Portrait of Seduction (16 page)

“Hook your ankles,” he said in her hair. “Hold onto me.”

Yes. Tell me what to do.

She obeyed without hesitation, finding the pleasure even more intense as she crossed her ankles behind his back. She dug her fingers into his shoulders. Every thrust was a force of nature now, driving into her. Greta closed her eyes and sank into the pillow, into the mattress, as Oliver filled her over and over.

His breath was coming fast, the sweat on his back something forbidden and divine. The chest hair that had so fascinated her brushed against her nipples, abrading them with every thrust. It was too much. She floated, far outside herself. Even grabbing his muscled buttocks and clenching her thighs did nothing to keep her grounded, until, with one more deep, penetrating thrust, she burst into a million pieces.

Oliver felt her climax with such intensity that he was nearly dragged along with her. The twisted ecstasy on her face, the tight gasping noise in the back of her throat, the way her intimate muscles clenched his shaft—there was no holding back. He buried his forehead in the pillow, nestling his face alongside her neck, and thrust. Each went deeper, pushed harder.

Finally, when he could bear no more, he clutched at his presence of mind and withdrew. Braced on one elbow, with Greta’s legs still clinging to him, he took hold of his slippery cock and stroked. The release he had long denied himself crashed down like a blinding avalanche. He swallowed a groan as shudder after shudder overwhelmed him.

When the strongest aftershocks subsided, he collapsed on his side. His breath came in great heaving gulps, his head spinning and his body shaking.

Greta laughed—that sweet laugh that sounded far less serious than she actually was. “I’m glad you thought of that.”

“What?”

“Where to, ah…finish.”

Oliver pulled the crook of his elbow away from his eyes and tilted his head. She was staring down at her stomach—at the evidence of his release.

“Oh, God.” Mortified, he jumped out of bed and grabbed his discarded shirt from the floor. “Forgive me,” he said, caressing her bare skin with the well-washed fabric.

She stilled his hand. “You’re embarrassed?”

“Of course I am. I…damn.” Head bowed low, he turned his back. “I don’t often take lovers, but I’m careful when I do.”

Obsessively careful, in truth. He had never once spilled his seed inside a woman.

“But I’m grateful, you see. I was not in my right mind to be responsible.”

Half disgusted with himself, he tossed the shirt away. “You were a virgin and I…you shouldn’t have had to endure that…mess. Not the most dignified, is it?”

“The alternative could have produced a child.”

A child. A child with Greta. To hold his own son as proudly as had Christoph. What kind of strange bliss was that, blossoming in his chest at the thought?

“Yes,” he said simply.

“Then everything happened as it should.”

She continued to stare at him, which was doubly unnerving. Oliver wasn’t used to being observed, let alone by such an inquisitive mind—one that seemed able to peer deeper into his motives. No matter his desire to become, one day, a respected husband and father, he could not stomach the idea of accidentally fathering a bastard. His youth had been too degrading and thorny to bear repeating. He had wanted to stay sheathed in her tight warmth for his climax, and the alternative had not been particularly dignified, but he was unable to permit himself a more selfish, dangerous release.

Greta’s mouth was shaped with the slightest smile. “You are such a wonder.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you. That was…Oliver, that was incredible.” She looked up and down his chest, her smile turning wicked. “
You’re
incredible. I had the most delicious idea that you would be.”

“I know what ideas you had.”

“I have more, if you’re curious.”

He shook his head, bewildered by her cheek. Teasing glimpses of her playfulness seemed more frequent of late, as if the woman he had first met was a disguise. Now every word was filled with meaning that hinted at their intimacy. She was opening for him, in more ways than her virginity.

“Come here,” she said, extending her arms.

Astonishing. A virgin but a few minutes ago, she reclined on the rumpled counterpane like the most practiced pleasure-seeker. Her nudity, it seemed, affected her not at all, whereas Oliver was finding the task of maintaining eye contact a taxing challenge. Her skin, her heart-stopping body—some distractions were simply too overwhelming. Little red bite marks along her shoulder and the upper swells of her breasts reminded him of how he had behaved. Shame and greed warred within him.

But he could not deny her simple request. He flung the blankets back and nuzzled down into the softness, her arms around his neck. Laying his weary head alongside hers on the pillow was the most natural, most extraordinary act.

