by Carrie Lofty
But none of her habitual observations belied the hurried rhythm of her heart or the parched burn in the back of her throat. She feared this man—not as she had her attacker at the opera, but as she feared her own deeply buried disposition. Dangerous. Selfish. Restless.
“No,” he continued softly, so near now. Every lash cast a long shadow across the crests of his cheekbones. “You spend too much time in your studio, don’t you? You leave the cajoling and wheedling to your cousins.”
“How would you know?”
“Eyes and ears, remember?”
She shook her head sharply. That had not been her meaning. Servant or not, nobleman or not, few thought to look upon anything but her womanly figure, let alone with such intensity. Could he really assess so much about her…and so quickly? He was as intriguing as he was frightening. “So if verbal persuasion will prove ineffective even before I begin, what remains? Do you need money?”
Doerger grinned as if indulging a poor joke. “Probably less than you do.”
“You are impertinent.”
“Not to those of my acquaintance who hold sway over my quality of life.”
Greta flinched at the implication that she meant nothing to him, when he and his daring rescue had come to dominate her thoughts. Did he peer into everyone as deeply? Imagining that sharp, intimate gaze turned on another woman was enough to rouse her reckless impulses. She wanted to stand out, to make him remember her as clearly as his memory would revisit her.
“What will it take?” she whispered.
His smile became more subdued. That keen silvery gaze fastened on her mouth. “What damsel wouldn’t reward her protector with a kiss?”
Oliver could have been handed a hundred years—a millennium, even. No matter. Understanding his actions would never come clear. He was practically backing a Pfalzgraf’s niece against the wall of a terrace. The dance pulsed between them so naturally, as old as man and woman and time. She retreated. He pursued.
A bright, snapping energy had been building between them, maybe since he had held her trembling body, her tears wetting his neck. That moment had been soaked with fear and relief. This was deeper, more pleasurable. More risky.
Christoph would forgive him a great deal, but just how far did their clandestine family bond extend? Probably no further than Oliver’s conscience would permit. At the moment, however, he could depend on no such honor.
Lush summer scents lent those suspended seconds a dreamlike beauty. Too much. Too perfect. Oliver took a step, then another, easing nearer.
Greta was breathing through parted lips, a soft huffing sound. His own blood was running so fast as to cloud his ears like the aftermath of fireworks. She could tell him no. He had every intention of stopping before that necessity, but she could utter the word whenever she chose. Not only desire but curiosity made him stay, to see how far she would take this game.
She tucked her arms behind her body and leaned lightly against the terrace wall. It would have been a coy pose had she dipped her chin or fluttered her lashes, but she kept her gaze level. A dare. So Greta Zweig was not one to back down from a challenge. He’d assumed otherwise, drawing on the memory of her fainting at the opera. But that was life or death. This was arousal and a forbidden closeness, and she seemed more than up to the challenge.
Moonlight wove silver silk through her hair. Pale breasts thrust forward with each shallow breath, pillowed and gathered together by the low bust of her gown. Oliver’s fingers jerked as if he had touched a flame—just the idea of touching her body made him react.
Dimly, in some fast-deteriorating center of logic, he realized he was taking stock of her in the crudest, greediest manner possible. She stripped him of pretense. He was a man. That was all.
With Greta, that was all he wanted to be.
Her gaze wavered, sliding sideways. She turned her head ever so slightly. Her jaw lay exposed beneath the moon’s glow, which turned her skin as lustrous as her pearls.
“You may kiss me.” Her words were hushed, but oh, the permission she granted…
Oliver smelled her first, that stinging bite of linseed layered with a rose-petal fragrance. Then he felt her—heat, the elemental awareness of one human body humming against another. Even more than normal, his senses clamored for detail. Next was touch. He was thankful to have left his gloves off after dining. Nothing separated his flesh from hers as he circled a thumb over the plump top of her cheek.
“You’re certain?”
“Yes,” she whispered. “If it will keep my secret.”
He froze. He exhaled a slow breath. For a moment he had let himself forget that she had not lured him out-of-doors by choice. His fingers were stiff as he forced distance between his hand and her cheek.
“Your secret’s safe, Greta. You have my word.”
“But…” She blinked rapidly as if awakening from a dream. “Our kiss?”
Oliver grinned. Man and woman and time…
“We can still kiss,” he said, the words low and husky. “But if we do, it’s because you want to.”
He returned to her, framing her face with both hands. Because the shadow of his own body draped her features in blackness, he angled her face ever so slightly—back into the light, back to where he could admire her. The chances of ever revisiting such a moment were impossibly small. He wanted it perfect.
“No obligation?” she asked, her voice soft.
“None.”
His assurance sank into her like water into sand. He could see her mind working, digesting, testing each possibility. Leaning nearer, mere inches from her mouth, he breathed in her sweetness. She was opium smoke and wanderlust and a fever for gold. Deep obsessions.
“Say it.” He stroked her bottom lip with his thumb, dipping inside just enough to touch a bit of her wet warmth. “Say ‘Kiss me, Oliver.’”
She trembled. “Kiss me, Oliver.”
