Duchess (21 page)

He raised an eyebrow, almost in challenge.

Fine. She took a breath, “Love me or leave me…let me be lonely…”

He picked up the next line, his voice a deep, resonant tenor, just like she remembered. “You won't believe me, and I love you only….”With him staring at her like that, she might actually believe that he hadn't forgotten her, hadn't stopped loving her.

Her voice trembled, her chest tight as she sang the words back to him. “I'd rather be lonely than happy with somebody else…”

He came near her, but even as the words echoed out of her, she felt them settling into her. He sang the next stanza while taking her hand, his eyes holding her fast.

“You might find the nighttime the right time for kissing, but nighttime is my time for just reminiscing….”

She knew the next words but couldn't seem to pry them from her chest.

After a beat, he took them up himself. “Regretting instead of forgetting with…somebody else.”

But that's what he'd done, hadn't he?

“I didn't marry for love, either
.”

Her eyes burned, too much emotion in her throat as she pressed out the lyric—“There'll be no one unless that someone is you….”

His smile faded. Silence filled the room, and all she heard was her heartbeat, then, thundering in her chest.

“I don't remember the rest,” he said softly.

“I think it's something about not wanting to borrow love, not wanting to have it today only to lose it tomorrow.”

He had her hand, her gaze, and nodded.

Still, silence. And then he shrugged, smiled. Turned to the audience. “That's all we have—”

The room exploded into thunderous applause. Buoyant and bright, the children rose to their feet, cheering, some of them pouncing onto their chairs.

Rolfe took her hand, and gave a bow, rich with flourish.

She couldn't move. She just pressed her hand to her chest and drank it in, letting it nourish her, filling all the empty niches of her heart. Silly tears crested at the corner of her eyes.

Rolfe squeezed her hand then stepped away, his hands out toward her.

And then all she saw was his smile, the warmth in his gaze, and the way he moved his lips to form silent words.

Merry Christmas
.

She nodded and held out her hands to her audience. A few children surged forward, embraced her, and for a precious, sweet moment, she held on.

The glow of their adoration clung to her the rest of the evening as Rolfe handed out gifts to each child then danced with the girls to the melodies on a Victrola. She and Sophie danced with the boys, and she taught a few of the older boys to waltz.

The hour had turned to midnight by the time Sophie and Mademoiselle Franc ordered the children to bed.

Rolfe helped her with her cape. “Thank you,” he said softly, a whisper over her skin. He helped her into the car, and she sat back, enjoying his rumpled aristocratic appearance. His tie hung askew, his gloves abandoned.

“Now the questions,” he said, pulling into the night.

“Sophie is—”

“My cousin. And her family helps run the orphanage. She hosts their annual Christmas Eve party, allowing the regular staff to take the night off. She has aspirations of being in the movies, so I thought she might enjoy being your assistant.”

“It wasn't fair to trick me—I treated her like a servant. Is she a duchess?”

“Her father was a baron, but she is unmarried, so her title is simply Miss.”

“Miss Le Blanc.”

“But Sophie will do on the set.” He looked at her. “She didn't want you to know. She's a fan, and felt it rather…awkward.”

“I understand. And those children. They know you.”

“And I know them.” He didn't offer further explanation, but it seemed that perhaps it didn't need one. He was their benefactor.

Their hero.

And, suddenly, hers. She wanted to reach across the darkness for his hand, but instead she softened her voice to something tender. “It was indeed a merry Christmas. Thank you, Rolfe.”

She saw him nod as they pulled up to his château.

He got out without a word, retrieved her, and gave her his arm.

Before they reached the stoop, he paused and turned her.

Oh, he was handsome, the way the cold had burnished his cheeks. And he smelled like the revelry of the evening, a masculine redolence that made her want to lean toward him, to wrap her arms around his waist, to lift her face to him.

Maybe he could see it in her eyes, for he swallowed, his gaze landing on her lips.

Yes.

“You are so lovely, Rosie.”

Oh, there were those annoying tears. She looked away, blinking.

“I know you don't believe it, not really. I know that deep inside you think you have to have others tell it to you. But if that is what I have to do, then I will.” He cupped her face, turned it back to face him. “You are so beautiful that sometimes it stuns me, holds me captive.”

Rolfe.

He would kiss her, and oh, how she wanted it. She even moistened her lips, lifted her face to his.

She didn't know how to grasp the emotions of the day, the loneliness, the anger, the—the delight.

Most of all, the terrible, wonderful urge to press herself into Rolfe's arms and hold on. But, “Lovely with or without my hair?”

He frowned.

She lifted a shoulder, looking away.

“Oh, Rosie.” He turned her face back to his, his eyes troubled. “Don't you know?”

She blinked away the moisture gathering in her eyes.

“How many times do I have to tell you you're beautiful before you believe it?”

“I don't know.”

