Song of Seduction (18 page)

Just out of view of the gathered guests, Arie pulled her aside. “No need for nerves, Tilda.”

“There most certainly is.”

“They are curious of me. Maybe they will want your identity—nothing more.”

She shifted from one foot to the other. And back again. “How will that convince me to restrain my nerves?”

“Pretend. Pretend until it is real.”

“I cannot understand you tonight.”

He regarded her with a tender expression. “I am content now, no matter these fools.”

“What has changed?”

His smile flared with a sudden fervor bordering on mania, threatening to banish his unfamiliar nonchalance in favor of the unpredictable, passionate man she knew. He leaned closer, finding the privacy of her ears. “I feared your rejection earlier. But what I said of our secret kiss…and how it ended—you did not hit me.”

His whisper lit a fire along her skin. Mathilda almost giggled, restraining her giddy anticipation out of habit alone. He was making just the sort of private promises that she wanted desperately to hear.

But then his face was all business. He was the one to smooth his hair this time. After two quick tugs on his lapels, he picked a few last miniscule flecks of fluff from his coat sleeves. “Here we go.”

Arie stepped into the hall, and Mathilda followed.

A dozen various nobles and patrons gathered nearby, ignoring her as they jostled for a place at his side. She stepped back, listening in curious wonder as eager admirers inundated him with questions and introductions. They babbled in a frenetic excess, discussing particular compositions and performances.

Mathilda tried to content herself with absorbing the beauty of that splendid space. Bright colors and a mass of guests in fine costumes glared in contrast to Rittersaal’s quiet, gilded elegance. Orange, red and floral crown moldings adorned the white walls, and ornate frescoes with filigree edges covered the entire ceiling. Red-and-blue hangings bordered the arched windows. Chandeliers and mirrors created artificial depth, and brass chairs stretched by rows to the back of the space.

Not that she could see the rear of the hall. Body after ornamented body filled it entirely. Only at Arie’s Salzburg debut and the Venners’ wedding had she borne witness to such an elaborate, wealthy gathering.

Touching the unadorned chain of silver around her neck, she imagined every eye watching her impertinence. But the habit no longer relieved her anxieties. And no one was watching her.

Her attention strolled back to Arie. Twice before, she had witnessed his unrehearsed behavior among a mass of people: at the Venners’ ball and throughout the piano competition. His behavior at the ball had bordered on indecent, tainted by an excess of self-pity and drink. By contrast, he had proven respectable but introverted at the Stadttrinkstube.

Neither experience explained his unusually jaunty mood that evening, nor his apparent resolve to master his shyness. His flawless appearance and exquisite, authoritative manners left her speechless. Despite an underlying, sometimes debilitating reticence, he seemed capable of affecting a cool façade when the occasion demanded.

Mathilda’s head spun at the reminder of his public face. She had come to know him within the privacy of his tiny studio, at times wholly forgetting his renown. With no more knowledge of his character than a single performance, she had worshipped him ever since. That other admirers regarded him with a similar impersonal adoration set her on poor footing. In the midst of those excited, prying enthusiasts, her claim to his affection dissipated. Neither Arie’s wife nor his betrothed, she was merely a pupil.

Ingrid touched her arm. “You look like a girl who wants her doll back.”

“Don’t tease.”

“I must. This is dreadfully dull.” Looking impeccably fine in a empire waist gown of vibrant yellow silks, Ingrid’s gaze drifted across the assembly. “Why we arrive hours early to stand and talk I cannot understand.”

“But you love to talk, Ingrid.”

She grinned and added a silly flounce. “About myself,
ja.
And in my own home.”

“A pity to be an old woman at such a young age.” Mathilda glanced at the nobles and guests but recognized no one. “Where is Venner?”

“I know not,” she said, shrugging. “If Duke Ferdinand had not promised to attend, I would have said he returned home.”

“Is Frau Kleinmayrn here?”

“No, but her sister is.”

“Have these women nothing better to do?”

“No.”

Arie’s resonant laugh caught Mathilda’s attention once again. She admired the deep hollows of his cheeks, the stern angle of his nose, the chin thrusting defiantly away from the carved beauty of his mouth. His lone suit of black evening clothes and a midnight blue waistcoat concealed lean musculature. Sapphire eyes turned down, he appeared in deep concentration despite the excess of enthusiasts angling for his attention.

Handsome. Adored. Hers?

Hers.

She wanted to eat him alive. She wanted his mouth on her again in that same shocking, unforgettable, irredeemable way. But most of all, she wanted help to scale the wall separating them from the passion they had once indulged. Where, when,
how
to begin again?

