Portrait of Seduction (12 page)

She had seen him violent and she had seen him subservient. Now he was both. She felt it in the hard ripple of muscle beneath her hands. His shoulders were tight with a fierce tension that matched her anticipation—powerful, exciting, barely restrained. But still his kiss remained soft as a morning mist. His sharp exhales caressed her more aggressively than his lips.

The waiting and wanting drew forth a quiet, strangled sound in her throat. He huffed a low chuckle and floated back up, placing a kiss over her voice box. “Shhhh,” he said against her skin. Goose bumps trailed in the wake of his every touch.

Releasing his hold on her hip, Oliver traced the lacy hem of her bodice with his forefinger. Back and forth he petted with deliberate slowness. The rough edge of the lace rubbed her sensitive skin, focusing her awareness there—right where he touched. Nowhere else existed. He slipped his finger beneath the lace and tugged down ever so slightly. Air brushed against her exposed nipple, then his rougher skin.

Greta pushed her head back against the wall and bit the inside of her cheek. If she cried out, she could be discovered. She would be ruined and Oliver would suffer horrible consequences.

Running crossed her mind. Back away. He would stop. Oliver was a good man. Of that she had never had a doubt.

Instead she clutched his nape. A shudder rippled across his back. He lowered his head the remaining few inches. His tongue followed the same path as had his fingertip. Greta swallowed a groan as that fiery wetness trailed across her skin. She ran her fingers up, climbing his neck, up beneath his wig. His hair was damp. Tunneling her nails down to his scalp, she closed her eyes and pulled him closer.

He flicked his tongue lower, swiping one exposed nipple.

The surprise was too much. Greta gasped, a hissing rush of air. He clamped her mouth with his palm and kissed her in earnest, taking her nipple into his mouth. His tongue, that maddening slick heat, swirled over her sensitive peak. She arched back more deeply, offering more. Needing more.

Oliver nudged his hips against hers. The hard length of his member pushed where she ached—such a restless ache—as if the swaths of fabric separating them were but a simple nuisance, as if they would consummate their reckless gamble in mere moments. A pang of panic dragged her back to that little reading room, back to the merry music just reaching its crescendo down in the ballroom. She froze in his arms. Fear iced over the sweet pleasure until she could no longer breathe.

He was the one who saw her clearly when no one else did. That he noticed the sudden shift in her mood came as no surprise. She had that much certainty in him, which was both ludicrous and heartbreaking. To find such a man and be unable to claim him seemed an impossible cruelty. Tears burned as she fought to open her eyes. Opening them would mean seeing him and having to refuse him.

The soft torture of his lips and his tongue ended. His hips retreated. He pressed his forehead against her shoulder, his body softly quaking. Greta petted the back of his neck, as if her soft touches could be apology enough.

“Don’t do this again,” he whispered harshly. “I won’t trust myself if you do, and you shouldn’t either.”

Greta managed courage enough to look upon his face. Grim lines bracketed his mouth. His lips glistened—damp and slightly swollen. In his eyes waited a sharp emotion that was neither pain nor anger. He seemed almost…resigned, as if this was the end he had anticipated. A torrid flush covered her from her stomach to her hairline.

He nodded once toward her bodice. Greta glanced down and her embarrassment trebled, if that was possible. Her turgid nipple poked out from the lace trim. His hands had inflicted untold creases in the sleek folds of her evening gown. She was so stunned by the evidence of her folly that she could not move. She simply stared at the proof of what she had done. What she had wanted.

What her body wanted still.

Oliver cleared his throat—a stripped and raw sound. A few efficient movements later and he had made her decent again. “Do you understand me? Never again.” His voice broke. “I can’t.”

“Neither can I,” she whispered.

Her heart pinched so tightly that she feared being able to remain conscious. It
hurt.
Facing him caused her a breathless pain she had never known, one she feared never being able to completely assuage.

Her limbs like lead, she slowly lifted her hand. Oliver flinched when she pressed her palm against his cheek.

She could risk no more.

Greta jerked her hand back and spun away. Her chest seemed too small to provide the air she needed. Feet numb, knees wobbling, she made her retreat. But even then she knew that some part of her would remain in that room with Oliver.

