Portrait of Seduction (18 page)

“Why?”

He rubbed his forearm. His pale eyes revealed a wildness she had rarely seen from him. “You assumed ignorance because of my employment. I wanted to prove otherwise—even if that meant a bit of study.”

Why she should become sentimental over such stark, businesslike notes was not strictly obvious, but it cut to her heart. No flourishes. No descriptions of their stolen moments. He was simply a man trying to educate himself, because of her and her wretched assumption. She had never been able to claim such influence over another living soul.

She closed the pages of notes and tenderly laid them on the side table. “Forgive me,” she whispered.

Strong arms closed around her, supporting her just when she needed that closeness. “There is nothing to forgive.”

“No, that’s not true. All this time I’ve been so wretched. I’ve never known anyone like you. To bury yourself in these books—why? So you might one day engage me in conversation again? Who does that?”

“A man with too much pride.”

His rueful tone dragged a sad laugh out of her chest. “Hardly. A proud man would denigrate a subject he knew nothing about, not try to orient himself within it.”

“I was lacking. Now, perhaps, I am not. And besides, I enjoyed the idea of surprising you.”

She laughed again with more vigor. “More surprises through careful planning?”

“You cannot say I’m not consistent.”

“The very picture of consistency.”

Only then did she realize that she still stood in his arms—his
bare
arms. If ever there had been a male body made for admiring, it was Oliver’s. She traced the elegant line of his triceps. She walked slowly, so slowly, around to see his back, and thrilled when he stood straighter, his shoulders thrown back. Such a modest man should not enjoy being scrutinized so closely. Perhaps a touch of vanity was due such a marvelous physique, and she quite liked the idea of Oliver possessing such a delightful flaw.

Hands flat, she ran her palms down his back, along the bones of his spine, the angle of his clavicles, the curve of his ribs. Never had she wanted the tools of her craft more, if only to sketch him in broad, quick strokes. The idea of drawing his naked body while he watched—with all the intensity he had employed when observing her paint—was nearly as arousing as touch.

“We should have gone back to my room,” she whispered.

“Why?”

“Because I should like to draw you.”

“Maybe one day.”

But even as he said it, the grave timbre of his voice gave away the truth. There would be very few days between them. So few moments remained. Greta swiped the tears from the corners of her eyes and returned to face him.

“Or maybe not,” she said. “Maybe we only have tonight.”

“It’s more than I ever expected.”

“What, so we should be grateful? We sneak around like criminals just to carry on a conversation. It’s not fair. I—God, I feel like a child but I cannot help it.”

He wrapped his arms around her and tucked her head against his shoulder. “Be grateful. But know I feel the same way.”

“Do you?”

“Greta,” he said softly. “I would offer for you if I could. You must know that.”

Breathing became impossible. She hung onto him with all her strength, kissing his throat and his proud jaw. His words were an aphrodisiac, his essence like the strongest wine going straight to her head. She kept kissing him until his hands were a vise, holding her firmly against his hard body. She kept kissing him to stop from pleading.

Ask me, Oliver. Dare me.

But that was impossible. Utterly impossible. She had known it from the start. So she asked for the one thing they both could offer without reality intruding. “It’s my turn, isn’t it?”

“Come in.”

Oliver opened the door to Christoph’s office. “You wanted to see me?”

The esteemed Lord Venner appeared as neat and stiff within the confines of his private business retreat as he did any other time. Even Oliver could not maintain his public facade so well. Christoph sat behind his desk, his papers and pens aligned with a fastidious precision that any military man would have admired.

He folded his hands. Oliver braced for whatever might require such a formal meeting. Business? Politics? Or, as his tense gut feared, Greta?

“I have received a correspondence I believe you should see.” Christoph retrieved a letter from beneath a paperweight. “Read this.”

Still uncertain as to the nature of the meeting, Oliver did not feel comfortable enough to sit. He stood ramrod straight as he obeyed.

Damn you for this, Karl.

He frowned. “He’s been claiming that you’ll pay his expenses?”

“It does appear as such.”

Apparently, secrecy and warnings were not going to be enough.

Oliver took a deep breath, his chest tight. “I’m sorry for this, Lord Venner,” he said, reverting to formal address without thought. He was too embarrassed, too angry to do any less. “I can only ask that you cover the bill until I can make good on his debts.”

“Is that what you propose?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Very well.”

Oliver tipped his head to the side, as if listening. He saw no deception in his brother’s familiar face, but he knew enough to suspect this was not the end of the matter. “If that will be all?”

“No, I don’t think so.” Christoph matched him, second for tense second, as they took the measure of one another. “I will cover his debts with no expectation of repayment from you, but only if you tell me your connection to the man.”

Ah, so that was his true price.

The meeting was not, in fact, a particularly friendly one, but Oliver took the liberty of sitting. If he planned on journeying back to those days in the winter encampment, he would need to sit.

“Wait.” Christoph stood and retrieved a bottle of cognac from a high shelf. He poured two generous glasses and handed one across. His own portion of liquor was downed, surprisingly, in a few swallows.

Oliver nearly smiled. “I had no idea.”

“Never underestimate the demands of my position.”