His voice lowered. “Fine. I'll tell you every day that you're beautiful if that's what you need to hear. Because it's the truth.”

She didn't ask, wanting to believe his words, and what she saw in his eyes. The way his gaze roamed over her face.

All she had to do was lean in. Lean in and then certainly he'd be kissing her. She could taste the softness of his touch on her lips.

Rolfe.

Suddenly, he seemed to catch himself. He swallowed, licked his lips, cleared his throat. “I'm so sorry about…my condition earlier this evening. I wasn't myself. And I know better than to turn to drink. I know God has a different path for me. I was just shying away from it. My Gethsemane moment, perhaps.”

She frowned, not sure— “I—know that, Rolfe.”

Her tone flickered on his face, the way he fashioned a smile. “I am wondering if you would do me a favor….”

Anything. She nodded, her gaze on his blue eyes. Dark whiskers had begun to shade his face, and she wanted to run her hand down the scruff of his chin. “I must go to Vienna for a New Year's ball.” He touched his hand to her face. “Please, will you accompany me?”

Vienna, to a ball? “Of course.”

He smiled then, but he gave a funny little swallow, as if he might be relieved. “I need to get you inside, it's cold out here.”

“I'm not cold,” she said.

“Neither am I,” he said. He breathed in a long breath, shook his head, wearing a strange expression. “That's the problem.”

He pulled away from her then and opened the door. Mr. Yates materialized, ready to help her with her cloak, him with his wool coat.

“Thank you, Mr. Yates,” he said. “Can you see Miss Price to her room, make sure Gwendolyn stirs the hearth?”

“Yes, sir.”

He wasn't going to kiss her, to wrap her in his arms? To invite her—

Oh.

Had she somehow misread him on the stoop, the texture of his eyes, the way he seemed ready to take her in his arms?

He turned to her, lifted her hand, and kissed it. “Thank you, Rosie, for a beautiful Christmas Eve. As usual, you were brilliant. I look forward to Vienna with great relish.” He briefly met her eyes. Then he left her standing in the hallway.

She had the strangest sense that, despite his words, she hadn't played her part right tonight, not at all.

It was a night, a city, in which to fall in love. And tonight, Rosie intended that Rolfe Van Horne would remember her.

The lights of Vienna twinkled against the velvet black canopy of the night, turning the city magical on the eve of the New Year. A blanket of snow frosted the baroque statues on the monuments along the
Ringstrasse
, turned to glitter the statue of Mozart poised in front of the Imperial Building. Outside her hotel, the Grand Hotel Wein, the horses harnessed to stately carriages blew fog into the chilly air. Rolfe intended to take a carriage to the Schonbrunn Palace tonight and had left instructions, as well as a new mink stole, in her room.

If she counted only his gifts, from the fur to the richly attired suite in the Grand Hotel—a three-room suite, with the rose brocade and gilded furniture, the gleaming beech and walnut furniture, the gold chandeliers that splashed pomp and circumstance into the room—she might assume he adored her. He'd made himself virtually scarce since their arrival in Vienna three days ago, and if it weren't for Sophie to keep her occupied, Rosie would have turned around and headed back to Belgium. Or perhaps America.

“Is he angry with me?” she asked Sophie who insisted on helping her dress for the ball. “Because he's hardly spoken to me since the night at the orphanage.”

“I don't believe so. Does he have any reason to be?”

Rosie shook her head. But with the exception of a few perfunctory words at breakfast, or perhaps in passing, Rolfe acted as if their moment on the steps, the warmth she felt in his arms, hadn't existed.

Tonight, she determined to revive the look in his eye, to make him see her.

To make him remember.

She simply refused to believe that the emotions she saw move through his eyes didn't belong to her. Or maybe she simply refused to believe they belonged to someone else.

“Sophie, did you know Rolfe's wife?”

Sophie stood behind her, unpinning the curls she'd set earlier. Her hair hung in soft waves, curling at the ends into a tumble of elegance. “I did.”

“He told me it was a marriage of convenience.”

Sophie had mentioned little about the night at the orphanage, spending her time in Austria showing Rosie the sights. They'd toured the Burgtheater and Akadamietheather, and opera house,
Staatsoper
, the
Kunsthistorisches
and
Naturhistorisches
Museums. They had taken coffee at
Zum Schwarzen Kamel
, a favorite of the composer Beethoven, and even watched a performance of the Lipizzaner stallions at the Spanish Riding School in the Hapsburg Winter Palace.

She would like to have seen all those sights on Rolfe's arm.

Sophie finished attending to her hair then reached for the dress, hanging on a silk padded hanger. She lifted it over Rosie's head. “Just because Rolfe married her because she needed him doesn't mean he didn't love her. He loved Bette very much. It just wasn't the kind of love that…” She looked away.

That he'd had for Rosie? Rosie tried to catch her eye in the mirror, her heart suddenly in her throat.

