Portrait of Seduction

by Carrie Lofty

  “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?”

  Pinching his eyes shut, Oliver found no relief—only ghastly images of another man’s hands on Greta, on her skin, on those breasts he wanted so badly to taste.

  His curiosity would not be quelled. “Who?”

  “Herr Lionel Weiser. Do you know him?”

  The images in his mind worsened. Weiser was a snake, interested only in collecting political favors. A woman like Greta was his perfect social match. A step up, certainly, but not out of the reach of money and the right favors. For Oliver’s sanity, the match might as well have been forged in a circle of hell. Fleshy hands now—Weiser’s beefy hands and his wiggling jowls, trailing over Greta with the assurance of absolute ownership.

  “Why are you doing this?” He could either keep talking or be sick. Or kiss her again. The possibilities mixed like molten glue in his stomach.

  “I’ve always been destined for a marriage of my uncle’s devising. I don’t mind that so much, especially if it means a safe future. I could do much worse.”

  She had calmed now, her voice even. Oliver risked looking at her again, glancing sideways like a child afraid of an attic’s dark corner. Her angelic face had been filled with lust for him. Now she was harder. Determined.

  “But I will not go like some lamb to slaughter,” she continued. “I intend to enjoy myself for the next few weeks, away from Herr Weiser and my uncle.”

  “And that means crawling all over me?”

  Small and seemingly too soft to imagine, she held her ground. Her chin tipped up. “Yes.”

  “Then you’ll marry Weiser? What about your painting?”

  “Men can be manipulated. Am I right?”

  Oliver lifted his brows. It was as if he spoke to another woman altogether. “Yes.”

  “Good. Then while I’m enjoying myself—with you…” She paused and met his gaze. “You can teach me what will make my future husband most amenable to my requests.”

  The room had become too dark, too close and far too sweltering. Oliver ran both hands through his messy hair and shook his head. “You cannot possibly be in earnest.”

  “I am.”

  “Well, I am too. Last I checked, Lord Venner was my employer.”

  Greta blinked. The fight and sensual spark in her eyes dimmed. “You…you’re refusing me?”

  “Am I—?” He pounded a fist into his palm and tried his hardest to keep his voice down. The rush of blood in his ears made it impossible to tell if he succeeded. “Am I refusing you? Shall we consider the state of your request? You want me to set aside every scruple so that I might embark on a three-week sexual escapade with my employer’s aristocratic guest. I’m to risk my livelihood and forsake my pride. And I’m to do so in the name of equipping you with the wiles you’ll need to turn that whale of a man into a compliant husband.”

  She dipped her chin. Her shoulders lifted on a shaky inhale. “I think about you constantly,” she whispered. “I thought I could go forward with my uncle’s plans if I had…well, if I had a few moments just for me.”

  Oliver’s equilibrium had gone missing when he entered her room, and she was making it impossible to hope for its return. Such a strange woman. So bold and yet so scared. She was the living embodiment of her forgeries—beautiful, undeniable, but still in hiding.

  I’m in hiding too.

  For both their sakes, he had to do more than simply end this one encounter. He had to stop it from becoming a temptation they would repeat. She risked her reputation, her future and her family if she insisted on dallying with a servant. He risked his brother’s regard and his place within Christoph’s elite political circle. Oliver might never be legitimate, but he still liked to think he was in charge of his destiny. That destiny would be forfeit if he ruined Leinz’s niece.

  And in a deeper, more vulnerable place, he knew he would never be able to indulge in such a woman—only to hand her over to another man. To do so would make her a whore and him a heartbroken fool.

  “Greta, look at me.” She kept her head bowed, forcing him to lift her chin. “What we desire hardly matters. Neither of us is in a position to act. Tell me you understand as much.”

  She barely nodded.

  That would have to do. Risking another minute in the company of her sweet warmth and shattered expression would be his undoing.

  Chapter Nine

  Despite her inauspicious encounter with Oliver in the initial moments of her arrival, Greta settled into her stay. She and her cousins broke their fast with Ingrid, visited the city’s breathtaking cathedrals and eerie catacombs, and took supper with the Venners, always joined by wealthy and influential guests. Everyone came to Ingrid Venner, it seemed, because she could not much venture out.

  And as much as possible, Greta tried to avoid Oliver. He made it easy, because he seemed to be avoiding her too.

  While following Anna and Theresa to the drawing room after the evening meal, Greta’s cheeks flamed at the thought of the inadvertent way she had insulted him. Her blush recurred so often that it felt stitched into her skin. How selfish she had been, her impulse unforgivably reckless. Oliver’s decision not only demonstrated his honor but saved her from a potentially ruinous fit of pique. She had tried to behave outside herself and take a chance. That it produced such a dissatisfying, downright embarrassing result should not have been a surprise. Art was her talent, not acting on selfish whims.

  But she could not deny a hard, simple fact. Oliver made her want to be selfish. Just once.

  It wasn’t to be.

  While the girls and Ingrid played cards, Greta set up the portable easel she had brought from Leinz Manor. At least she was among company that expected no other behavior from her. Ingrid, in fact, had seemed quite enamored of Greta’s love of art. That did not stop her, however, from gently teasing when the clock struck ten.