Greta lay awake long after the Venners’ home had gone silent. She had undressed reluctantly, like a child resisting the command to bathe. Her body had felt too tight and cumbersome. Every button and layer had challenged her ability to coordinate thought and action. But still she could not sleep, no matter the heavy, dark fatigue pressing in on all sides. All her thoughts were of Oliver—his voice, his taste, his damp skin.

Had he been any less honorable, or had she been any more brave, the mystery of lovemaking would be solved. Despite the titters of friends and the gossip of married women, the actual mechanics escaped her. He had been aroused, so hard and hot. Beneath the light counterpane, she shifted her thighs against the ache that had not subsided.

She pictured famous nudes, with Michelangelo’s
David
returning most forcefully to mind. The arrogance of his causal posture had aroused her the most. That a man could simply…stand there. Hip cocked. Torso fluid. Muscles defined yet loose. Imagining Oliver that way was startlingly easy. He had that confidence, and he certainly had that physique.

But the details of how man and woman fitted together still eluded her. He would have pushed inside her, right there against the wall. It seemed impossible. And yet some untutored part of her clamored for more—no matter the fear, the risk, the potential pain.

Oliver.

She still trusted him with a fervor that should have been frightening. But she had never had anyone to believe in before. No one had ever bothered to be her champion.

The night air was oppressive, stingy with its wilting breezes. She flung back the coverlet and swung her feet to dangle over the edge of the high bed. The bare wood floor offered only momentary relief, cool against the soles of her feet when she slid down. What she wanted to do, what she
could
do—she had no notion. Normally on a restless night she would begin painting, something of her own creation. Her best work emerged in the early morning hours, before the household had awakened, before she applied herself to the next work to be copied.

Instead she lit a candle and found the sketchbook she always kept among her private possessions. The light was poor and her fingers sweat as she gripped the charcoal, but at least the restlessness might have an outlet.

Voices outside the door pulled at her attention. Deep male voices. Speaking in hushed, curt exchanges. They sounded worried.

Drawn by concern, Greta ignored the heat and pulled on her robe and nightcap. She opened the door but a crack and peered out into the corridor.

“Do you think she’ll come?” Venner asked.

Oliver stood before him, hands clasped behind his back. Although he still wore his livery, he had opened the coat and undershirt at his throat. His wig was gone. Thick, light brown hair—hair she’d clutched at with eager fingers—barely graced his ears. Both men wore tension across their shoulders, their builds and postures appearing almost identical when obscured by shadow. How odd that master and servant would grow to resemble one another.

“Of course she’ll come,” Oliver said. “Ingrid is her best friend. I shall ride out for her straight away.”

“I think it would ease Ingrid’s mind, don’t you?” Venner swore softly and began to pace.

“Calm yourself. Babies are born every day. And besides, this may work to your advantage.”

“How so, man?”

“Fleeing Salzburg, if it comes to that, will be easier to manage with an infant than a woman so near to term. Here, now, at least she’ll be safe and well looked after.”

Greta hardly made a sound, but she must have done something to alert Oliver. He turned. A smile greeted her first, then a frown. She should have been pleased that his first reaction was positive, but the pace of its retreat was crushing.

“Fräulein Zweig, sorry to have disturbed your sleep.”

I wasn’t sleeping. I was imagining you nude.

She licked her bottom lip and forced a smile. “No bother. Truly. Is Lady Venner well?”

“The midwife has yet to arrive. I’m just off to fetch Frau De Voss.”

“Would you stay with her?” Venner asked. He seemed as surprised by the request as Oliver, his brows drawing together in a way that was nearly…animated. “
Bitte,
she puts up a brave face, but I cannot help but think she’ll fare better with a woman’s company.”

Greta was taken aback but honored by the man’s request. She tightened the robe’s ties. “Certainly, my lord. Anything I can do.”

“I’ll return within the half hour, my lord.” Oliver issued his master a curt bow and turned to go, briefly stopping at Greta’s side to whisper, “
Danke.
”

She nodded, dumbstruck anew by his appearance. Not the perfect valet, and not the awkward but exceptionally well-groomed man who had dined at Leinz Manor, he had a wildness in his eyes. The color was high on his cheeks.

