Portrait of Seduction (11 page)

“Come with me,” he said quietly.

Guests continued to arrive. Although the autumn evening was brisk, their talk and warmth made the foyer into a stifling box. Dieter left his post, following Oliver without a word. They climbed to the arcade above the ballroom.

Oliver nodded down toward where row after row of chairs were filling with Salzburg’s finest. “Do you see that man in the purple velvet coat? I want him removed from the premises. Discreetly.”

Dieter, a man as large as he was loyal, stood straighter. Oliver craned his neck to look the man in the eye. “I’ll do it straight away, sir. Thank you for relying on me.”

“I only do so because you are worth relying on. Do whatever you can to keep from upsetting Lady Venner and her guests. Go now.”

Oliver remained fixed in that spot, cloaked in shadow, as Dieter made his way downstairs and into the crowd. His bright shock of white-blond hair was easy to follow, as were his wide, intimidating shoulders. Dieter found Karl, spoke to him, and escorted him out of the ballroom.

Karl glanced up. Although Oliver was certain no one could see him at that angle, Karl seemed to know exactly who had ordered his unexpected exit from the reception. He tossed a mock salute toward the arcade.

Oliver slumped against the nearest wall. The breath he exhaled was particularly heavy and hot. How had this happened? He had just ordered his best friend politely dragged out of the Venners’ home. But although the reflex to refer to him as such remained, Karl was no longer his best friend. He was unstable, untrustworthy and privy to more than his share of secrets. The man had become, quite frankly, a danger.

A wave of regret hit him hard in the chest. The friend he’d thought returned to him after such a long absence—back from the dead, it had seemed—was once again gone from his life. He was surprised by the urge to mourn. The long night stretched ahead of him, already tainted with unexpected grief.

Greta searched the lovely, glimmering ballroom for two very different faces. One was Oliver. On such a night he had to be nearby, perhaps in the upper floor arcade where Ingrid had indicated. The other was Herr Weiser. After speaking with him earlier in the afternoon, she had done well to prepare for meeting him again, this time in public.

If she could learn to enjoy his company, she would be better able to imagine living the rest of her days as his wife. That had been impossible thus far. No matter the advantages and safety such a union would provide, she still felt like a horse at auction—one that had never known the freedom to run.

She would have run with Oliver. She would have done whatever he commanded her to do. Only, he had asked her to stop. For that she owed him her thanks. And an apology. No matter how mortifying, he deserved to hear how sorry she was for her behavior. She had avoided such a conversation for too long.

Greta pressed her palms one over the other at the base of her throat. Never before had crowds affected her, but terrifying memories of the opera grew more ominous when combined with heat, nerves and the crush of well-heeled guests. She gulped a breath of air soaked with perfume and sweat. Flames on the chandeliers’ candles blurred together into streaks of jittery orange.

Herr Weiser caught her eye across the densely packed room. He wove through rows of chairs and mingling attendees like a ship coming into port.

“
Guten Abend,
Fräulein Zweig.”

“Ah,
 
Herr Weiser. I trust you’re enjoying the festivities?”

“Indeed, indeed.” He grinned broadly. Greta could only think of a dog being scratched on the head—a dog with no great intelligence. “We could, however, skip the performance.”

“Pardon me?”

“We were privy to their rehearsals. Surely it will be nothing but a repetition of what we’ve already witnessed.” He extended his arm. “Come, let us take in the nighttime gardens instead.”

“I…”

Greta searched the room for a distraction. Any distraction. Theresa and Anna stood a few yards away, keeping company with Ingrid. But she knew no one else. No one else would see her plight. Forcing strength into her backbone, she faced the man who still awaited her affirmative reply—one he would not receive.

“I would be terribly disappointed to miss such a show, Herr Weiser. We hardly heard any of their performance.
Bitte.
” She took his arm and inhaled in such a way as to hold his attention. “Let us go sit.”

He licked his upper lip, which was already lined with a stubborn new growth of hair. “Of course.”

The swish of Greta’s silk gown as she walked sounded overly loud, each step dragging her reluctant mind and heart toward the inevitable. The soles of her feet had gone numb within her satin slippers.

Herr Weiser beamed as he sat, patting the chair beside him. He actually had lovely teeth and clear, bright skin. As Greta arranged her skirts, she tried to determine the source of her discomfort. Yes, he stared at her until she wanted to scream from embarrassment, but that differentiated him but a little from most men.

The De Vosses took the stage amid a crowd that cheered with gusto. As during the rehearsal, they did not touch but a quiet sort of energy shimmered between them. They were poised to play for an assembly of several hundred, but the way they watched one another suggested far more intimacy.