“You are,” she repeated. “So proper and devoted. I have thought about you for weeks and longer. I wanted to know how it would feel to be in your care. Now I know. And it’s a wonder.”

Oliver swallowed the tight lump in his throat as he traced the inward dip of her waist. He tightened his hold on her body, so perfectly curved to his, and forced a shaky exhale. Having known there would be consequences, he was stricken to learn that one of them was entirely unexpected. He felt
possessive.
More than that, he felt drawn to her in ways he had never experienced with another woman. Rather than liberating him, their encounter bound him even more tightly to this woman who could never be his.

“And then you disappear, back inside yourself,” she whispered against his temple. “Oliver? Tell me?”

“I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

“I can hardly believe that’s what you were thinking.”

“That doesn’t meant it’s untruthful.”

“Very well.” She snuggled more deeply into his embrace. “I’ll let it go.”

“Danke.”

“On one condition.”

Oliver stared up at the ceiling where the sun had made a bright yellow field out of the white plaster. “Which is?”

“You must tell me something real, something about you.”

Very little.

The impulsive reply struck him as particularly harsh in light of Christoph’s words in the training room. Was he hiding? It hardly felt like hiding, when so many of the family’s unseen responsibilities fell to him. Or perhaps his pride had simply been wounded.

He shouldn’t need recognition. That was not his ambition. But the need was there nonetheless. Perhaps, in the end, that was why he came to Greta and indulged their desires. Her appreciation practically beamed from each pore.

“I am proud of the work I do,” he said.

“I know you are. It shows in how stubborn you can be.”

“Stubborn?”

Feeling as playful as he might ever claim to be, he skittered his fingers along her ribs and tickled until she was gasping with laughter. Her face turned against the pillow, she smacked his chest with clenched fists. He grabbed her hip and squeezed. Her giggles turned to a throaty moan that tugged arousal back to life. She rolled onto her stomach so that he had a perfect, priceless view of her spine, buttocks, and beautiful thighs. Oliver turned toward her and petted the smooth length of her.

“I’m not stubborn.” He kissed between her shoulder blades. “I’m dedicated.”

Greta flopped her head sideways, her tangled hair half obscuring her cheek. “But why? Why the Venners? It’s an admirable thing—almost beautiful. But how did you come to know them?”

“Accident.” Not wanting to lie, neither could he reveal the truth. “Our families knew one another in Anhalt. When I left the army, I needed employment. My mother had worked for Venner’s father, so I knew the family. He was readying a move here to Salzburg, and he needed a valet willing to go with him. I fit the bill.”

“He’s a good man, isn’t he?”

“Yes. I…I admire him a great deal.”

Wearing that brazen smile once more, she arched her back so that her shapely buttocks rose slightly off the bed. “I think I’ll stop now.”

“Stop what?” he asked, his mouth dry as parched summer earth.

“Trying to drag information out of you. That was probably the most revealing thing you could’ve shared. I’ll stop while I’m ahead.”

“You’re beautiful.”

Her smile burst into a full-fledged grin. “Oh, well, we could continue in that vein, if you like.”

“I believe I will.” Dragging his palm up her body, from the top of her thigh to the lush swell of her backside, he petted every inch. “I’ve dreamed of you, of seeing you this way.”

“You’re one for daydreams?”

“On occasion,” he said in all earnestness, although he knew she was teasing again. “But not with any thought they might be real one day.”

“And what did you do in those daydreams?”

Rather than reply with words, he leaned over and kissed one of the two little divots along her lower back. Such perfect dimples, like guideposts to the perfection of her buttocks. She arched again, wiggling up to meet his kiss as he opened his mouth, tasting, exploring her once again. The knowledge that it would never be enough was only just sinking in.

“Is anyone expecting you?” she asked.

“No. Mathilda gave me the day off.”

“She can do that?”

“Old habits. She used to be in charge of this household.”

“Well, good. I don’t want to share you just yet. And I don’t want to give this up before we must.”

“Because we must.” He half wished she would contradict him. As impossible as it was, the sentiment would be a pleasure to hear.

Instead Greta sighed and swished a lock of hair out of her eyes. She regarded him steadily as the air between them thickened with resignation. “Yes, we must. But not yet.”

