Tender Is The Tyrant Page 3

  He had spoken forcibly, from his heart, Lauri felt sure, as much as from his great knowledge of the art of ballet. The spirit of the dance was in his blood, implanted there by his famous grandmother.

  ‘Is it not the wish of your heart to be a dancer?’ he murmured.

  Her lashes trembled, then veiled her dusky-gold eyes as she felt the pull of this man on the dancer within her.

  ‘I see, you have not the kidney for what I demand of you,’ now he mocked her. ‘You feel safe here in England, clinging to the skirts of your aunt. That you may have the gift for making a great many people forget themselves and their worries is of no real concern to you. You are going to keep it to yourself, eh?’

  She flinched at his gift for knowing exactly where to strike and hurt the most. ‘If I failed to come up to your standards, you would soon send me packing,’ she said warmly.

  ‘And you would sooner not take that chance?’ he drawled. ‘Come, are you going through life afraid all the time to take chances? If so, you will never find any true happiness or satisfaction.’

  His dark eyes wickedly mocked her. His shoulders were square and strong under the dark material of his tuxedo; his proud head and Roman features merged into a hard throat, tawny against white linen and taut black tie. In his buttonhole there was a small red carnation, a touch of the exotic that quickened the beat of her heart.

  How on earth did a mere girl fight so determined a man? Lauri wondered. Couldn’t he see that she would be no use in a theatre, dancing for other people?

  Suddenly she gave a start for he had reached across the table and taken hold of her hand. ‘All dancers are a little like children,’ he said quietly. ‘I watch out for the well-being of mine, as much as for their careers—I am not, you know, a Svengali with a troupe of Trilbys.’ She gave a nervous little laugh, for that was exactly how she did think of him.

  ‘I don’t ask the impossible of my dancers, but it is amazing how close they come at times to achieving it.’ His eyes held hers. ‘My company has been travelling and dancing for several months now, and performing many ballets—but on Wednesday of next week we set sail for my palazzo in Venice.’

  ‘You sail on—Wednesday?’ Lauri exclaimed.

  ‘What is the matter, Miss Garner?’ His eyes were mesmeric. ‘Did you imagine I would give you a few more weeks in which to dither about joining us? I have already allowed you three, and tonight you must give me your final answer.’

  ‘But I can’t.’ There was a touch of anguish about her face. ‘There’s my aunt to consider—’

  ‘Please,’ his fingers tightened about hers, ‘don’t make the Signora Donaldson your excuse. She knows that separation from you is unavoidable if you choose to join my company, and she will not stand in your way. That is what a dancing career teaches one, signorina, unselfishness and a unique quality of kindness. How old are you exactly, Miss Garner?’

  ‘I—I shall be eighteen in July,’ she faltered.

  ‘Old enough to start being a divetta.’ His smile was very worldly in that moment. ‘You have never been to Venice, eh?’

  ‘Aunt Pat finds it increasingly difficult to get about, but we managed a holiday in Holland last year,’ Lauri told him. ‘I loved the canals, and the old Rembrandt houses.’

  ‘Venice is a feminine city, lovely as her name—and now, signorina,’ he let go of her hand and rose to his feet, ‘we go to the ballet.’

  A rose-glow spread from behind the proscenium curtains as they began to rise and the house lights to go down. The conductor tapped, his baton, there was a sound of woodwinds and flutes, and the gauzy inner curtains slowly lifted on a forest scene. Lightly clad nymphs ran across the stage, their veils changing colour as they danced ... then there came a sudden dramatic change in the music. A lean figure was sculptured in the air as he leapt from among the trees, and a palpable stir of excitement ran through the Opera House.

  Lonza in pursuit of the nymphs seeming to travel in space like a jungle creature after its prey; supple, pantherine, his swarthy skin taking on the sheen of bronze in the changing lights.

  Lauri knew that such exciting elevation was due to the steely strength in Lonza’s legs and back, but only someone with a deep love of the dance could have communicated as he did with every sinew and heartbeat, every gleam of the oblique eyes above the Tartar cheekbones.

