Song of Seduction by Carrie Lofty Read Free Book Online Page B

marble archways connecting Kapitelplatz to the wide square in front of the Dom. The massive arches loomed above a row of carriages. After a fond goodbye, Ingrid and her husband moved to join other political dignitaries. Oliver and two footmen stood near Mathilda and the Venners’ guests, all facing the Dom.
    Dwarfed by the Dombogen, lost in the crowds, and humbled by the awe-inspiring architecture, a curious sense of peace absorbed her. If she could compose music, she would select that particular feeling of happy insignificance for her theme.
    She smiled without reserve and gazed skyward. The impressive statue of the Virgin Mary stood on a lofty pedestal. Angels lingered at her feet, ready to adorn her with a crown. Mathilda stretched her thoughts toward Mary’s serene face, and that same tingling impression of smallness returned, infusing her imagination and heightening her senses.
    She dragged her stare from the heavens. Arie De Voss stood not ten feet away.
    No hint of emotion registered on his jagged features as they caught sight of one another, but a sizzle of lightning flashed between them, arching around and over the people barring the path to his side.
    Mathilda’s pulse rushed, beating hard against her ribs. Impatient breaths fought for passage in and out of her lungs. She was unnerved by her body’s reaction to the sight of him, an uncommon man standing isolated among thousands of reveling citizens.
    A sudden apprehension skittered across her heart. She hoped he would refrain from dragging down her high opinion of him any further. Monotony beckoned, and she could not endure a future of ennui without retaining a little piece of fantasy.
    That pathetic thought finally pulled her out of a stunned trance. Disgusted, she wondered when she had become unable to live outside of two equally hopeless worlds. Everyday tasks and obligations comprised her colorless widowhood, while unattainable fantasies painted wild dreams of make-believe. She had flitted from one to another for a year, trying to sew together a little happiness. But neither satisfied her.
    “I shall speak to Herr De Voss,” she said to Oliver.
    “ Ja, Frau Heidel.” Disapproval flickered in his dark eyes. “Shall I accompany you?”
    She smiled at his protective air. He took the task of guarding her seriously—or, likely, Venner had charged him to do so. “No need, Oliver. I won’t leave your sight.”
    Walking away was like stepping off a rocky cliff atop Mönchsberg. But memories of their dueling game of follow-the-leader—De Voss on cello and Mathilda on violin—thrummed through her blood. She yearned to return to his studio, to play the violin unfettered by her persistent dread of attention.
    Refusing to be ruffled again, she reassured herself that his brusqueness could no longer shock her. He drew his powers of intimidation from two sources: an ill-mannered disposition and incredible talent. She could counter both. After all, the city’s finest etiquette tutors had provided her with the ability to behave decorously, even in the face of indecorous conduct. And her violin performance had humbled him.
    Like a knight preparing for a joust, she drew faith from her strengths and made them a part of her being, like breathing—a task the maestro made maddeningly difficult.
    Dressed in the same slightly worn but well-tailored suit he had worn at the ball, he looked dreadfully elegant. Missing was the half-wild artiste she had chastised. In his place awaited a black-clad gentleman of refinement, bearing and neatly combed hair.
    Perhaps they would be able to conduct an ordinary conversation in keeping with their manner of acquaintance. She wanted to know if he would agree to more lessons, as well as the behavior she might reasonably expect should she return.
    Assuming a cheerful demeanor, she said, “Herr De Voss, how good to see you again.”
    “That makes a change, Frau Heidel. The last I recall of you is a remark on my wardrobe and a fussy