Duchess (22 page)

Fredrik noticed and tugged her closer to him. She glanced at him and frowned, but not before the stranger interjected himself into the conversation.

“Herr Muller, who is this lovely lady?” The man held a glass of champagne and now looked at her and smiled. Something about his gaze captured her, the way he looked at her then, the flicker of something akin to recognition in his eyes. “Herr Staffen. Otto Staffen,” he said.

“Roxy Price,” she responded.

“Of course. You're even lovelier than your press photos.” His English had only the slightest accent. He took her hand, lifted it to his lips, pressed them against her hand through her glove. Then he looked up at her and smiled.

The sense of the familiar hit her so hard she gasped. But she couldn't place him, and she reeled through her past, knowing she'd seen him before. She opened her mouth to say something but he signaled to a waiter for another drink, speaking in German.

Maybe not.

Fredrik turned her. “Care to dance?”

She didn't seem to have a choice as he maneuvered her to the dance floor. She allowed him to affix her into his arms and moved with him into the waltz.

The eyes of his companions followed her. All except Otto, who had turned his back to her.

Strange, that feeling, but perhaps he simply reminded her of someone. His blond hair curled at the nape of his neck, dark, and she had the sense then that she might be seeing—

Bennett. Her stepfather.

Her brother Jack's biological father.

She tried to study the man, but Fredrick's hand on her back tightened, and she couldn't nudge him back around, regardless of her subtle attempts.

When he finally turned her again, Otto had disappeared from the group. She tried to find him in the crowd, but he'd vanished.

“Everything okay, Miss Price?”

She leaned back, smiled into Fredrik's dark eyes. “Do you know Herr Staffen well?”

“He's a war hero, served on the front in the First War. And now runs the Gestapo in Berlin. Why?”

Oh.

Well. She gave him a smile. “No reason.”

When the music ended, he guided her back to the group.

“My turn, perhaps?” Ernst Kaltenbrunner asked. He bowed at the waist, and she allowed him to lead her back to the floor.

She danced in turn with each of Muller's companions, each time searching for Rolfe, or Staffen, but both seemed to have vanished.

Wilhelm Stuckart fetched her some
Millirahmstrudel
and she ate the milk cake with coffee in the massive adjoining gold-wallpapered dining room, under the hurrah of chandeliers.

Then, Muller invited her outside, to the balcony. Stars thickened with the night, and across the glittering cityscape, the St. Stephan's Cathedral shone like a beacon.

“Wait until midnight. The fireworks are quite breathtaking,” Muller said. He was leaning against the balustrade of the balcony. “Are you cold?”

She ran her hands over her goosefleshed arms, glancing back into the crowd. Dance again or stand in the cold. From behind her, the orchestra had launched into another waltz, but her feet ached, and the milk-cake had settled like lard in her stomach.

And seeing this German who, for a moment, stirred up memories of her brother made her ache to her bones. She just wanted Rolfe to return, to take her home.

“Have you seen Duke Van Horne?”

Fredrick frowned. “I thought you came with him.”

She drew in a breath. “I did, but he seems to have abandoned me.”

Muller moved toward her, grabbing her hand. “His loss then.” He pulled her toward him. “Perhaps I can help you forget the duke,” he said, curling his arm around her waist.

Before she could stop him, he'd pressed a kiss to her neck. Slimy and cold, it froze her for a second before she palmed the front of his uniform. “Herr Muller, please, I—”

“There you are, Miss Price. I thought I saw you venture out here.”

Rolfe's voice slid over her like a hand upon her shoulder. Muller lifted his head, put her away from him.

She reached out for the banister, her legs rubbery. She backed away from Muller even as Rolfe came up to them. “You promised me a dance, and I was searching all over for you.”

She stared up at him, nonplussed.

He smiled.

Suddenly, she wanted to slap him. He abandoned her to the clutches of Herr Muller's pawing all night and now had the nerve to smile at her?

He seemed unaffected by her glower. “But you look tired. Perhaps I could see you home?”

She hated him then for the relief that sluiced through her. Her hero. Again.

Fredrik pinched his lips together then bowed at the neck. “Until we meet again, Miss Price.”

“Thank you for a lovely evening,” she ground out.

Rolfe watched him go, his smile dying.

He turned to her even as she rounded on him.

“Where have you been?”

“Are you all right?”

Their words crossed, and she stared at him, her mouth open. Then, “What do you care? You abandoned me! You simply left me there on the dance floor. I danced with the entire cadre of German officers tonight, and you couldn't care less.”

“That's not true,” he said quietly and reached out for her hand. She yanked it away.

