Authors: Suzette Hollingsworth
That talk of love, of spring,
that talk of dreams and fancies—
The things called poetry…
No, it couldn’t be
. As he listened, it was hauntingly familiar. Too familiar. His hand dropped to the arm of his chair abruptly.
His heart began pounding uncontrollably as he watched her. Suddenly he remembered that her teacup
had been shaking as she lowered it to the table in Le Meurice. He had thought it odd at the time.
Of course. She was the daughter of a diplomat, and she had traveled the world.
They had met before.
No, they had never met. But his soul had met hers and been reawakened.
She caught his eyes, and he knew that she knew the moment comprehension dawned. Why hadn’t she told him?
She retrieved her lace handkerchief embroidered in flowers, showed it to the audience, and then caressed her cheek with it, closing her eyes. He felt his own begin to tear.
But when spring comes
The sun’s first rays are mine.
April’s first kiss is mine!
I cannot bear for her to mean even more to me than she already does.
He did not want a woman who never told the truth to be this close. She was never honest with him.
As her lips opened and closed, he should have felt nothing. Instead, he felt everything as his emotions swirled around him.
And yet the moment of deliverance that he desired, the instant explosion, did not come.
And he knew why. Not because he was angry with her—that was a given with Nicolette. Because he could not help but be aware that there were so many other people in the room. People he must impress, people to whom he must not be seen as weak or, far worse, peculiar. He could not experience the music as he felt it.
He dared not.
The concert was more torture than delight because he approached salvation but only looked at it through a foggy glass, like a poor child longing for the Christmas toys on the other side of a store window while knowing they were not for him.
In an instant he was granted a revelation. He suddenly knew with a certainty that he could be himself, experience himself, alone with Nicolette. He did not know why, but he was now sure of it—and just as sure that she would not use his reaction against him.
In this, at least, he could trust her. It would stay between them forever.
She might be a lot of disagreeable things, but she did not care for his money, she had no use for him—this was a novel experience!—and she was as proud as he was in the defense of her character and honor.
And she would never betray the music.
In realizing that he trusted her where it now mattered most to him, he who trusted so few people, the inexplicable hope in his heart was fanned. His conviction grew that if she sang for him privately there would be a turning point to his life.
He wanted it more than he had ever wanted anything since he had prayed to be reunited with his parents. At that time, his prayers had not been answered, and there was nothing he could do about it.
Prince Alejandro hoped with all his heart that this was different.
The concert complete, he stood to move toward her and her entourage when he noted the embroidered handkerchief still lying on the floor. He bent to pick it up and extended his hand to her.
She reached out her hand, but instead of taking the handkerchief she closed his hand around the cloth without speaking, even as she turned and addressed a question.
Unobtrusively, he placed the delicately embroidered fabric in his pocket, hoping that the time had come for the answer to his prayers.
Chapter Twenty-One
My strong box
is robbed of all its jewels
by two thieves
A pair of pretty eyes
They came in now with you
and all my lovely dreams,
my dreams of the past
were soon stolen away
—Giacomo Puccini,
La Bohème
The applause had been as robust as a dignified dinner party would allow, and Nicolette deigned to sing another. He was grateful, as it gave him time to regain his composure.
Not enough time.
“Mother said that you would like a tour of the house, Prince Alejandro.” Nicolette approached him after her performance, disrupting his reverie.
“Indeed, I would,” he replied stiffly. He nodded and bowed, feeling strangely uncomfortable at the thought of being alone with her.
Lavender chiffon floating about her, she led him past the fountain in the entryway down a long hallway of pebbles laid in stone. She pointed out various rooms and paintings until they reached an almost-hidden room overlooking a garden and an outdoor fountain.
“This is Father’s favorite room. He finds it very peaceful.”
“I can see why, Lady Nicolette,” he remarked, somewhat awestruck. It was almost as if they had stepped through an enchanted mirror into Arthurian times with modern decorations added. As with every other room in the house, color, vitality, and a life fully lived were in evidence.
The library was painted in hunter green combined with mahogany wood paneling halfway up the wall. Above the paneling were endless built-in bookcases filled with every manner of reading material, some of the books appearing to be antiques, as was a Persian rug underneath the coffee table.
A leather chair sat next to a stone fireplace in full flame. Also filling the room with warmth was a large mahogany desk, an old-world globe, a grandfather clock chiming the hour, a leather sofa, statues of horses and deep-red flowers.
“But it indisputably is a working room as well,” he added.
“My father used this sword in combat.” She pointed to a large sword framing a painting over the fireplace.