  “I don’t expect you’ve heard a word of our chatter in the last two hours,” she said.

  Greta yanked herself out of the scene she’d created. “Pardon? Were you speaking to me?”

  The cousins tittered behind their hands of cards. Ingrid only smiled. “I was going to say that your discipline probably saved you from having to endure a great deal of silliness on our parts. May I see your work?”

  Nodding, Greta stepped away from the easel and canvas. She wiped her fingers on a piece of cloth, examining the painting. So far she had only roughed in the structure of the terrace adjoining her uncle’s manor. There were rigid rows of sculpted hedges, bathed in the moonlight that had so colored her first kiss with Oliver.

  She had to look away, suddenly embarrassed by her choice of subject matter. She hadn’t thought, only painted…

  “Lovely.” Ingrid’s voice was tinted with genuine delight. “Are these on your uncle’s grounds?”

  Greta licked her lower lip. “Yes, out on the terrace.”

  “Truly lovely. Very good work, my dear.” A yawn crept up on Ingrid so quickly that she could not stifle it. Her smile was sheepish afterward. “Oh, my. That was quick. One minute, energy enough for any task. The next, exhausted. I must bid you all a good evening.”

  Upon returning to her work, Greta did not realize when Anna and Theresa had retired as well. They would certainly tease her for that com
e morning. But the terrace looked good. Nearly right. It would take days to give it the depth and texture she recalled, but the bones of the composition were solid.

  A sound made Greta turn. Oliver stood in the doorway to the drawing room. He still wore his livery, but it seemed a sleepy version of his usual perfection. Wig, cravat and coat were all missing. The collar was open, revealing the hollow at the base of his throat.

  Of course, she had barely noticed when her cousins said good night, but at the slightest noise from Oliver, she behaved as if the fire brigade barged through.

  “Oh, pardon me,” he said. “Didn’t mean to disturb you.”

  She hastily set her paintbrush aside. “You didn’t.”

  His eyes looked silver in the soft evening candlelight. He glanced at the easel. “Working late?”

  “I…” She glanced at the mantel clock; it was half past midnight. “I hadn’t realized the hour.”

  Rather than run away in terror, as Greta expected him to do, Oliver cautiously entered the drawing room. “Spanish technique?”

  “What?”

  “Your interpretation of the terrace. It’s not typically feminine. Almost grim.” He shrugged. “Reminds me of El Greco.”

  Greta remembered to blink and close her mouth, though neither was easily accomplished. “I hadn’t done so with conscious intent.”

  But he was not wrong. Looking once again at what she’d rendered, Greta found darkness in her moonlit scene—more shadow than light. Perhaps because that kiss, although wonderful, had been the beginning of something far murkier.

  “How did you…?” she began.

  “Know El Greco? Recreational reading, I must admit. I must also admit that I did it just to catch you by surprise.”

  “You speak in jest, but such behavior only turns my thoughts toward challenging you in return.”

  Oliver slumped onto the nearest chair, a richly upholstered wingback that accommodated his languid sprawl. Greta swallowed. She had never seen him affect such a slipshod pose. Neither had she ever seen him fatigued, but he revealed as much with a modest yawn.

  But his easy bearing, coupled with her teasing line about challenging him, only returned her to endeavors he had rightfully deemed inappropriate. The challenge would be keeping her sudden embarrassment from leaving her tongue-tied.

  She should apologize—apologize for believing him just like any other servant, any other man. But those words would not come. She was too terrified of insulting him again. The idea of further lowering herself in his estimation would not be borne.

  “Don’t let me interrupt,” he said, filling the silence. “In fact, I should like to see you paint.”

  Watch me paint? Unfathomable. It was too private…too intimate.

  The alternative, however, was losing him to boredom or the inevitability of sleep.

  “I can leave if you’re uncomfortable with the notion,” he added. “I wouldn’t mean to impose.”

  Or lose him to chivalry. She should have known.

  Oliver’s tone of voice, however, said he was enjoying their quiet interlude very much. Greta was too. She loved the casual way he lounged, so different from when he was on duty. But still he watched and studied her in that familiar way, as if trying to saturate his senses with his impressions.

  “I don’t know if I’m uncomfortable or not. I’ve never painted with an audience. Stay if you like.”

  So he did. Dare offered. Dare accepted. She had thought that would be the way of things between them, in a physical sense, but this substitute would have to do.

  “I do miss my brushes,” she said, almost to herself as she strove to concentrate. The smallest round brush she had was not small enough. She arranged them, then arranged them again, expecting him to tease as her cousins invariably did. But Oliver remained quiet and still, his gaze lighting fires along her nape. “I couldn’t bring them all, of course. But it’s like venturing forth into the world wearing uncomfortable shoes.”

  Strong masculine laughter filled the drawing room and settled under her sternum. “What else are you missing from your studio?”

  “My oils. I generally do not care for watercolors, but they are more portable.”

  “And more acceptable?”