“Just take me home.” She brushed past him, but he grabbed her arm.

“Rosie, please,” he started, but she whirled around and slammed her hand into his chest.

“Don't, Rolfe. Just don't act like you care. You've been ignoring me for a week—for months, really. I thought maybe we could be friends, that maybe you cared for me, and then—then you keep abandoning me. Like I repulse—”

“I can't think straight when I'm around you.”

His words came out dark, even angry, and silenced her.

He closed his eyes, as if in pain. “Rosie. I never abandoned you. Don't you realize that I see everything you do? You are so far under my skin, inside me that I simply cannot think. I have to leave to keep from losing my mind.”

She backed away from him, but he grabbed her arms. “I loved being with you on Christmas Eve. I—I lost myself that night. I wanted more than anything to bring you into the house, to make love to you, to rewind time, but—but we can't do that, can we?”

She could taste her heart, the way it filled her throat, but she had no words for him.

He softened his voice, reached up, and touched her cheek. “No matter how much I want it, I can't convince you to love me. I wish I could. I would give you the world, but you said it—Bridget is too wounded to give away her heart again.”

Bridget? But yes, their conversation in Paris returned to her and she closed her eyes.
You tell me, Rolfe, it's your story
. A tear slipped out.

He brushed it away with his thumb, and it sent heat through her, right to her toes. She closed her eyes against the unbearable fist in her chest.

Then, abruptly, his voice softened. “But sometimes, heaven help me, sometimes I just don't care.”

She opened her eyes. His eyes, so blue, were in hers, and she couldn't bear to tear away as his gaze roamed her face, finding her mouth. Stopping there with such desire she went a little weak.

And then he kissed her. Fast, as if he feared changing his mind, he pulled her to himself, covering his mouth with hers. She felt in his touch the hunger that she understood, a hunger that being near him stirred in her.
Oh Rolfe
. He tasted of the sweet champagne and the milk cake and smelled so good she could simply inhale him. She wrapped her arms around his neck and chose to mold herself to him, to give him as much of herself as she could.

No, Bridget couldn't give away her heart again. But maybe, someday, Rosie could.

And until then, she'd give him as much as she dared.

She wove her fingers into his hair, and let herself feel the strength of his arms around her. Let herself inhale the spicy elegance of his cologne, the way he deepened his kiss, held her tighter.

“Rolfe,” she said as he pulled away. She caught his gaze, wouldn't release her grip around his neck. “Please don't stop kissing me.”

He opened his mouth then, just a little, like a gasp, perhaps. And then he nodded, the smallest, dangerous smile across his face. “Never, Rosie,” he said. “Never.”

When he kissed her again the sky lit up with fireworks, a thousand explosions of celebration. The year 1938 just might be the year that everything changed.

Rolfe may have her playing the role of a village resistance fighter, but he knew how to treat Rosie like a star.

Although they'd taken over the tiny nearby village of Grillendorf for shooting, Rolfe had rented rooms in the nicest hotel in the village of Berndorff, the residence of a former noble turned into a posh hotel. She could imagine herself royalty as she read her lines in the palatial estate located in the heart of town. She felt like she might be in the middle of some sort of fairy tale with the church bells ringing, the quaint white-washed houses equipped with chalet-style balconies that overlooked the town, and the lush evergreen forests ringing the surrounding hills.

Outside her window, the green dome of the St. Margareta Parish church lifted to the blue skies. A warm spell had swept through the valley, melting the last layer of snow from the red-tiled roofs, the cobbled streets.

She could live forever in her quaint two-room suite, with the green brocade wallpaper, the deep oak furniture, the claw-foot tub, pampered by too many Bavarian pastries Rolfe sent up to her suite every morning. Any more delicacies and she'd have to force herself to go hungry, like Bridget, the woman she played.

In fact, she should probably advise Rolfe to pamper her less or she'd never fit back into the role. She'd been shooting with Hale Nichols for two weeks, struggling to feel the angst of Bridget, heartbroken, reckless, angry.

And why not? In the last three months, she'd suddenly become happy—even…well, she felt almost whole. She still didn't know why, suddenly, Rolfe had decided to take her into his arms again, why he'd become the man she remembered in California. He'd spent every free moment introducing her to Vienna and beyond. He'd taken her skiing in Salzburg before moving her and the new crew to Berndorff.

She wanted to mention that, as a studio head, she had some financial thoughts on the wisdom of rehiring the extras and too many of the crew every time they changed film locations, that perhaps letting the old crew go during the duration of the winter, between locations, might be prudent. That way he didn't have to keep them on salary, and indeed, he could let them go when they completed their set of scenes.