He closed his mouth over hers, capturing the last syllables of his name. In the face of his hard, hammering anticipation, he worked like a fiend to keep the touch gentle. Light. Only with his tongue did he dare for more, slipping along the soft fullness of her lower lip. She tasted of sherry, tasted of salt. Her little moan was punctuated by her hands gripping his forearms. The heat of her gloved palms was nothing to the heat of her mouth, but her fingers tugged, gratifyingly frustrated.
Retreating but a little, he breathed roughly through his nose. “More?”
Greta did not reply with words, only rose on tiptoes to meet him once again. Misjudging their heights, she slammed against him, their teeth pinching tender skin.
Down went patient caution. Oliver slid his hands beneath her underarms and pulled her torso flush. Her bones were dainty, such a petite little body, but her curves promised resilience. The breasts he had imagined every night since the terror at the opera molded against his chest. Her moan was louder now as her tongue chased into his mouth.
Dizziness clouded over his best intentions. Sex became a crystalline purpose. How easy it would be to lift her skirts, part her legs, fill her until they both groaned.
Beneath the passion, however, he sensed her youth and her inexperience. She kissed him with vigor but no skill. This was the kiss of an untutored girl. As much as her desire flattered him, Oliver fought to stop.
From a deep, distant corner of his brain he dredged the resolve to let her go. It was a slow process. Loosen his arms. Retrieve his tongue and lift his head. Ease her back toward the wall. Finally he found each of her hands with his own, unclenching her fingers from his coat sleeves.
“Greta.”
“Hmm?”
“Hurry to your room now. No one can see you this way.”
“What…” She licked her bottom lip, which was deliciously swollen. “What way?”
He nuzzled her neck, just below her ear. “As if you’ve been kissing a servant out on the terrace.”
The truth of it iced over her features. She touched two fingers to her mouth then hastily smoothed the hair his eager h
ands had mussed. That fluttering panic was back. Her eyes darted all around, wide, searching.
“There’s no one here,” he whispered. “But you must hurry.”
She slipped past him and made for the doors. Only within a few feet of safety, back to her world, did she stop. She pulled her shoulders straight, nearly a perfect imitation of the haughty nobleman’s niece she was. Nearly. The passion they had so briefly indulged still sparked and blazed in her eyes. “Oliver?”
He turned his eyes away, focusing on a patch of rough mortar rather than her mussed, moonlit perfection—anything to keep from calling her back. She would come back, no matter her panic. He knew that. Knew it. A rush of power surged in his blood, almost more powerful than his desire.
When he was able to trust his voice once again, he said, “Yes?”
“Thank you. For all of it. I…I will never regret that.”
Oliver frowned. She continued to surprise him, to the point where comprehending her might not be possible. But such was a puzzle for another time. He steeled himself for one last cherished look. “I’m glad. Good night, Greta.”
Chapter Five
Greta had primed her latest canvas with gesso by midafternoon. Her arms ached, as did her back. Preparing to paint could hardly be considered a mentally demanding task, but her whole body suffered. She and her uncle had long ago agreed to value secrecy above speed, which meant she employed no assistant. The only concession Thaddeus made toward the process was to have canvases stretched onto frames by a craftsman in Salzburg. Greta could not manage the task on her own. But every other step, down to grinding her own colors, was hers to complete.
She loved every minute of it.
Sometimes she wondered if her painting was simply a grandiose excuse to play with the tools of her trade. She could spend hours ordering and re-ordering her brushes, arranging them by color or thickness or length, depending on her mood. Cleaning their horsehair bristles was not a chore, nor was oiling their handles. She could tell a quality canvas by combination of touch and smell. The right one for each project was different, needing more texture or less. Charcoal and sharpeners, thinners and glorious blocks of pure pigment—her hands needed them, needed their ritual and potential.
Only two days on from kissing Oliver Doerger, she settled down to mix a new batch of raw umber, nearly the same shade as his deep gold hair. She could never truly fathom where her mind went, once submerged in the peace of her preparations, but the terrace, where moonlight bathed her body and Oliver’s arms kept her safe, had become a most engrossing destination. She could paint when faced with such a delicious distraction, channeling it into pure inspiration, but enduring the frustration of yet another copy hardly seemed bearable.
But Anna and Theresa expected her for coffee. Their plans for a ball at Leinz Manor, one themed as a summer retreat to the countryside, would accept none of Greta’s demurrals.
She ducked out of her apron and washed her hands in a basin of tepid water, taking the opportunity to cool her flushed cheeks. A quick check in the mirror revealed splatters of gesso on her forehead and in her hair. After a little huff of frustration, she did her best to neaten her appearance.
The girls had already been served when Greta arrived at the solarium.
“Oh, there you are,” Anna said. The older of the two, she was quieter and more thoughtful—not that anyone would accuse her of a retiring personality or a serious mind. Simply by benefit of contrast with her sister did Anna present the more sensible nature. She patted the seat next to her. “Come. Sit. You look a fright.”
Greta did so with a slight smile. Why did she bother? Unless she set her mind toward making her appearance the sole focus of each morning, she would never meet with her cousins’ approval.
