Portrait of Seduction (25 page)

She pushed past and walked to the pile of shredded canvases. Rage and frustration overtook her so strongly that she kicked the nearest one. A pile of three ruined paintings tumbled to the hardwood.

“Do you see these, uncle?” Her voice threatened to break, but she swallowed down the hurt. “My life’s work. I know you hardly thought much of my creations, but I was proud of them. Someone broke into my room and ruined them, while I slept on the bed. If you were at all eager to catch those responsible, you would be pointing your anger at anyone else but me.”

“I don’t believe you,” he said with far less conviction.

“Don’t, then. I hardly care. But now I want you out of my rooms.”

“You have no right to tell me what to do, Margaret. This is my house.”

She smiled sadly. “That’s what you told Mother. You might not think I remember, but I do. I wonder, do you blame yourself at all for what happened to her and my father?”

“Of course not.”

“No, of course not. I doubt a man could stay sane after ten years of blaming himself for his sister’s unhappiness. Her death. Easier, I should think, to simply make it her fault.”

“You insolent—”

“And to keep blaming me for events and impulses that created me. I am not my mother.”

“You may as well be. You’re an ungrateful, spoiled girl, just like she was—a waste of opportunities and connections. I’m only grateful your influence hasn’t ruined your cousins’ chances. If you expect a fortuitous marriage now, you’re an even bigger fool than you are a slut.”

“
Danke schoen,
Uncle.”

“For what?”

“For providing for me all these years. You didn’t have to, and I’m grateful.” She let out a long exhale. “And I’m grateful that you’ve just made it very easy for me to finally choose.”

“Choose? Choose what?”

“I love Oliver Doerger.” She stood straighter. “I’m going to find him before it’s too late.”

Oliver fought through two days like a man in pitched battle. He fought in the duke’s cabinet, supporting Christoph in any way he could, and he fought the memories of Greta and her rejection. The two were not allied purposes. In fact, each made the other more difficult.

“Napoleon is less than three days away,” Christoph practically shouted at a cabinet member. “How much more appeasing do you think you can muster in three days?”

“There’s no use in appeasement now.” The duke looked more weary, more haggard, than Oliver had ever seen. His words were hard to gauge for truthfulness because fatigue made his mouth sag, obscuring any possible lie. “We have no time. And the funds we have in reserve will never be enough to turn the armies away.”

Christoph seemed ready to do violence. Oliver had never seen his brother so angered. “We’ve spent the last three weeks doing all we could to mollify the little butcher. And now you say there was never any use?”

The duke raised an eyebrow. “Of course there was use. We all have time now.”

“Time?”

“To leave.”

“That knife-wielding madman was right,” Christoph said. “You had no intention of protecting the citizens of Salzburg. From the start you intended to flee when the fighting began.”

“I’m from Tuscany, Lord Venner, and here at the invitation of Napoleon himself. What loyalty do you believe I have for this city after so short a span? You overestimate my sense of civic pride.”

“I’ve been a citizen for less than five years.” Christoph’s voice was as rigid as steel. “Yet I’ve worked to try and keep us all safe through invasion and change of government. My
family
is here, but I had been prepared to stay. To resist, if need be.” He swallowed. “I see I’m alone in that.”

“Yes,” said the duke. “You are. Everyone with the means of doing so will be gone from the city in mere hours. Don’t be a fool, Lord Venner. I hear you are quite fond of your wife and child.”

Oliver grabbed his brother’s right forearm, holding him physically in check. “We should go.”

The ministers hastily packed their papers and donned their hats. The whole room took on an air of frightened immediacy, as if Napoleon’s troops were storming the city walls at that very moment. But with the duke’s true intentions revealed—so bluntly stated—a flood of selfish interests quickly overwhelmed duty.

Oliver dragged Christoph down the corridor and out into the sun. Life carried on as normal. A street vendor offered cinnamon-roasted almonds. Three drivers offered the use of their
Fiakers,
but the brothers kept walking at a pace akin to a run. The Dom was quiet on a Friday at that subdued afternoon hour, but people mingled outside. Some ate fruit and cheese. Some played dice games at the base of the Hofbrunnen fountain. Everything was far too ordinary in light of the chaos they knew was coming.

“What needs done before we go?” Christoph asked.

“Much. You’re really going through with this?”

“I hate it. You know that. But I cannot risk injury to my family. Those with means will leave. Those who cannot will suffer. I—”

His voice became strangled. The agony of his decision went against his every civic impulse, but Oliver knew Christoph could not endanger Ingrid and Franz.

“Where will we go?”

Christoph pulled up short on the north side of the Dom, his cheeks defined by severe shadows. “We?”