“You know I don’t. But perhaps I overestimate your ability to weather those demands without assistance.”

“I wonder occasionally at the veracity of my bad habits had I remained a bachelor.” Christoph sighed and settled back into his chair. “Go on, Oliver. Please.”

After a few hearty slugs of his own, Oliver asked, “Do you remember the blacksmith on your father’s manor?”

“
Our
father’s manor.”

“He never claimed me. I don’t claim him either.”

“You do have his stubbornness. But yes, I recall the man.”

“His son was Karl Schulz, my best friend growing up.”

Recognition lit Christoph’s face, followed then, quite obviously, by memories of all the misdeeds Karl had committed. Oliver too. “He was not the best influence on you.”

“Or I on him, I suppose,” he said with a shrug. “Either way, we did not have much else. When I joined the Prussian army, I was not surprised to find him at my side, though how he came by his commission I never learned.”

“You mentioned as much the other day when he appealed for aid, that you had served together. Do you owe him some manner of debt? Is that what this is about?”

“I’m afraid so. I fell ill during my third winter of service.”

Inhaling, he looked out the far window. What had been, until then, a great adventure turned terrible that season. Killing had not been Oliver’s forte, but theft and deception—those were his specialties. He had been gratified by how well he could employ such underhanded skills toward a legitimate cause. Until that winter had changed everything.

“Pneumonia is no small matter on the battlefield—poor conditions, rotten food, exposure to the elements. I know I’m alive now only because of Karl’s dedication to my recovery. We were besieged. He was my nursemaid, my entertainment. No one else had the patience or time. As I said, we had little other than our friendship. I know I would’ve been lost without him, so perhaps his motivation was similar.”

Oliver remembered coughs that brought up blood and shakes so bad that he vomited. The cold had been never-ending, convincing him he would never be well, never be warm. Hell, he’d determined, was as chill as ice.

And Karl had been there through it all, urging him toward health.

“In mid-March, I was finally on the mend. It felt…God, it felt like waking from a months-long nightmare. I still wasn’t well enough for a full assignment, but I was well enough that Karl was ordered back to his regular duties.”

Save me a few sausages and a piece of torte.
And then he was gone.

“He was sent on a reconnaissance mission that never returned. Months went by. I only learned later that he had been caught behind enemy lines and detained by the French in a camp for prisoners of war.” Oliver itched beneath his wig, damning the hateful thing for the hundredth time. “I tried to find him after the war, but he was gone. Nowhere. I never got to thank him, nor to say good-bye.”

Christoph refilled Oliver’s glass but left his alone. “And this Baron Hoffer ruse?”

“The first time I saw him again was there at the opera. He told me he was trying to change his stars. Part of me thought he deserved the opportunity, after having suffered so much.” He drank another gulp of the cognac but set the rest aside. Never one for strong drink, even in his youth, his head was already foggy. “But I know where my loyalties are, Christoph. I wouldn’t do anything to endanger you, Ingrid or the baby.”

“And you think he could be dangerous.”

“I didn’t…”

Oliver stopped himself.
I didn’t say that,
he’d been ready to say. But right from the first, he had been suspicious of Karl and his methods. More than just the unlawful nature of it, Oliver feared the creeping madness that gleamed in Karl’s eyes. Their confrontation at Leinz Manor had been uncomfortable—two friends who suddenly found themselves radically out of step. But their argument on the night of Arie and Mathilda’s performance had rubbed him with an edge of genuine violence.

“I think his time as a prisoner has altered him,” Oliver said carefully. “He’s not the friend I once knew. I wouldn’t have vouched for him back then because I knew full well his lack of scruples—and I matched his disregard for propriety.”

Christoph almost grinned. “That you did.”

“But now we don’t even have friendship in common. He’s quite changed. More than that, his plans have me worried.”

“What plans?”

“He has a flat, but I’ve also learned that he rents a small storage room above a glassmaker’s shop. I don’t like it.”

“I can get members of the duke’s guard to look into it.”

Oliver held up two hands, warding off the suggestion. “Like they helped save Greta? I require no such assistance.”

“Then what are your recommendations?”

Back on firm ground now—just Lord Venner and his trusted man. Oliver much preferred that arrangement to prickly trips back through time. The past was gone. It shaped how he thought and how he tried to behave now, but it could not be changed.

“Keep the staff on alert that he should not be admitted,” Oliver said. “I will learn what I can about his intentions.”

“And these bills? Shall I pay them?”

“
Bitte,
” Oliver said. “To honor the man who saved my life. But make it clear to the shopkeepers that this is a one-time favor. Otherwise, I’m afraid his lack of principles would take advantage indefinitely.”

“Done.” Christoph penned himself a note, his scrawled handwriting at stark odds with every other aspect of his neat character. “Now, we must meet with the duke’s cabinet after Mass.”

“On a Sunday?”

“Ferdinand returns to Salzburg shortly, on the assurance that Napoleon is on his way. We must take stock of how many Hussars are at our disposal.”

Oliver was gratified to move on to subjects of a less personal nature. “How soon?”

