Portrait of Seduction (8 page)

“Yes.” He set aside his quill. “Am I to take it that you disapprove again?”

“My lord, yes, but for a different reason.”

“And what is that?”

Oliver,
her brain shouted.
He found me out. He sees me and he sees what I do.

Why was he the only one?

“I have it under good authority,” she began slowly, “that Lord Venner has reason to doubt its authenticity. He is displeased.”

Thaddeus’s face pulled into a scowl. Slim white eyebrows drew together. “Go on.”

“They would like the cost of the painting adjusted accordingly, or the original offered in its stead.”

He began with a slow nod. Then, inexplicably, his twisted mouth eased toward a smile. It held no mirth; that would be as unlikely as fairies flying in from under the door. No, his smile said that he and his darling niece shared a secret. Greta shivered.

“I see, Margaret,” he murmured. “I see what you’re trying to do.”

“My lord?”

“It makes sense, in a way. I almost admire your ingenuity.”

He appeared as if he had just learned the solution to a troubling puzzle, but Greta could claim no such assurance. “My lord, I don’t understand.
Bitte…
”

“You did this, didn’t you? You decided, all on your own, that selling the copies was an affront to your sensibilities. You could not divulge what you know, not directly—not without angering me. So you informed the Venners.”

He stood from his desk and closed a folio of papers, taking the time to neaten the edges before filing them away. With a sure hand he smoothed the back of his bald head and continued that infuriating nod. He removed his pipe from its cedar box, then packed and lit the tobacco. Each action was done with calm precision, accentuating his hold over the situation. Over Greta.

Her breath came in shallow, fiery bursts. Fury warred with terror as she waited—a rabbit who feared a fox, yet knew enough to hate being mocked in the moments before death.

“It must have been that valet,” he said. “Am I right?”

Greta lost the ability to speak and was thankful. Oliver had said as much, that she was a terrible liar. Now she could not lie because she could not form words. Breath and tongue and vocal chords seized, hardening like mud in the sunshine. Did Thaddeus know? Had Baron Hoffer said something?

Upon finding her right heel tapping up and down, up and down, she pressed her hands against her knee. The close, dark study began to close like twilight over a garden.

“He would be the perfect man to deliver any insinuations,” Thaddeus continued. “The merest hint of the truth would be enough to rouse his suspicions and tell Lord Venner. Suddenly…no more forgeries sold.”

“I didn’t—”

“And a pretty girl like you—you would be believed. A moment alone with a young man, perhaps a smile or two.” He skewered her with a harsh look. “More, perhaps. You are, after all, your mother’s daughter.”

“My lord—”

“Quiet, child!”

He grabbed her upper arms and hauled her out of the chair. Shoved hard, she tripped over the leg of the chair. The jolting crack of her backside against the floor stole her breath, replacing all sensations with pain. She tasted blood where molars had sliced her tongue.

Greta cowered, not even brave enough to look up at her uncle as he loomed high above. She saw his shoes. She was so low as to stare at his shoes.

I will hurt one of us before suffering this again.

The words trembled through her like an earthquake. But she did not move.

Thaddeus knelt, taking hold of her chin with tense fingers. “If you ruin this, Margaret, I will have no recourse but to send you from my care. Permanently. You will be alone. You will be at the mercy of whomever deems you worth a charitable glance.” He sniffed. “Think of your mother and how long she lasted. Consider how she looked at her funeral. Is that what you want?”

Still mute, her head throbbing with violence and fear, she could only shake her head.

“Then you will do your duty to this family and continue your work. Look at me.”

Greta dragged her gaze away from his polished black leather shoes. He was placid again, his anger now a memory and a few bruises on her backside.

“I will contact Lord Venner and deal with this quietly. I will explain that these were personal copies for our own family collection, that it was an honest mistake. Whether he wants the original or his money returned means nothing to me.” He released her chin, then helped her to stand. “But this is the last time I will forgive your disobedience. Do you understand me?”

Dizzy, disoriented, she merely nodded. She hated herself for being so incapable. Her mother had fought back, as had her father.

And look what became of them.

Greta wanted to live. But that meant living according to the terms set by her uncle. Feeling so trapped filled her eyes with hot tears.

“Soon this will all be over,” he said, as softly as a father lulling his newborn. “If I have my way, Anna and Theresa will be married by the end of the year. Their futures will be secured, safe and far from the potential for invasion. Don’t you see that, Margaret? I do all of this for the safety of my family. Do you?”