And, although he seemed to have no shortage of money, the cast of extras seemed excessive; he'd hired them from around Vienna, housing them for the last week in various homes around Berndorff.

She doubted if any of them had real acting ability—and why he needed to hire entire families seemed a bit overdone since he only needed a handful for village scenes and could reuse them as resistance fighters.

In fact, most of the scenes involved Bridget struggling, single-handed, to outwit the Germans who prowled the village, looking for dissent as she sabotaged the enemy.

And Hale Nichols was Colin, the benefactor that kept her alive.

He sat across from her now, in the lobby of the Berndorff Hotel, his own script in hand, reading today's rehearsal lines. They'd film outside today, a confrontation scene where she discovered Master Colin had lent his military talent to the Germans.

She wanted to like Hale, but since returning to the set, he'd turned aloof, almost angry, emotions he easily transferred into his role. He spent most of his time reading the newspaper, consulting with his dialogue coach, or even in conversation with Rolfe.

It made her miss Spenser. She hoped he'd taken her up on her offer to visit Irene and Sammy in Hollywood.

“Do you want to rehearse today's scene?” Hale said as he lowered his paper to look at her.

“I understand the scene.” She picked up her script. “What I don't understand is why Master Colin is so angry when he sees her. Shouldn't she be angry with him?”

He frowned at her. “He's angry because he loves her and she is risking her life.”

“But he is the one who caused her to run away. If he hadn't killed her lover—”

“He was just protecting her.”

“Are you saying that Master Colin was just trying to do what was best for her, even though it hurt her?”

He lifted a shoulder.

“I disagree. How can it be in someone's best interest to break his or her heart?”

“Maybe he's given her what she wants, she just doesn't know it yet.” He lifted the paper. She leaned forward suddenly caught by the headlines.

“Did you know the Nazis have annexed Austria?”

He closed the paper to read the front cover. Shook his head. “You're an amazing actress, Roxy, but you need to pay attention to the world. That happened three days ago. The Third Reich owns Austria now.”

Three days ago?

Rolfe had gone to Vienna three days ago.

Hale put down the paper. “Our car is here.”

She got up, gathering her wrap around her.

McDuff had transformed the tiny village located eight miles away into a Great War replica, the shots taking place either outside on the street or in her humble village cottage, where Bridget hid resistance fighters. Dressed in a peasant skirt and threadbare coat, Rosie returned from shooting most days in need of a hot bath just to feel her bones again.

Today, however, as she stepped outside, she smelled the hint of spring in the air, just enough warmth to suggest that she might not freeze today on the set.

The driver opened the door to the Rolls, and she climbed into the backseat with Hale.

He rolled the newspaper into a tight mallet in his fists.

“Are you okay?”

He shook his head, stared out the window. “I fear what our world might come to with the Third Reich taking over Austria. What country is next?”

“Germany isn't going to invade anyone. Think of what happened to them in Great War. They don't want a repeat.”

Hale looked at her, frowning. “It's not a repeat. It's retaliation. Of course they haven't forgotten what happened in the Great War. The Germans will stop at nothing to make the world repay their defeat.” He sighed. “I should know, I'm German.”

“You're German?”

He nodded. “My family escaped after the war, but we still have family there. I was back in 1935 for the Rally of Freedom.” He sighed. “More like the Rally of Death.”

“What do you mean?”

He turned to her, and in his eyes she saw the age of an older man. “My best friend was killed at the
Reichsparteitage
that year. And it was my fault.”

She stared at him. He looked past her as they threaded through the narrow streets of the village.

“I returned to visit my childhood chums, and we wanted to attend the rallies. Of course, I didn't have any special privileges from Himmler or the Ministry of Propaganda, so I couldn't obtain tickets, but a friend of mine managed to purchase contraband tickets from a German. I kept one and gave two to friends. One of them had been jailed as a Communist during one of the demonstrations after the war.”

“Jailed?”

“As a political prisoner. He was in a concentration camp in Dachau. It happened in 1934, when Hitler took control and abolished all other political parties. Anyone with Communist leanings was imprisoned.”

“I had no idea.”

“Yes well, most of the world doesn't. Hans finally denounced the Communist Party, so they released him. He wanted to see firsthand what the Nazi Party planned, so I gladly gave him one of my tickets. The morning of the rally, I happened to turn over the ticket and noticed E
HRENGAST
printed on the back in bold gold letters.”

“What does that mean?”

