Song of Seduction by Carrie Lofty Page B

pupils, he deemed his appearance at the Venners’ gala a successful one. He had few hours in the day to accommodate many more, but a conversation about students sounded harmless enough. Arie no longer trusted his tongue.
    “Does the family need to be of any particular rank?”
    “What do you mean?”
    She shrugged, her expression direct. “Some musicians might be reluctant to accept students who are not members of the nobility, perhaps to create an exclusive clientele.”
    Arie groped for his understanding of her language. Her explanation seemed to hold another, deeper meaning. Did she think him shallow? Contempt shrouded her words, but not for him. She had proven adept at revealing his shortcomings and had yet to veil criticism aimed in his direction.
    So why the artifice?
    She picked at the amulet dangling from her neck. In an instant of clarity, he understood. She was nervous.
    Let me know your decision, Maestro.
    Arie craved her return beyond good sense, but his silence left her hesitant. He had wondered how to persuade the obscenely talented woman to come back.
    Asking…that was a start.
    “Frau Heidel, if I held reservations about the class of students I teach, I would not continue our association.”
    “I left that to your discretion.”
    Tremulous, like a harmony, the note of resignation in her voice told Arie he had guessed correctly. Of all people, she was nervous—she, a woman in possession of a heavenly gift.
    “I have no such scruples, Frau Heidel.” He tossed in a half-hearted grin for good measure. “I will tutor hounds to play pianoforte if their masters rewarded me for the effort.”
    The widow giggled and clapped gloved hands across her sweet, expressive mouth. Amusing Arie to no end, she struggled to compose her features. He smiled wider when she refused to do so.
    “Sir, I would pay to see such an exhibition,” she said.
    “Performing for wealthy patrons feels little different.”
    He winced at the bitterness that smothered his brief levity. In haste, he swallowed the sentiment, but not before the perceptive young woman asked a silent question with her expression. Tension hovered in the winter air.
    “You should inquire with the Schindlers,” she said. “Markus Schindler has two school-aged sons and has been seeking a tutor. He’s well regarded and earns a good living.”
    “They live in the city?”
    “During the winter months, yes,” she said. “They keep a town house on Steingasse, across the Salzach.”
    Arie nodded to receive the information, hoarding those details with attentive concentration. Nothing exacerbated his awkwardness more than asking the locals to repeat unusual phrases and place names. Frau Heidel might not mind the inconvenience but, to his aggravation, he wanted to appear especially competent for her.
    “I thank you. You know much about the city, I gather. Were you born here?”
    “Yes.”
    “Do you travel far beyond?”
    The widow raised her chin in a defiant challenge, accelerating his heartbeat. “Not at all. I have never left the city.” She paused and looked down. “You ask too many questions, sir.”
    Arie clenched his hands. Cold invaded his fingertips with obstinate persistence, even through the warmth of his fur-lined gloves. A sane composer would be in his studio, huddling over the stove and plotting the structure of his symphony’s third movement. But he could name only two rational composers, both of whom shared the surname of Haydn. Most were mad as bats, nurturing more eccentricities than ideas. As for Arie, rationality escaped him, especially when he imagined Frau Heidel’s warm flesh draped across his chilled skin.
    “I must ask questions of you,” he said. “People refuse to share information about you. They only say what a fine woman you are, what a fine wife you were to your husband.”
    The delicate bloom of color on her cheeks drained away. “You’ve been asking about me?”
    The winter air was nothing to her chill timbre. But what