departure.”
Mathilda clenched her back teeth. Her hope for a simple, cordial conversation dissipated. More disappointed than angry, her hopes sank into the ground. Social interaction ill suited him, and she did not possess the patience to be civil to a man who held no appreciation of common courtesy. Any further conversation with the man would only spoil what happy memories of him she yet retained.
“You are a tyrant, sir. Good night.”
She turned, but he caught her arm in an unexpectedly firm grip. Her instincts demanded a struggle, but her reluctance to cause a scene stilled her haste. Heat from his hand seeped through her clothes and awoke a startling awareness of flesh, his and hers. Mathilda shook her brain away from that hungry thought.
Determined, she confronted her tormentor and discovered an altered version of the maestro. He had fixed his features into the most becoming, benign expression of politeness. No vestige of his irascible greeting remained—except for his hand.
She flicked her eyes to where their bodies connected. He released her.
“And you, Frau Heidel, how lovely to see you again. You are well, I trust?” He used formal German, carefully articulating each syllable. His face insisted that her addled mind had created those unpleasant opening seconds of their encounter.
“Tolerably,” she said, mimicking his charade of calm. “And yourself?”
“I am quite recovered from our last meeting.” Now smooth and warm, his voice promised safety, blunting her wits.
“Ingrid—Lady Venner, I mean—said you would conduct tonight. Is that true?”
“I arrived in hope of seeing you.”
She blinked. “You do me compliment, sir.”
De Voss grinned as if to acknowledge her quiet mockery. He tilted his head slightly, freeing a lock of hair to dangle across his forehead. “If I apologize, Frau Heidel, my pride will never recover.”
A smile nearly loosened the grim set of her mouth, but she refused to free the gentling expression. “But if you do not, I’ll be forced to hasten another fussy departure.”
“Forgive me.”
“Not yet.”
“Suit yourself.” He straightened, ignoring her attempt at stern censure. “Yes, I will conduct after the duke’s speech. And I admit to curiosities about this bizarre ordeal. Perhaps you will explain for me.”
Reluctantly, Mathilda sympathized with his confusion. She could not imagine enduring the strange customs of another culture, so far from home. “Which aspect? Fasching in general or the duke’s address in particular?”
“Both, if you please.” He looked at the Dom. The light and shadow haloed his features in profile. She traced the line of his nose with her gaze.
“I suppose you don’t celebrate Carnival in your homeland,” she said softly.
De Voss shook his head. “The Catholic minority hides the practice or ignores it altogether. I hardly took Mass in my youth for fear of hounding, let alone participating in an open papist festival.”
She lifted her eyebrows. “You are Catholic, sir?”
“Yes,” he said in a hush. “The Papenhoek of Delft harbors no small population of faithful.”
“What is that word?”
“Papenhoek? It means Papist’s Corner. I was born there.”
“I hadn’t realized. Well, here in Salzburg, we don’t limit Carnival to the week before Lent. Perhaps you will enjoy our festivities.”
Briefly, she forgot his personality—so thoroughly had he seduced her with easy manners and amiable conversation. His cynical smirk, however, called attention to her error. She could not imagine De Voss enjoying anything but his work, and a word as meek as enjoy fell short of describing his passion.
She expected a snide remark or baiting insult, but De Voss surprised her. “Your politeness flatters me and does credit to your upbringing. I deserve none of it.”
An apology. Almost. But because contrition threatened to soften her toward him, she ignored the comment.
“As for our interest in the duke,” she said,
Mathilda clenched her back teeth. Her hope for a simple, cordial conversation dissipated. More disappointed than angry, her hopes sank into the ground. Social interaction ill suited him, and she did not possess the patience to be civil to a man who held no appreciation of common courtesy. Any further conversation with the man would only spoil what happy memories of him she yet retained.
“You are a tyrant, sir. Good night.”
She turned, but he caught her arm in an unexpectedly firm grip. Her instincts demanded a struggle, but her reluctance to cause a scene stilled her haste. Heat from his hand seeped through her clothes and awoke a startling awareness of flesh, his and hers. Mathilda shook her brain away from that hungry thought.
Determined, she confronted her tormentor and discovered an altered version of the maestro. He had fixed his features into the most becoming, benign expression of politeness. No vestige of his irascible greeting remained—except for his hand.
She flicked her eyes to where their bodies connected. He released her.
“And you, Frau Heidel, how lovely to see you again. You are well, I trust?” He used formal German, carefully articulating each syllable. His face insisted that her addled mind had created those unpleasant opening seconds of their encounter.
“Tolerably,” she said, mimicking his charade of calm. “And yourself?”
“I am quite recovered from our last meeting.” Now smooth and warm, his voice promised safety, blunting her wits.
“Ingrid—Lady Venner, I mean—said you would conduct tonight. Is that true?”
“I arrived in hope of seeing you.”
She blinked. “You do me compliment, sir.”
De Voss grinned as if to acknowledge her quiet mockery. He tilted his head slightly, freeing a lock of hair to dangle across his forehead. “If I apologize, Frau Heidel, my pride will never recover.”
A smile nearly loosened the grim set of her mouth, but she refused to free the gentling expression. “But if you do not, I’ll be forced to hasten another fussy departure.”
“Forgive me.”
“Not yet.”
“Suit yourself.” He straightened, ignoring her attempt at stern censure. “Yes, I will conduct after the duke’s speech. And I admit to curiosities about this bizarre ordeal. Perhaps you will explain for me.”
Reluctantly, Mathilda sympathized with his confusion. She could not imagine enduring the strange customs of another culture, so far from home. “Which aspect? Fasching in general or the duke’s address in particular?”
“Both, if you please.” He looked at the Dom. The light and shadow haloed his features in profile. She traced the line of his nose with her gaze.
“I suppose you don’t celebrate Carnival in your homeland,” she said softly.
De Voss shook his head. “The Catholic minority hides the practice or ignores it altogether. I hardly took Mass in my youth for fear of hounding, let alone participating in an open papist festival.”
She lifted her eyebrows. “You are Catholic, sir?”
“Yes,” he said in a hush. “The Papenhoek of Delft harbors no small population of faithful.”
“What is that word?”
“Papenhoek? It means Papist’s Corner. I was born there.”
“I hadn’t realized. Well, here in Salzburg, we don’t limit Carnival to the week before Lent. Perhaps you will enjoy our festivities.”
Briefly, she forgot his personality—so thoroughly had he seduced her with easy manners and amiable conversation. His cynical smirk, however, called attention to her error. She could not imagine De Voss enjoying anything but his work, and a word as meek as enjoy fell short of describing his passion.
She expected a snide remark or baiting insult, but De Voss surprised her. “Your politeness flatters me and does credit to your upbringing. I deserve none of it.”
An apology. Almost. But because contrition threatened to soften her toward him, she ignored the comment.
“As for our interest in the duke,” she said,
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