“I see,” she rasped.

“And that includes you,
meine Nichte.
You will be safe too. Soon. We just need a little more time to bring it about.”

Her neck was so stiff that it felt broken. But she nodded anyway. “Yes, my lord.”

“Good.” He returned to the barrier of his desk. Their confrontation—their strange closeness—was done. “Now, Herr Weiser will be here this evening for supper. Please make yourself look presentable.”

Greta’s throat grated as if each inhale gulped down shards of a broken mirror, but she managed to ask, “Herr Weiser?”

Thaddeus tipped his head, his expression perturbed as if reviewing a well-known fact. “The man you’re going to marry.”

If she thought about how many lies she had told and how many simpering smiles she had needed to force, Greta would lose her nerve. Instead she stepped out of the Leinz carriage with her head held at a proud, stiff angle. Little over a month had passed since her angered encounter with Uncle Thaddeus. Little over a month since meeting the man he intended her to wed.

The sharp edge of a shiver worked up her spine. To say her uncle’s selection had been a disappointment was a compromise of sorts. Her heart demanded words with more vigor and punch, while her mind acknowledged that she hardly knew the man. Perhaps, with time, she might learn to…appreciate him. However, actually
desiring
him—either his company or his physical attentions—would not be borne. A chill sweat coated her skin at the thought.

But she was not yet wed to Herr Weiser.

In the meantime she had other plans, which included the goal she had so daringly achieved. She was in Salzburg once again. More specifically, she and her cousins had arrived at the Venners’ town home.

After a few whispers in their ears, Anna and Theresa had been more than willing to propose a trip into Salzburg. A few more whispers had fostered the possibility of staying with Lady Venner as she entered her confinement. All had been willing and happy with the arrangement, and if they had noticed Greta’s hand in the planning, no one said a word.

Greta followed her cousins down the walkway toward the Venners’ sumptuous four-story town home. In her mind she heard a ticking clock. Her time was so very limited. She had three weeks away from her uncle. Three weeks free of thoughts about Herr Weiser and his matrimonial prison. Three weeks to indulge in Oliver.

And indulge she would.

The early September evening was a torture, buffeting Greta with an unusually hot wind that matched the sizzle in her blood. Her skin pinched too tightly around her body. She wanted to bust out of it and be free of the way it kept her tense and small. Oliver’s hands, his mouth—he would drag her out of this numbness that bordered on pain.

Then she would marry Herr Weiser without regret, securing herself a safe future. If she proved very lucky and very bold, she might learn what to do to keep such a man pliant. Painting had been and always would be her passion. She was prepared go to great lengths to keep it part of her life.

After all, she had no future with Oliver. Not outside of the next twenty-one days. Her art would be enough.

Two footmen, their faces gilded by outdoor sconces, opened the doors to the town home. A tall elderly butler stood at the threshold to greet Greta and her cousins, with Lord and Lady Venner just behind.

“Oh, I’m so glad you’re finally here!” Ingrid offered affectionate embraces. Her delicate condition had added a beautiful color and plumpness to her cheeks. Greta was surprised by how much more stout and healthy she appeared. “I’ve been counting the minutes since I awoke this morning.”

“We’re grateful for the invitation, Lady Venner,” Anna said with practiced ease.

“And again, I insist—please call me Ingrid. I simply won’t stand on formality when we’re to spend so many days together.”

Ingrid and the cousins continued to chatter about the trip in from the country, but Greta lost her grasp on the conversation. She had noticed, instead, the twin lines of servants that stretched into the building’s interior. Female servants flanked the right side, all lace caps and stridently white aprons. The younger the girl, the more nervous her fingers. Opposite them, to Greta’s left, waited the male staff, from the butler on back to…Oliver.

Again he wore his wig and livery, bringing to mind their meeting at her uncle’s manor. Only then he had struck a negligent pose—power and grace and masculine confidence. Now he stood like a soldier at attention, his shoulders thrust back and his chin slightly lifted. Greta could only stare, tracing the strong line of his throat. The irrational urge to trace that corded strength with her tongue made her mouth dry up. A tight pressure built low in her torso. His kisses and too many nights of decadent, erotic dreams had taught her what that feeling was.

Desire.

