Joanna Maitland - His Reluctant Mistress

Leo held his breath, waiting for her to turn back to face the room. Beside him, in the back row of spindle-legged gilt chairs, Jack began to whisper something. ‘Stubble it!’ Leo muttered. Confound the boy, would he never learn?

The Nightingale had mastered her temper, it appeared. Very slowly, and holding herself with the pride of a queen, she turned, automatically arranging the flowing folds of her bronze-green silk skirts, while she gazed out over the heads of all of them. Diamonds glinted at her throat and on her wrists. The diamond drops in her ears sparked fire against the heavy black hair coiled against her neck.

Madame Pietre! His damsel in distress from the country inn!

She nodded to her accompanists like a duchess to a servant. Leo could not take his eyes from her. She was glorious. She was burning with anger. And she was nothing at all like the virtuous matron Leo had believed her to be.

Mad, confusing ideas tumbled through his brain. Perhaps she could indeed be persuaded to act the spy on behalf of the Honours? Perhaps that luscious body—which was every bit as delectable as Leo had imagined when he had first seen her wrapped in that plain cloak—had already graced the beds of half the crowned heads of Europe? Leo’s pulse began to race at the thought of this extraordinary woman in some lucky man’s bed. The rest of his body was responding, too. It was urging him to possess her, whatever the cost. He discovered, in that moment, that he cared not a fig for emperors and kings, or for whatever valuable information the Venetian Nightingale might discover by sharing their pillows. It was Leo’s pillow she had to share!

And then the Nightingale began to sing. Lord Leo Aikenhead, who had never cared above half for music, was instantly transported to a land of dreams, and ravishing beauty and of profound, heart-rending tragedy.

Sophie made a deep curtsy to the Emperor Alexander, as etiquette required.

He immediately took her gloved hand to raise her to her feet. ‘No, madame ,’ he said in his immaculate French, ‘it is I who should bow to you. Such an exquisite voice. And such emotion. I swear that half your listeners were near to tears. I have never heard such a touching rendition of the tragic heroine.’

‘Your Imperial Majesty is more than generous.’ Her admirers in Venice had been gentlemen or aristocrats; never monarchs. Sophie smiled shyly up at the Emperor. He was much taller than she was, with light brown, slightly receding hair, fine side-whiskers, and a ruddy, cheerful face. The many stars and orders on his dress uniform caught the light every time he moved. Yet, in spite of that daunting splendour, he gave the impression of geniality. And he was showing knowledgeable appreciation of an artistic performance.

He shook his head, returning her smile. ‘No, indeed. Your singing, madame , has been the musical highlight of my visit to Vienna. May I hope to have the pleasure of hearing you sing again, on another occasion?’

‘I am engaged for a number of performances in Vienna, your Majesty. Perhaps your Majesty—’

‘Ah, yes. Yes, indeed. As you say, madame . But may I hope that there is still some free time, in your busy schedule of engagements, for performances to a more select audience?’

Sophie swallowed. Did he really mean what she suspected? He would certainly not be the first to try to turn a recital into a more carnal assignation. But he was the Emperor of All the Russias. A mere opera singer could not openly question his motives. ‘Maestro Verdicchio has arranged all my engagements, your Majesty,’ she said, a little uncertainly. ‘If your Majesty wishes, I could—’

He pursed his lips a little, as if trying to hide a smile, and reached for her hand once more, raising it for a gallant kiss. ‘I shall look forward to hearing more of that radiant voice. For the moment, madame , I must bid you adieu .’ With an elegant bow, he strode away to join his host on the far side of the huge salon.

The other guests, in deference to the presence of the Emperor, had stood at a discreet distance. Sophie now found herself alone. Little groups of aristocratic women were gossiping quietly, some of them nodding in Sophie’s direction. She could very well imagine what they were saying. It seems that his Russian Majesty has decided to bed the Venetian Nightingale, just as he dallies with every other beautiful woman he encounters .

Sophie felt a tiny shudder run down her spine. How did one refuse an Emperor who had too much finesse to proposition a lady directly? If Alexander of Russia asked Verdicchio to organise a private recital for him, it would be a gross insult for her to decline.

‘Madame Pietre? May I compliment you on your magnificent performance?’ The low voice came from just behind Sophie’s shoulder. Something about it was familiar, as if—

For a second time, her hand was taken and raised to a man’s lips. He stood before her. Lord Leo Aikenhead. Her champion. And the man who had been troubling her dreams for more than a week. She could feel the colour rising on her neck. This man had thought her a lady, but now he knew what she was. Would she see contempt in his eyes? She did not dare to look.

‘You must be thirsty after singing for so long, madame . A glass of champagne, perhaps?’ With the ease of an old friend, he tucked her hand under his arm. ‘I saw that you were besieged by half the men in the audience, and then by the Emperor, but not one of them had the wit to offer you more than fine words. I am hoping that my more practical offering will encourage you to keep me company for a little.’ He drew her towards the side of the room where a waiter stood with a huge salver of champagne flutes.

She had misjudged him. He was still treating her as if she were a lady. Sophie allowed herself a tentative smile and relaxed a fraction.

‘Much better,’ he said gently. ‘If you will forgive my remarking on it, madame , you were as tense as a spring. I could feel it, even in your fingertips.’ As if to emphasise his words, he placed his free hand over her fingers for a second or two. It seemed to be intended as a friendly, reassuring gesture from a gentleman to the lady he was escorting.

But for Sophie there was nothing in the least reassuring about it. The shock ran up her arm like a stab of pain, so sharp that she almost gasped aloud. She should not have dared to relax, not even for a moment. Not with this man.

It seemed he had not noticed her body’s reaction this time. He had turned aside to take a champagne flute from the tray.

‘Try this, madame .’ He put the glass into her unresisting fingers. Then he caught up another for himself and touched it to Sophie’s. ‘To the Venetian Nightingale. Whose spellbinding performance has been a revelation to me.’

Sophie forced herself to nod in acknowledgement of his words. He was watching her carefully as he drank, his deep blue eyes scrutinising her face intently. What could he see there? Disconcerted, she took a large swallow of her champagne. Too large. The bubbles caught in her throat. She choked.

‘Water for madame !’ Lord Leo snapped to the waiter. ‘At once!’

The servant rushed to obey. Lord Leo set down both champagne flutes and led Sophie to an alcove at the side of the salon. She sank gratefully on to the red-velvet bench seat, her coughing now more or less under control. But when she tried to speak, no words came out.

Lord Leo looked round impatiently for the servant and almost snatched the glass from his hands. ‘There’s barely enough water there to wet the inside of the glass,’ he said testily. ‘Go and fetch more. Quickly now.’

Sophie drank it in long gulps. It soothed her bruised throat. ‘Thank you, sir,’ she said, in something akin to her normal voice. Had she done any damage? Verdicchio would swiftly disown her if she could no longer earn enough to keep them both in the luxury he felt to be his due.