Portrait of Seduction (17 page)

The men grunted and hissed, fighting one another as if the future of the Venner line depended on it. Neither gave ground, until Greta was sure one of them would be seriously injured. That fear only heightened her unbearable interest as she watched each spin and thrust. She pushed damp strands of hair back from her forehead and gulped a mouthful of thick air. In her heart, she kept saying Oliver’s name over and over, a silent chant for her champion.

Finally Venner held up a hand. He had doubled over, bracing his elbows on his knees, his back puffing up and down with each heaving breath. “Enough.”

Oliver dropped his foil and clapped his master on the shoulder. “Nice work, my lord.”

“You meant it tonight.” Venner straightened, massaging his lower back. “Why?”

Greta might have imagined it, but she thought Oliver glanced up toward her hiding spot. “Because you didn’t learn the first time,” he said. “Ingrid is fine. She’s made it through the worst, and she’s healthy. Happy, even. Soon she’ll be fit to travel, if needs be, and young Franz strong enough to survive such a trial. But believe me, none of the rest of us are fine with you forgetting your place.”

“And what’s that?”

“As head of this household, my lord.”

“In other words, get myself in order?”

Oliver laughed. Sweat gleamed off his chest, gilded by the room’s few candles. “Exactly.”

“I hope it’s a lesson we won’t have to repeat.”

“Afraid, my lord?”

“A little. You were ferocious.” Lord Venner picked up his shirt, then offered his hand to his valet. “Again, you have my thanks.”

The men shook hands, then Oliver stepped away and bowed. The image of him behaving so formally while so indecently clad did ridiculous things to Greta’s heartbeat. She couldn’t take in enough air. The room was dizzying, but it had only a little to do with the intense heat.

“At your service, my lord,” Oliver said.

Venner strode out of the room with a slight decrease in vigor, but he wore a smile Greta had never seen. Perhaps Oliver had truly been able to accomplish two tasks at once—alleviating his master’s apprehension and showing off. She nearly snickered at the idea of such efficiency, which was well beyond anything she could ever manage. Such a strange, remarkable man.

She heard a sharp exhale. The room dimmed. Two more candles were extinguished until only a single flame remained.

“You can come down now,” Oliver said, his voice so low and calm—at odds with how he had appeared while sparring.

Greta forced her legs to stand, no matter their trembling. A surprising ache still pulsed between her thighs. She had not expected to be sore, but she was—one more reminder of how irrevocably she had been altered across these last few days. She wanted to make love with Oliver again. The idea that her body might not be able to fulfill what she needed so badly was quite a disappointment, especially after his display.

She pushed away from the boxes as would a ship leaving a safe harbor. Nerves assailed her—genuine apprehension. Again. She was not used to being so off balance, even though she knew Oliver would never consciously hurt her. The sheer power of the emotions he evoked and nurtured within her were enough to leave her trembling.

So very loud in that quiet, open space, the top stair squeaked as she descended. She gripped the handrail with all her strength, pulled toward him. He held the lone candle. Deep shadows painted his body in all the more intimidating relief. Desire kept her moving, and she could only pray for a modicum of grace as she did so.

His arm was still bleeding, just a little. She stooped and picked up his shirt. “Quite the show,” she whispered.

With the gentlest stroke, she dabbed away the blood. Oliver did not hiss or flinch. He simply watched her with that unnerving stare.

“You enjoyed it?”

“I did.”

“Good.” He stilled her hand. “Because there’s more.”

Oliver checked the corridor, then led Greta quickly out the rear door Ingrid would have used to stroll the gardens. The servants never used that exit, and Ingrid and Christoph were, of course, unlikely to journey out-of-doors at that hour. Only Mathilda might be taking a stroll, but her discovery of Oliver’s love affair with Greta did not intimidate him. Mathilda was reliable, and when it came to keeping secrets about romantic trysts, she actually owed him a favor.

“Where are we going?” Greta whispered.