“Why did he marry her, if he didn't love her?”

“Because she needed him. And because it is his greatest joy to help someone when they need him, even if they don't know it or accept it.” Sophie seemed to be blinking away moisture from her eyes. “Rolfe is a noble man, but he's not above a broken heart. I think his wife reminded him that some things, like love, might be worth hoping for. That it was okay to long for it, even in the face of the impossible.”

“Which is why he wrote the screenplay?”

“Which is why he flew to America to ask you to play the role.” Sophie lifted her gaze, met Rosie's in the mirror. “Perhaps he needs to learn that just because you want something doesn't mean it's good for you.”

Rosie couldn't read her expression before she slid it away, returned to her ministrations. Certainly she didn't mean that she wasn't good for Rolfe?

“This dress is so lovely on you,” Sophie said, stepping back.

Indeed. Sleeveless and V-necked, it draped down to the floor and beyond in flowing white silk brocade. A sheer lace skirt overlaid the top. Her long, over-the-elbow, white gloves, and high-heeled white satin shoes completed the ensemble.

Apparently tonight's party would be a traditional Viennese Waltz, the dancers dressed in only black and white.

She almost looked like a bride.

Sophie stood behind her, met her gaze in the mirror, and smiled.

Maybe Rosie had misheard her.

“He said something about hoping God kept forgiving him for his mistakes.”

Sophie frowned, glanced at her in the mirror. Her expression softened. “He's talking about Angelica, the little girl you met at the orphanage, the one who ran into his arms.” She sighed, picked up the pearls and fastened them around her neck. They dangled down her back. “She's the daughter that Bette gave birth to that night.”

Rosie watched her movements in the mirror, trying to comprehend her words. “Angelica is his daughter?”

“By name only.”

“But then why does she live at the orphanage?”

Sophie held out a glove. “Because she is a child in need of a mother, and Rolfe can't take care of her that way.”

His mistakes. No wonder he watched the child all night, his eyes shining. “She is a beautiful girl.”

“He loves her dearly, just like he loves all the children at the orphanage.”

“But she's his stepdaughter. Does she know?”

Sophie held out the other glove. “Yes. But she also knows he is not trying to be cruel. He's trying to protect her.”

“By making her feel like she is like everyone else? That she has to earn his love?”

Sophie stepped away from her, frowning. “Angelica doesn't have to earn his love. Did it look as if she felt she needed to earn his love?”

No. Indeed, she'd run into Rolfe's open arms, overjoyed.

In fact, for a moment, Rosie had even been jealous.

Sophie picked up her cape, the dark mink, and wrapped it around her shoulders. “You will win the hearts of men tonight.”

She only vied for one.

Rolfe waited for her in the lobby, again dressed in his tails, this time with white gloves, a black overcoat, a top hat. And he'd hired a carriage to carry them the short distance from the Grand Hotel to the castle.

“You look lovely,” he said, but his words lacked warmth and he looked away before she could respond.

He helped her into the carriage then tucked a blanket around her. “I hope this is suitable. The drive is quite brief.”

“It reminds me of growing up in New York City.”

He nodded and climbed up beside her, nestling in beside her. He didn't take her in his arms, and the gulf between them felt arctic.

No, she hadn't played her role brilliantly a week ago, not at all.

Outside, St. Stephan's Cathedral glowed with the lights from the gothic tower and sprinkled starlight onto the cobbled street. Other bedazzled partygoers trotted by in open carriages.

Her throat began to burn, and she turned away. She shouldn't have expected anything but his cold shoulder, despite her attempts to catch his eye.

“Wilhelm Horst will be in attendance tonight,” Rolfe said, looking ahead. “You may remember him from Paris.”

She watched his words wheedle out into the air. “Of course. And your German friend? Muller?”

“Perhaps. Yes.”

She studied him, saw the taut ridge of his jawline. He seemed suddenly tense, like he had that night at
Le Pre Catelan
. She couldn't help it. “Is everything okay, Rolfe?”

He surprised her with the slightest hint of fear in his expression. Or maybe she'd imagined it because it vanished in a moment.

But he reached over from under the blanket and took her hand. Squeezed. “Thank you for accompanying me tonight.”

Some of the heat evaporated from her chest. “What is so important about this night?”

He didn't answer her. But he didn't let go of her hand either.

They pulled up to Schonbrunn Palace. A towering evergreen, perched on the long entrance balcony, sparkled against the night sky, bedecked with a thousand tiny white lights. Footmen in red livery opened the carriage, although Rolfe helped her down and wrapped her arm around his. “You really do look lovely,” he said.

She'd never met a more confusing man.

He led her up the outside stairs, and the sounds of the orchestra twined out into the night. Another footman opened the door to the grand entrance, where she left her cape; Rolfe, his muffler. Then he led her to the ballroom.