  That ten-minute ballet was over all too soon for Lauri, then a storm of applause was sweeping the huge auditorium and the tiers of seats and boxes. Lonza stood alone on the vast stage, his head bowed, lean as a boy, until at last he was lost behind the curtains and an audible sigh escaped from a thousand female throats.

  Lauri had sat stage-struck and enchanted ... but never fully forgetful of her companion. Now she turned to look at him and saw that he was looking at her. ‘At last you have seen Lonza dance,’ he murmured.

  ‘He’s superb.’ Her eyes shone into Maxim di Corte’s dark ones. ‘To remain suspended in the air as long as he did—it’s hardly human!’

  ‘I assure you he is very human.’ There was something sardonic about Maxim di Corte’s smile as he sat back in the shadows of the box they were sharing.

  Each moment of that gala evening was enchanted for Lauri, and she felt the quickening beat of her heart as the time drew near for Lonza to dance again, this time with Lydia Andreya.

  Maxim di Corte slipped away just before the stars of his company were due to appear, and Lauri sat alone amidst the glamour of the Opera House and the gala audience. She knew that people in the other boxes were looking at her and wondering who she was. She felt their inquisitive eyes upon her long braid of hair, her topaz eardrops, and the slim pallor of her neck above the scooped top of her dress. Her hands clenched together in her lap and she wished Signor di Corte would hurry back to shield her with his cool aloofness.

  Suddenly she heard a woman say clearly: ‘Do you suppose he’s getting tired of Andreya? She still looks stunning on-stage, but she is beginning to show her age off-stage—then there’s that husband of hers.’

  Lauri stared at one of the gilt mermaids decorating the circle of seats nearest to her. Like every ballet fan, she knew that Andreya was parted from her husband, but it shook her to learn that Maxim di Corte had gone backstage for a personal reason rather than a supervisory one.

  A feeling of relief overtook her as the house lights began to dim and to conceal her from the curious occupants of the nearby boxes. The great curtains were opening, lifting on magic. Sea-purple shimmers played over rocks and the stark rigging and broken timbers of a wrecked ship. There were strange trees hung with sea-fruit, and sea-nymphs performed a garland dance with seaweeds, encircling a huge anemone whose tendrils slowly opened. Out of it rose Andreya as a sea-enchantress, her hair a dusky veil about a curiously exciting face as she ran on pointe to the wrecked ship and drew out of it with enticing movements of her hands the drowned yet alive body of the young seaman she had enchanted.

  A tingle of excitement ran through Lauri, and she was conscious for a brief moment of a hand touching hers as Signor di Corte took the seat beside her ... she smiled without looking at him, spellbound by the scene upon the stage. It was one of strange allure, the man drawn hither and thither by the white hand of Andreya, embracing and caressing at her sinister behest.

  They danced together brilliantly, and it didn’t seem to matter that Lonza looked at times a boy beside Andreya. The dance called also for high, sweeping lifts which he must have found strenuous. Andreya was tall for a ballerina, but Lonza showed no sign of stress. His muscles seemed of steel and he made his partner look as light as a leaf and superbly steady when she performed her pirouettes.

  Lauri couldn’t drag her gaze from the stage, yet she felt the intensity of the man at her side. She sensed that his dark eyes were following Andreya’s every movement.

  The action on stage grew even more dramatic as the enchanted seaman suddenly threw a noose of seaweeds about the throat of his terrible mistress and tried to choke her. But she was an en
chantress who could not be killed, and her laughter rang out mockingly as the great curtains swept together and the last notes of the music echoed her laughter.

  There was silence for a moment, like a held breath, then a storm of clapping broke out and the curtains parted again to reveal the corps de ballet in their coral colours. Then Lonza placed an arm about Andreya’s waist and brought her forward, and as she sank to the stage among the flowers that were raining, down he stepped back a few paces and watched his partner receiving the homage of the crowd. At last she threw him a glance of appeal—as though it were all a little too much for her—and when he came forward and kissed her hand, the applause mounted to a crescendo.

  Andreya and Lonza had danced away with the honours of the evening, and a flushed and excited Lauri was clapping with everyone else, giving two unique performers an ovation.

