The Serenade: The Prince and the Siren [Daughters of the Empire 2] (BookStrand Publishing Romance) (45 page)

He was an imperfect man, but if he had any chance of success at all, it was to be found there. There was a time for doubt and for self-review, but it could never involve discarding himself, a mental exercise he had learned from his father and mother and was now unlearning through startled attempts.

He lunged and dealt the fatal blow.

To abandon oneself was to be dead.

Alejandro bowed to his teacher. He tapped his sword on the ground. Esteban was the one staple in his life, always there for him.

“And what would you have me do, Esteban?”

“Whatever it is that concerns you, I want you to believe that there is a solution. Such an outlook opens the way for wisdom to reveal itself to you.”

“Even complex political matters appear simple next to”—he shook his head as sorrow engulfed him—“affairs of the heart. The one thing that often cannot be resolved. Especially when one is king.”

“Do you grieve over your father?” Esteban patted Alejandro’s shoulder. “Do you miss him? Is this the pain in your expression?”

“My
father
?” Alejandro’s lips formed a tight frown. “No, Esteban, you are standing right here, how could I miss you?”

For once, Esteban was without words. He hugged him briefly but firmly, and Alejandro saw that Esteban was fighting his emotion.

“Nor am I worried about my late father. He had his opportunity to serve, and only God can determine how well he fared.” A certain poignant melancholy did indeed wash over him as he recalled the last time he saw his father, holding his hand on his deathbed. Don Bartolomé’s eyes had met his for only an instant. His father then kissed the cross, held it next to his heart, and, in a forced whisper, murmured, “España.” With the word still on his lips, he had died.

“God and history.”

“No, Esteban, the sadness I feel comes from a very difference source.” Alejandro closed his eyes momentarily, giving a prayer of thanks that he had met Nicolette prior to his father’s death. She had changed him forever, diminishing the pain that accompanied his father’s departure. Don Bartolomé had not had the same power over him.

“Ah, Señorita Nicolette.”

Because his need was so great, he fought it. He began walking toward the
Palacio Real, and immediately servants appeared out of nowhere, holding out their hands. The masks, gloves, and Esteban’s sword were deposited into their arms, but Alejandro preferred to carry his rapier.

“It is time I began thinking of marriage.”
Once he had dismissed them and they were out of earshot, he resumed his conversation. “
España was never in greater need of an alliance.”

“And who shall be your queen, Alejandro?”

“Obviously the most powerful alliance I can manage.” Alejandro stabbed an imaginary foe. “Since the political alliance is not favorable to the lady, I must woo her with my charm.”

“That should not tax your abilities, Alejandro.”

Alejandro brushed his hand along the foliage, stretching his shoulder muscles, Esteban keeping pace.

“And who are the lucky candidates, if I may ask?” Esteban persisted.

“There are the granddaughters of Queen Victoria and Prince Albert, of course, which would be the most desirable.” Sighing, he turned to look back at the
Fuente de las Conchas, now a world away.
“Great Britain is one of the most powerful countries in the world, as you are well aware.”

“Very romantic, indeed. Pure poetry.”

“Princess Victoria Eugenie of Battenburg, a niece of King Edward’s, is my favorite of her granddaughters.” He swung his sword through the air, making a popping sound. “She is charming. It would be necessary for Ena, as she is called, to convert to Catholicism to marry the king of Spain, so she would have to be very desirous of the marriage indeed.”

“How could she resist with such ardor as you offer?”

“The potential is there, I must admit.” He shrugged. “We are on friendly terms, and Queen Victoria favors the alliance.”

“The passion is blinding. What is stopping you, Alejandro, from kneeling before this woman and promising to love her forever?”

“My mother prefers Princess Patricia of Connaught.” Alejandro raised his eyebrows.

“Most understandable. And it fills me with confidence in my king to know that he allows his mother to control the truly important decisions.”

“Either would be an alliance of enormous implications.” Alejandro raised his eyebrows in what he hoped was extreme displeasure, though he knew it would have no impact.

“Naturally.” Esteban cleared his throat. “And are there any other contenders for your
amour
, Alejandro?”

“Most assuredly, my dear friend, there are as many as there are kingdoms.”

“Do tell.
Excite
me.”

“There is Margareta, the daughter of Ferdinand IV, the Grand Duke of Tuscany. Also, Princess Elisabeth, the daughter of the Crown Prince Rudolf of Austria and Princess Stéphanie of Belgium. Erzsi, as I call her, is the granddaughter of Emperor Franz Joseph.”

“Erzsi? She is…cute.”

“I am very fond of Erzsi, and she seems
receptive
.” He tried to picture one of these ladies on his arm as he walked the gardens, and for some reason, no image would come.

“And which of these ladies incites passion in your heart, Alejandro?”

“None of them interest me, Esteban,” he heard himself blurt out. Alejandro placed his sword into its sheath with one quick thrust. “They did at one time, I believe.”

