by Carrie Lofty
Oliver’s hands began to sweat. He surreptitiously wiped them on his trousers as his pulse raced. The battle he’d nearly won against doubt turned swiftly in its favor. But he had to let go—of his father, of his past, of Karl’s ruined mind and sad fate. All of it.
Then he saw Greta.
She stood in the middle of the ballroom, alone, wearing a dress of the deepest midnight blue. The golden brilliance of her hair was piled in elaborate drapes and folds atop her head, with some gently touching her cheeks. She was smiling at him. She held out her hand.
Oliver had no will—not of his own, anyway. His will was dominated by the need to make this woman smile, to keep her happy and safe. Whatever hesitation he’d had about stepping out of the shadows faded for the last time. He loved her more than fear or pride or the history that picked at his confidence. Who was he to deny her what she wanted?
And as she smiled in that devilish, teasing way of hers, it was obvious what she wanted.
Her husband.
He tugged the hem of his coat and tossed his brother a grin. The space between Oliver and Greta yawned open like a walk to a guillotine, but his long strides quickly consumed that distance. Taking one gloved hand in his own, he bowed formally and kissed her knuckles.
When he straightened, he stood very, very near to his wife. The midnight blue gown perfectly presented her cleavage, which sent a rush of blood to his gathering erection. Rather than suffer that particular embarrassment, he took her in his arms, pulling her close as the music started.
“Oh, my,” Greta gasped, her eyes widening.
“The fault is entirely yours.”
“No, blame my seamstress and my maid.”
“They are merciless.”
“But I am not. Dance with me, Oliver, my love, and you will be amply rewarded.”
“Done.”
On the next count of three, they began. Oliver had never needed to learn to dance, but Greta had done her best to offer him private lessons. That each lesson had degenerated into naked romps…as love-smitten newlyweds, they could not be held accountable for their actions.
“Are you wearing gloves for any particular reason?”
Greta screwed her pink lips into a frustrated pout. “I was working late on my painting.”
“The one of Salzburg burning.”
“It’s the end of an era. I want to get it just right. Perhaps no one else will ever see it, but I need to do this.”
After the French stormed in, Salzburg had been occupied for months—with Duke Ferdinand having taken refuge in Vienna. A series of negotiations to end hostilities meant the city was handed over to the Austrians. Just like that, hundreds of years of independence came to an end. All the work to protect the city and its citizens had come to naught, a fact that still sat awkwardly on Oliver’s shoulders. But he knew he had to let it go. The whims of powers far greater than his had been in control.
He focused instead on his wife. As always, loving her and keeping her safe came as easily as breathing. That was an obligation he would happily undertake for the rest of his life.
“I know I should take more care,” Greta continued, “and Maria keeps complaining that I don’t leave enough time to prepare, but…”
“But you get inspired.”
She stood on tiptoe and kissed him on the cheek. “Precisely. No one understands me like you do.”
With the trust of an innocent who had never been disappointed by her champion, she laid her head against his chest as they waltzed, lost to each other. Oliver finally released the breath he’d been holding. If ever he belonged anywhere in this world, he belonged right there, at that moment, dancing with his wife.
“Do you recognize the orchestra leader?” Greta asked, her voice almost sleepy.
He required two turns before he caught sight of the conductor. Oliver would know that crazed hair anywhere. Arie De Voss. And at his side, as always, with a violin tucked under her chin, was Mathilda.
“They made it out of the city,” he said, more than relieved.
“They had been in Vienna for a concert. Ingrid contacted them and brought them here, just as she did with my cousins.”
As if the mention of her name summoned her to the dance floor, Ingrid tugged Christoph into place. More couples followed. Soon the ballroom was filled with swirling, twirling partners, their steps guided by music.
Oliver touched his forehead to his wife’s, overcome by emotion. It would take time but he would belong. Already he belonged to the people who mattered most. The rest would accept him in time, or they wouldn’t. It mattered little when compared to finally claiming the woman he loved.
“Thank you,” he said. “For this.”
“You’re welcome. Although if I could find a way to save your life a time or two, that might help me draw even.”
“Do not worry on that account, meine Allerliebste. You’ve given me this life—a life out of the shadows, one filled with people who care for me. Filled with your love. Greta, for that I’ll always be grateful.”
About the Author
Born in California, raised in the Midwest, Carrie Lofty met her husband in England—the best souvenir! After earning her master’s degree from Ohio State University with a thesis on Old West legends, she was excited to learn that other parts of the world have history, too…and then set about researching it all. Two precocious daughters and half a dozen moves later, she and her husband have settled just north of Chicago.
Aside from maintaining an active presence with the Chicago North and Wisconsin chapters of the Romance Writers of America, Carrie enjoys science fiction movies and TV programs, jogging along Lake Michigan, Shakespeare, time spent with friends, and any opportunity to belly dance.
RT Book Reviews declared of Carrie’s 2008 debut novel: “Lofty writes adventure romance like a born bard of old.” She also wrangles the talented authors of Unusual Historicals, a blog she founded in 2006 to celebrate historical romances set in unusual times and places. With Ann Aguirre, she co-writes hot ’n’ dirty apocalyptic paranormal romances as Ellen Connor.
CarrieLofty.com | EllenConnor.com
http://www.twitter.com/carrielofty
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http://unusualhistoricals.blogspot.com
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ISBN: 978-1-4268-9156-4
Copyright © 2011 by Carrie Lofty
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All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.
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