She licked her lower lip and stretched her arms above her head, hugging the pillow. Like a cat in the sun, she seemed utterly relaxed. But Oliver was far from it. The inevitability of reality coupled with the lithe length of her naked body. He wanted her again. He feared he would always want her.

“Tell me what to do,” she whispered.

The dare, the desire, the playfulness in that single sentence gave him the strength of a dozen men. He would enjoy Greta while she was still his, even if that meant no more than the next few hours.

Oliver knelt on the bed, positioning himself between her legs. Power surged through him—power and lust like he’d never known. “Up now, Greta. On your knees.”

Greta sat at supper two days later, unable to concentrate on a single thing. Not anything. Words floated in and out, like pests to be ignored. Mosquitoes. She could only think of Oliver and the breathtaking hours they had shared in her room. No one had missed them. Ingrid and the new baby were at the heart of every discussion. In light of that miraculous occurrence, the whereabouts of an exhausted houseguest and a faithful valet hardly seemed important.

Since then she had painted. The urge to take brush in hand had been nearly overwhelming. So many emotions did battle within her, all of them requiring expression. Mortar and pestle, sharpening knife, charcoal—handling each and applying them to new works was soothing.

And then there was his note.

Although he merely passed her in the corridor before supper, Oliver had managed to slip her a tiny piece of writing paper. She had yet to find a private moment with which to read it. Instead she wore one edge to a soft pulp where it waited, hidden in a skirt pocket.

What would it say? Had he suffered too many regrets? That seemed heartbreakingly likely, considering his upstanding nature and their unequal status. But what if he wanted to join her once again, to make love as if the rest of the world had fallen away? The idea of Oliver taking such a bold initiative did not ring true. Greta longed for that sort of sweeping, romantic spontaneity, but she knew the man who held her fascinated. Spontaneity was, in all likelihood, beyond his capacity.

But the note…the note remained. Memories fused with possibilities until every other word or concern became yet another cruel delay.

“And then we’ll greet Father when he arrives,” Anna said.

That jerked Greta out of her haze. “Uncle Thaddeus is coming here?”

“In three days,” Theresa said. “Isn’t it wonderful? He hasn’t been to town in months. We can take him to all the events—concerts and plays. Even the church services are so much lovelier than at home.”

Oh, no. That would not do at all. If anyone could see—or, more accurately,
sense
—what Greta had been doing, it would be her uncle. Thaddeus would know she had fallen. One look and he would see the ruinous truth. He would compare Greta to her mother and drag her back to the manor, using her talent to keep her bound to the family.

Not fair.
She felt like a child for even thinking the words, but she could not make them stop.
It’s not fair.

She looked down at the cold summer soup, which had been so refreshing and flavorful only moments before. Now it simply looked congealed, dotted with the lumps of pureed vegetables. If she managed to keep from crying at the table, she would consider it a hard-fought victory.

After supper, she joined the cousins in the drawing room, but the conversations were as stilted there as at home. Greta itched to paint but had to make do with her sketchbook. She huddled into an overstuffed chair, her knees drawn up to her chest. The fine charcoal pencil flew across the page as she gave vent to her frustrations. Not Oliver. She dared not draw him with such potentially curious company. Instead she drew scenes from the opera—the crowd backed away from where she had been captured, the backstage area littered with props and pulleys. Just out of sight in each scene would be Oliver. But he was there, making each scene a little less terrifying.

Only when her cousins were happily ensconced in their embroidery and gossip did Greta dare slip the note from her pocket. His tight handwriting was nearly too small to read, as if he were whispering in print.

Come watch us practice. Training room, 9pm sharp. Hide in the arcade.

Greta’s hands shook. She tucked the note back into her pocket and conjured an exaggerated yawn. With deliberate care, she closed her sketchbook and used a cloth to wipe the charcoal from her fingers. The actions briefly roused her cousins from their shared world.

“To bed so soon, Greta?” Theresa asked.

“I’m afraid I must. These last few days have been terribly taxing.”

Anna lowered her needlepoint. “Indeed! I truly cannot fathom how you managed.”

Greta shrugged, quickly glancing at the mantel clock. Ten minutes till nine. “I did what needed to be done. And as my reward, an early evening or two isn’t really too much to expect.”