  ‘Signor,’ Lauri’s eyes were alight with pleasure as they met his, ‘how proud you must feel of those two.’

  ‘Of course,’ He smiled down at her. ‘Would you like to meet them?’

  ‘Do you mean it?’ Her eyes seemed to fill her face.

  ‘I always mean what I say,’ he said dryly. ‘There is to be a farewell party at the Strand Palace, and I don’t think another hour of excitement will hurt you—child though you look.’

  ‘I’m not a child,’ she protested, but he merely laughed as he adjusted her fur jacket about her shoulders, and after making sure that she was leaving none of her belongings behind in her excitement he began to pilot her towards an exit.

  At the exit they were halted by a group of people who urged that he and his company remain in England a while longer. ‘My dancers need a holiday and I am taking them home to Venice,’ he protested laughingly. ‘Grazie, you are all more than kind to want us to return. We will, I promise-you...’

  At last he and Lauri managed to escape into the chilly night air of Covent Garden. They pushed their way through a throng of fans waiting with autograph-books, into the square that smelled of vegetables and exhaust fumes. He glanced about for a taxi, but they had all been taken and their rear lights blinked in the darkness as they drove off.

  ‘You will catch cold if we wait about here for a cab,’ he said. ‘It will take us only a few minutes to walk down to the Strand.’

  ‘A walk will help clear my head,’ she laughed. ‘Oh, what an evening, signor. I shall never forget it.’

  ‘It is not yet over, signorina.’ His voice sounded extra deep and significant in the darkness, and with a cool but kindly brusqueness he drew her nearer to him as they walked towards Drury Lane. Close to him like this, Lauri was very aware of how tall he was, and how distinguished in his evening wear.

  Suddenly she remembered why she was with him ... tonight she must promise or refuse to dance for him.

  ‘I—I love the night time.’ She hastened into words because her thoughts were too disturbing. ‘Especially on the Downs at home, when the stars come out and make a ballet of their own.’

  ‘Dancers are nocturnal creatures,’ he said. ‘They light up in a subtle way when dusk falls, like the exotic moths one sees out in the tropics.’

  ‘Have you and your company been all over the world, signor?’ she asked.

  ‘We have been to a good many places,’ and he told her about the magnificent stage of the Bolshoi Theatre, which enabled the ballerinas and their partners to make remarkable runs and leaps. ‘One is told constantly out there that the Bolshoi lacks the glamour of the old Imperial days,’ he added, ‘but it is a great experience to see Petrushka performed in a real Russian setting.’ He was talking about Japanese dancing at the Kabuki Theatre in Tokyo as they turned into the Strand and the neon lights played over his face.

  ‘What do you think of London, signor?’ Lauri asked impulsively.

  ‘I find it a stimulating city, hut naturally I make comparisons with my Venezia benedetta.’ A smile grooved deeper the lines of authority in his face, ‘It is, my Venice, a city like a masked beauty. Always there is the splash of water against old grey stone, the creak and sway of moored gondolas, and old palazzos mirrored in the lagoon. It is Byron’s “fairy city of the heart”. A priceless mural centuries old—ah, but I could go on talking about Venice all night, and we have something else to discuss.’

  Her heart skipped a beat, and she felt his lean hand under her elbow as he guided her across the road. The hand of the Maestro, which set the di Corte dancers spinning and leaping and running across the stages of the world.

  ‘Do you imagine,’ he pushed open the swing doors of the Strand Palace and she was whisked in under the blaze of chandeliers, ‘that you can defy destiny, the dictates of your own heart—and me?’

  Had she imagined she could escape him? Even as she wondered, she was being led into the brightly lit ballroom where the farewell party was being held for him and his ballet company.

  ‘Come, choose now,’ he said, and he awaited his answer even as a waiter approached with champagne and people turned from the buffet to watch them as they faced each other under the sparkle of a chandelier. She raised her eyes to meet his ... feeling as helpless as a lamb plucked off the downs by an eagle. ‘Have I a choice?’ she murmured. ‘What will you do with me if I join your company and then fail you?’