While in awe of the opulent surroundings and curious about the concert to come, she wondered what he would say if she asked to return to his studio. No questions. No doubts. No more waiting.

Although the choice might prove foolhardy, Mathilda had grown tired of running from fears—fears that dictated the course of her life. Like a child willing to believe in a nursery tale, she pushed her suspicions and questions into a corner. Jürgen rested in peace within her mind and heart, and her unknown future beckoned. For one night, she would give herself to the excitement of her passion.

When morning came…

No, she wanted recklessness. Everything else would wait. She let the worry walk through her until only anticipation remained.

“You’ll give yourself away.”

She pulled her thoughts back to Ingrid. “Everyone else looks at him. Why can’t I?”

“The people in this room watch him with curiosity, or even disapproval.” Ingrid sipped from the wine glass she held at a delicate angle. “They desire an introduction, or they admire his music. Some young woman might even fancy herself in love without ever having met him.”

Mathilda squished her face. “Imagine that.”

“But you’re the only person who looks ready to devour him,” she whispered. “Be careful, dearest.” Ingrid kissed her cheek, then slipped into the crowd.

Mathilda briefly dropped her gaze to the cream-colored marble floor. Breathing deeply, she worked to clear her face of both distress and desire.

“
Willkommen,
good Frau Heidel.”

“Kapellmeister.”
She greeted the older musician with a strained smile. “How are you tonight?”

“All the better for seeing you here,” Haydn said with jovial enthusiasm. The solemnity of his mood within the holy space of the Dom became a mere memory. After more than four decades as the city’s highest-ranking musician, he appeared infinitely comfortable within those lush environs. “Come, now, where is Herr De Voss?”

“We’re playing a game,” she said, threading an arm through his. “Dodge the gossips.”

An expression of merriment teased along his mouth. “Ah. May I play too?”

“Of course.”

“Then allow me to introduce you to a wonderful young composer by the name of Arie De Voss. He’s Dutch, you know.”

“I thank you, sir.”

He waved a hand, feigning to push the preening crowds away. “Do not, Frau Heidel. I’ve seen these same faces for decades. Any diversion save open violence is a welcome one.”

The pair reached Arie where he stood next to an elegant woman in her early forties. She wore an exquisite gown of ice-blue silk and ivory lace trim. Gray-streaked black hair arranged in an elaborate coiffure of spirals and curls accentuated the graceful lines of her neck and slender face. Magnetic black eyes shone from beneath heavy dark lashes. An oblong bruise along her left jaw marred her otherwise flawless olive skin.

Mathilda had never seen such an arresting woman.

“De Voss, there you are,” Haydn said.

“
Gute Abend
,
Kapellmeister.
And Frau Heidel. Lovely to see you.” Arie bowed deeply, his air bright and amused. He turned to present the elegant woman. “Allow me to present Frau Regina Schlick.”

“I am honored to meet you both,” the woman said. Her lilting Italian accent created melody out of plain speech. “Herr De Voss has told me you perform exquisitely.”

“Thank you.” She smiled broadly at the unexpected compliment. That he would speak of her in glowing terms to this exotic woman warmed Mathilda from top to toes. “The maestro flatters me.”

“Nonsense. He recognizes talent almost as well as he composes.” She turned and touched his arm. Mathilda fought an urge to slap her hand away. “Sir, your violin concerti remain among the most thrilling I know. I must have one of my own. You have promised for years.”

“Quality requires patience, my dear.” His smooth response convinced even Mathilda of his sincerity. He sounded perfectly gracious and even…charming?

Watching the exchange, her uncertainty increased. She never could have imitated the mysterious woman’s air of unquestioned authority, holding the rapt attention of every man within earshot. Arie smiled warmly and with an expression of genuine interest. Despondently, Mathilda wondered if he and the stylish woman had been intimate.

But no—he remained poised and cool, ignoring the fawning guests. Surely a public reunion with a former lover would throw her reticent Dutchman into bashful fits.

Before she could learn more about the beauty and her capacity to captivate everyone, matched trumpeters announced the arrival of Duke Ferdinand and his entourage. Heads turned and dropped in conspicuous bows before Salzburg’s monarch.

Through lowered lashes, she glimpsed the gaunt Florentine’s cleft chin, down-turned mouth and large eyes ringed by puffy lower lids. At only thirty-five years old, he had already suffered the loss of his noble inheritance—the Tuscan kingdom of his birth—as well as his wife and three of his six children. The sorrows of his life etched his handsome face, refusing to hide behind the majesty of his titles and possessions.