  “For cultured young ladies? Yes.” He was simply too handsome—too present—to successfully ignore. Not that she even wanted to. “I’m afraid oils are far too messy. Best reserved for a serious artist.”

  Oliver’s expression sharpened. “You’ve been told that before. Often, I suspect.”

  “It’s of no consequence.”

  “But you prefer oils? Why?”

  “Mon corps respire la forte couleur.”

  “‘My body breathes with strong color,’” he said, his smile very slow. “You’d better not let anyone else hear that.”

  Greta turned away from his intense regard and knowing smirk. The back of her neck itched with a furious blush. Again. She’d done it again. If anything, she was further away from impressing him than ever, and at this rate, she would never find the nerve to apologize properly.

  “Just paint, Greta. I’ll endeavor to stop taking you by surprise.”

  With long strides and gulping breaths, Oliver headed out of the town home toward Waagplatz. Greta had been in residence for six days. He swore that his skin felt different, more sensitive, knowing she slept under the same roof.

  Having managed to avoid her during the day, he continued to watch her paint in the evenings, trapped in a cage of his own making. She wanted him. That much was gratifyingly obvious, to him if to no one else. So he sat and watched her, evening after evening, as she recreated the terrace at her uncle’s manor.

  Four nights now. He was becoming obsessed.

  The only things he could claim with complete certainty were that he went to bed alone and he did his best to avoid her during the day. At least his obsession would be known to no one else.

  There would be no avoiding her on this day, however. Arie and Mathilda would debut their new composition, and most of Salzburg’s elite had confirmed their attendance. Oliver’s responsibilities under such circumstances were more akin to a regular valet than a covert informant, which meant helping present the Venners in the best light.

  All would be well…after a few moments to breathe.

  Striding toward the center of the city, he smacked his thigh with his palm. He did it again, enjoying the sting. A trio of nuns, perhaps down from the Nonnberg convent, averted their eyes as he passed.

  To all the world he was a servant. But what he would do to Greta if she were his…? Obedience was no natural state for him. He had learned as much, sometimes painfully, in the army and ever since. The desire to dominate Greta, to make her see him for the man he was, to lead in their mutual pursuit of pleasure—he could not think for all the ideas his hunger inspired.

  She had invited him to take the lead. He’d been strong enough to resist. But for how long? Three weeks promised to drive him to the brink of sanity.

  The city drinking rooms, known as the Stadttrinkstube, were packed full even at midday. His eyes needed a few moments to adjust to the dim interior. The smell of human sweat became a nasal assault, mingled with sweet pipe smoke, greasy food and the tang of liquor.

  He found a seat in a corner and smiled at the pretty waitress who approached. Her answering smile offered more than beer and lunch. Frustrated and still shivering with lust, he patted his lap. Before he could blink he was holding her waist, breathing her sticky warmth.

  “Guten Tag, Herr Doerger.”

  Oliver grimaced. In the hierarchy of servants, he might as well be a prince. But at that moment he merely craved a little mindless anonymity. He scraped the wig off his head and grinned as the waitress ruffled his spiking, sweaty hair. Her laughing wiggle tempted him to close his eyes and enjoy, but all he could imagine was Greta’s fingers raking his scalp.

  “What’s your name, Fräulein?”

  “Eliza.”

  “Very pretty.”

>   “And what can I get for you?” Her words were breathy.

  “You can get us both a stein of beer,” came Christoph’s voice.

  “Oh!” Eliza clambered off Oliver’s lap. She bobbed a quick curtsy and departed, leaving Oliver with a throbbing headache and a fleeting view of her swishing hips.

  He thumped his fist against the table. “I didn’t ask for company, my lord. And I had planned to order a great deal more than just a beer.”

  His back as stiff as if dining with the grand duke, Christoph sat at the table. “I thought I heard you say you were taking a walk.”

  “I walked here, didn’t I?”

  Christoph tisked twice, his gaze taking in the state of Oliver’s hair. “Ingrid was worried enough to send me after you.”

  “I don’t need a keeper.”

  Even to his own ears he sounded like a petulant lad, but that awareness did nothing to curb his mean temper. He was beginning to doubt his own chivalry. What would it have mattered had he indulged in Greta’s standing invitation? Why deny them both? Any of their nights alone in the drawing room would have provided the opportunity.

  Because she was a nobleman’s niece, no matter how thoroughly the memory of her supple waist and—oh, sweet Christ, her breasts—tempted him to forget honor. She was an innocent, a curious innocent. It would be such a delicious and simple undertaking, but one he could never undo.

  Christoph leaned forward, his elbows on the table, his gaze digging deep. When Eliza returned with the beer, he did not move. She scurried away without a look back.

  Had he been any other man, Oliver might have fidgeted. But he knew Christoph like he knew himself. Perhaps better. “Out with it,” he said.

  “Then…what do you need?”

  “What?”

  “You said you do not need a keeper. What do you need?”

  Oliver took several long swallows of beer. His brother rarely ventured near personal topics. His ability to swim in such murky waters was always suspect. “I need to get drunk and take that woman to bed.”

  “The former will make the latter more difficult.”