Portrait of Seduction

by Carrie Lofty

  Goose bumps sprinkled along her scalp and down her spine. She grinned to herself, sharing the anticipation Oliver must surely be feeling.

  Two days. Two days and he had not yet gone mad. That seemed a minor miracle, considering how often his thoughts strayed toward Greta. Her laugh. Her smile. Her naked body and the silky smoothness of her skin. Oliver had fallen into the trap of infatuation, and he had no intention of extricating himself. Not yet. The pain was too greatly mingled with pleasure.

  He followed Christoph into the training room and schooled his features. If Greta proved the secret daredevil he knew her to be, she would be up in the arcade that bordered the facility. Sometimes they used the space to instruct the male servants on defensive techniques. Once or twice a year, they held an in-house tournament to help combat winter restlessness, where the men of the Venner staff fought for pride and personal victories. Even a few old grudges were played out in a way that helped diffuse tension.

  The process had worked in the army, and to Christoph’s surprise, Oliver had been able to implement it successfully here as well. He never fought harder than during those tournaments, knowing that his high position in the household made him a target.

  But now he intended to fight bloody hard.

  Christoph had been insufferable. He doted on Ingrid with the persistence of a mother hen, but with no such efficiency. He was underfoot with the staff and driving Ingrid to distraction. The idea that she was well—safe, happy and healthy—had yet to sink into his hardheaded brother’s mind. Or more likely, into his heart. The time was right to call him on it.

  And he would do it with Greta as his audience. With a quick glance toward the boxes he’d stacked, he caught the barest glimpse of blond hair. So…she had come to observe the sport. The idea had occurred to him after what she’d confessed in bed. Watching him, studying him, had been arousing for the keen-eyed innocent. Never had he known a woman outside of a bawdy house to admit such a thing. Rather than simply sneak into her room once more, Oliver had decided to give them a little prelude. If all went according to careful plan, this would be but a beginning to their evening together.

  Greta’s uncle would arrive in just a few short days. Then life would return to normal. Oliver would force it to, out of sheer will alone. He would pick up the pieces after she left, but not a minute before.

  “Take up a sword, my lord,” Oliver said. “We’ve all had enough of you lately.”

  Christoph scowled. “You have some nerve.”

  “No one else does. You’re a father now. I still congratulate you. I thought seeing her through the birth would be enough, but your worry is suffocating everyone.” He sloughed off his coat, tossed his wig aside, and undid the two buttons at his throat. After a quick check of the armaments, he picked a slim, precise foil with a gold finish. “It ends here.”

  “You arrogant bastard.”

  “Testy, my lord.” Oliver nodded to the wall of swords. “Let’s go.”

  His strides stiff, Christoph grabbed the nearest weapon, hardly offering it a glance. He met Oliver in the center of the small arena. “Is this more of your helpful remedy?”

  “Naturally. Just doing my job.”

  “Hardly. You’re trying to prove a point, just because—”

  Oliver shook his head sharply. “It’s no longer two in the morning, my lord,” he said under his breath. “The walls may have ears. Just fight.”

  He raised his foil and lunged. Christoph took the blow and sank into his stance. Again they circled one another, but the wariness and fervor they had shared on the night of Franz’s birth was gone. The timbre was different.

  Oliver was reminded of the years they had spent as young men, always aware of one another, always in silent competition. He’d never known whether his unacknowledged half brother would vouch for him or turn him in. Christoph had never taken part in Oliver’s misdeeds, but on occasion he had turned a blind eye—perhaps playing out his own quiet rebellion against their father.

  Now Greta was watching. Oliver wanted to be better than his brother, even though she would never know the truth of their relationship. The valet could beat the master. She thought him practical and dependable. Fine. He also wanted her to think him desirable and strong.

  His foil swished through the air with a slick hiss. He caught Christoph’s weapon, the metal squealing as they clashed. The air in the training room was warm. Sweat soon adhered his shirt to his chest. Panting, his thighs aching, Oliver kept pushing, forcing Christoph once again to lose himself in the relative ease of physical work.

  God, it felt good. Better than worry and want. Better than hot, restless dreams that left him hollow.

  A slicing pain cut down the outside of his bicep. He hissed, glancing to where a trail of crimson stained his white shirt. “You’ll pay for that.”

  “Hardly,” Christoph said.

  “No, I’m in earnest. Some fair compensation is in order.”

  Christoph actually laughed—or some twisted noise that counted as his laugh. Months could go by without hearing it. “You already earn too much.”

  He lunged again, forcing Oliver to leap backward, his torso arched to avoid the slashing blade. They fought in earnest now, giving and taking with grit and fire. Oliver’s throat burned. His right arm throbbed and shook. But he kept fighting. He could feel Greta’s eyes on him, her avid interest lighting into his blood like fine cognac.

  Finally he scored a slice of his own, catching Christoph on the shoulder. “We’re even,” the man gritted out.

  Oliver simply stood in the center of the arena, stance solid, chest upthrust. He hauled the shirt off his back and swiped it along the tip of the foil. After tossing it aside, he stared his competition in the face—those ice-blue eyes so like his own. “Again.”

  Greta had long since bit down on the pad at the base of her thumb. It was either that or gasp at every near miss, every clean lunge, every moment when Oliver battled like a medieval warrior. She understood it all now—why he had wanted her to be here in hiding, bearing witness. She actually admired his initiative, surprised by his daring. Her thanks and appreciation would be in order later.

  Concealed by the boxes, she edged a little nearer the railing. They were both shirtless now. Though slightly shorter, Oliver was more beautifully muscled than his master. They were a study in subtle contrasts. Venner was elegant and long-boned. His every move seemed thought-through, as if the action needed permission. Oliver, however, sank into every movement. He seemed a dancer, flowing from step to step with practiced ease. And dear Lord, he was even more attractive to her now than he had been days ago, weeks ago. Now she knew how he tasted, how his body moved over hers, how he sounded as pleasure consumed that active, intense mind.

  The room was too hot. The men had been able to strip down to their bare skin, but Greta had no such option. She was aroused and uncomfortable, squished between two crates that would be waist height had she been standing. But she would not budge, not while there was still such a show to be witnessed.

  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.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  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.