His shirt front flopped open at his throat. Sweat was drying on his clothes and on his skin, but it did little to cool the way her voice turned his blood to lava. She was making him bold—practically making him a fool. Or else he was finally permitting himself such folly after years of rigid propriety. Either way, he enjoyed a broad smile as he led her into the walled garden.

“You’ll see.”

The night was still—still in only the way a muggy September evening can be, perched on the edge of autumn. Few people in Salzburg would think to complain. Winter would return all too soon. The heat and the privacy of those neatly kept shrubberies practically invited a secret tryst.

“Here,” he said.

His fingers still twined with hers, Oliver led her to a bench behind a pride of topiary lions and two dwarf cherry trees. Wrought iron would be none so comfortable, but he had wanted to prove something, both with the training room display and this show of boldness. He could be daring too.

Oliver sat on the bench and, without preamble, pulled Greta onto his lap. “I’ve been waiting all day for this.”

“So we can move along to da Vinci and the Italian masters?”

“Your study of the male form?”

“Indeed.”

He leaned back along the bench, his arms stretched wide. “I’m all yours.”

With an impatient sound, she yanked off his shirt. The scratch on his arm stung, but he needed to ground himself. That flash of pain did nicely. They stared at one another for the span of three frantic heartbeats before Oliver kissed her. He was not kind or patient, not this time. She knew exactly what awaited them. The pressure of making her first time special was no longer a factor.

So he indulged. He claimed her mouth as if that swordfight had been for her hand. The excitement of that conflict—a friendly sparring match that retained, as always, the thrill of genuine competition—still raced and bubbled inside him. He was the warrior, and Greta was his hard-fought reward. She tightened her fingers on his chest muscles, testing his resolve. Oliver would not flinch. He closed his eyes, sank into their kiss and absorbed the drug of her rough curiosity.

But he was in no mood to be passive. She was a challenge. Every kiss could be taken deeper. Every touch could be more wicked. Never one to think of himself as a thrill-seeker, he grinned as he nipped her bottom lip. Yes, she was like a drug. Lungs and heart and blood demanded more of her honeyed taste. His cock strained against his trousers, right where her bottom wiggled and shifted in his lap. He stroked her tongue with his and grasped her outer thighs, pulling her to straddle him.

“I don’t believe you will.” Her whisper was a damp breath against his ear, just before she took his lobe into her mouth.

Oliver tugged her gown’s laces until the rich fabric of her bodice gaped open. “No?”

“Absolutely not.”

She arched against him as he scooped out her delectable breasts, baring them to the waning moon. Her skin was so lustrous and pale that it glowed in that eerie evening light. Oliver licked one nipple, then the other, relishing Greta’s low moan.

“You think me so proper,” he said.

“I know you are.”

“Care to wager?”

“No, because I would find myself in the unfortunate position of wanting to be proved wrong.” She pulled his head down to her breast, clutching his hair as he sucked and kneaded that full flesh. “Besides, you planned all of this. Just like in the training room.”

Oliver smiled against her throat. “Oh, dear. Have I been found out?”

“
And
I’d wager you scouted this location.”

“I was hoping to appear spontaneous.”

Rather than tease him, as he might have expected, Greta pushed her fingers into his hair. “The thought counts for more. You are very good to me.”

“No, in this instance I’m being rather selfish.”

“Oh?”

“I want you,” he said against her lips. “And I wanted to impress you.”

“You impressed me. You surprised me.” She kissed the bridge of his nose. “And you have me thinking the most delicious thoughts.”

“Then lift your skirts,
meine Allerliebste.
”

My very dearest.

She shivered in his arms, her eyes dark with desire and shadows, but her hesitation was impossible to miss. “I…I want to. But—oh, this is embarrassing. I’m not quite up to it.”

Wishing for better light to see her expression, Oliver tilted his head to the side, reading her, trying to see into her. He nodded and forced his breathing to calm. He was not upset. Absolutely not.

“I understand.”

