Portrait of Seduction (14 page)

“You will look in on her, won’t you?” Ingrid asked. “I would so appreciate it.”

Oliver bowed stiffly. “Of course, my lady. Congratulations again to you both.”

Legs hot and numb, his neck flushed, he turned for the door. Perhaps Mathilda followed but he was beyond hearing or seeing. As if controlled by wires and fate’s relentless puppeteer, his body moved him down the corridor and up the stairs, toward Greta’s room.

Greta dried her skin and slipped into a fresh nightgown. She efficiently plaited her hair, then secured it to the crown of her head. Even with the windows open, her room was unbearably sticky and stuffy for September. What she would not give for a cool breeze. But as the sun began to gently lighten the dawn sky, she knew it was not to be. The day would only grow more oppressive.

Not that she intended to venture out-of-doors in the near future. She had packed a small canvas and a stash of potted paints among her personal belongings. Her plan was to sleep until noon, request a little food to be sent to her room, and spend the rest of the day painting. She deserved as much after such a trying twelve hours, the likes of which she had never before endured.

She spread her washing cloth out to dry and extinguished the room’s lone candle. Deep blue shadows still dominated the early, early dawn, but a glimmer of yellow and a stroke of fiery orange caught a pane of glass in her east-facing window. The eerie light turned her counterpane a fierce white. She was weary, exhausted even, but the sight of her bed did not stir thoughts of sleep. The dramatics of Ingrid’s delivery still ignited her mind.

Seeing Lord Venner so affected by the birth of his son and the safety of his dear wife cut straight to Greta’s heart. How would it feel to be so cherished? So beloved? She tried to imagine it of Herr Weiser but found only dread at the thought of his leering stare. The idea of being desired by such a man was fairly simple to formulate. Being adored by him, however, seemed as unlikely as sprouting wings and flying across the Alps.

But Oliver…

The concern he consistently showed his employers would surely translate to tenderness and affection for a family of his own. And his stare was quite the opposite of dreadful. It was magnetic—icy blue and clear, yet so full of secrets. He had looked at her in the training room as though he required her permission to take his next breath.

As she turned down the coverlet, Greta decided that fear had to be at the heart of her fascination. Nothing else explained why this one man, a servant of all people, had captured her imagination so thoroughly. She was afraid of her uncle. His expectations. His decisions regarding her marital future. What if life as the head of a new household offered no additional freedoms—only new duties? Especially
sexual
duties. She might never paint as she wished, bound instead to a man who would expect her to be pliant.

The burden of keeping so much of herself concealed was beginning to flay her sanity into little strips.

So she was bored. Restless. Frustrated and scared. And when a handsome, heroic man swept into her life and quite literally saved her from a grisly end, she had become enamored. It was all too simple and childish, really—the dreams of a young girl.

Yet her heart was breaking at having to push them away.

Emotion born of too little sleep and too much sentimentality stung her eyes. She rubbed them with the heels of her hands, succumbing to a yawn. Perhaps she was ready to sleep after all. Her looping misgivings would be less frantic, less dire when she awoke.

A knock sounded at her door, so quiet that she assumed her mind was playing tricks. But two shadows wavered in the crack beneath her door. Feet. Perhaps something was amiss with Ingrid? Her throat closed with worry.

She crossed the room with trembling knees and opened the door.

“Is everything all—?”

Oliver stood in the corridor, a single lit candle in his hand. The colors of fire turned his face to bronze and cast his features in high relief. He had donned his shirt once again, but the collar gaped open, revealing the strong line of his throat where it met his chest.

She breathed his name. Then in a whisper, “Is it Lady Venner? Is she well?”

“Perfectly well.”

He, too, used the quietest possible voice. The hour was still early, and they could not be seen together. An errand was an errand, but Greta wondered if the undercurrents of their relationship would be visible to all.

“Good. I’m glad.”

His gaze had yet to waver from her face. Greta could not endure the scrutiny, looking instead at the bare wooden floor of the corridor.

“Lady Venner sent me to look in on you,” he said. “She wanted to be certain that you did not suffer any ill effects.”

With surprising boldness, he finished that sentence while walking forward, edging into Greta’s space. She backed into the room. Oliver closed the door, shutting them in together. And still he stared at her with an intensity that was sure to melt her bones.

