Portrait of Seduction

by Carrie Lofty

  She feared that, when put to the test, her feelings for Oliver would not hold true. Nor would his love for her endure.

  To tell any of that to Oliver? It all seemed paltry and insulting. But in her mind and in her heart, they were overwhelming. Panicking and so terribly afraid, she took a deep breath and lied. She lied to the man who could detect any falsehood.

  “I don’t love you.”

  He blinked. “You don’t.”

  “I’m sorry, Oliver. I…when faced with the bare facts of how we would live—I’m sorry.”

  She wanted him to do that magic trick of his, where he could tell at an instant whether someone was being deceitful. She wanted him to see right through her, to drag her away. Her uncle could never accuse her of her mother’s folly. She could have Oliver without needing to make the hard choice.

  But he simply closed his eyes. Maybe even his skills failed when his heart was breaking.

  “Are you leaving, then?”

  “I must,” he said, his voice wooden and deep. “What will you do?”

  She twisted her fingers into knots. Even now she had no notion of how she would explain that to Thaddeus. “I’ll tell him about the paintings and…he’ll look after me.”

  “As he always has.” An uncharacteristic bitterness tainted his words. “By what, marrying you to that whale Weiser? You’re a coward, Greta.”

  “You can say that, but you have everything to gain by being with me!”

  His jaw locked. “Which, by contrast, implies that you have so little to gain by being with me.”

  “That’s not fair. You know the way of the world.”

  “I knew this would be difficult for you—for both of us. But I never imagined it would take this turn.”

  “Why not? Did you really expect that I could abandon my entire life to be with you?”

  “Yes,” he said. “I thought you could.”

  Greta choked back a sob, wanting to call him back as he collected his meager possessions. Boots. Hat. Overcoat. A hundred times in those few seconds she tried to find a way around the maze. But no. She was still too scared. She, Greta Zweig, had always wanted more adventure. And when faced with the biggest adventure of all, she backed away in complete fear.

  Oliver paused in the doorway. He turned slightly, so that the sharp line of his nose was in perfect profile. Greta found herself trying to memorize his dear features—this time for the last time.

  “Lock the door behind me. No one but your lady’s maid until your uncle returns. Will you give me that, at least?”

  “I will,” she said, then watched in stunned shock as he walked out the door.

  Greta lived in agony for nearly twenty hours.

  Every waking moment forced her to revisit the argument. Sometimes she wondered why she let her fears drive him away. Sometimes she could hardly breathe past the terror. Oliver would never hurt her on purpose—she knew that like she knew his taste. But where would she be if anything happened to Oliver? To defy the rules for love was one consideration. Facing the world on her own was quite another.

  If the days were agony, the hours of evening were unimaginable nightmares. Every kiss, every touch, every breathless cry returned as an intimate torment. Sleeping beside him had been a comfort even more precious than the way he pleasured her. The soft rumble of his laughter, when humor caught him by surprise, was just a memory. The true, honest companionship he offered without demand left a void in her heart. The fierce, protective shelter of his unselfish love was gone.

  So she waited. Sitting in a window seat that overlooked the grounds, she waited for her uncle. His carriage was in the courtyard. The grooms were already unbuckling the horses’ harnesses. Soon he would barge up those steps and she would need to tell him.

  But tell him what?

  Standing away from the window, she looked at her half-finished painting. It was Oliver standing in the corridor downstairs, exactly as she’d seen him the night of the ball. The livery clung to him like a cage, a most uneasy disguise for the gracious, clever man beneath. He was singular. Alone. Reserved, yet so enticingly composed within himself. Even when Greta had barged into his life and ruffled his calm, he remained Oliver.

  Dear God, I love him.

  A knock at the door shocked her into uttering a little squeak.

  She loved him. Now, when he was so far away, when she could no longer beg his forgiveness or declare her feelings—now she realized the truth.

  Another knock, this time more insistent. “Margaret, open this door,” said her uncle.

  With one last look at the painting, she blew her rendering of Oliver a kiss and tossed a tarp over the easel. “Coming.”

  She hurried to the door and sucked in a quick breath.

  Thaddeus stood in the doorway, his arms crossed and a frown heavy on his brow. His bald head shone with a glimmer of sweat. “You will explain yourself, young lady.”

  “Come in, uncle.” Her fingers danced with nervous energy as she waved him inside. But oddly enough, she was no longer frightened. She had sent Oliver away. No other moment could be so terrible. This was nothing—nowhere near so heartbreaking. “I am happy to see you safely returned. How are the girls?”

  “They’re downstairs. But you will explain why you left Salzburg. This instant.”

  He stood in the center of her studio like a thunderstorm gaining furious strength. Only one other time had she seen him so terribly riled—on the day when their last terrible fight had sent Mother away. Father had been dead, but Uncle Thaddeus had sent her out into the world with nothing.

  Righteous anger straightened her shoulders and made her spine into a strong column. What right had he? By what right had he made her parents so miserable? And by what right did he claim ownership of her skills, her loyalty, her future?

  Her future belonged to Oliver. She knew that now. But she had to be smart, knowing Thaddeus already assumed the worst about her character—and knowing that Herschel had likely already informed him of Oliver’s presence. If she confirmed the worst voluntarily, she might be able to escape most of the humiliation. Maybe breaking with her uncle and her cousins wouldn’t have to be permanent.

  “Uncle, I know you will be…oh, God, you will be so disappointed with me.”

  “I’m not surprised.”

  “I came here with a man. With that valet who’d saved my life.”

  His face darkened to an unbecoming shade of pink, all the way over his bald crown. “You idiot girl. How could you be such a simpleton? You’re no better than your mother. Worse, even.”

  “Leave Mother out of this.”

  “I will not! Is this how my generosity is repaid? By a niece who invites servant trash into her bed?”

  “Repaid? I believe my work for these last few years has been payment enough. But that wasn’t enough for you, was it?”

  “I have told you before,” he said, advancing on her. Greta backed away but was stopped with the workbench at her back. “My business is none of your concern.”

  “Oh, isn’t it?” A remarkable calm had overtaken her. She felt steady and sure, even in the face of his glower. “I wonder what business you could conduct without my forgeries to sell. And if you’re not careful, you won’t even have the originals to sell after the war.”

  “What?”

  “In the basement. In storage. Someone has replaced four of the originals with my copies. Someone, my dear uncle, has been stealing from you.”

  A tick in his right cheek intensified. “I don’t believe you. This is some ruse to distract me from how you’ve behaved.”

  Greta stepped away from the table, toward him, daring him to stand in her way. “You’re the one who’s short four masterpieces. I, however, am the person who’s short ten years’ worth of work.”

  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.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  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.”