“It meant that the ticket was issued to a special guest. That the holder might even be seated in a place of honor, and most importantly, when I presented my ticket, the Gestapo would realize the truth—that the tickets were probably stolen.”

He scrubbed his hand across his chin, his eyes suddenly bright.

“Oh no.”

“I tried to find Hans, but he'd already left for the event. I knew that as soon as he presented them, he'd be arrested. Probably if he hadn't been arrested before as a left-wing conspirator, he would have been released.”

He drew in a long, pained breath.

Rosie put a hand on his arm.

“I read about his execution in the paper the next morning.”

“I'm so sorry.”

He stared out the window. “The Nazis will make us all pay for the punishment in the Great War Treaties, you can bet on that.”

She knotted her hands, watched the countryside. Please, Rolfe, return soon.

Thankfully, Hale's story served to give her exactly the fury she needed to confront Master Colin on the street, garbed in the uniform of a German officer. She played her part with such authenticity, she managed it in one take.

She found Rolfe applauding as McDuff wrapped the scene. Dressed in a long, black wool coat and his bowler, he looked tired, although he smiled, his blue eyes capturing hers.

How had she ever thought him cold? She didn't wait until they'd ducked into a discreet alley, or even her dressing room, before she flung herself into his arms. “I was so worried for you.”

“Why?” He cradled her face in his hands, still cold from the spring chill.

“Because of the Nazis.”

Something flickered in his eyes, sadness? Confusion? But he simply leaned down and kissed her, sweetly, assuaging her worry.

Around them, the set had gone quiet.

He seemed nonplussed by the attention and met her eyes, smiled. “Continue to be as brilliant as you were today, and you will have nothing to fear.” Then he wrapped her in his overcoat. “Come. We need to hurry if we want to make the evening train.”

“We're leaving?”

He nodded. “We're moving into France; our shooting here is finished.”

“But we have more scenes—”

“Those also, I'm moving to France.”

She broke away from him. “But that will mean more delays, rewriting—” She didn't care that everyone might be watching, including McDuff, standing amid his cameramen, poised to watch the dailies. “Rolfe, you're spending a fortune on this. At Palace Studios we'd have this movie in the can already.”

“A masterpiece takes time,” he said, pressing his lips to her forehead. “Trust me.”

She broke away, shook her head. But when he smiled down at her, she could hardly remember her own name, let alone an argument.

“I need to pack.”

“Sophie already assembled your things.” He glanced at McDuff, nodding, and then steered her to the waiting car. “And the crew?”

“Coming as soon as possible. The grips have already packed as much as they can; they'll be on the morning train.”

She turned, looking for Hale. He was talking to McDuff now.

“I don't understand, Rolfe.”

He opened the door for her, helped her into the car. Kissed her forehead. “I'll meet you at the station. Don't worry, darling. Really.”

A light snow had begun to drift from the darkening sky as she left the hotel. Sophie had already gone ahead with her wardrobe and personal items, leaving behind her night case and traveling clothes. Rosie changed into a pair of trousers and a cotton shirt, pulled a wool sweater over it and belted it around the waist. She added a hat, her calf gloves, and took her night case with her.

The driver brought her to the station and offered to assist her, but she declined and found Hale on the platform, searching the train for their private car.

“Have you seen Rolfe?” she asked as he took her case from her and helped her into car three.

“He's here. I saw him with McDuff; they were with some of the cast. Extras.”

“He's taking them with us?”

“It seems so,” Hale said. “Your car is here, I believe.” He stopped at a compartment and handed her the case.

She slid open the door and set it inside. “See you at dinner.”

“I don't think so,” Hale said, “I feel unwell.”

Indeed, he appeared white.

“Are you okay?”

“I will be when we leave Austria.”

She watched him slip into a compartment only two doors down.

Down the aisle, she could see the extras assembling in the coach car, their belongings at their feet. Some still wore their village costumes, and she couldn't help but think they resembled refugees, somewhat bewildered at Rolfe's sudden uprooting of their schedule.

She felt the same way. Worse, more interruptions like this ate into their promotional budget. Someone might want to remember that her future hung in the success of this film. And without a publicity budget—well, she knew the game well enough to know that an un-promoted film turned into an unwatched film.

And a dying career.

She returned to her compartment and worked off her gloves, her coat, and pulled out the script. Maybe she'd help him rewrite a few of the scenes.

The first whistle had sounded by the time Rolfe knocked at her door. She slid it back, and he stepped inside.

He looked harried, almost undone. “We're off,” he said as the train lurched forward. She grabbed his arm for balance, and he caught her against himself. Smiled. Kissed her nose.