But then he was gone. Greta could only stare in wonder, her heart a horse at full gallop, as he took his leave—long strides with powerful legs, his back straight and proud.

“Fräulein?”

Greta blinked and found Lord Venner watching her with an intensity she would have expected from Oliver. He flashed his gaze toward where Oliver disappeared down the stairs, then offered his elbow. “This way,
bitte.
”

“Yes.” She took his elbow and inhaled. “Yes, of course.”

Ingrid lay in her bed propped by at least a dozen pillows. She was flushed and sweating, her hair plaited over one shoulder, but otherwise she seemed the same energetic, playful woman who had organized that evening’s concert. “Oh, Greta, did they wake you? I’m ever so sorry.”

“No, in truth. I was…restless this evening. I’m here to do what I can to help.”

“Much as the men like to pretend otherwise, this is not a military operation.” She smiled indulgently at her husband.

Lord Venner lingered in the doorway like a cat waiting on the occasional scrap from a butcher. “Oliver has gone to fetch Mathilda. She’ll be here any moment.”

No matter her apparent effervescence, Ingrid sighed and leaned a little more heavily against the pillows. She curved her hands around the round bulk of her stomach where it shaped the counterpane into a hill. “Good,” she whispered. “Good. Mathilda will be here.”

Venner shifted his weight from one foot to the other, then back again, before finally entering his wife’s bedchamber. Face etched with unmistakable concern, he crossed the room and dropped a kiss on Ingrid’s forehead. “I’ll send her and the midwife in as soon as they arrive. You will let me know if you need anything.
Anything,
Ingrid.”

Greta studied the lace cuff of her nightgown, so intense was his emotion.

“I’ll be perfectly fine,” Ingrid said. The tremor in her voice hinted otherwise.

“My lord,” Greta said. “Count on me,
bitte.
I will inform you of her least little whim.”

“Ah, see,
mein Lieber?
” The woman found a reserve of strength to reassure her distressed husband. “She’s a wonderful girl. And she knows I’m prone to little whims.”

Lord Venner nodded once and departed. The curve of his shoulders revealed the world’s worth of worry he carried on his back.

When the door had closed, Ingrid let out a long exhale. “Oh, I love him. But I’m awfully glad he’s gone.”

Greta covered a giggle with her fingertips. “Why?”

“He’s not a good worrier. It suits him terribly ill. If I’m to endure the next few hours, I need encouraging thoughts and at least the pretense that all will be well.” She took Greta’s hand and smiled softly. “I’m sorry you were dragged into this. Truly I am. But I’m also very glad you’re here.”

“Give it no thought. I insist. You saved me from a long night of drawing by very poor candlelight.”

“Whatever were you—?”

Her hand seized, gripping Greta’s fingers with crushing force. Eyes wide, mouth open, Ingrid went rigid all over. She wrapped her free arm around her distended stomach and hunched over it, as if the baby were already born and in need of cradling. The cords on her neck stuck out as the pain swallowed every ounce of the woman that had been Ingrid.

All Greta could do was hold on.

When the pain had passed, she urged Ingrid to lie back against the pillows. Then she went to find a washcloth and water. She applied the wet cloth to the back of Ingrid’s neck.

“Oh, dear,” the woman whispered. “This is not going to be easy. I keep telling myself that women have been having babies for hundreds of years, but that doesn’t change how it happens.”

Greta could only marvel at the whole situation. Earlier that night she had been trying desperately to imagine the actual mechanics of lovemaking. Here was a woman who had not only shared marital pleasures with her husband, but had conceived a child. The distance between them seemed impossibly far. Greta was not her cousins, of course—and she was astonishingly glad they remained asleep thus far—but she hoped she did not come over as a silly girl. In this, in doing right by the woman who had offered such kindness, she wanted very much to be helpful.

Another pain racked Ingrid, who cried out sharply. Greta was there, holding her shoulders, enduring the sharp squeeze of desperate fingers on her forearm, praying for the safety of mother and child.

“Oh, God,” Ingrid sobbed. “Look.”

The bed linens were soaked with blood.

