Song of Seduction (4 page)

Frau Heidel was not a typical bored widow, it seemed—a disappointment he refused to examine. But if she did not seek his company for reasons of pleasure, why had she come? With the cynicism of a man used to unpleasant surprises, he watched her bring the violin to her shoulder.

A startled shriek issue forth from the beautiful instrument. Arie flinched. The young widow dropped the bow with a sound of surprise and frustration.

“Sorry.” As if haste might erase her mistake, she knelt and retrieved the bow.

A bemused smirk spread across his mouth. “Do not worry. You are nervous.”

“And cold.”

Arie raised an eyebrow. Most students shrank from his condescension, but irritation, embarrassment or both revealed a snappish side to her nature. Even if she did not want him for sex, she made for the most diverting student he had known in years.

Diverting and persistent. She tucked the violin under her chin with a determined huff…and played.

Breathless moments passed before Arie fully understood what he heard.

Gently, and rendered with as much skill and passion as he had ever encountered, Frau Heidel played
Love and Freedom.
She produced the right degree of vibrato, innately aware of how her dynamic fingers conjured magic from four strings. Tones shimmered and wept. Upon reaching the movement’s stark adagio, she slowed and swayed. Her intensity never wavered.

Arie’s astonishment swelled to doubt. Spellbound, he leaned forward. Her performance surrounded him. He strained his ears, the muscles in his neck, and the very limits of his musical faculties to identify any poorly executed note. But her intonation remained flawless. In her hands, the symphony sounded divine. Effortless.

And she was lovely to watch. Only a little crease at her brow indicated her deep level of concentration. As if listening to someone else’s recital, she moved willowy limbs and her long, curved body in time with the music.

His brain demanded an answer to the question she had yet to satisfy.
Who are you?

But a flood of liberated memories shoved his curiosity aside. He recalled the exotic sparkle of the Danube, the wild sound of the Magyar language in open summer markets, and the thump and thrill of ivory beneath his fingers.
Love and Freedom
had emerged during those months. Companionship and tutelage had given way to illness and fear—Maestro Bolyai’s illness and Arie’s fear. The shame of its conclusion cast a pall over an otherwise wonderful year.

Without flourish or fanfare, mere minutes and a lifetime later, Frau Heidel concluded the first of the symphony’s four movements. Her hands shook when she lowered the violin. Wide, searching and unsure, the widow’s eyes were a deep, shadowed green mingled with fiery sparkles of gold. Abandon had left her face damp and pink. Her radiant expression stopped his lungs short of their appointed task.

Lost, a sense of déjà vu washed over him like ice water. Although Arie was the one left speechless before her unearthly talent, she stared at him with the same adoring, awed look she had initially offered at the Venner gala. That night, he had done his loutish best to drive adoration from her face, but her humbling gaze reappeared in the wake of her performance.

Arie felt at once heroic and utterly fraudulent. Apparently in doubt of her gift, she stood awaiting his evaluation—and in profound amazement of him.

Because of that infernal symphony? Damnation.

How would you look at me if you knew?

In an effort to regain a little perspective, Arie vigorously rubbed his face. He arose from the stool and released a confined breath, uncertain as to how he should proceed. What would she expect him to say? What
could
he say? He had not been prepared for such a shocking performance or for the emotions
Love and Freedom
inevitably roused.

“Frau Heidel.”

“Yes?”

Arie tried to disregard the breathy expectation in her voice, but he could not. His opinion meant a great deal to her. Still, he did not like surprises. And he did not enjoy being made a fool.

“For how long did you have lessons for the violin?”

“Not much more than a year,” she said.

“And since, you have had no instruction?”

“Correct.”

He turned on her, angered by whatever combination of talent and deception she had conjured. “And what will you say when I do not believe you?”

Her eyes widened, distorting the attractive proportions of her face. “I—I cannot say.”

“Well, I do not believe you.” He pointed to the violin, her accomplice in his confusion. “You did not learn to play
that
piece with a single year of instruction.”

She flinched. She held fast. “Herr De Voss, I speak the truth.”

She has a beautiful mouth.

Arie shook his head. Annoyance and a distracting awareness of her body jumbled his mind. “I played seven instruments when I had ten years, but at that age, I cannot perform such a work without extensive study.”

“Which instruments?”

“
What?
”

“Which instruments could you play?” She tilted her head as if prompting a suitor in the midst of a drawing room conversation. “If you don’t mind my asking.”

“What has that to do with anything, girl?”

The widow glanced at her black gown. A rueful sadness chased across her face. “I am no girl, sir, and I ask because I’m curious.”

“You play games.” With what he hoped was an intimidating scowl, he braved the moss-gold of her eyes to discover the truth. “Tell me honestly. Where did you learn to play? Who was your teacher? And when you say you learned in your attic, teaching yourself, I will toss you to the street.”

The
Frau
smiled unexpectedly, a brilliant, dazzling expression without an ounce of pretense. She nearly giggled. “No wonder you have such difficulty retaining students.”

He stopped short. “How do you mean?”

“The gossips said you were a wretch.”

“Of course they do.” He hated the worried sound of his voice. “Will you tell people I lose my temper?”

“That depends on whether you answer my question.”

Behind her sparkling expression—an expression that had grown steadily bolder since her performance—Frau Heidel maintained a steadfast gravity he could not risk. Arie sighed in an exasperated moment of defeat.

“You want to know what instruments I can play as a child?”

She nodded.

