The Serenade: The Prince and the Siren [Daughters of the Empire 2] (BookStrand Publishing Romance) by Suzette Hollingsworth Page B

the soprano is said to be phenomenal,” offered le comte de Saint-Cyr. “And beautiful,” he added with the sly smile of one who has advance information.
    “She is young if it is her debut,” Alejandro remarked with a shrug as he reached for a card. Listening to their ensuing frivolous banter, he surmised that he would have gifted himself a towering kindness in remaining silent. “All young sopranos are beautiful.”
    “I have a friend who observed her in rehearsal, and he was smitten beyond reason.”
    “I always suspected that your grandfather was not only one of Napoleon’s nine guards but a spy as well, Comte.” Alejandro chuckled despite his mood. “You do your ancestor credit.”
    Saint-Cyr’s deep-blue eyes brightened, his blond curls glistening around his face. He waved his lavender-gloved hand in false modesty. With the addition of the gold and rubies to Saint-Cyr’s attire, one had to admit that the effect was dazzling.
    “In point of fact, Saint-Cyr’s grandfather would roll over in his grave were he to see him,” murmured Valentinois. There was a rumbling of laughter while Saint-Cyr feigned indignation.
    “And what can you tell us about the opera besides the beautiful soprano?” asked Esteban, who never felt intimidated by Alejandro’s friends.
    “The setting for Bizet’s opera is Madrid,” stated Gaston Leroux, a friend of Saint-Cyr’s.
    “I trust it shall please you, Alejandro,” stated le duc de Valentinois, his serious tone in contrast to Saint-Cyr’s playfulness.
    “Is the opera sung in Spanish?” inquired Alejandro disinterestedly.
    “No, of course not,” replied Valentinois. “In French, to be sure.” Alejandro thought, not for the first time, that Valentinois might have presented a quite Byronesque appearance had he worn his hair a little longer rather than short and parted in the middle, as was the fashion of the day. The Duke was so dark and mysterious in his appearance that women were invariably drawn to him.
    It was no matter—Valentinois had no desire to leave the bachelor state and seemed to enjoy nothing more than hunting, sporting, and being in the company of his friends. The impression of depth that his appearance gave was considerably misleading. Most notably disappointed were mamas in search of matrimonial partners for their daughters.
    “An unfortunate choice for an opera set in Madrid. As it so happens, I am not pleased.” He felt annoyed but smiled amiably. He had agreed to attend, but feigning enthusiasm he found strangely difficult this evening.
    “You are a master of English, French, and Italian, as well as Spanish,” stated Esteban. “You are in a position to overlook it, my friend. I trust it will pose no difficulty.”
    “I could overlook it if the opera set in Spain were sang in Italian. That is, at least, the language of the Pope. But French ?” He laughed at the absurdity of it. But he was far from amused. “The very fact that I am a man of education, as you point out, makes it difficult to overlook the art this city produces. Ave Maria . Have you seen that fellow Picasso’s work, Valentinois? That which Parisians produce with the considerable energy they exert is, to say the least, indefinable.”
    “Picasso is Spanish,” stated Esteban without aplomb.
    “True. He exhibited much promise before he came to Paris.” Alejandro threw a ten of spades on the table.
    “He must have been a very boring sort of chap,” remarked Saint-Cyr with a toss of his blond curls.
    “Are there no standards in Paris? Do we forget all that we have learned from centuries of masters, revert to our schoolroom days, and call it ‘art’? There is no discipline to it. It does nothing to elevate, to uplift, to improve. It merely tears down.” Alejandro shook his head. “No, if the soprano is anything in that line, I have no need of her performance.”
    “You speak of Picasso’s work Life , painted after his recent visit to Barcelona, Your Highness?” asked