“No, I don’t think you do.” Greta kissed along his jaw, then found his mouth again. “My dear boy, I’m
sore.
”

“Sore? Oh, damn. Forgive me.”

“I’m sure under any other circumstances, I would be perfectly fine. And appreciative of your…endowment. But not just yet.”

Wanting to laugh but fearing he would slip a little closer to madness, he took a deep breath. She had been a virgin and they had made love three times. She should hardly be walking, let alone straddling his lap. The fact he missed that possibility entirely seemed a grave error. He had been so looking forward to renewing their tryst. Another part of him, however—that barbaric part she was so fond of prodding—was quite pleased by her praise. His body was an accident of birth, but he loved how much she appreciated it.

“You look wondrously disappointed,” she said.

“Look at you. So lovely.” He cupped her breasts, relishing the weight of them in his palms. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Surely there are…other ways?”

“Indeed.”

“Then you really will need to try a little spontaneity.”

“You first or me?”

She giggled. “You.”

“Why?”

“Because I cannot seem to get enough of you. Tell me.”

Oliver swallowed. Eyes luminous, lips parted, she was utterly shameless. But what he knew—what he relished—was that she had never shown this side of herself to anyone. The miracle of her sensuality was his alone.

For now.

Anger and a fierce possessiveness made his body shake. This was not forever. Never could be. But she awaited his command, and he dearly wanted a release from this exquisite torture.

“Get on your knees.”

She slithered off his lap, her mouth bowed by a nymph’s smile. Oliver balled up his shirt and gave it to her to shield her knees from the damp grass. Then he relaxed against the bench. The idea alone of what was to come was enough to make his pulse surge. An evening breeze brought the scent of grass and water from River Salzach nearby. This was Eden, and at his feet knelt a woman as tempting as Eve.

“Open my trousers,” he said.

Greta’s fingers made quick work of his buttons—those eager, talented fingers, so clever and sure. His erection pushed free of the restraint, pulling a quiet gasp from them both.

“I have a very good idea of what you want,” she said. “But I want you to say it.”

“Wanton woman.”

“Tell me.”

“Put your mouth on my cock.”

She closed her eyes and shivered. Then she did exactly as she was told. Her fingers had nothing on how eagerly she used her mouth to drive him mad. Oliver gripped the wrought iron until the need to feel her heat was too much. He closed his palm around the back of her neck as fire licked up from his groin. Leaning his head back against the bench, he pumped gently in time with the strokes of her tongue. So wet and hot. So damn beautiful to watch. He threaded his fingers into the loose hairs along her nape and thrust.

“Don’t stop,” he ground out.

She obeyed again, thrilling him with such power. Her pace quickened. She took more of him. Her hands gripped him at the base, stroking in time, until he could no longer hold back. Oliver’s climax hit him like slamming into a wall. His whole body jerked, lifting his hips off the bench. He clenched his teeth together to silence his cry of ecstasy.

The world of that gated garden slowly returned, as did the knowledge of what they had just done. She had taken him to completion using her mouth. He did not know whether the mortification or the pleasure would kill him first.

But nothing about Greta’s expression showed the least distress. She straightened, still on her knees, and licked her bottom lip. “Well, now,” she whispered with a grin. “That was an education.”

Greta could not imagine how she looked, kneeling there with her gown and hair disheveled, but she was
 
potent. Formidable. The side of her that had always demanded more from life was, at that moment, sated. Her body was tight and aching, but her mind was quiet. This man had taken something for himself. Pure, selfish pleasure. She wanted to give them both honors for such an unlikely turn of events.

After he returned the favor.

“You shouldn’t be the one looking so satisfied,” he said.

“But I am.” She crawled back up to his lap and snuggled against his bare chest. He smelled of man—this one man who made her blood race. “I’m the inexperienced one, and yet I would wager piles of gold that you’ve never done that in a moonlit garden.”

Oliver chuckled softly against her temple. “You would be right. Now you have another choice.”

“Hmm?”

“Here or indoors?”