“Of course I’m coming with you.”

“And what of Fräulein Zweig? You love her, don’t you?”

Oliver should not have been surprised. “She turned me away. She’s staying at Leinz Manor.” A hard swallow nearly choked him. “Where she’ll be safe.”

“I’m sorry.”

Uncomfortable with Christoph’s show of sympathy, Oliver looked away. “Let’s go. And answer my question,
ja?
”

“We’ll go to Anhalt. Father has a cousin who will offer us shelter.”

“And Salzburg?”

“We can do little in three days, not after so much apathy and so many delays. But we can fight from other territory. This is not the end, even if it feels bloody well close.”

They arrived at the Venners’ townhouse, throwing the doors open. Oliver took charge right away. “Hans, Klara,” he called to the two nearest servants. “Prepare the household for travel. Essentials only.”

“Sir?” Klara said, her eyes downcast.

“What is it?”

“Fräulein Zweig is upstairs in her guest room.”

A stunned moment of silence layered over the foyer. Christoph raised his eyebrows but said nothing. Oliver’s heart thundered in his chest. She was here?

His feet had motivation of their own as he tore up the stairs. Two flights later, he pounded on the door to the room she had occupied. Even when Greta opened it and stood smiling in the threshold, he could not believe what he saw.

“Hello, Oliver.”

He swept her into his arms, twirling once before settling into the serious business of holding her close. “What are you doing here?”

“I lied,” she whispered against his neck. “I lied to you, and I’m sorry. I love you.
Bitte,
forgive me. Forgive me,
mein Lieber.
I…I was so frightened of what might happen, but after you were gone—knowing you were gone and I’d been the cause was much more horrible.”

Oliver sucked in her words like a dying man at a desert oasis. Greta. Greta here, in his arms, declaring her love. The nightmarish afternoon had turned to heaven in an instant.

“And your uncle?”

She pulled back to look him in the eye. “I stood up to him.”

“Ah, my brave girl.”

“I didn’t feel brave. Not at first. But he went too far, Oliver. He called you names, and me, and mother. I could see him for the first time, like a spoiled child who wasn’t getting his way. Maybe that’s why mother finally stood up to him, there at the end—not out of guilt or pain, but just for once to see him sputter.”

Oliver petted blond silk back from her temples, framing her face. He leaned in, so slowly, for a kiss. Maybe he was giving her permission to have one last bout of second guesses, but she met him more than halfway. Her hands shoved under his infernal wig and pushed it away. Oliver backed her against the doorjamb, lost to a happiness he could never have imagined.

A feminine murmur interrupted their reunion. Suddenly aware of their visibility there in the doorway, Oliver pulled away from Greta. Ingrid stood a few feet away, her arms cradling baby Franz.

“Forgive me, my lady.” Oliver tugged the hem of his livery coat. “Did you say something?”

“I said it’s about time. Welcome back, Fräulein Zweig.”

Greta’s cheeks were bright red, but she had reclaimed that daredevil wonder. It shone from her eyes like a beacon at midnight. “
Danke,
Lady Venner.”

“It’s Ingrid, remember? We’re all family here.” She skewered him with a meaningful look. “Isn’t that right, Oliver?”

He was still reeling from Greta’s presence and their blood-boiling kiss. Now it seemed that Ingrid was urging him to admit to a fact that she should not know. But soon Christoph joined her, his hands protectively around her shoulders. He nodded once.

Bowled over by too many changing moods, Oliver shook his head. “Are you sure?”

“What will it matter now?” Christoph asked. “We’ll be in Anhalt soon, among our people. You included. We can start afresh.”

“Our people? Family?” Greta flashed her eyes between all three, her face a picture of confusion. “Oliver, what is this about?”

He took a deep breath. “Lord Venner is my half brother.”

Greta tried to find humor or jest in the words—as if Oliver or Venner could joke about such a thing. But their expressions remained perfectly sober. Only, Oliver’s eyes held a hint of expectation. Of hope.

“Go on,” she croaked.

“I was born five years after Christoph. Born a bastard. Our father never claimed me, nor did he care for my mother after she got with child.”

The shame in his voice was too much to bear. Pieces aligned, particularly his care in keeping her from becoming pregnant. He had not wanted history to repeat.

“And this was the man you stole from? You said he was an important man.”

“Yes. A
Vizegraf.
”

A
Vizegraf’
s son. She pulled away, squeezing the doorjamb with shaky hands. “You made me believe you were a valet. All this time, tearing myself up about your lack of station.”

“What station? I’m a bastard, Greta. The only reason I have a roof over my head now is because of Christoph.”