As everyone emerged from deep bows and curtsies, Haydn whisked the intriguing Frau Schlick to the front of Kaisersaal. Mathilda turned to her Dutch compass for direction. “Arie, who is she?”

“Patience.” With attention focused on the duke, Arie tugged her hand. “This way.”

They found seats almost halfway back from the tiny ensemble of musicians, away from Ingrid and Venner, away from the most prominent gossips. Mathilda settled skirts, the beautiful lavender of which still took her by surprise, and enjoyed the pleasant thrill of Arie’s thigh pressing against her own. She would not have retreated from his heat for all the world.

Duke Ferdinand took his seat in the center of the front row, while a handful of musicians assumed their appropriate places. Three violinists, two violists and two cellists briefly tuned their instruments in an incomplete double string quartet.

She leaned closer to Arie. “There are but seven musicians. Where is the other violinist?”

“Look.”

To Mathilda’s amazement, Frau Regina Schlick accepted her violin from an assistant and took her place at the head of the ensemble.

Mathilda’s words echoed across the open space of Residenzplatz, drawing stares from other patrons as they emerged into the Alpine night air.

Feeling unusually buoyant, Arie grabbed her hand as they rounded the corner onto Fürstgasse.
“Mij?”

“Yes,
you!
” She shook free of his grip.

He recognized her indignation as a mix of true outrage and, thankfully, a little playful teasing. He humored the outrage, knowing he deserved some retribution for keeping her in the dark about Frau Schlick.

“To think of all the questions I prepared to ask her,” Mathilda said, “had her admirers given me a chance. ‘Oh, you are familiar with music?’ or ‘How do you know the
Kapellmeister?’
I would have been mortified!”

“Luckily, the duke and all his crows saved you from social indiscretion.”

“Crows?”

“Crows. Those fiends all over me, asking me questions.”

He waved his arms, flapping like a bird. Mathilda laughed, a sprightly sound of surprise and restless energy. In the shadows beneath the Residenz, he fished for her hand and claimed it once again. She accepted his fingers’ embrace with a little squeeze.

They walked along the lane with their shoulders pressed close. Even in slippers she stood nearly as tall as Arie, bringing those lovely eyes to his. While his mind advised a gradual return to physical pleasure, his body pulsed with anticipation.

“Tell me, Tilda, did you enjoy the concert?”

Her lips curled into a smile. “You know I did.”

“A man can be greedy to hear what he already knows.”

“I enjoyed it. More than that—I was overjoyed.”

“I am glad.”

Although pleased, Arie was disappointed when she failed to catch the deeper meaning of his words. February taunted him like a cold, distant defeat, that moment when he had declared his love. He understood her emotions, yes—her worshipful regard for his music, the struggle she endured over her guilt. She had even called him
“mijn liefde,”
which always made him smile.

But she had yet to declare herself.

Arie was in a covetous mood. He wanted those words of commitment returned to him.

“Tell me about her,” Mathilda said. “She was phenomenal. You must know more.”

Breathy and excited, her voice excited Arie in turn. But the music came first. He bore the blame for introducing her to a performer against whom he had no chance of competing.

“She performed with Kapellmeister Haydn’s student and colleague, Herr Mozart.” He guided her north, through Altstadt and toward his studio. A waning sliver of moonlight shone high above the city. “Some years ago, he wrote a violin sonata expressly for her and played piano to accompany the debut for Emperor Joseph in Vienna.”

“She performed for the Holy Roman Emperor?”

Disbelief blighted her beautiful features and Arie wanted to wipe away her skepticism. Her doubts inhibited the performer she longed to become—deserved to become.

“A number of times,” Arie said. “She was a court favorite before she married. Now she lives in Gotha with her husband, the ducal
Konzertmeister.
”

“But how…where did she learn? Was she like me?”

“Her talent is not as innate as yours, but Haydn said she was a young virtuoso. She studied at
Ospedale della Pietà
in Venice, a school founded by a priest named Vivaldi to provide musical instruction to orphaned girls.” Mathilda stopped short, turning to see the truth of his words. Arie nodded. “Yes, Tilda. An orphan like you.”

Hope and confidence flared to life within her, the power of which shone across her entire face. “Amazing.”

When they reached Getreidegasse, Arie tugged her into the recess of a
Durchgänge,
a slim footpath connecting adjacent streets between tall, narrow buildings. An overhead pergola woven with vines of variegated ivy fostered a sense of seclusion. Shadows turned those leaves black and silver, rustled by the barest spring breeze.