“Very interesting.” While she enjoyed the thrill of being outside, Greta was nearly overcome with curiosity about his quarters. She imagined it orderly and neat, of course, but she dearly wanted to know more about him. Mementos? Photographs? Books? Which details would tell her more about Oliver Doerger? “Can we go to your room?”

His hands stilled their petting along her lower back. “Yes,” he said, although the word seemed dragged into the night.

“Good. Off we go, then.”

Greta turned in his lap and presented her laces. He did them up with the efficiency of a ladies’ maid, peppering kisses along her nape. As much as she enjoyed teasing him, provoking him, pleasuring him, she put no sensation above how dearly cherished he made her feel. Unexpected tears pricked behind her eyelids at the thought of being able to keep such a miracle for herself. The Venners had each other, as did the De Vosses. Greta would have some benefactor such as Herr Weiser, but she would never possess this wonder of being so adored.

With her gown in order and Oliver dressed once more, she jumped off his lap and began walking toward the house. He followed with silent steps, although she could feel his agitation at her back. They could not afford to be caught. That much she knew. But she was feeling reckless and aroused—half crazy for wanting from their affair what she could never have.

Oliver caught her hand. “Up to the fourth floor. Third door on the left. Follow me in a minute.”

He strode into the townhouse without a backward glance.

Greta stood in the entrance to the garden. Her body still buzzed with unresolved desire, but that wasn’t what had her in such fits. This hadn’t been how she should feel. Seeking pleasure from Oliver had been a simple game. A challenge. And as she’d hoped, an education. But a weight in her chest was steadily stealing her composure.

After what seemed like a lifetime, she made her way indoors and found Oliver’s room. Every step threatened to bring the whole household down around her.
Don’t get caught. Just…don’t.
Even as she dared to wonder what would happen if they were. Her uncle would be notified, and her place in good society made tenuous. Heart beating like mad, she wondered if such misbehavior might mean avoiding a marriage to Herr Weiser. Only the knowledge that Oliver might lose his job kept her from wishing for such a radical scenario. He valued his status with the Venners too much—and worked too hard to maintain it—for her to jeopardize that.

Her hands trembling, she knocked oh-so-softly on his door. He was there in an instant to let her in, a heavy sigh of relief pushing out of his beautiful chest.

“You keep putting that shirt back on,” she said. “I do not approve.”

Oliver offered a lopsided grin, the one he shared when he was embarrassed but secretly pleased. She dearly loved being able to drag that mix of emotions out of him. “This is my room, so I can dress as I please. Take it off me.”

“You’re becoming quite adept at giving me orders.”

“I have no difficulty giving us what we both want.”

Greta stripped him of his shirt and walked her hands down the ridges of his stomach muscles. “Wonderful,” she breathed.

She kissed him on the chin, then turned away. No matter her desire, which had backed gently away from its frenzy, she wanted to explore his little cave of a room. Furnished with dark woods and dark fabrics, it was a wholly masculine space. The overstuffed chair by the fireplace seemed large enough to accommodate his wide shoulders and long legs. Beside it sat a stack of books and a sheaf of papers. She recognized the topmost book as the artist’s compendium she had mentioned during their first night together.

“Homework?” she asked.

Oliver crossed the room with quick strides, attempting to shuffle the stack out of sight. But Greta was faster. She snatched the sheaf of papers and held them to her chest.

“Don’t,” he said.

“Tell me what they are or I shall be forced to look.”

“Greta, please.” He hung his head, then peeked up at her from beneath his lashes. “Just…oh, never mind.”

Unbearably intrigued, she opened the pages. His neat, tight script lined each one. The entries were dated, beginning with his dinner at Leinz Manor. The first read,
Greta mentioned Bruegel and Bosch
, and was followed by a lengthy explanation of each artists’ major works, styles and contributions. Beneath that was a list of their students with their accomplishments and styles, and so on. The level of detail astonished Greta. She turned the page until she found an entry dated from the night of the Leinz ball.
Greta said she studies da Vinci
—and the whole process started again.