Song of Seduction (6 page)

Blood ran to her face. Compulsively, she tried to find another object to divert her attention. But no, she could not look away from his smile. It transformed his austere face into a handsome masterpiece. Each trait entrusted a deeper, more genuine part of him to her keeping.

Those little wrinkles at the corners of eyes shadowed black in the torchlight?
Yes.

The line on his right cheek that was almost a dimple?
Ruthless.

The persistent twin furrows between his brows?
In remission.

And Mathilda’s errant heart beating well above a healthful speed? As better judgment dwindled to naught, she would have been surprised to find it otherwise.

And Arie wanted to flee the unruly scene. His sole question was whether he wished to flee
with
or
from
the captivating Frau Heidel.

With.

To catch another glimpse of the divine, Arie wanted her to return to his studio. He had not lied; he arrived on the off chance of seeing her again. But in a city of thousands, his hopes resembled a useless daydream strolling across his wakeful mind. Instead, he had expected Carnival distractions to banish endless thoughts of their encounters.

He had been entranced by the marvelous statue of the Virgin Mary, a statue that would have been banned in the Netherlands, when her voice reached him. A light in the darkness.

And he had welcomed her with less affection than a bitter enemy could expect.

Arie had always been able to rely on his aptitude for the piano, even when the guilt of his deception threatened to cripple him. But his aptitude for social graces remained a work in progress. Frau Heidel’s innate skill underscored his inadequacies. Some resentful part of him had lashed out, venting his shortfalls at her expense.

That he needed her back rankled his pride and threatened the safety of his isolation.

Since the widow’s departure from his studio, Arie’s muse had remained as silent as the marble Virgin. A cold shiver of lonely dread racked his shoulders when he recalled the ridiculous scribbles and half-finished ideas littering the floor of his studio. The ridiculous ease of composition in those hours following her lesson existed as some fever dream. Each occasion of pen to parchment produced horrifying results. Gaudy, lifeless, overreaching—he had thrown more sheets into the fire than he cared to recall.

He craved her nearness, her capacity to reawaken his creativity. But how did a man address a respectable woman and persuade her to his aim? Arie wished he could draw on a past success for inspiration. His smile seemed to have had a positive effect, prompting her blush. But he only smiled with ample cause, and such occasions rarely arose.

He glanced at Frau Heidel and abruptly broke their awkward silence. “Do you know of families in need of a music tutor?” he asked.

Having already accepted two additional pupils, he deemed his appearance at the Venners’ gala a successful one. He had few hours in the day to accommodate many more, but a conversation about students sounded harmless enough. Arie no longer trusted his tongue.

“Does the family need to be of any particular rank?”

“What do you mean?”

She shrugged, her expression direct. “Some musicians might be reluctant to accept students who are not members of the nobility, perhaps to create an exclusive clientele.”

Arie groped for his understanding of her language. Her explanation seemed to hold another, deeper meaning. Did she think him shallow? Contempt shrouded her words, but not for him. She had proven adept at revealing his shortcomings and had yet to veil criticism aimed in his direction.

So why the artifice?

She picked at the amulet dangling from her neck. In an instant of clarity, he understood. She was nervous.

Let me know your decision, Maestro.

Arie craved her return beyond good sense, but his silence left her hesitant. He had wondered how to persuade the obscenely talented woman to come back.

Asking…that was a start.

“Frau Heidel, if I held reservations about the class of students I teach, I would not continue our association.”

“I left that to your discretion.”

Tremulous, like a harmony, the note of resignation in her voice told Arie he had guessed correctly. Of all people, she was nervous—she, a woman in possession of a heavenly gift.

“I have no such scruples, Frau Heidel.” He tossed in a half-hearted grin for good measure. “I will tutor hounds to play pianoforte if their masters rewarded me for the effort.”

The widow giggled and clapped gloved hands across her sweet, expressive mouth. Amusing Arie to no end, she struggled to compose her features. He smiled wider when she refused to do so.

“Sir, I would pay to see such an exhibition,” she said.

“Performing for wealthy patrons feels little different.”

He winced at the bitterness that smothered his brief levity. In haste, he swallowed the sentiment, but not before the perceptive young woman asked a silent question with her expression. Tension hovered in the winter air.

“You should inquire with the Schindlers,” she said. “Markus Schindler has two school-aged sons and has been seeking a tutor. He’s well regarded and earns a good living.”

“They live in the city?”

“During the winter months, yes,” she said. “They keep a town house on Steingasse, across the Salzach.”

Arie nodded to receive the information, hoarding those details with attentive concentration. Nothing exacerbated his awkwardness more than asking the locals to repeat unusual phrases and place names. Frau Heidel might not mind the inconvenience but, to his aggravation, he wanted to appear especially competent for her.

“I thank you. You know much about the city, I gather. Were you born here?”

“Yes.”

“Do you travel far beyond?”

The widow raised her chin in a defiant challenge, accelerating his heartbeat. “Not at all. I have never left the city.” She paused and looked down. “You ask too many questions, sir.”

Arie clenched his hands. Cold invaded his fingertips with obstinate persistence, even through the warmth of his fur-lined gloves. A sane composer would be in his studio, huddling over the stove and plotting the structure of his symphony’s third movement. But he could name only two rational composers, both of whom shared the surname of Haydn. Most were mad as bats, nurturing more eccentricities than ideas. As for Arie, rationality escaped him, especially when he imagined Frau Heidel’s warm flesh draped across his chilled skin.

“I must ask questions of you,” he said. “People refuse to share information about you. They only say what a fine woman you are, what a fine wife you were to your husband.”

