The captivating soprano and the object of his desire were one and the same. He had been smitten—and
rebuffed
—by an
opera singer
.

She glanced into his box and smiled, her eyes the color of the Mediterranean, twinkling with mischief. His anticipation grew with every passing glance. She swayed, and he felt himself desiring her more than he had ever desired a woman.

“Her voice might be that of an angel,” Saint-Cyr whispered, leaning in toward him, “but her movements are that of a temptress.”

“With that voice, I would follow her anywhere had she the plainest of looks and the dullest of personalities,” Alejandro found himself replying without willing himself to do so.

But she was anything but dull
. She weaved across the stage, every movement charged. Every pronounced slide of her hips, shrug of her shoulders, toss of her lustrous black hair, and lowering of her eyelids was provocative and tantalizing. She dazzled and enslaved with her voice, her movement, her slow, sensual smile.

He savored the pleasure of studying her in detail even as he bathed in the caress of her voice. She wore a simple gold crucifix around her neck, and at her ears she wore large gold bangles. Her gown was a black raw silk with a gloriously low décolletage accented by a red rose at a bosom so shapely that an accent was unnecessary. A black lace shawl tantalized rather than covered. As his eyes moved along her legs he saw that the hem of her dress did not even reach the floor.
Her ankles were fully revealed
.

His lips formed a wicked smile. Revealed ankles, gold bangles, and a plunging neckline. In a culture that corseted and subdued its women, this woman was wild and untamed. But he had never had any doubt on that subject from the moment of meeting her.

“Watch yourself, Alejandro,” cautioned Valentinois smugly. “She is only playing a part.”

Is she
? His eyes remained glued to the stage just as she remained intent upon pretending she was ignoring him. It was the oldest game in the book— she was only thinking of him, and her continual coy glances in his direction confirmed it.

Alejandro thought back to her confident, unabashed manner. In truth, he had thought of little else since meeting her. She had made it clear that she had no need to impress him or to gain his approval. He might choose to please her, but she would choose to please herself.

A devotion which he was certain would provide him with unequaled pleasure.

“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.

“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.

“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. “Her singing is somewhat disturbing at the same time it captivates.”

“Her voice is so resonant, almost as if there is an echo built into it,” Valentinois agreed, mesmerized, unusual for a man who never exhibited anything except a determination to remain in the bachelor state.

“Can you not envision her in a gondola on the lake beneath this opera house—I have seen it—casting a siren’s spell as she traverses Paris along underground waterways?” asked Leroux, transporting everyone into his imagery, reminding all that he had taken up a successful career as a novelist after squandering his fortune.