“So did you? Suffer any ill effects?”

“No,” she whispered.

“I’m glad to hear.” He blew out the candle and set it on the nearest table. Dawn darkness turned him into someone else entirely, all mystery and authority. “And from finding Lord Venner and me in the training room. Any lingering effects?”

His Adam’s apple bobbed. Greta took comfort in that scant sign of vulnerability. They were alone in her room. She wore only a nightgown. Any discovery would mean scandal and ruin. At least he was not so untouched by those facts as he otherwise appeared.

“Yes, actually,” she said, her mouth dreadfully dry. “Those memories have lingered quite intensely.”

“Tell me.”

Every inch of her skin tingled and snapped. Her breasts still felt full, eager for more of what Oliver had wrought. How could she describe the effect of his appearance? Her legs shook, buffeted once again by the image of Oliver stripped bare to the waist, his torso gleaming with sweat. He had the most lovely thatch of hair on his chest. It swirled around his pectorals, framing flat nipples with a dark border before plunging down his ridged stomach muscles. She had only managed the briefest touch, but she wanted to feast. She wanted to trace each whorl, memorize each defining shadow.

“That is hardly appropriate,” she managed to breathe.

“I know.”

“You said we should stop.”

Oliver reached to take her hand but hesitated. Their fingers were mere inches from touching. He smelled unlike any man she had ever been near. No perfumes or powders, just clean and elemental, vital and strong. She wanted to bury her nose in the crook of his neck and taste the salt of his skin.

“I know what I said.” He finally twined their fingers, their palms pressed tightly together. “I am not a libertine, nor do I generally put my own desire first. But missing such an opportunity… Greta, I would regret it for the rest of my life. I am fascinated by you.”

Her breath stopped. Hearing him speak aloud his desires had frozen logical thought. She tightened her fingers.
More,
her mind shouted.
Tell me more.

“I’ll leave now, if you ask me to.” His mouth was near enough to brush the bridge of her nose. “Or I can stay.”

She licked her lip. “Stay.”

He closed his eyes and exhaled. When he opened them again, he revealed such an expression of longing that Greta’s knees nearly buckled. She wilted toward him, neck tipped back, leading with her bust. Oliver groaned. He pushed her hands behind her back and dipped his head. When warm, firm lips touched her throat, she was lost. And she reveled in it.

Oliver skimmed his mouth down along her skin, nuzzling the edge of lace along the high collar of her nightgown. Greta’s world had gone dark, her eyes drifting closed on the waves of gathering pleasure, but bright lights fired off behind her lids. Oliver scooped her into his arms, adding to her dizziness. She gasped, then laughed into his chest. So warm and solid. He held her closer and she burrowed into his strong torso, still wondering how far he would let this go.

A detached place in her brain made a promise. She would enjoy these moments. She would savor them and hoard them for the day, not so long from now, when being cradled by Oliver Doerger was no longer a prospect. And in the meantime, she would speak her mind. She would do what she wanted. She would not be a shy, intimidated fool who swallowed her own tongue at the faintest hint of displeasure from others. If he wanted to be with her, he would be with the woman she had always hidden—brave and curious, honest and strong.

Such a promise. One she made herself honor straight away.

“What are your intentions, Herr Doerger?”

He still held her, their breaths mingling, their mouths so near to touching. “My intentions?”

“Yes. Are you here to kiss me until your conscience makes you stop? Or are you here to show me how a man and woman fit together?” She traced the shell of his ear. “Oliver, I’ve been so curious.”

He lifted his brows in silent reply.

“All of my art books and pictures of sculptures by the old masters—they tell me so little.”

“You know the male form. That’s more than most gently bred young women.”

She smiled sadly. “Only half of me is gently bred,
mein Lieber.
I want to talk about seeing you in the training room.”

“Oh?”

Slowly, with infinite patience and muscled arms that remained sure and steady, he lowered her onto the bed. The sheets and counterpane were cool compared to how hotly her skin burned. She stretched fully, amazed by the way his gaze absorbed every movement. There was power in being able to command such attention. She could get tipsy on that alone—the thrill of being the center of his world, no matter how briefly.