“Tsk. Tsk. What could account for the change of heart?”

“For some strange reason—possibly a treasonous heart—I can think of no other woman but Lady Nicolette.” Alejandro shook his head, looking into his friend’s eyes. “She has given me a sense of myself I never knew.
She has given me my life
.”

“How few people ever know someone who has that effect on them.” Esteban raised his eyebrows.

“And yet I cannot marry her. I owe España a queen.” Alejandro stared at the
Palacio Real, now so close, a huge rectangular prison
of immense beauty, and cursed under his breath. “A very
dull
queen.”

“Hmmm,” Esteban murmured. “You wish to marry the Señorita out of gratitude, Alejandro?”

“I did not say I wished to marry her, my friend.” Alejandro laughed. “I merely said I did not wish to marry anyone
else
.”

“An interesting distinction. It escapes me.”

“She
thrills
me.” He grew suddenly somber. “She embodies
rapture
. Her complete freedom and aliveness to every moment is like no woman, no person, I have ever known. I have known many women from every walk of life and most are either fashionably subdued or suffocatingly gay. With Nicolette, everything one sees is utterly genuine and
alive
.”

“Completely.”

“And
divine
,” he sighed.

“Decidedly.”

Though he was more whole than he had ever been in his life, he missed her terribly. He missed her connection to everything and everyone around her—and especially to him. She had reached him, and he longed to reciprocate that feeling.

And he craved her.

“With your upbringing of facade and deceit, I can certainly comprehend why a genuine nature would appeal to you, Alejandro. And yet, I am greatly perplexed. How is it that a man so devoted to duty should fall for a woman so devoted to her own glory?”

“Because in so doing, she teaches the rest of us how to live. I cannot marvel at the stars in the sky, delighting in their mystery, and then condemn them for entrancing me.” He glanced sideways at his friend. “Besides, my friend, Nicolette no more lives for herself than I do. She is devoted to something greater than herself. Something I can never compete with.”

“You intrigue me, Alejandro. Do elaborate.”

“It is no matter. She would not have me.” He felt his lips form a half smile, though he did not feel amused. “And the fact is that she is far too extraordinary for me.”

“Lady Nicolette Huntington is too extraordinary for you?” It was Esteban’s turn to laugh. “Alejandro,
you
are the king of Spain.”

Chapter Thirty

One happy day

You flashed lightly into my life

And since then I’ve lived

in tremulous possession

of that unspoken love,

The pulse of the whole world,

Mysterious, unattainable,

The torment and delight of my heart

—
Giuseppe Verdi,
La Traviata

“My dear Esteban, I am merely a servant of the people, and she is…”

Alejandro frowned. The sad truth was that Nicolette was not highborn enough to be his queen and was, in fact, more magnificent than any woman he could have ever imagined. As they approached the entryway, he could hear the ceremony of the changing of the guard on the south side of the palace. He looked around and saw that his entourage of guards was coming closer. He slipped through the door with Esteban at his heels.

“She is…?” Esteban demanded, keeping pace with him with no small amount of difficulty.
Alejandro headed for his private apartments, as he wished to bathe before chapel and state meetings. They first passed the Hall of Halberdiers, the guardroom. He hoped that they lost a few there.

“She is
pure bliss
. But the fact remains that Lady Nicolette would not leave her vocation for me, not if I were”—he glanced up at the ceiling and saw, framed in gold,
Tiepolo’s painting
Vulcan Forging Arms for Aeneas
, in which Venus appears to Vulcan on the shores of Carthage and asks him for arms for Aeneas—“
a warrior god sent from heaven.”

“I understand that Lady Nicolette has a great love for music and a great talent.” Esteban appeared perplexed. “But can there be a woman alive who would not wish to be the queen of a country? To socialize with the world’s leaders? To be the mother…”

“Of the future king?” Alejandro finished Esteban’s sentence even as his eyes remained glued to the painting. Why? He knew very well that Vulcan presents Aeneas with Vulcan’s plumed helmet, enabling Aeneas to enter the Temple of Immortality.

“And she does appear to be much drawn to you, if I am not mistaken.” Esteban smiled knowingly.

They were now to the
Hall of Columns marked by ten columns of monumental proportions. Of all the rooms this was one of his favorites, beautiful despite its grand opulence.
Seventeenth-century tapestries of Raphael’s
Acts of the Apostles
adorned the walls, astonishing in that they appeared to be paintings rather than woven fabric. On the ceiling was another fresco painting, likewise the size of a small country,
The Birth of the Sun and the Triumph of Bacchus
by Giaquinto, framed in gold and marble. The walls were pink and white, and the hand-woven circular carpet covering the entire flooring was predominantly in maroon and pale blue.

“Music is not an outside interest for Señorita Nicolette, Esteban.” Alejandro shook his head. “She
is
the music. Indeed, she and music are gloriously intertwined.”