But such was not her goal, and she cared too much for them both to resent their determinedly inward-looking perspectives. After all she was hardly any different, consumed by painting rather than fashion and society. The girls made a show of attempting to correct Greta’s more conspicuous failings, and she made a show of implementing their advice. That no one ever emerged from the encounters entirely satisfied was hardly the point. Some languages would simply never be translated.
“We were just looking over the menu for the ball,” Theresa said with a little bounce in her seat. “Three weeks away and so much yet to do!” She buttered a thick piece of bread and eyed it hungrily, but took only mincing bites. If habit served, she would leave exactly half of the bread uneaten on her plate before starting in on a piece of torte or a wedge of melon. Greta always felt like a naturalist observing a rare species of bird when she watched her younger cousin eat.
“It’s hardly so much as you think,” Anna said. “We have the situation in hand, as always.”
“You say that but it never turns out. You’ll order the wrong flowers again.”
“They weren’t the wrong flowers! Chrysanthemums were perfectly appropriate for Fasnacht,” Anna said, referring to the Carnival ball they’d hosted earlier in the year. “It wasn’t my fault you deemed them vulgar.”
Theresa set aside her half-eaten bread. “But I get to choose the flowers this time. You promised.”
“But we were talking about the menu.”
With a little pout Theresa slumped back in her chair. The most skilled toddler would never match her expression, most likely for wont of practice.
Anna gave her sister what passed for a censorious frown, which Theresa ignored—out of design or inattention Greta could never be certain. The girl was positively childlike. She spoke at length—at interminable length—about finding the right husband. Greta could not help but worry how Theresa would fare in marriage. How would such an empty-headed angel endure managing a household, bearing children, submitting to a man’s demands?
She closed her eyes, recalling the feel of the wall at her back and Oliver’s chest pressed flush to hers. He had been all strength, all male. Submitting to his demands had been all too easy.
“What do you think, Greta?” Anna asked.
“Oh, no. You know I’m not one for taking sides between you.” She poured a cup of coffee and served herself a piece of Linzertorte. Apricot jam and almond slices were probably the devil’s tools because Greta would do unconscionable things for just a taste.
For a flickering moment her mind glanced into the dark places where she had ventured with Oliver. Desserts could not compare to sweet, forbidden kisses.
Her hand slipped. The torte landed half on the plate.
“Honestly,” Anna said. “What a mess.”
Greta licked her thumb. Taste and memory fused on her tongue, turning the sunlit room sultry. “But it would suit Theresa. Only half a piece.”
“True,” Theresa said with a giggle, “but you’re the only one who would eat it off the tablecloth.”
Greta used a fork to scoop it onto the delicate bone china plate. “Why waste something so lovely?”
The sisters exchanged meaningful glances, which read along the lines of “Poor cousin.”
Greta only smiled. She so enjoyed teasing them. It was only right with how they looked on her, not as an unsightly mistake, but as a gown from two seasons past. Such a gown would do in a pinch but was good for little else. By contrast she considered them both hair ribbons on a carriage horse—the least material but most eye-catching feature.
Plus, the familiar tête-à-tête with her cousins was more comforting than returning to thoughts of Oliver. Two days, two nights…she had been haunted ever since.
He was a valet. A servant. Greta’s father had been a respected classics professor, so well educated and successful, but even that considerably less glaring discrepancy in status had brought about Uncle Thaddeus’s quiet wrath. He had needed years to extract his sister from her morganatic marriage, but he had succeeded. He always had his way. And that success had meant their destruction.
Her parents had been strong, even stubborn people—qualities they had unwittingly passed on to their only daughter, no matter
how she tried to curb them. Only by their example had she developed a better sense of preserving her own safety and sanity. Consequences could be avoided by being flexible…and occasionally furtive. Her mother and father hadn’t survived Thaddeus, but Greta was determined to do just that.
As such, contemplating any relationship with Oliver beyond the kisses they had already shared was pure folly. She was lucky to have escaped that brief, luscious encounter without any lasting harm. Everything she had ever learned about decorum and station and a person’s proper place forbade what she had done.
Yet molten thoughts insisted on continuing their kiss to a conclusion she had no firsthand experience in picturing. They had only just started when he had managed the gentlemanly course of action. But how would it feel? How would it end?
A man and a woman. Coupling.
Against a terrace wall.
Her skin rippled with sensation. Oliver’s mouth on hers had been decadent, like apricot torte and rich, dark coffee. Lying in bed at night, she had not needed many minutes to begin imagining how his mouth would feel on the rest of her body—even exploring her own, as she pictured him doing. She had wanted him to stoop to how she imagined servants behaved when not under the scrutiny of their employers. Rougher. More primitive. More animal.
She might have joined him.
Doing so would have been the ultimate dare. I dare you, world, to see me for who I am and what I truly desire.
With her gaze she followed the angle of the windowsill to its vanishing point, all the while admitting the ridiculous, wayward nature of her fantasies. Indulgence by moonlight would only mean regret and mortification come morning. No other outcome awaited such an encounter, and she had been lucky. He had promised to keep her secret. He had taken nothing more than a kiss. Oliver Doerger was a good man, no matter his low rank.