“Truly, marble sculpture does not do a man’s physique justice. When I saw you earlier, you were just so…
hairy.
”

Oliver pressed a fist against his grin. “I’m not that bad.”

“Not bad. But not marble and stone, either. You looked breathless and hot. Utterly alive.” She inhaled, pressing on. “I wanted to touch you. I still do.”

“Greta…”

“And if the masters got the vitality of a man’s body wrong, then it leaves me to wonder what else they botched. Books of poetry, even descriptions of the sex act itself—I have to assume it must be experienced to be understood.”

Although astonished at how giving herself permission to speak freely had produced such scandalous words, she felt freer for being able to say them, to speak her fantasies aloud. Oliver’s avid stare and parted lips said he did not mind.

“I don’t want that first experience to be with Herr Weiser.” She looked down to where her hands clasped together on her stomach, so nervous that every inch of her shook. Still, he deserved to see her earnestness. Gathering a fortifying breath, she met his avid stare. “Oliver, I want it to be with you.”

Right or wrong, Oliver could not leave.

Speaking was impossible as he regarded the exquisite woman stretched out before him like an offering to a wanton god. He was throbbing—so tense and hard all over. But she was softness. The curves of her bosom and hips were draped in the clinging white fabric of her nightgown, outlining yet concealing the flesh he ached to touch. Her reclining pose was innocently provocative. She could be a woman on the cusp of sleep, and yet her simple declaration still lingered between them. He swallowed and unclenched his fists.

He had never wanted a woman as much as he wanted Greta. What sort of man would he be—or become—if he indulged in such a treasure?

Oliver wanted to find out.

He thawed his frozen limbs and eased onto the bed, facing her. They did not touch, but the heat of her hip nestled against his. Greta’s eyes were heavy-lidded. She had tucked one arm above her head, which had the effect of pulling the nightgown more tightly across her breast. Had he already been her lover, he would have leaned over and kissed her firm nipple through the filmy white cloth.

“Your virginity,” he said, his voice surprisingly rough. “Greta, that is a precious gift.”

“Which is why I want to give it to the man of my choosing.”

Her expression was as soft as her body, devoid now of anxiety or doubt. She was all calmness. Part of him envied her composure, but it also poked at his pride like a dare. He vowed that she would be none so calm once they began to make love. He needed a reward for falling so far, and that reward would be her sighs and moans and breathless cries.

“There will be repercussions.”

She grabbed his arm and tugged, hauling him down. Oliver found himself lying along her body, their faces mere inches away. Laughter reverberated from her chest into his.

“Don’t force me to plead, Herr Doerger,” she whispered.

Oliver kissed the place where her upper lip curved in the center. Then he kissed the lush softness of her lower lip. Her gentle sighs warmed his skin, while her hands gripped his shoulders. “If we do this, Greta, you
will
plead. You’ll beg me never to stop.”

“I had no notion that you think so highly of yourself.”

“I don’t.” He pressed away from the bed and started on the long row of buttons trailing from her neck to her bellybutton. One by one, he revealed her lustrous skin to the gathering dawn. “But consider what you know about me,
ja?
Let the facts suggest the outcome.”

“You’re observant.”

That gave him a smile. “I am.”

“You’re thoughtful.”

“Within limits.” Upon finishing the last button, he trailed two fingers down the path of parted fabric. Her skin was fire beneath his touch. Goose bumps followed his caress. “Your body, for example, is more than enough to render me entirely dumb.”

Greta giggled, then shivered as he stroked her once more. “You serve Lord and Lady Venner faithfully, which suggests patience and selflessness.”

“Infinite stores.”

“I like the sound of that. If I were to describe the perfect lover, I would place those two qualities at the top of my list.”

“My selflessness only goes so far, Greta.” He replaced his fingers with his mouth, starting at the base of her throat. Each tiny kiss was so restrained when compared to the driving desire pounding through his veins. “I intend to pleasure you, but I also intend to enjoy it a great deal.”

“But, my dear man.” She caught his face in her hands, just when he had reached the promise of her bosom. He let her guide his gaze back up to her eyes. “That’s how it should be.”

A tension in his chest eased. He had not realized how tightly wound he had become—not just his sexual desire, but by expectations of his own flawless behavior. He was the more experienced of the two when it came to sexual escapades. Greta, however, was the one propelling this seduction.