by Carrie Lofty
“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.
“You are a menace, sir!”
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 wan
ted 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.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“You’re nervous,” Mathilda said.
At her back, Arie worked to untangle the stays of her corset. He laughed softly, his lips grazing her nape. “And you sound glad of that.”
She smiled, willing her hesitation to abate. She wanted passion and oblivion and wildness. But fear persisted. The edginess shone through in her voice, but she couldn’t banish it. “I like to know I affect you.”
“You do,” he said. “More than is healthy. Anyway, how can you tell?”
“I’ve never seen your hands so unsteady.”
He yanked at the laces, mumbling Dutch curses under his breath. “As long as I can untie your stays, they are still useful.”
“You take much longer than my maid.”
“No, no. I do this purposefully.”
“Oh, really?”
Finally working through the labyrinth of her undergarments, he eased the corset and shift off her body. “I am taking my time,” he whispered. His warm breath and his feathery kisses covered her from one shoulder to the other. “Before…before we barely had time to breathe, let alone undress.”
Dizziness enveloped her, a blissful moment where thought dissolved into sensation. “Are you complaining?”
“No. I want more.” With those unsteady hands, he banished her remaining clothes to the floor. Smooth palms skimmed her skin, heating every place he touched. A greater heat built in the pit of her stomach and between her thighs. “Tonight,” he said, “I want to see you.”
Nude, bathed in the glow of two candles and Arie’s reverent gaze, Mathilda fought her inhibitions. Old disappointments threatened to smother the fires started by his every look, kiss, touch. Excited anticipation shimmered in her blood and prickled her skin. Her breath alternated between catching and rushing. The need to dig her nails into the resilient muscles of his chest, into the whole lean length of him, drove her to chant silent pleas for mercy.
Yet that bone-deep knowledge of inevitable, callous frustration robbed her of the joy she desired. She had learned to accept her failings with Jürgen—failings he shared, too. But she did not want to accept that same maddening result with her idol. Making love to him in actuality, for all of the pleasure his kisses promised, would mean ripping her most private fantasy to pieces.
Nibbling contentedly on her shoulder, Arie hesitated. The recognition of her sudden withdrawal crossed his face like a shadow, slowing the play of his lips across her skin.
When Mathilda could no longer meet his bold, appreciative eyes, he sat on the narrow bed and motioned her to join him. “What is it?”
Oh, what she wanted to say…everything she could never voice. Private embarrassment threatened to crush her. Crossing nude breasts with trembling arms, she sat and dragged her knees closer to her body. “I cannot discuss this.”
“I do not pull you here to the studio—at your request, mind you—and unlace that confounded corset to see you cover up and be silent.”
Arie’s tolerant smile eased the vigor of his tirade. He pulled the bedcovers away from the headboard and motioned her to climb into that warm seclusion. She gratefully acquiesced, only to watch him unceremoniously remove the remainder of his clothes and slide in beside her. She squirmed to one side of the narrow mattress, but he caught her around the waist. Under the blankets, the delicate hairs along his forearm tickled and aroused her bare belly. Her nipples hardened with every subtle brush of the bedding against her sensitive skin.
“Better,” he murmured at her temple. “I will be good, but you will talk.”
“You are terribly certain. Why?”
“Because you are a truthful woman.”
She exhaled, enjoying a measure of proud satisfaction at his assessment. Since revealing the truth about her marriage to Jürgen, she felt honest, relieved of those old burdens. But she was no closer to revealing her worries—not about this, not even naked and in his bed.
“Perhaps, but I am not indiscreet.”
Arie grinned. “Because you fear to damage my fragile esteem?”
“Regarding this topic, you seem quite assured.” She helplessly recalled how, weeks earlier, he had dropped to his knees and taken her into his mouth. A flash of heat released from deep inside her, wetting the folds between her thighs. She squirmed. Arie held fast, his fingers tightening along the flesh at her waist.
“You will be surprised, liefde. I fear your rejection here more than anywhere.” His teasing demeanor eased. “Is your worry to do with your husband?”
Emotion left Mathilda shaky. She nodded in the deep shadows of their retreat.
“Then you should speak—”
“Arie, you’re mad.”
“—because I imagine a difficult part of mourning is when everyone hides from the dead. They fear upsetting you. You cannot discuss memories—good, bad, ordinary, intimate.”
Tears stung behind her eyelids. She toyed aimlessly with his fingers at her hip. “I won’t discuss those intimacies with Jürgen’s successor in my bed.”
“The bed is mine,” he said, kissing her brow. “And with what other person will you have such a conversation?”
“No one. I shall keep my memories to myself.”
“As you wish.” He rolled gracelessly onto his back, leaving her to miss his possessive hold.
“You’re impossible.”
“Perhaps, but I want to understand.”
Mathilda closed her eyes. She stifled the mortification that promised to leave her mute and useless, trapped by fear. She wanted Arie to comprehend the dread keeping her paralyzed. Only she wished he could read her thoughts to accomplish that end, saving her the embarrassment of saying the words.
Ah, but she was a fool. Stripped bare in his bed, what additional damage could an honest c
onversation wreak?
After a deep, fortifying breath—all the better to spit out her thoughts in a single, long string—Mathilda spoke. “Imagine the sex act for you, for men. Aside from a few pleasant distractions when you remember to notice your partner, you begin at zero and continue confidently to number ten.”
Arie mumbled his agreement and faced her again, lazily tracing her nipples. When had the sheet slipped?
“I will not disagree with you.” His deep voice wound through her body, coiling between her legs. “You are a feast of distractions.”
“Well, no matter how pleasant, I freeze. At number eight.”
He burned her with a wicked, knowing grin. “You did not freeze before, under my mouth.”
A painful blush flared over her skin. The heat between her thighs intensified. “Jürgen never…did…” She sighed, giving up on trying to express what had transpired between them. “You took me by surprise.”
Arie waved at their strewn clothes. “And this? This was too much time to worry?”
“Maybe.” She giggled nervously. “Anticipation is supposed to be positive, yes?”
He trailed two fingers between her breasts, down to her navel. The sheet slipped again. “Perhaps. But women have unique shapes. Small wonder you have different needs for pleasure, different prompts.” Her maestro stopped. “I did not have as many women as you fear.”
“I said nothing.”
“Your face, Tilda.” He kissed the bridge of her cheek, her nose, her upper lip. She inhaled his breath as his masculine warmth sank into every pore. “You wear an expression of curiosity and fear.”
Her stomach clenched at the truth of his words. His casual mention of other women, even within the context of trying to assuage her anxieties, froze her with cold dread.
“I wear nothing of the sort,” she said.
“You wear nothing, and I am a happy man.”
“Arie!”
He chuckled again, watching her with implacable eyes—eyes that refused to allow her to retreat again. All teasing vanished. “I am not a profligate,” he said steadily. “I had no more than one lover for each year since I turned nineteen.”