“Weeks, but perhaps less. It all depends on what sort of army we can raise. Even a small defense force may make them reconsider outright occupation—or send him on to more appealing targets.”

“It’s not going to be enough. You know that. Members of the council will drag their feet, unwilling to offer up any more than is absolutely necessary.”

Christoph rubbed his eyes. “We have to try.”

“Agreed. But I must suggest that we continue preparations for the worst.”

“Agreed. Oh, and Lord Leinz is arriving on Sunday. He will be taking the women home midweek, hopefully somewhere safe and far away from here.”

“Greta too?”

Oliver realized his mistake too late. Naturally Leinz would take Greta home. And Oliver had no genuine reason to refer to her by her given name, let alone care about her comings and goings.

“Yes,” Christoph said slowly. “Fräulein Zweig too.”

“Of course.”

“Is there something else you should tell me, Oliver?”

That was why his brother was such a fantastic politician. His starched professional nature gave way to a moment of endearing personal entreaty. Who could resist?

Oliver could.

He stood and offered a formal bow. “My lord, I’ve already taken up too much of your time.
Guten Tag.
”

Greta loved the Dom.

The largest cathedral in Salzburg, it seated thousands of parishioners comfortably and boasted room enough for a choir, organ and full orchestra, conducted that morning by none other than Arie De Voss.

And the color…!

She gazed up at the stained glass in rapt fascination. This was her third Mass in the beautiful place of worship, but she would no more tire of it, ever, than she could capture its grandeur.

At the massive altar, the bishop delivered his sermon, but Greta’s mind was elsewhere, his words only a steady droning behind her exploration of the Dom’s artwork. Shape and texture, color and light—she opened her mind to absorbing as much as she could.

Theresa nudged her. “Hymn,” she whispered.

Greta grabbed a hymnal and opened to a random page, but soon her gaze was drawn back to the carvings and stained glass. She rationalized that she was paying homage to God by best appreciating the magnificent achievement His servants had brought into being.

She was on the end of the row—all the better to admire the nearest bank of windows. In the shuffle of standing for the hymn, someone tapped her elbow from behind. But no one was there when she turned. Everyone in the row behind her now stood, their voices erupting in song.

Then she saw him. Three rows back.
Oliver.

“I need air,” she said quietly to Theresa.

Not giving her cousin the chance to reply, Greta returned her hymnal to its holder and walked down the outside aisle toward the main entrance. Voices swelled in strong, lush harmonies at her back. She kept walking, hoping Oliver was at her back too.

What would they do? What could they do, with only a few stolen moments?

Greta smiled. She had ideas, at any rate.

On silent feet she proceeded to the main doors, which stood far opposite the altar. Everyone’s attention faced forward toward the bishop. She hurried on until she emerged into the cloudy midmorning air. Oliver stood just outside, standing at attention as smartly as a military man. Greta was so happy to see him—their unexpected tryst—that she nearly rushed to him.

Only, the sight of her uncle stopped her cold.

“Fräulein Zweig, His Lordship asked that I retrieve you from the Mass,” Oliver said formally, his gaze somewhere in the middle distance. He was not the man she adored but once again a means of enacting another’s bidding.

Greta’s heart had jolted from one surprise to another. Then her spirits simply sank. She, too, was transformed in an instant into a whole other person. From Oliver’s daring clandestine lover to Thaddeus Leinz’s dutiful, cosseted niece. Had she been offered the choice, right then, as to who she wanted to remain forever, she would have been torn in two by the lives they stood to provide.

“Uncle Thaddeus,” she said, recovering her voice. She dropped into a curtsy. “How wonderful to see you again, my lord. Your daughters will be pleased as well. Shall I fetch them?”

“No. Let them take in the rest of Mass. Thank you, lad,” he said to Oliver. “That will be all.”

Greta steeled herself against the desire to bid Oliver goodbye, or at least snatch a backward glance. Her uncle was too perceptive and would catch any such gesture. Only out of the corner of her eye did she see his stiff return to the Dom.

“Come, Margaret. Walk with me.”

Forced to the man’s will by long habit and obligation, Greta did as she was told. Someday, she feared, she would not. And then the path of her future days would change forever. The uncertainty alone of facing such a change was enough to keep her strides in time with his.

“I trust you’ve enjoyed a pleasant stay?”

“Yes, Uncle. It’s been most eventful.”

“Anna wrote to me about your assistance with Lady Venner’s, ah, time of need.”

Greta covered a smile with her gloved hand. Euphemism always served when it came to matters of pregnancy and childbirth. “I was happy to help her after the kindness she’s shown the three of us.”

“I’m glad you feel the slate is clean.”

“Pardon?”

“You’ve done your part, which, though unnecessary, is actually quite a boon. Now, when you hear that inquiries have been made into your cousins’ marital futures, all because of this fortuitous connection with Lady Venner, you won’t feel as if she’s been ill-used.”

Greta grimaced. The inference there seemed to be that she was overly sensitive to such things as favors and fairness, which balled her free hand into a fist.

“I’m pleased that they will be well looked after,” she managed to say.

“And Herr Weiser was most pleased with your time together, although he did seem disappointed that the event did not allow you more time together. What was it—at some concert?”