The delicate bloom of color on her cheeks drained away. “You’ve been asking about me?”

The winter air was nothing to her chill timbre. But what did she have to hide? He had only asked whether she traveled beyond the city.

He grinned despite her unspoken warnings, endeavoring to lose his most vital student only moments after seeking her return. A deep, intimidated part of him wanted to even the score, so thoroughly did she trouble him.

“Of course you intrigue me,” he said. “My inquiries are for naught, though—not useful in the least. Please tell me you are not as good as your reputation. I cannot bear such piety.”

Her quick exhale created little puffs of frozen moisture. “And I cannot tell you otherwise.”

“Perhaps.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Arie leaned closer, feeling the heat of her breath against the exposed skin of his face. “Perhaps opinions of you would be more accurate if anyone knew of your talent.”

Her nostrils flared. “You speak inappropriately, sir. Others believe you do so because you are foreign. I think you know exactly what you say. I have seen you behave with decorum, but you ignore such niceties in my presence.”

Stubbornly ignoring the criticism, he took her hand—the hand she clenched around the silver amulet. “What is this you play with?”

“Release it,
bitte.
”

“Tell me.”

Frau Heidel yanked free of his grasp, glancing at the pendant. “My
Fraiskette.
It is to protect against cramps and wasting diseases.”

He eyed the charm suspiciously. “Is it pagan?”

“I know not,” she said, frowning as if she had never considered the idea. “The sisters at Nonnberg wear theirs openly. The custom is centuries old. I have not been sick since donning it.”

“Who gave it to you?”

“You and your questions, sir.” Arie held his breath, awaiting a caustic remark, but her irritation receded. Softness infused her voice. “My husband gave it to me. It is my
Morgengabe.
”

Arie winced. Since his crass drunkenness at the Venner ball, he had been reluctant to revisit the topic of her late spouse. “Will you make me ask the meaning of yet another word?”

“No.” A faint smile curved her lips. “You must ask someone else, because I won’t explain it.”

The woman. Her mysteries. Those infernal glimpses she provided into her genuine character. Arie hoarded them all.

“Then who shall I ask?”

A wave of raucous applause arose as Duke Ferdinand’s musical heralds lined the platform at the base of the Dom’s front steps. With coronets and trumpets, the uniformed men blasted a rousing welcome to Salzburg’s newest leader. Their shrill introduction seized the attention of the entire assembly.

Heads bobbed to catch a glimpse of the new monarch. A couple dressed in fur and brocade craned their necks for a better view alongside a humble family of laborers standing on tiptoe. A throb of human excitement filled Domplatz and echoed off the walls and arches, penetrating Arie’s brain like a spike of ice.

Frau Heidel leaned close enough to make her words heard. “You seem a resourceful enough man. You’ll think of something.”

He resisted the urge to seize the back of her neck and draw her closer still. He wanted only to succumb to a combination of desperation and intolerable lust, both of which frightened him for their startling hold over his imagination. She stood nearly at eye level, watching him. Reading him. Only a slight flare of her nostrils, as if catching the scent of his manic fantasies, indicated her response.

Then she straightened—unsmiling, retreating. “If I recall another family where your services will be appreciated, I’ll let you know. I wouldn’t want a lack of patronage to limit your stay in Salzburg. Good evening, sir.”

Despite mostly frustrating results, Arie’s careful inquiries had revealed one valuable, enchanting fact about the new widow: her given name.

“Mathilda?”

She would not hear his voice over the trumpets and cheers, surely. She would keep walking.

But she stopped. And turned.

Motion, sound and time stilled, breathing between them in a shared moment. A panicky flare of questions brightened her eyes, but she did not blush. Already, he enjoyed her most when she forgot to be bashful.

“Yes, Maestro?”

“I await the chance to continue your instruction. Please come to your lesson on Wednesday.”

Gentle snowflakes fell from the dark winter sky, dusting the top of her sturdy bonnet and melting as they landed on her cheeks. The air in Arie’s lungs burned as he anticipated her reply.

“Yes,” she said.

His knees wobbled with relief even as he slung a hundred chastisements at his foolishness. He wanted to say her name again, to see her acknowledge his familiarity. But as the duke took to the stage, the woman called Mathilda Heidel slipped away.

Once, he had mistakenly believed her a bored, amorous widow. Now, Arie’s fascination extended beyond a physical attraction—even as that attraction goaded him with wild urges.

Beauty. Talent. Muse. He wanted all of her.

Was she the most important thing to happen to him in years, or the most devastating? The possibilities stood side by side, waiting.

But with his hair in wild clumps, poised to lead the court orchestra, Arie De Voss was the man who held the entire city’s attention. He led the musicians with calm, authoritative focus. Into the yawning, impossibly large space of Domplatz, his inspired music offered the voice of the divine. While more conservative than most of his works, relying on familiar harmonics, his cantata for Duke Ferdinand proved down-to-earth, boisterous and unexpectedly celebratory.

From her vantage, Mathilda fought the wrenching sensation of being pulled by his magnetism. She reminded herself that the bigger-than-life conductor held little in common with the awkward, bullying musician she knew him to be.

Yet she watched, hypnotized. Every movement of his slim baton, actions at once frenetic and precise, expunged her unique knowledge. She forgot his abrasive manners. She ignored his awkward hesitations. And she disregarded his peculiar inability to settle on the right tone in any conversation.

A single face among thousands, she watched and listened and yearned.

Wednesday. She would see him again on Wednesday.