Oliver could hardly remember the last time he rode a horse in the city. The walks were pleasant enough, and rarely did situations require such haste. But from the Venners’ townhouse he urged his mount to pell-mell speeds. He ripped past the Rathaus and up Getreidegasse, vaulting off at No. 26. It seemed a lifetime ago that he first accompanied Mathilda to that pokey little flat on the third floor. Now he took the stairs two at a time.

He banged on the door to the De Vosses’ studio. “Mathilda! Open up!”

Pacing his way through the next few seconds, he dared consider the worst. He would return and find Christoph a destroyed man, his wife and child dead. Oliver’s heart rate still thumped and thudded after the breakneck ride, and a hideous sort of worry did nothing to ease it back to normal.

He reached out, still bent over, and thumped on the door with his fist. “Mathilda!”

Locks scraped in their tumblers. Arie De Voss appeared in the doorway wearing a robe and wielding a heavy iron candlestick like a club. “
Goede God.
Oliver!”

“Ingrid’s having the baby. I need Mathilda.”

Arie’s surprise was brief. “Come in.” He swung the door open and tossed the candlestick into a corner, where it landed with a massive thud. “Dress quickly, Tilda. It’s Ingrid.”

Now the waiting would really begin. Oliver hadn’t known Ingrid to dress in under an hour’s time.

“Sit,
mijn vriend,
” Arie said, his hand on Oliver’s shoulder. “I’ll get you a drink.”

Oliver slumped onto a musician’s stool, the only furniture in the sitting room other than a heavy wooden chair behind Arie’s desk. Nothing much had changed about the flat—still disorganized and spare, still littered with the tools of the couple’s trade. But someone had repainted the walls a becoming shade of yellow. Curtains adorned the window that overlooked the street. A brightly colored rug covered the floor. Mathilda, of course. She had made the man and his space her own.

Arie handed him a glass of some manner of liquor. Oliver tipped it down his throat. Even as he did, he noticed that the composer, once a notorious drinker, sipped only water.

“Danke.”

“How long?” Arie sat opposite. His hair was its customary mess, but the lines of tension and displeasure—from the concert, but also from his turbulent first years in Salzburg—were distant memories. He looked…satisfied. With a muffled groan Oliver realized that he and Mathilda had probably been celebrating their evening’s success.

He wiped his mouth and exhaled heavily. “About an hour after the last guest departed.”

“And how early is she?”

“Just under four weeks,” Mathilda said. She stood in the doorway to the bedroom, fastening a cape over her shoulders. Barely dressed by formal standards, she wore a plain brown muslin gown and carried her first husband’s medical bag. Her hair was swept back from her face and secured with a ribbon.

Oliver managed a relieved smile. She remained one of his favorite people, and her efficiency in a crisis was only one reason.

“Carriage?” she asked.

“Horseback.”

“You two go ahead,” Arie said. “I will pack a bag in case Tilda needs to stay and then follow in a
Fiaker.
”

Mathilda crossed the room and gave him an uncompromising kiss. Only when Arie eased her back and wiped her cheeks did Oliver realize she was gently crying. “You’re splurging on a hired carriage,” she whispered. “Now I know this is grave.”

“Go now,
mijn liefde.
All will be well.”

With a nod and another swipe at her cheek, Mathilda faced Oliver. “I’m ready.”

They bounded into the still, humid blackness. Oliver grabbed the reins of the horse and gave Mathilda a boost. She surprised him again by hauling her skirts out of the way, then throwing her leg across to sit astride, just behind the cantle. Within moments they were racing back down Getreidegasse. Oliver concentrated on the streets. Though devoid of people, they could yet be treacherous with loosened cobblestones. The last thing he needed was a nasty spill, but fear and concern urged him to greater speeds.

The head groom awaited them when they arrived. He grabbed Mathilda with his blunt, work-roughened hands and delivered her safely to the ground. Worry etched his face, adding ten years. Oliver’s chest felt stuffed full of hot coals. Everyone knew what this night meant to the master and mistress of the house. Everyone knew what horrors could visit them by first light.

He shoved those thoughts out of his mind. Enough with the worst possibilities. Now it was time for the best—Ingrid and a new baby, both healthy. As he grabbed Mathilda’s hand and ran with her through the open front door, he pinned that image to the forefront of his mind. No less than all of them happy and safe.