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I shook my head, speechless with desire.
He leaned closer and whispered in my ear. “I can’t resist you, even in public.”
My heartbeat pounded between my legs. I wanted to feel him inside me again. I wanted to touch him all night long. But we had work to do tonight before we could indulge.
He offered his arm and escorted me through Vienna.
Ladies and gentlemen sashayed from gleaming autos and carriages. Horses snorted mist into the chilly night. Light spilled from the high windows of the Sofiensaal and illuminated the dance hall’s ornate stucco façade.
A thrill fizzed inside me like champagne. “We’re here.”
31
Giddy, I wavered as we climbed the Sofiensaal’s steps.
“Let me catch my breath.” I clutched Wendel’s arm.
He frowned. “What’s wrong?”
My stomach clenched and the hair on my arms prickled, even though there was nothing to fear here. I glanced around the street, my eyes distracted by the resplendent display of women as bright as exotic birds.
“This corset,” I lied.
“Don’t worry.” He squeezed my hand. “Follow my lead.”
I masked my unease behind a smile. We stopped outside the grand entrance of the Sofiensaal.
“Good evening,” said the doorman.
With a vaguely haughty expression, Wendel slipped the invitation from his coat pocket and handed it over. The doorman flipped open the invitation, gave it no more than a cursory glance, then let us inside.
Inside, the Sofiensaal glittered with chandeliers, gilding, and gemstone necklaces on many ladies. I touched my bare neck and hoped I didn’t look like an impostor, though I certainly felt like one.
“What did the invitation say?” I murmured.
Wendel scanned the ballroom. “What do you mean?”
“Who are we supposed to be?”
“Oh, I didn’t read the invitation,” he said blithely.
“Wendel!”
“Neither did you, from the sound of it.”
Damn it, I hated it when he was right.
I let him lead me around the outskirts of the ballroom. Dancers waltzed under the chandeliers to the music of Strauss. Beyond the orchestra, we climbed stairs to a dining area with luxurious buffet tables. Centerpieces of fruit and flowers towered above silver dishes offering a feast of opulent Viennese cuisine.
“Who are we?” I asked. “What’s our cover story?”
He tilted his head, pondering the question. “I’m a penniless Prussian viscount. You can be a wealthy American heiress aiming for my title.”
I snorted. “A viscount? I would aim higher than that.”
“Would you?” He smirked. “I can’t be a Prince of Prussia. Anything higher than a viscount, and we will have to answer too many questions.”
“True.”