“
The Princess Royals
?” he asked, studying the painting.
“Yes, the 7th Dragoon Guards.”
As he scrutinized the wall hangings, he observed a black-and-white photograph of the Dalai Lama and yet another painting of Lady Ravensdale and her two children.
Next to the fireplace was a
painting of an Arabian family also absent the father, a mother and two children. A bugle hung next to the painting.
“What is it, Prince Alejandro? Why does my father’s study make you so silent?”
“It’s all very startling somehow in its simplicity.” Wood floors, area rugs, antique furniture, rocks, lots of rocks, fountains, running water, and plants.
“Startling? I don’t quite take your meaning.”
“The palace…” he managed to utter, “consists of the most lavish surroundings imaginable, and I find myself wondering…”
“Wondering
what
, Your Highness?”
“What it would be like to have a home of my own.”
“Is not the palace your home? It must be ten times larger than this house.”
“Much larger than that.” He chuckled, waving his hand.
“Prince Alejandro,” she murmured as she moved closer to him. Somehow she reduced those lush, full lips into a narrow smile. “You have piqued my curiosity.”
“And you mine, Lady Nicolette.”
“You mentioned your ‘duty’ at dinner.”
“Was that before or after you kicked me? I forget.”
“I am simply mortified, Your Highness.” It was evident that their brief interlude of tranquil harmony had passed. The mystical magic of the room’s decor had managed to overcome their incompatibility for all of thirty seconds. “Ladies’ shoes are so uncomfortable these days, I had been on my feet all day in that profession we don’t like to speak of, and sometimes the muscles rebel. I am certain you have seen the same condition in…your horses?”
“Not with such force.”
“And yet,” she added contemplatively as she swayed provocatively to the window. “Now, as I recall the situation, it does occur to one that you thought me a woman of no virtue who could be
bought
, when I am, in fact, British nobility. And yet how quickly I became a nonentity in the insult to my person, and how quickly your mistaken conclusion became about
you
. And your
duty
.”
“Forgive me for not keeping the conversation entirely about you, Lady Nicolette. It must be unusual in the circle with which you surround yourself.”
She turned abruptly to look at him, copper fringe spangles flying, her arms resting on the back of a leather chair against the fireplace, but her countenance was nonplussed. Only her knitted eyebrows revealed any deviance from conviviality. She moved closer to him, and it seemed the room was suddenly overwarm and more convivial than he would wish. He rested his hand casually on her father’s desk.
“It does not occur to you that I am owed an apology, Prince Alejandro?” Her eyes were flashing.
“Are you quite serious, Lady Nicolette? Illustrate to me how it is done.”
“Prince Alejandro,” she sighed heavily, as if she were dealing with a five-year-old. “Discovering who I am must be a revelation of enormous proportions to you, and yet no mention is made of this. Instead, all I hear is a lamenting of your image, your
duty
.” She tapped her hand on the desk impatiently, her sea-green eyes cool as they stared at him unwaveringly. Sometimes they were the color of emeralds, but now they seemed lighter and yet deeper, like the color of the Mediterranean—illusory home to mermaids, sunken treasures, and pirates.
The faint scent of the sea reached his nostrils, and he was suddenly lost in those eyes. She leaned toward him, affording him an incomparable view of milky-white breasts framed in copper and lavender.
“You forget yourself, Lady Nicolette,” he uttered softly under his breath. He raised his eyebrows as he ran his finger along the mahogany wood, more attempting to break her spell than anything, though it pleased him to see that she was irritated by his silence. He turned from her and began to study a painting on the wall.
He was growing weary of her constant demands. Never in his life had he been addressed in such a fashion. When he had satisfied himself that she had waited long enough, he returned his attention to her.
“
And you forget who I am.
”
With her red lips set against porcelain skin she was definitely a temptress. But he must not give in to his urges. He needed this redemption.
He needed to be free. This sorceress with dark hair and blazing eyes was his liberator.
And though every one of her movements was a calculated invitation, no doubt there was no actual invitation. It was merely a game she played to tantalize and reject.
“And you forget yourself, Your Highness. I am not a subject of Spain.” She smiled coyly.
Damnation
, this was odd behavior for the daughter of a diplomat.
“And, as such, are you without manners, Lady Nicolette? Do I deserve none of your respect or regard, then? Does anyone?” He reached past the six inches between them—far too close—and ran his finger along her chin, the softness of her skin distracting him for an instant. “Honestly, Lady Nicolette, I have never met a woman who elevated herself higher.”