  ‘I shall throw you into the dungeons below my palazzo,’ he said dryly. He turned and took two glasses of champagne off the tray of the hovering waiter. He placed one of the brimming glasses in her hand. ‘Drink every drop of that, and then I will introduce you to everyone and satisfy their burning curiosity about you,’ he added.

  She became at once conscious of the people watching them. There was a woman draped in white fox, and Lauri recognized her as the person who from a nearby box at the Opera House had speculated aloud on Maxim di Corte’s devotion to Lydia Andreya...

  Andreya came sweeping into the ballroom at that moment, dramatically gowned and carrying an immense bouquet of golden roses. Her dark red hair was drawn back from a face like a worn but radiant carving. ‘Maxim!’ she cried, and came towards him.

  He stepped forward at once to meet his prima ballerina with an outstretched hand. ‘My dear Lydia,’ he smiled, ‘come and meet the little girl I was telling you about—Lauri Garner. She sails with us on Wednesday to Venice.’

  Lauri was gazing wide-eyed at Andreya, but when Maxim di Corte said so firmly that she was sailing with them on Wednesday, she glanced at him with a protest on her lips that was never uttered. His commanding eyes captured hers, robbing her of the will to do anything but submit to him. Such dark eyes, set in the Roman face that was like no other she had ever seen. As he held her gaze, and others watched them, she knew herself caught up in one of those fateful moments from which there was no retreat.

  ‘So you sail with us on Wednesday, eh?’

  ‘Yes—’ Lauri heard her own reply with a sense of disbelief, and pulse-racing wonderment. ‘Yes, Madame Andreya.’

  The ballerina swept her brilliant gaze over Lauri’s face, from which apprehension and excitement had taken all the colour, leaving her dusky-gold eyes and winged eyebrows to stand out in relief. ‘Welcome to our ranks, Miss Garner,’ drawled the ballerina. ‘I hope you realize that hard work and discipline are our main rewards for giving ourselves into the power of this Venetian autocrat.’

  ‘Lydia,’ he laughed, ‘you will frighten the child.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ the ballerina took a glass of champagne and smiled mockingly. ‘Is she one of the nervous sort?’

  Lauri, all nerves, wanted to turn in that moment and bolt from the ballroom. Maxim di Corte must have noticed the desperate glance which she cast towards the exit, for in an instant his long fingers were holding her by the wrist. ‘Come to the buffet and have some caviare,’ he said. ‘Young people are always hungry, unless you are one of those who subsists on milk and a lettuce leaf?’

  ‘Signor—’

  ‘Yes, signorina?’ His dark eyes dwelt enigmatically on her upraised young face, the topaz drops glinting in her ear
s against her long braid of hair and slim, pale neck.

  ‘I—I’ve never had caviare,’ she said huskily, defeated by something within herself that could not fight the compelling personality of Maxim di Corte. The man who would in a few short days carry her off to his palace in Venice.

  CHAPTER THREE

  THE sea trip to Venice was a time of relaxation for most members of the ballet company, but Lauri couldn’t help feeling sad about leaving Aunt Pat They had been together ever since Lauri was five, and she missed already her aunt’s company and counsel. Now she had to stand on her own feet. The dancing feet which had loved to roam over the Downs at home, and were feeling right now the deck of a ship under them as she took a solitary stroll before turning in for the night.

  She was sharing a cabin with a couple of dancers named Concha and Viola. They were members of the corps de ballet, and such a lively, pretty pair that most of their time was taken up by their admirers. In consequence of this Lauri, who was shy, was left to wander about the ship on her own.

  She saw very little of Maxim di Corte, who seemed to spend most of his time with Andreya, and Bruno Lanning, the company’s regisseur. These three did not join in any of the deck games, and the concerts appeared to bore them. Slim and sleek in a fur coat, Andreya would promenade between the two men, or scintillate at the Captain’s table, while Maxim di Corte listened and smiled in his grave, dark-eyed way.

  Lauri paused beside the rail of the deck on which she was taking her stroll. The moon was up and the ocean glimmered. The ship drew nearer all the time to Venice—bride of the Adriatic—and she felt tonight a stirring of interest in the city that had grown up on many small islands to become a place loved throughout its history by poets like Byron and Browning, and cavaliers like Casanova.