Beste God
, but he could feel the corner of his lips tugging upward, the beginning of a reluctant smile. Her odd playfulness infected him with an uninvited levity.

“Pianoforte, harpsichord, violin, violoncello, oboe and flute.”

She counted on her fingers. “Only six.”

“Wench.”

“Bully.”

“Spanish guitar!”

“Quite impressive,” she said, gracing him with a slight smile. She tucked a curl behind her left ear in an elegant move. “And your favorite?”

“To play, compose or hear?”

“All three.”

He took a moment to consider his answer. When he composed, he became a parent striving to give equal time to his musical children. Maestro Bolyai had taught him that great music required balance and structure. All of the instruments needed a proper place and deserved moments to shine. Arie, however, retained distinct favorites. He had ever since he was a boy.

“Piano to play, cello to compose and violin to hear.”

“Why?”

“
Verdomme,
woman!”

“I am a woman now?” Frau Heidel grinned, arranging her skirts. “I should be offended by your irritability, but I promised to say nothing if you answered my question.”

“You make my head hurt.”

“On that score, I wager you have much in common with Lord Venner.”

Arie growled in the back of his throat. Even though he had not asked for a talented, unpredictable widow for a student, he could not afford to refuse her money—risking an insult to the Venners. His great, maddening symphony would be
the
piece to ensure his financial freedom, possibly securing a position within Duke Ferdinand’s new court. And he might finally rest without the melody of
Love and Freedom,
that ghostly fraud, picking away at his tenuous confidence.

In the meantime, he knew all too well that unfinished works earned nothing. Frau Heidel wanted to pay for his time, even though he could not find his way out of this particular lesson with a torch and a guide.

Stewing, he hardly noticed his newest student raise the violin again. The exasperating woman interrupted his gloom with the sound of his own sonata, the one he had debuted on the Venners’ English pianoforte. His unpublished sonata. For the piano.

Arie possessed the sole written copy of this particular piece, yet his new student was recreating the sonata on a different instrument. Any doubts about the true extent of her talent evaporated. She had absorbed the notes from the air.

She played. And he listened.
Really
listened.

Upon the completion of any piece of music, Arie felt as if he had satisfied his muse. Then, blissfully free of those impatient demands, he concentrated on promoting the work or conducting it for an audience. In that barren studio, however, Frau Heidel gave him an unexpected gift. Performed on the violin, the sonata entwined in his ears with a freshness he never would have thought possible. For the first time, he garnered a twinkle of enjoyment from his own composition. Criticism receded. He simply listened, amazed at what he had created—and what she created on his behalf.

The music faded to silence.

“Now,” he said, “tell the truth.”

“I did.” Her gentle words reached for him, as if sharing an extraordinary secret. “I studied violin for about a year, before Frau Seitz died.”

“Who was your teacher?”

“Frau Seitz hired two tutors. I don’t recall their names. But I never needed them. I could listen to music and just…play.”

“Show me again.”

Arie removed the cello from its stand and positioned it between his knees. He dragged the lengthy bow across the instrument’s thick strings, producing a detailed, severe melody from an incomplete concerto. He ended the display with a flourish of his wrist, but not before Frau Heidel was off, duplicating the melody on the violin. She finished with a sweet imitation of his flourish.

He produced more difficult and meticulous tunes on his cello, only to hear her unerringly copy his displays—except at the last. She surprised them both when, instead of duplicating his melody, she seized it and added a unique variation and harmony. The spontaneous composition showed remarkable ingenuity and sparkle.

And it was more than Arie could stand. His anger dissipated. She had not lied about her talent. There was nothing left to do but recognize her gift and praise its miraculous nature.

“Frau Heidel, I have heard of such wonders. Kapellmeister Haydn’s late friend, a prodigy from this city named Mozart—he played like you do.” He set the cello aside. “Haydn says the man heard music and knew the notes like breathing. I paid his stories little mind until now.”

“I don’t wish to insult you when I ask…you cannot do this?”

Astonishment had long since stolen his pride, prompting Arie’s honesty. “I can play every instrument for which I compose, and I perform my own pieces from memory. I can do what you just did, but only after decades of study and practice.”

“You believe me now?”

“Yes. I believe you.” Contrary to his better financial judgment, he said, “But I do not know what to do with you. You will waste money. You require no instruction from me.”

The woman did not seem to want his objections. A sad tenacity hardened her features. She worked at tugging black gloves over the pale flesh of her hands and forearms. “Only Lady Venner knows what I can do. No one expects me to be a…a…”

“A virtuoso?”

Her expression softened, leaving only a sad sort of fatigue. “I’ve caused you distress, sir. That was not my intention. But please let me continue. Otherwise, I will need to muffle the strings of my violin.”

In Arie’s soul—the deep, inspired place from which his music emerged—flashed an unexpected sympathy. To ignore her genius was an impossible cruelty. “Is that how you play?”

“
If
I played. Until today, I hadn’t held a violin in four years.” She looked at her fingers where they intertwined across her stomach. “I don’t believe I can set it aside again.” Before Arie could object, the young woman called her chaperone and donned her winter garments. “Let me know your decision, Maestro.” She looked him up and down. Disapproval swept across her face. “But please attire yourself properly, should we meet again.”

She closed the heavy door behind her. Arie wanted to call her back into the shelter of his studio. As at the Venners’ gala, the urge to give chase startled him anew.

What is her given name?

He found himself standing in the middle of the room. When had he risen from the cellist stool? Had he stood to follow her? The kitchen fire burned low and his fingers tingled with cold. Time meant nothing. He was alone.