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Equally as amazing were the next two days that soared by.
Minutes spun into hours, time cascaded in a fairy-tale warp and Etta lost herself in an exquisite maelstrom of sensation with every sense heightened.
The sights of Vienna were bright and vivid, with the boldness of modern art displayed in opulent baroque backgrounds. The smells and tastes of schnitzel, glühwein and apfel strudel and the dark richness of coffee lingered on her tastebuds.
And throughout it all there was Gabe. His lightest touch caused her entire body to hum with desire and the nights were filled with the touch of silken sheets, his warmth and strength, his gentleness and laughter and the intensity of shared passion.
Until somehow Christmas Eve arrived, and from the moment they woke Etta sensed Gabe’s withdrawal.
There was no laughter or teasing, no fleeting touches that spoke of intimacy. It was nothing she could encapsulate in words, but it was in the tension of his shoulders, the clenching of his jaw, the distance he kept between them as they walked to the Schönbrunn Palace for the concert.
‘So we tour the palace and then go to the Orangery for the concert?’ Etta knew the answer, but for the first time in days the silence between them was laced with awkwardness.
‘Yes.’ Gabe had his hands deep in the pockets of a grey overcoat that topped a charcoal suit. As if aware of the brevity of his reply, he added, ‘The tour is guided and people are split into groups of ten.’
‘It should be great. The Orangery is meant to be magnificent. It was built in 1754 by Franz I and it’s very baroque. Joseph II used to have banquets there, with illuminations in the citrus trees, and Mozart conducted his singspiel The Impresario there in 1786—’
Etta broke off. Why on earth was she trying to fill the silence by spouting like a tour guide? Perhaps to counter the clench of misery in her tummy. It was an irrational sadness. Was this the etiquette of a fling? To start to pull back as the end approached? Maybe it was a strategy she should emulate—after all, once Christmas was over it would be time to get on with her real life. This was an interlude, with no more bearing on reality than the fairytale it was. Only this fairy tale didn’t end in happy-ever-after. It ended with no strings attached, never to see each other ever again.
But no matter. Right now there was Christmas Eve to be enjoyed, in this incredible setting that would stun any fairy-tale princess, and she would make the most of it.
The palace was lit up, shining in all its splendour, and the Christmas market outside was a hive of bustle and cheer. The enormous Christmas tree was simply decorated with white lights and overlooked a life-size hand-carved nativity scene that imbued Etta with a sense of awe.
But as their tour of the palace commenced for once Etta couldn’t find it in her to marvel at the Imperial splendour. Even as she gazed on the most magnificent of ceiling frescoes, the grandeur of the white-and-gold rococo decorations, and the incredible crystal mirrors that created a near magical illusion of blurred other dimensions, her entire awareness was focused on Gabe.
Her antennae registered his tension, growing like a fast unfurling plant, until finally she said, ‘Gabe, is something wrong?’
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
GABE FORCED HIS body into a more relaxed s
tance—not an easy task when every muscle seemed filled with tension, every sinew torqued with strain.
Pull it together and answer the question.
He smiled down at Etta’s concerned expression. ‘No. Nothing is wrong.’
Except for the fact that in mere minutes he would see the man who might one day bear the title that Gabe had believed would pass to his own child. It wasn’t a big deal—dammit, he was glad Matteas Coleridge existed, relieved that there was a possible alternative heir so the title would not die out. Yet right now anger and bleakness pulsed inside him because fate had decreed that he couldn’t have children.
Enough. Whingeing at the unfairness of life was pointless and ineffective.
‘I’m fine.’
‘Are you sure? You seem different, somehow.’
‘Not me.’ Gabe dug deep and discovered the famous Derwent charm, the smile, the expression. But Etta’s frown only deepened. ‘You’re imagining it.’
Turning from the searching look in her tawny eyes, he studied the blue and white porcelain on display and tried to quell his sense of impending doom.
Tour over, they completed the two-minute walk to the Orangery. Once inside, he waited until Etta had settled herself onto a comfortable seat below the glittering extravaganza of the chandelier and seated himself beside her. The orchestra, dressed in eighteenth-century costume, were already assembled, and Gabe’s heart pounded his ribcage as his eyes scoured each member.
There he was. Gabe rested his gaze on a stocky, brown-haired man, cello in hand, his eyes closed as if in inner preparation for performance. Visceral pain sucker-punched Gabe so hard he expelled a breath, and Etta turned to look at him.
With immense effort Gabe leant back in the chair and forced his voice into action. ‘It should start any minute.’
To his relief, before Etta could respond the conductor rose to his feet and started to speak. Minutes later music swelled around them. The classical pieces fluted and strummed through the air, mingled with motes of history, and it was almost possible to imagine that Mozart himself stood on the stage.