“Of course not,” Theresa said. “Oh, and did you see Lady Gepple’s pelisse? The hem was trimmed in six inches of lace.”

“How gauche.”

“Entirely.”

With the slightest shake of her head, Greta left her cousins to their chat. Her heart was racing, so that even her mumbled
“Gute Nacht”
sounded half a city away. She could not feel the slip of paper in her pocket, but it was there nonetheless, like a brand against her leg. He was being bold—the boldest she could ever expect from such a quiet, steady man. The thrill was almost too much to bear. He would have thought through the possibilities a hundred times, perhaps rewritten the note over and over as he struggled for the right words. In the end he had settled on simplicity. She would either be there or she wouldn’t. As she trailed silently down the corridor, she imagined the torture of his expectation.

Upon reaching the ground floor, she slipped through the shadows and kept close to the walls. If anyone discovered her, she was simply a confused houseguest. Anna and Theresa still had difficulty finding their way through the labyrinthine manor to their fourth-story bedchambers. She took each step with as much confidence as she could muster, no matter the way her knees wobbled.

Oh, but what he had done while she was on her knees. The power of each stroke, the greedy drive of his body into hers. She still had bruises on her hips where he had gripped. The next morning, she had stood in front of her full-length mirror, completely nude, searching for all the ways she must have changed. The changes were all internal, as if each organ and bone had realigned, but the physical reminders were plain along her skin.

Walking more quickly now, she found the door to the training room. A quick glance up and down the corridor revealed no one. The nearby kitchen still hummed with activity, along with laughter and the occasional clanging pot. But she was alone. Without a candle, all she could do was feel her way. She opened the door, pushing with fingers that felt like limp noodles.

Working from memory, she recalled the stairs at the back of the room. External fires streamed in through two banks of rectangular windows, creating a glimmering path along the padded floor. Fearing she would be caught in the middle of such a display, Greta kept to the shadowy edges. She had just reached the staircase leading up to the arcade when male voices echoed from out in the corridor.

Panic surged and gave her legs strength and speed. She took the stairs two at a time, her skirts bunched in sweaty fists. But oh, even as she panicked—this was fun.

Candlelight flickered along the floor and walls. Greta ducked down and practically crawled to where a stack of boxes provided adequate cover, almost as if they were there for just such a purpose. With no time to speculate, she settled in and found the perfect little gap. From there she had an unobstructed view of the training room floor.

He must have known. He must have wanted it this way.

Goose bumps sprinkled along her scalp and down her spine. She grinned to herself, sharing the anticipation Oliver must surely be feeling.

Two days. Two days and he had not yet gone mad. That seemed a minor miracle, considering how often his thoughts strayed toward Greta. Her laugh. Her smile. Her naked body and the silky smoothness of her skin. Oliver had fallen into the trap of infatuation, and he had no intention of extricating himself. Not yet. The pain was too greatly mingled with pleasure.

He followed Christoph into the training room and schooled his features. If Greta proved the secret daredevil he knew her to be, she would be up in the arcade that bordered the facility. Sometimes they used the space to instruct the male servants on defensive techniques. Once or twice a year, they held an in-house tournament to help combat winter restlessness, where the men of the Venner staff fought for pride and personal victories. Even a few old grudges were played out in a way that helped diffuse tension.

The process had worked in the army, and to Christoph’s surprise, Oliver had been able to implement it successfully here as well. He never fought harder than during those tournaments, knowing that his high position in the household made him a target.

But now he intended to fight bloody hard.

Christoph had been insufferable. He doted on Ingrid with the persistence of a mother hen, but with no such efficiency. He was underfoot with the staff and driving Ingrid to distraction. The idea that she was well—safe, happy and healthy—had yet to sink into his hardheaded brother’s mind. Or more likely, into his heart. The time was right to call him on it.

And he would do it with Greta as his audience. With a quick glance toward the boxes he’d stacked, he caught the barest glimpse of blond hair. So…she had come to observe the sport. The idea had occurred to him after what she’d confessed in bed. Watching him, studying him, had been arousing for the keen-eyed innocent. Never had he known a woman outside of a bawdy house to admit such a thing. Rather than simply sneak into her room once more, Oliver had decided to give them a little prelude. If all went according to careful plan, this would be but a beginning to their evening together.