Though he had not turned his head or shifted his formal stance, he slid his gaze sideways until it locked with hers. Those pale eyes gleamed with a fire she could not begin to understand. Was he happy to see her there? Embarrassed? He was a man of untold skill and no small measure of pride. Perhaps that pride would rebuff any of Greta’s plans for seduction.

An attack of nerves turned her knees to warm jam. What was she doing? What idiocy made her think she could go through with this? Her whispers and suggestions had all been to seduce a servant. What gall. What unfathomable boldness. That sort of confidence belonged to her uncle, not her.

No, that was a lie. She had simply buried her confidence for too long. Thaddeus had made meekness and doubting herself second nature.

“Of course, we selected the very best rooms for you,” Ingrid said as they neared the end of the servants’ lines, neared Oliver. “You simply must see the view of the interior courtyard. It’s breathtaking this time of year.”

Anna and Theresa kept their heads tipped toward one another, following Ingrid’s chatter like kittens after an evasive moth. Greta was simply thankful for their leisurely pace. Her limbs felt as if they were crumbling with each small movement.

“And a few introductions, I think.” Ingrid indicated a pale, pretty young woman standing opposite Oliver at the end of the women’s line. “This is Klara, my lady’s maid. If you need anything at all, Klara should be the first you call.”

Klara bobbed a little curtsy and smiled. She wore a bright yellow dress that lent a healthy glow to her skin. The lovely linen material should have told Greta that Klara held a position of authority in the household, but she could hardly think for knowing Oliver stood a mere yard away. The skin behind her ear tingled, as if he had touched where her hair swept up from her nape. Surely he was staring. But she could not turn her neck. Every joint had fused.

“And of course you remember Oliver, Lord Venner’s valet.”

“Oh, the boy from the opera.” Theresa giggled behind her lace evening glove. “What a difference a proper suit of clothes makes!”

Heat shot across Greta’s face. She chanced a glance at Oliver.

His neutral expression had not shifted, but he was looking very intently at Theresa. “Indeed, my lady. I am in disguise.”

Anna joined her sister in a small fit of giggles. Greta caught the discomfited expression that Ingrid passed back to her husband. Lord Venner appeared far more riled than Greta would have guessed. Did he take umbrage about a slight to his valet? Was such a reaction normal?

“And you, Fräulein Zweig,” Oliver said, his words low and intimate. “I trust you are well?”

“Quite.”

Before she would stop herself, she touched the raised sliver of skin on her neck where her wound had healed. Oliver’s pale blue eyes followed the movement—all very polite and impartial, like his expression. Until he dropped his gaze to her bosom. The heat of the evening, not to mention her untoward intentions, meant Greta had removed her lace fichu. Although still decent, she felt stripped. Exposed. Her intentions lay as bare as the damp skin of her cleavage.

She inhaled deeply. Heat blazed across Oliver’s expression, as blatant as a torch at midnight. Whatever doubt she might have had sputtered to nothingness.

She had come to seduce a servant. That was still what she wanted.

Now it was simply a matter of finding the strength to take what her body demanded.

“Herr Doerger,” she said. “Could you help with my trunk?”

Oliver blinked. The heat was gone, replaced by a shiver of something dark—maybe resentment, maybe disgust. “Of course,
Fräulein.
My pleasure.”

Pleasure. Oh, yes.

Greta almost laughed—it was either that or collapse under the choking heat of her anticipation.

Oliver repeated his bow. The duke himself would not receive a more practiced display of humility. But inside he was seething with an embarrassment he rarely suffered. It was one thing for Greta to see him lined up with the other servants, as anonymous as a bit player. But it was quite another for her to treat him like one. Somewhere along the brief course of their acquaintance, Oliver had come to want one thing. Just one, because he wouldn’t dare demand more carnal rewards. He wanted Greta to see him as a man. Wig and livery and manual labor did nothing to further that end.

Along with a young man named Michael, he hauled Greta’s trunk up the primary staircase and down the corridor to her room. With every step his mortification increased. He should hardly feel shame at doing his job—a good, honest, respectable job by any estimation.

But for the first time in too long, he wanted to be more. For her. That his infatuation could descend into such ugly emotions only added to his anger. Each footfall was agony, as if he strode across bright blazing coals rather than the tasteful woven runners Ingrid had ordered from Turkey.

Once in Greta’s room, she barely acknowledged their presence before turning to stare out the street-facing window. Oliver wanted to slam his end of the trunk against the floor but resisted. She wanted to treat him like the servant he was. Very well. He would have no hand in giving her the satisfaction of seeing his discomfort.