It sounded so strange hearing the nobleman’s given name coming from Oliver’s mouth. She glanced between the two men and saw what her artist’s eye had noticed but disregarded. The same strong cheekbones, the same full lower lip. She recalled the swordfights when they had dueled, how even their movements were mirror images. Grace and power, muscles matched by parentage, not just training. She had been distracted by Venner’s dark hair and olive-tinted skin, and by her own firm belief that Oliver was of inferior birth.

But how could she have known otherwise? He had been a lie from the first moment they met—in all but his instincts as her protector.

“Why the disguise?”

“No one else knows.” Oliver glanced at Lady Venner. “Until about two minutes ago, I didn’t even think Ingrid knew.”

“Christoph told me.” Ingrid smiled gently. “He said something about how it was time you stopped hiding.”

Venner made a noise in his throat. “High time.”

Ingrid skewered her husband with a warning look “We’ll leave you two alone, then.”

Oliver nodded, then urged Greta into the guest room and shut the door.

“I still don’t understand,” she said. “You could have told me.”

“No, I couldn’t.” His hands stroked her upper arms, soothing and distracting when she needed all her wits. “I am more than a valet. I am his eyes and ears. If the other politicians knew his own half brother was his servant, they would have realized how great my loyalty is to this family. As it was, we’ve learned a great many useful facts over the years when people tried to tempt me away from his service.”

So again they were separated by his responsibilities, only he was no mere servant. Serving Venner in some secret capacity had been more important than doing what he could to keep her. She pushed against his sternum, surprised by the betrayal lodged there.

“Even when faced with losing me, you chose your duty? You chose them?”

“They’re my family, Greta. Please, say something.” His eyes turned soft, almost pleading.

“I…”

She loved Oliver Doerger, no matter his status. Otherwise she would not have stood up to her uncle. The circumstances of his birth were of little consequence when it came to the decision her heart had already made. That sense of betrayal, however, fused with her blood. He had been willing to let her go rather than betray Lord Venner. Had he offered his suit as a
Vizegraf’
s son—even as a bastard—he might have been able to convince her uncle.

But he had chosen to let them both suffer in silence. Perhaps it was only just, considering how she had lied to him at the manor, sending him away in heartbreak.

“I don’t know what to think,” she said. “You could’ve told me. Just me.”

“You have no idea how many times I wanted to, especially when I knew what stood between us.”

You loved them more
.

But she didn’t dare speak the words. She should be grateful, thankful, happy for the future they could claim now without reservation. How could she expect him to suddenly turn away from his only blood relative? That she had managed to do so against Thaddeus hardly seemed a fair comparison, since she had never cared for her uncle.

He was still looking at her with such hope. Greta dove into his arms and held on tight.
None of it matters,
she told herself. She had bid her uncle goodbye, and now she had Oliver. They were safe. They were together. They could make their fledgling love work.

“I’m sorry,” he said against her temple. “You must believe me.”

“I do. And I’m sorry too. I thought for certain you would see that I was lying when I said I didn’t love you.”

He pulled away, his hands framing her face once more. “Say it now.”

She stifled a smile. “I don’t love you.”

“Liar.”

He was still grinning when he kissed her. Greta accepted the sweet invasion of his tongue. Their kiss was enough. Their love was enough. It had to be. The Venners would take her in and they would all be together, far away from this place. When another strong dose of fear congealed in her stomach, she unbuttoned Oliver’s coat and shirt, right down to bare skin. They had a little time.

By then, she hoped, she would be able to set aside the last of her doubts.

Oliver awoke in Greta’s arms. He looked up at an unfamiliar ceiling and at the sun tinting the plaster with early-morning colors, then at her sleeping face nestled against his shoulder. Apprehension made his heart thump. They would be found out. But the memory of how their evening had ended, with Oliver revealing the truth, helped orient him once again.

He still should not be in her bed, not without offering for her. Soon, though. Soon they would leave Salzburg and Oliver would propose properly. The promise of such a future soothed him until that waking apprehension was a distant quiver in his blood.

He slowly eased strands of hair away from her cheek, from her forehead, until he had a clear view of her flawless profile. Her nose was pushed against the muscle of his upper arm, but the rest of her face was relaxed, peaceful, beautiful in the cradle of sleep. He dared not even consider the series of events that had brought them both to such a moment. To look too closely at their history would reveal all the little turns and twists that could have kept them apart forever.

Even as his body stirred to life, intent on enjoying Greta once again, Oliver knew his affection for her had changed. She was no longer an obsession or a curiosity. She was his love. The proof of it was in his heart, which seized at the thought of awakening to a morning—any morning for the rest of his life—and not finding Greta at his side.

“Such a gift,” he whispered, softly kissing her forehead.