She'd attended glorious events as the daughter of an heiress, but the grand ballroom of the Schonbrunn Palace, with the polished golden parquet floor, the massive gilded, tiered, crystal chandeliers, the arched doorways, and gold-foiled trim, stole her breath. From an anteroom off the ballroom, an orchestra played a Strauss waltz, and across the room, countless couples, the women dressed in white ball gowns and men in black tails, twirled on the dance floor.

“Look up,” Rolfe said, and slipped his hand over hers.

The domed cathedral ceiling had been frescoed with paintings of warriors and chariots and horses, a canopy of battle overseeing the festive dancers, perhaps a way to remind guests of the power of the host, the former monarch of Austria.

“It's glorious.”

“It's ironic.”

She didn't know what he might mean by that. But for the first time, he turned to her. “One dance, perhaps, before the night begins?”

Only one? But she nodded, and he took her into his arms.

And then time vanished, and she returned to the sultry California beach, the music swelling in her head as he waltzed her onto the dance floor. The orchestra music soared with his movements, and she held on, feeling his strong grip in hers, his hand soft at the small of her back. He smelled clean, elegant, and the more she moved in step, letting him lead her, the more they became one movement, graceful and smooth. She lost herself for a moment in the heady sense of delight.

He dipped her at the end. She hadn't realized she'd been holding her breath. He was so close, she nearly leaned up to kiss him. Especially when his eyes met hers and she saw in them everything she'd hoped for.

Desire. Longing. The expression of the man she'd seen across the room that day so long ago in the hotel in Oakland. A man hoping that she might be his.

“Rolfe,” she whispered then curled her hand up around his neck.

The song ended, and she might have imagined it, but even as he appeared that he might kiss her, he closed his eyes. He drew in a breath, as if gathering himself, pulled away, and righted her.

The applause lifted around them.

He stepped away adding his own applause.

“Thank you,” he said. “That was perfect.”

But his eyes had chilled. Then, abruptly, he left her, right there on the dance floor.

She stood frozen a moment, nonplussed. What—

“Miss Price?” She turned, and found Fredrik Muller, his obsidian eyes upon her. “I didn't realize you'd grace us with your presence this evening,” he said.

He'd slicked up for tonight's event, although not in a tuxedo. Over his white shirt and tie, he wore a uniform of some kind, dark gray with gold epaulets at the shoulders and a host of honorary ribbons on his breast. On his collar, he wore patches of a three-leaf insignia and a pin with a cross in the middle.

“My escort seems to have abandoned me,” she managed, shooting a glance around the room for a glimpse of Rolfe.

“That is a crime I should have him executed for,” Fredrik said, winking. It felt not unlike being wooed by a reptile, pinched and scaly. And when he took her hand, moved it into the crook of his arm, she wasn't at all sure he was kidding.

“If you will permit me, I'd love to introduce you to some of my colleagues.”

“Indeed,” she said, searching for Rolfe. She spotted him standing in the corner, talking to an elderly woman in a tiara, long gloves, a black dress. Probably someone of Austrian royalty.

As if he might have sensed her gaze, Rolfe looked up, caught her eye. Then swallowed and looked away.

No, she didn't understand this man. Not at all.

Fine. Okay. But she could taste her heart in her throat, sour and burning.

Fredrik wove her through the crowd toward a group of four men standing in conversation, some of them holding drinks, others watching the dancers. They all wore the dark gray uniforms, some with a leather belt across the chest. “Gentlemen, I have a rare treat for you. I'd like you to meet the actress Roxy Price.”

He moved his arm to clasp around her waist, even as she extended her hand to the group. A bookish-looking man with spectacles and a scratch of a moustache took her hand, bowed. “Charmed,” he said, his accent heavy. “My name is Herr Himmler.”

“Wilhelm Stuckart,” said the next man, a bulbous man with a double chin, his hair cut so short she could see his flesh. She wanted to shrug free of his grip, shivering at the way his dark gaze traveled over her.

“Ernst Kaltenbrunner,” said the third man. He had a sharp, almost pinched face, the slightest grin tipping his lips. “I'm the true Austrian,” he said, winking at her.

“I'm sorry, I don't recognize your uniforms. Where are you gentlemen from?” she asked, adding an actress smile.

Fredrick still had his hand clutched to the small of her back. “We're with the German Schutzstaffel, here to provide diplomatic support for Austria.”

She wanted to ask about the trouble Spenser experienced with the new Nazi party in Germany, but she said nothing as another man approached their group.

With dark blond hair and blue eyes, he stood taller than the other three, something almost regal about his bearing. He had high cheekbones, the trace of a smirk on his face, as if he might be nursing some private humor. He wore the same dark uniform, with the exception of an extra row of medals at his chest. A black iron cross hung from his pocket. She didn't know why, but she couldn't tear her gaze from him.