“Now tell me truly,” he said. “You did not suspect she is a violinist? Not even with her bruise?”

“Is that what I saw?”

“My brilliant girl, you have one too.” Gently, he traced the left curve of her jaw and watched with masculine satisfaction when she shivered.

Her lips parted. “I…I never noticed.”

“My dear, vain Tilda. You must spend less time in front of a looking glass and more time practicing.”

“You
are
a menace,” she said, smiling. “Vast and uncharted.”

“But not an idiot?
Goed.
”

She looked away. “For a moment…”

“What?” He touched a finger to her chin. Her eyes widened in the near-darkness of their private retreat. Arie drew her nearer, pulling her skirts with impatient hands, feeling her heat along the length of his body. “Tell me.”

“For a moment, I thought she was a former lover of yours.”

He laughed. “I should be so lucky!”

“Arie!”

Belying his words, he took Mathilda in his arms and held her with the strength of a man long denied his most ardent obsession. Blood drummed a beat rhythm in his veins, absorbing his reason in a rush of need. His mouth found hers. Their kisses drove away every consideration save the impulse to taste and touch. To possess.

In those endless frustrating weeks of winter, Arie had prevented himself from craving more than a kiss. Why desire more, when even that singular beauty had seemed distant and unattainable? But the touch of her tongue ignited hot recollections: the welcoming rightness of her arms clasped around his back, the taste of her mouth and skin, the heady, mind-numbing satisfaction of releasing himself within her depths.

Flashes of eroticism melded into the sensation of kissing her. Driven by that combination of past and present, Arie surged ahead, seeking the promise of their union. This was no solitary kiss; it was the prelude to an unimaginable evening.

He pushed Mathilda against the night-damp wall of their concealed passageway. Pressed by the unyielding bricks, her soft curves molded and formed to his taut body. With impatient hands, he grasped the round fullness of her rear and pulled the cradle of her hips to his. She thrust to meet him, accepting his rough violence and demanding more.

Although Mathilda was trapped between Arie and the bricks at her back, her answering hunger enslaved him. Her kiss sanctioned no breath of air, no reasonable thought. Good sense diminished to a forgettable fiction while his deepest, most elemental instincts demanded that she yield to his rigid length—even there, forced against an alley wall.

A determined echo of sanity would not allow him to perpetrate another such travesty. The greatest regret he suffered from their hastily wrought intimacy in February was just that: his confounded haste. Keen on instant fulfillment, his body demanded a brutal orgasm. Arie, however, wanted to experience more than the rudimentary satisfaction of a quickly roused urge.

Mathilda seemed willing.
Beste God,
he hoped so. Only the few remaining steps to his studio stood between them and a long, slow night of exploration. He wanted to discover her, not shove and jostle until she felt obliged to ask him to stop.

With that most pleasurable goal at the front of his hazy consciousness, Arie began to slow the tugging rush of hands and lips and tongues. He said her name once, then again. He breathed deeply, her essence like warm mulled wine. The surprising male animal that had briefly taken control receded to a corner of his mind. The animal watched, waiting, but Arie successfully wrested control from the creature. For now.

“Mathilda.”

He buried his face at her neck. The smooth, warm skin evoked a profound sense of tenderness within him. He loved her. He needed her like his next breath—so much that a surge of fear clenched his heart and caused that dependable organ to thump painfully. Even as he restrained the lust driving him near to mindlessness, he labored to hold a wave of dread at bay.

“This is where you belong,” he rasped. “Never forget what I tell you.”

“Where, against a wall again?”

Her placid teasing leavened his anxieties. Arie smiled and nipped her top lip. “Minx.”

“Wretch.”

With trembling fingers, Arie traced the line of her nose. “Why aren’t you shaking?”

“Habit. I lived with wanting you, wanting and not having you. I had no choice.” She slid questing hands from his shoulders to his biceps and squeezed. “Take me home.”

Her request stung like the winter wind. “Really? To the Venner house?”

“No.” In her reticule, she searched for a single worn slip of heavy parchment. She kissed the little card before waving it playfully before his face. “To Getreidegasse 26.”

“You kept that?” He took the dog-eared card between two fingers. “Small wonder you have no need for your pendant. Look at this poor, worn thing.”

“I kept it as a souvenir. The prospect of that first lesson made me unbearably nervous. I had no idea what to expect.”

Arie clutched the flesh of her hips. “I had an idea then, but I was quite mistaken.”

“And what idea do you have tonight?”

“A very similar one. Tilda, please, tell me I am not wrong.”

Smiling, she reclaimed the worn address card and kissed it. “You’re not wrong.”