Greta’s uncle would arrive in just a few short days. Then life would return to normal. Oliver would force it to, out of sheer will alone. He would pick up the pieces after she left, but not a minute before.

“Take up a sword, my lord,” Oliver said. “We’ve all had enough of you lately.”

Christoph scowled. “You have some nerve.”

“No one else does. You’re a father now. I still congratulate you. I thought seeing her through the birth would be enough, but your worry is suffocating everyone.” He sloughed off his coat, tossed his wig aside, and undid the two buttons at his throat. After a quick check of the armaments, he picked a slim, precise foil with a gold finish. “It ends here.”

“You arrogant bastard.”

“Testy, my lord.” Oliver nodded to the wall of swords. “Let’s go.”

His strides stiff, Christoph grabbed the nearest weapon, hardly offering it a glance. He met Oliver in the center of the small arena. “Is this more of your helpful remedy?”

“Naturally. Just doing my job.”

“Hardly. You’re trying to prove a point, just because—”

Oliver shook his head sharply. “It’s no longer two in the morning, my lord,” he said under his breath. “The walls may have ears. Just fight.”

He raised his foil and lunged. Christoph took the blow and sank into his stance. Again they circled one another, but the wariness and fervor they had shared on the night of Franz’s birth was gone. The timbre was different.

Oliver was reminded of the years they had spent as young men, always aware of one another, always in silent competition. He’d never known whether his unacknowledged half brother would vouch for him or turn him in. Christoph had never taken part in Oliver’s misdeeds, but on occasion he had turned a blind eye—perhaps playing out his own quiet rebellion against their father.

Now Greta was watching. Oliver wanted to be better than his brother, even though she would never know the truth of their relationship. The valet could beat the master. She thought him practical and dependable. Fine. He also wanted her to think him desirable and strong.

His foil swished through the air with a slick hiss. He caught Christoph’s weapon, the metal squealing as they clashed. The air in the training room was warm. Sweat soon adhered his shirt to his chest. Panting, his thighs aching, Oliver kept pushing, forcing Christoph once again to lose himself in the relative ease of physical work.

God, it felt good. Better than worry and want. Better than hot, restless dreams that left him hollow.

A slicing pain cut down the outside of his bicep. He hissed, glancing to where a trail of crimson stained his white shirt. “You’ll pay for that.”

“Hardly,” Christoph said.

“No, I’m in earnest. Some fair compensation is in order.”

Christoph actually laughed—or some twisted noise that counted as his laugh. Months could go by without hearing it. “You already earn too much.”

He lunged again, forcing Oliver to leap backward, his torso arched to avoid the slashing blade. They fought in earnest now, giving and taking with grit and fire. Oliver’s throat burned. His right arm throbbed and shook. But he kept fighting. He could feel Greta’s eyes on him, her avid interest lighting into his blood like fine cognac.

Finally he scored a slice of his own, catching Christoph on the shoulder. “We’re even,” the man gritted out.

Oliver simply stood in the center of the arena, stance solid, chest upthrust. He hauled the shirt off his back and swiped it along the tip of the foil. After tossing it aside, he stared his competition in the face—those ice-blue eyes so like his own. “Again.”

Greta had long since bit down on the pad at the base of her thumb. It was either that or gasp at every near miss, every clean lunge, every moment when Oliver battled like a medieval warrior. She understood it all now—why he had wanted her to be here in hiding, bearing witness. She actually admired his initiative, surprised by his daring. Her thanks and appreciation would be in order later.

Concealed by the boxes, she edged a little nearer the railing. They were both shirtless now. Though slightly shorter, Oliver was more beautifully muscled than his master. They were a study in subtle contrasts. Venner was elegant and long-boned. His every move seemed thought-through, as if the action needed permission. Oliver, however, sank into every movement. He seemed a dancer, flowing from step to step with practiced ease. And dear Lord, he was even more attractive to her now than he had been days ago, weeks ago. Now she knew how he tasted, how his body moved over hers, how he sounded as pleasure consumed that active, intense mind.

The room was too hot. The men had been able to strip down to their bare skin, but Greta had no such option. She was aroused and uncomfortable, squished between two crates that would be waist height had she been standing. But she would not budge, not while there was still such a show to be witnessed.