Rather than clap with the rest of the audience, Herr Weiser took Greta’s hand. By doing so he inadvertently solved the mystery of her dislike. In all ways he acted as if she were already his property. Her time and attention, not to mention her body, were already his. Presumption fostered an enmity in her that far outpaced what he deserved.

Oliver never presumed. Far from it. He was caution personified.

She pulled her hand free under the guise of joining the applause. A shiver of awareness gathered along her temple, her cheek, her jaw. Ever so subtly, she turned toward the high gallery Ingrid had indicated. A man in livery stood back from the railing, his face swathed in shadow. Unlike Ingrid, however, Greta was in no position to signal for a fortuitous rescue.

But that did not mean giving up without a fight. If the De Vosses could create intimacy out of nothing, she could too. She forced the tension from her tight shoulders. Herr Weiser presumed to own her, but in Greta’s imagination, she waited for the music to begin with a very different man at her side.

Before the night was through, she would do something, anything, to be alone again with Oliver Doerger.

At the very least, she would apologize.

At best she would convince him to reconsider.

The furtive sonata fit Oliver’s mood, prompting him to wonder which dark paths Mathilda and Arie had traveled to bring their new composition to life. He watched them, having noticed months earlier that they never looked at one another while they worked. Perhaps they did not need to.

It still struck Oliver as odd, probably because he was constantly aware of how expressions silently communicate. But separated by a curtain—or even blinded—they would have performed the same way, joined by their music. Heat from that intimacy prickled along Oliver’s forearms and up the sides of his ribs. He and a few hundred other guests were intruders in their private show.

Alone in the upper gallery, he permitted a private show of his own. First it was Greta. Her lips had parted, only just, and her eyebrows stretched toward her hairline. The muscles of her cheeks had gone slack, creating a picture of rapt wonder. She breathed in shallow bursts, which had the effect of lifting and lowering her breasts in a quick rhythm. Hands that might have otherwise been tense or agitated sat primly folded in her lap. She did not move. Music, it seemed, had rendered her a statue of soft flesh.

Or it could have been the man at her side.

Herr Weiser, the next part of Oliver’s show—the villain of the piece, who had also noticed her fluttering breaths. The De Vosses merited hardly a glance, his attention repeatedly drawn back to Greta. Thick-set and dressed in an excellent suit, Weiser fit neatly into a wartime world that was increasingly able to accept men of money into the ranks of the elite.

Oliver had half the lineage necessary for such acceptance. Not enough.

The sonata concluded with a soft, melancholy flourish before fading to silence. Raucous applause filled the ballroom, as Oliver knew it would. He had yet to attend a De Voss concert that was received with anything short of rapture. Only now did the two performers exchange satisfied glances—again, too intimate to be witnessed. Oliver turned away and bowed his head.

The slide toward madness must feel this disorienting, as old beliefs slipped out of reach. He had believed himself a very different man, a simpler and more contented man. But Greta was making a liar out of him. A very poor one.

Duty-bound to continue his vigil, he returned to his post. He wondered if any of that evening’s guests were aware of the preparations being made, right at that moment, for the advent of war. The Venners’ preparations had begun in earnest—plans and contingencies, all undertaken with Christoph’s eagle eye toward the safety of his family. Oliver only hoped that the rest of Salzburg was half as prepared, and that its leaders would be able to mount an adequate defense for those who were not.

Arie De Voss stood as stiffly as ever as he and Christoph conversed on stage. Only when his patron returned to sit beside Ingrid did Arie address the crowd.

“Under threat of odious financial reprisals,” he said gravely, “I have been instructed to follow that rather somber debut with a livelier tune.” He bowed deeply toward Ingrid and her stone-faced husband. “Our patron’s wish is our command.”

A slight smile gave away his amusement. Oliver concealed his own smile behind a loose fist. His brother was well and truly terrified for the safety of Ingrid and their baby. Although Oliver shared that concern, he was not so far gone as to dictate which music might best influence their well-being. Christoph was a man vastly unfamiliar with helplessness.

“My lady,” Arie said to Ingrid, “I wish you health and all the happiness I’ve not already claimed for myself.”

Although Ingrid laughed, Christoph looked ready to order the composer keelhauled. Arie made a deliberate show of arranging the cello between his knees, then winked at Mathilda. The two were off like a shot, performing a flouncing, airy tune that simply begged for dancing. Some people clapped, while more ambitious couples toward the rear of the ballroom moved chairs aside and indulged in the urge to move.

And Oliver hovered above all of it—all the merrymaking, all the humor.

