Portrait of Seduction: Extras

WITH A PASSION FOR HISTORY

PORTRAIT OF SEDUCTION: Extras & Reviews

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May 2, 2011
Carina Press
ISBN: 9781426891564
$5.99

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Deleted Scene

Initially, I used Ingrid as the means of bringing Greta into the city. Because I wanted to make Greta more assertive in her own future, I changed the sequence entirely. This was fun for me, however, if only for more teasing banter between Ingrid, Mathilda and Arie.

The Dom was not as full of parishioners as it would have been in wintertime, when boredom and the elements forced people into happy proximity, or during the Lenten holy season. September meant the farmers and country Volk were still afield, while university students were busy reacquainting themselves with professors, texts, and the vagaries of youth.

At least that's what Oliver assumed of university students. He had been in the Prussian cavalry, fighting daily for the sake of his own life and for the lives of his fellow soldiers. Politics and ambition, at some point, had ceased to matter. The notion of studying all day struck him as equal parts appealing--what would it be like to partake in such a fine thing?--and juvenile. His classroom now was the political backrooms of Salzburg. His ambition had little to do with pleasing stern-faced professors than with advancing the Venner family.

But then, Christoph was stern-faced enough.

Oliver shifted on the bench. To his left and right were other servants, the odor of their bodies gathering like a slow fog. Sunshine streamed in through the high stained-glass windows, bright colors that seemed to make the heat more intense. He tugged at his cravat and damned whatever trick of fashion or necessity had brought about the invention of wigs.

He glanced ahead to the Venners sat with Mathilda de Voss. The trio sat among the most prominent dignitaries in the city. But not Lord Leinz and his family. Oliver had searched, extensively, even though he knew they yet remained in the country for the summer season. And if Karl lurked about on that bright Sunday morning, Oliver had not seen him. He had learned that Karl was staying at a boarding house off Getreidegasse, a tiny place tucked into the shadow of Mönchsberg's high cliff face.

As the orchestra began its discordant warm-up, Oliver rolled his stiff neck. He had stayed up most of the previous few nights, wrestling with the decision he needed to make. He could honor his old friend--no matter how unethically that friend was behaving--or forsake Karl's request in favor of protecting Christoph and Ingrid. A few weeks, Karl had said. But Oliver no more believed that than anyone should believe Karl's phony title.

A baton tapped and the orchestra, seated far above the faithful in a second-story alcove, ceased its caterwauling. The renowned Dutch composer Arie de Voss stood at the forefront, his head bowed and his arms lifted. At his command the musicians began the first hymn. Ingrid and Mathilda whispered among themselves; the topic of their conversation was easy to guess considering the rapt expression on Mathilda's face. She and de Voss had been married for just under a year and the newlywed energy between them was as powerful as lightning. She stared up at her husband as he conducted, her smile wondrous and soft.

Oliver glanced away, saddening finding his chapbook of hymns inordinately interesting. Greta had looked at him that way in the breathless, ceaseless moments just after their kiss.

The priest's sermon passed in a haze. Even if the muzzle of a gun were pressed beneath his chin, he would not have been able to recount a single theme, a single word. He was still with Greta and the folly of letting his attraction blossom into something as tedious as obsession. She was never far from his thoughts. His eye never ceased to search crowded places for her face. And his dreams were replete with an arousing blend of memory and wicked imagination.

As the service adjourned, Oliver breathed deeply and focused on the tips of his fingers where they gripped his knees. Calm. It would not do at all to emerge from church in such an obviously fevered state. Trailing out among the last of the servants, he stepped into sunlight and into the realization that he was driving himself mad.

This has to stop.

Christoph was standing beside the fountain, speaking with one of the grand duke's ministers. Ingrid and Mathilda mingled nearby in a loose cluster of dignitaries' wives and grown daughters. When the women moved on, Ingrid waved Oliver over.

"My dear," she said, "I wish to ask you a question."

Oliver bowed his head. "Anything."

"Lord Leinz's daughters, and his niece--do you think they might be amenable to a visit with us here in town?"

The blood that had only just calmed resumed its heavy thrust through Oliver's body. He could not escape her in his own thoughts, nor in otherwise ordinary conversations in the shadow the great Dom. How had he let this go so far, and so quickly?

He cleared his throat, glancing quickly at Mathilda. She watched him with her head tipped just to the side. "I wouldn't know, my lady. Why do you ask?"

"Because of my ceaseless boredom, of course. Mathilda here can only keep me occupied for so long before she begins to scratch at her head like a flea-ridden cat."

"Such is my devotion to you," Mathilda said dryly.

"And I can only bear so much of her attempts at droll teasing. I swear, Mathilda, you sound more and more like Arie every day."

"Speaking of Herr de Voss..." Mathilda gave a little wave, then beamed as if her smile had taken over responsibility for warming the planet. The lean composer, dressed in a dark suit that appeared all the more austere in the bright daylight, joined them and took his wife's hand. "You were marvelous, as usual, mein Schatz," she said.

"Does it wear thin, Arie?" Ingrid asked with a wink. "All that unrestrained admiration?"

The Dutchman offered a calm smile, so at odds with the manic, controversial man he had been upon arriving in Salzburg. "I will be certain of telling you if it ever does."

When Christoph joined the circle, Oliver could stand no more. His mood was too foul, his temper too short to endure the two couples and their contentment. He liked them all--loved them, even--but at that moment he could no longer stand being in their presence.

He approached Christoph and said under his breath, "My lord, if you have no immediate need for me, I should like to take a walk."

His brother frowned slightly, then smoothed his curiosity into nonexistence. "Of course."

Oliver bowed and turned away. Ingrid's voice followed him the longest, the upturn of her question obscured by the fountain's rushing waters and the chatter of a thousand milling parishioners. Oliver let it go, all of it--especially the gnawing envy that sat as miserably in his chest as would a flaming coal.

Carrie's Co-Written Alter Egos: