Free Secrets of a Soprano by Miranda Neville

Setting aside, for the moment, his mother’s share in his predicament, Max fixed all his resentment on Teresa Foscari. Nothing had gone right since the night he set eyes on her again. No, since the moment she had, unknown to him, decided to invade England and destroy his peace. If the dratted woman hadn’t chosen this season to appear in London, the crowds would be flocking to the Regent without any expenditure of effort on his part.
    The fact that she looked magnificent fed his frustration. Why should he even care? He wanted to ignore her but he could not. An unadorned white gown in some clinging material revealed her voluptuous figure without drawing attention from the cascade of golden curls carelessly bound by a filet of woven gold. The singer’s flawless complexion was enhanced with subtle daring by sufficient rouge to make her appear dramatically sensual while remaining on the right side of disreputable. The simplicity of her garb showcased, as doubtless was intended, a necklace of antique cameos in an exquisite setting of worked gold.
    Max knew where she’d acquired that particular bauble. Fascinating as the papers found the Tsar’s diamonds, those gems were nothing to the notoriety of La Divina’s gift from the former Emperor of France. As he stared at them, a slender hand carelessly stroked the central gem, as though to draw attention to the spoils of her affair with England’s longtime enemy.
    Stiff with outrage, Max sought Tessa’s eyes. Luxuriant eyelashes (discreetly darkened as he had reason to know) rimmed oval aquamarines that glanced around the room and, for just a second, met his stare. He expected the practiced gaze of the courtesan she had become. What he saw caught his breath: vulnerability and the gentle honesty of the seventeen-year-old girl he’d walked home from the opera house in Oporto. Then her attention flickered away and she appeared as haughtily serene as ever. Her hold on Somerville’s arm was surely that of a lover.
    He must have imagined what he’d seen in her gaze, conjured it from some pathetic desire to return to the past. Yet he had an unaccountable urge to find out if the glimpse of vulnerability existed. Probably a waste of time, but Simon would be pleased if he approached Foscari again.
    *
    Tessa clung to Lord Somerville’s arm with a great deal more enthusiasm than she felt. She enjoyed the rakish marquess’s company but, inured as she was to evading the advances of the most determined plutocratic suitors, keeping Somerville at a distance demanded considerable skill. She was a little weary and her defenses weak. The last thing she needed now was a confrontation with Max.
    Lord Allerton. She must think of him as Allerton.
    It hadn’t escaped her notice that he was on friendly terms with her cousin. Jacobin greeted them with her usual animation but Tessa barely noticed. The chatter of five hundred upper-class voices faded into a low buzz and all she knew was a familiar dark head and a pair of broad, well-tailored shoulders. And impenetrable granite eyes.
    “Somerville,” he said with a curt nod. “Mrs. Foscari.”
    The very address seemed an insult. The press, and the public following its lead, referred to foreign-born performers by the appropriate courtesy title. She was properly addressed as Signora, or Madame should the speaker find the distinction between Italian and French beyond his comprehension.
    “My lord?” she said, arching her brows toward the heavens.
    “A word with you, if I may.”
    “I am listening,” she said, just as stiffly. What could he have to say to her? If it was an apology for his rudeness at their last meeting she’d like others to hear it.
    “Would you step aside for a minute?” He offered his arm. “I won’t keep you from your friends for long.”
    His tone was civil rather than warm. Impelled by curiosity, she relinquished Somerville’s arm, gingerly placed her hand on Max’s proffered sleeve and let him lead her to a spot near a