He felt more than heard someone at his back. There stood Greta, mere yards away. A glance back down upon the ballroom revealed her seat empty. Herr Weiser absently patted his knee in time with the music as he craned his neck, his quarry lost.

A shy smile edged her lips. “Did I surprise you?”

“Yes,” he said, embarrassed at having been caught out. But he was also flattered. And terrified. And fighting with every breath not to gather her close. The unexpected grief that lingered after his confrontation with Karl left him vulnerable to such impulses. “That doesn’t happen often.”

“Ingrid let me know you were here. Something about house intrigue and how she yawned.”

He smothered a grin. “Something like that.”

“You do your masters credit.”

Despite how his pride shied from the reminder of his status, Oliver absorbed the comment as it had been intended—as a compliment.
“Danke, Fräulein.”

“Shall we have that dance now?”

“That…?”

Whatever confidence she had mustered to seek him out seemed to falter. At her stomach she knotted and untangled her fingers—a revealing show of turbulence.

“We spoke of dancing while at Leinz Manor,” she said. “But I don’t suppose it’s appropriate.”

“Considering our stations?”

“No, how I behaved upon your arrival.” She started to take a step closer, then froze. “I never meant to offend you that way. Honestly. What I proposed was…reckless. Dangerous, even.” A sharp sound in her throat might have been a strangled laugh. “I was so intent on building up the nerve to go through with it that I forgot.”

“Forgot?”

“That you’re a person too.”

Her simple statement kicked him in the chest.

“So at last, I wanted to tell you I’m sorry, and to thank you for thinking for both of us.”

Thinking? How could he think at such a moment. Her eyes were wide and vivid, catching candlelight and turning it to fire. The enchanting woman he had observed from on high for hours was standing a few short paces away. Yet he remained motionless. Flirting with her and gently pushing against propriety had been a much safer prospect when she resisted.

And still he was drawn to her agitated fingers. She was none so bold as she seemed to think. A practiced seductress, perhaps one with experience in singling out a servant for special attention, would do so with far more confidence. Greta’s body practically hummed with uncertainty. That mollified him somewhat. During moments of their acquaintance, he had feared that dallying with lesser sorts provided her a measure of unhealthy entertainment. He had no appetite to be used.

But wanted? Genuinely wanted? That was an altogether different consideration.

Oliver stepped away from the railing. He could send her running, this time for good, if he pressed firmly enough against her sense of propriety. Such an undertaking, if properly accomplished, would keep them both safe from temptation.

“You’re here now, Greta.” Rather than touch her hair or still her hands, he slid his palms along the soft curve of her hips. He squeezed, then edged her the few steps back to a small reading room. He would never be so far gone as to risk their discovery. “What do you want us to do?”

A tight swallow contorted the line of her throat.

“Because we can dance if you like.” He leaned nearer and brushed his lips against the apple of one cheek. The merry music continued, but his pulse outstripped its quick rhythm. He moved in a slow, deliberate counterpoint to the demands of both. “Or perhaps you still have something else in mind?”

She smelled of rosewater and a hint of sweat. The air in the gallery was warm, almost roasting—amplified by the currents surging between their bodies.

“Another kiss, perhaps?” He squeezed her hips again. “Here?” Fair skin was hot beneath his lips as he kissed her other cheek. “Or here?”

Electricity snapped between them as their mouths met. But Oliver did not linger. He had his sights set on the destination that tempted him so relentlessly. This was no longer about teasing Greta into backing down. Perhaps it never had been. This was about claiming something special, something of his own—something no other man had yet tasted.

He trailed the tip of his tongue along her collarbone. She breathed without rhythm now, just jerking bursts of air. Those anxious hands gripped his shoulders, kneading, digging deeper.

“Has anyone else kissed you here, Greta? Or lower?”

She did not answer with words—only tipped her head back to rest on the wall, offering the most magnificent view. Just for him.

Greta had only wanted to see him. Just an innocent conversation to reaffirm the apology she had delivered earlier. But as she gave Oliver silent permission to continue his exploration, she admitted that this had been her fantasy. She sought him out because resisting was intolerable. Curiosity had blossomed in her blood, winnowing into her bones and igniting her flesh.

Now Herr Weiser, if indeed he would become her husband, would not be the first man to kiss her breasts. That privilege belonged to Oliver. She gave it to him freely—and greedily.

He sloped the angle of his neck, his back, until the warm rush of his soft exhale brushed the notch between her collarbones. Wet and hot, his tongue made contact. Greta opened her mouth on a silent gasp as her limbs loosened and melted. And still Oliver was there, holding her hips, pinning them against the wall with the wide spread of his fingers. He pressed closer. His pelvis cradled hers as he dropped feathering kisses down and down.