After nodding for Michael to depart, Oliver cleared his throat. “Will there be anything else, Fräulein Zweig?”

She did not reply, only swallowed. Oliver watched the muscles move beneath the skin of her throat and found himself gazing lower, lower, to the swell of her breasts in profile. The way she hugged herself thrust them higher, her cleavage accentuated by flickering shadows from the nighttime street below. He licked his lower lip and clenched intertwined fingers behind his back. Every pulse of energy in his body was devoted to wanting—and standing clear.

Greta maintained her silence. When his humility had stretched to its very limit, pride in shreds, Oliver turned to go. He should have known better with a wealthy nobleman’s daughter. Fickle and centered only on her own needs, she was playing games with the hired help. But he was finished giving her more notice than their acquaintance merited.

“Herr Doerger, a moment?”

He stopped with his hand on the door latch. But he hardly trusted his composure enough to face her. Although he warranted much of the reproach for allowing Greta to play him for a fool, Oliver found her much easier to blame.

“Ja?”

“Shut the door and come here.
Bitte.
”

Oliver did as he was told, only because he wanted privacy when he hissed invectives. Long strides whisked him across the room until he had backed Greta against a wall. She pressed against the wallpaper, hands behind her back. Luminous eyes as blue as a lake in summer stared up at him. Her lips parted.

Fire shot from Oliver’s temples to his groin. A path of tense, hot, selfish desire burned him on the inside. “You wanted me,
Fräulein?
”

“Yes,” she whispered. The barest sheen of sweat glistened along the fine hairs of her upper lip.

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, I wanted you. I still do.”

Oliver jerked, as if her quiet words had been an unexpected peal of thunder. “Quit your games. You’ve only just arrived and I won’t stand for weeks of this nonsense.”

“No nonsense,” she said. “No games.”

With deliberate slowness she shoved away from the wall and pushed his chest with flattened palms. Oliver retreated a step, his head buzzing. She followed. A quick flick of her wrist and his wig hit the floor.

“Greta!”

Reflex found his hands on his own hair, smoothing what he knew would be a flattened, sweaty mess. She met him there. Her fingers twined with his, not to smooth the disarray but to make it worse. She dragged his face closer.

“I’m here for three weeks” was all she said.

Then she kissed him.

Oliver grabbed her shoulders just to hold on to something. But even her supple arms might be the stuff of dreams. She was pushing her lips flush against his. Pure fantasy. Only her little moan made it real.

Recovering from his shock, he circled his arms around her upper back and pulled her close. Their bodies fit as tightly as their mouths. Firm. Perfectly matched. Oliver pushed deeper, meeting her tongue with his. She moaned again, welcoming, opening, giving the gift of her sweet taste.

Their previous kisses had been an orchestra tuning before a performance. This was heat. This was indulgence.

Oliver stroked down her spine. He clutched handfuls of fabric and woman. Greta’s hands still played in his hair, then ventured down to his cravat. Another clever tug and his neck was bare. She abandoned his mouth. With very little skill but a heart-stopping amount of enthusiasm, she scattered kisses and bites along his jaw, down his throat. He could only tip his face toward the ceiling, his eyes closed, his body a fire stoked to dangerous levels.

The teasing nip she gave his earlobe dragged Oliver back to that strange reality. He had to stop. If he did not, his next act would be to nuzzle the tempting flesh of Greta’s cleavage. From there he could make no promises of gentlemanly behavior.

He splayed his fingers along both sides of her face and pulled her clear of his throat. “Greta,” he breathed. “Stop now. Stop. What is this?”

“I told you.” Her cheeks were flushed pink, her lips swollen. Oliver nearly succumbed to blatant invitation in her wide, shadowed eyes. “I have three weeks.”

“Which means what, exactly? Because I cannot fathom what you’re about.”

“Do you need to?” She slid her hands along the outside of his hips, around toward his backside. “For this?”

“
Guter Gott!
You’re serious!”

Oliver held her at arm’s length and let go. He looked away. A neutral spot of light on the pale carpet was a much safer prospect than acknowledging her greedy expression. Dizziness and pure lust surged along his body. His cock ached.

“Once these three weeks are over, I return to Leinz Manor. My uncle has a man picked out for me. I’m to be wed. Did you know that?”