The Earl's Snow-Kissed Proposal

But somehow for Gabe each and every glorious note evoked images of the children he’d once thought to have, and grief and loss for a now impossible future swirled in his gut.

On some level Gabe registered the next couple of hours. The choice of pieces was a perfect mixture of the haunting and the lively, and the conductor was both knowledgeable and witty. When a pair of ballerinas came onto the stage they were greeted with a universal murmur of appreciation, and after their performance applause rang out. Next up was an opera singer, whose voice soared and dipped with notes so pure and melodic that Etta gasped next to him.

Yet throughout, his whole being was attuned to Matteas Coleridge, his body feeling cold and hot in turn, taut with the fight-or-flight instinct.

At one point he became aware of Etta’s glance and then her hand reached out and covered his. Damn. No doubt she’d sensed his discomfort, and for a moment he wanted to accept the unspoken comfort she offered. No. That way lay weakness; he would not allow any closeness with Etta other than their physical connection.

He had to pull himself together and man up, and so gently he pulled his hand away. Forced his emotions into shutdown, made himself focus on Matteas Coleridge with calm. Then he turned to Etta with a smile, refusing to acknowledge the hurt in her brown eyes.

‘The finale should be magnificent,’ he murmured. Almost as if he were speaking to a chance acquaintance.

In truth the finale was more than magnificent—the Viennese orchestra played in complete harmony, with an intensity that left their audience spellbound and captivated, and when the last strains of the music graced the high-vaulted room there was a moment of silence before a standing ovation.

But even the beauty of the music couldn’t permeate the ice he’d generated around his emotions, and Gabe was glad of it.

‘Back to the hotel for a late supper?’ he suggested.

‘Sure.’ Etta looked up at him, her eyes narrowed slightly. ‘I just want to pick up a programme on the way out. It’ll make a great souvenir.’

Gabe considered a protest, then decided against it. Etta might well simply buy the programme and not study it in detail. So he merely nodded, waited whilst she purchased the glossy bound booklet, and then they set off through the Viennese streets back to the hotel.

Gabe knew he should try and manufacture some sort of conversation but somehow it seemed beyond him—perhaps once they were back at the hotel, surrounded by the chatter and bonhomie of their fellow guests, it would become easier. But he did derive some strange solace from Etta’s presence as she walked beside him, their steps in time as they passed the still brightly lit shopfronts, and after ten minutes they reached the now familiar environs of the hotel.

‘Can we pop upstairs quickly before we eat?’ Etta asked.

‘Sure.’

Once in their suite Etta vanished into the bedroom, sliding the door shut behind her. Gabe walked to the window and looked out into the Viennese night. Matteas Coleridge existed; he’d seen him in the flesh and his mission to Vienna had been accomplished. No, not fully. It was Christmas tomorrow, and he wanted the day to be special for Etta—however unfestive he felt himself. Then, after Christmas, he would go home and face the music.

Gabe frowned, wondering what Etta was doing. It was unlike her to change for a meal—especially as she had looked pretty smokin’ in the green dress she’d worn to the concert.

As if on cue the door slid open and Etta stepped forward, halted on the threshold of the palatial lounge area. Foreboding issued him with a qualm. She hadn’t changed—stood tall in the simple green dress, which was given a twist by the fall of its asymmetric hem which emphasised the length of her legs. She had the concert programme folded open in one hand, and as he met her tawny gaze he flinched inwardly at the hurt that lurked behind anger.

Gabe steeled himself—he’d known this was a possibility and he had a strategy in place.

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘Tell you what?’

‘That “Matt Coleridge”, a cello player in that Viennese orchestra, is Matteas Coleridge, your newly discovered distant cousin.’

‘I didn’t think it was important.’

Disdain narrowed her eyes. ‘That doesn’t fly, Gabe. You must have known I’d be interested. Is that why we’re in Vienna?’

‘In part. I was curious. And when I found out he was in that Viennese orchestra I figured, why not? I wanted to get away for Christmas so why not Vienna?’

Nice and casual. No big deal.

But Etta wasn’t buying it—that much was clear from the frown on her face and the twist of her lips.

‘But you didn’t want anyone else to know? Not your sister, not April, not anyone?’

‘No. Poor bloke—I wouldn’t want to unleash April onto him just because I wanted to satisfy a curious impulse. As for Kaitlin... She has enough on her plate.’

‘You don’t get curious impulses.’ Etta’s voice was tight. ‘If you don’t want to tell me what’s going on, fine, but don’t insult my intelligence. You didn’t want anyone to even know you’d commissioned the new family tree. Why not?’

‘That’s my business. I hired you to do a job—you did it and you’ve been paid. Subject closed.’ A small voice told him that this was the wrong approach. A louder voice informed him that he was being a complete arse.