by Carrie Lofty
But there was little to merit his disdain. The manor was beautiful. Cauldrons of light emblazoned Leinz Manor in warm hues, banishing the early evening dusk. Freshly cut flowers in bouquets as large as the span of a man’s arms filled waist-high stone vases. Everywhere there was movement and laughter. Servants slipped in and out of view in the precise ballet of expectations. Drivers moved their empty carriages along, ladies’ maids made for the rear entrance, and valets exchanged snuff and liquor, milling in the driveway as soon as their masters disappeared indoors.
Karl made for the front door and Oliver followed, his head swimming with dissonance. On his last visit he had been an invited guest, a man of sudden esteem after saving Greta’s life. Now, in his powdered wig and livery, as unobtrusive as he could manage, he was just another servant. Normally that suited him well. He and Christoph depended on his being taken for granted.
On this night, unaccountably, his pride stung. Why was he denied the opulence of such an occasion? His father had done the misdeed that resulted in Oliver’s bastardy. And yet Oliver was the one shut out of that privilege, that whole other life. No wonder Karl had been tempted to skirt every measure of propriety and claim it for his own. He would probably fare better by breaking the rules than Oliver ever had in obeying them.
No. He was through with trying to get ahead that way.
“Bitte,” said one of the two matched doormen. “You know the way of it. Around back with you.”
Oliver jerked to a stop. He had been ready to follow Karl inside. An unforgivable slip. He took one last look toward the glittering cavern of riches on the other side of the threshold. There would be dancing, flirting, laughing. Oliver wanted to be a part of it.
Karl threw him a grin over his shoulder. Two women draped in pearls had already affixed themselves to his arms. He offered a little nod and turned away.
Disgusted with himself, Oliver apologized to the doormen and spun on his heel. He was going to use the back door. And he was going to get his head in order.
Remember your duty.
Distressing how often he was having to prod himself with that reminder.
Ever since seeing the Venners’ coach arrive, Greta had been looking for Oliver. Only she had not been prepared for how difficult it was to pick him out among the clutch of liveried servants. She had been hoping against hope that he would attend, although many obstacles stood in the way of such an outcome—Lady Venner’s delicate condition first among them.
But arrive he had. Now the question was what Greta would do about it.
She stood on the middle steps of the central staircase, overlooking the guests as they began to pair up for the evening’s first minuet. Her fingers tapped without pattern against the balustrade. An unnamed discontent had been building under her skin for weeks. First it was her uncle and the ordeal with selling her forgeries. Their disagreements only served to underscore the aggravation of hiding behind other artists’ works. She wanted to create from scratch, not just copy. Obligation meant she was bound to continue, but for how long?
Until they had amassed security enough to survive the oncoming conflict. Even women of the highest breeding managed to find oblique ways to discuss their fears. The scarcity of goods and the bland nature of this year’s fashion novelties stood in place of their real concerns, that Napoleon planned once again to lay waste to Europe. Greta’s place was to help make sure that the Leinz family would endure.
And then there was Oliver’s kiss. She touched her gloved thumb to her lower lip, then rubbed harder to push past her numb frustration. He had woven a twitching restlessness into her body, one that time had only intensified. She wanted more—more of him, certainly. But more greedily, she wanted more of how he made her feel. His embrace had turned her to fire and steam. She had become a goddess.
To say she was tempted to renew such feelings was a vast understatement. The dark currents running inside her would not be slowed. She felt powerless to resist the pull of curiosity. Was this how her mother had felt? Was this why she had chanced such an unequal marriage?
Greta snapped away from those thoughts. She wiggled her toes in her satin slippers and took a deep breath. She could hardly be found guilty of mimicking her parents’ foibles. All she wanted was another few kisses. Her uncle did not control every aspect of her life. In this she felt the pull of quiet rebellion—claiming something for herself.
Marriage would come soon enough, to someone Thaddeus deemed suitable. All the more reason to find Oliver. Now.
Under the pretense of checking on the staff, she slipped away from the ballroom. Tension squeezed at the base of her neck and down her spine. By the time she reached the kitchen, her steps were stiff and her limbs as rigid as metal left out in the rain. But among the servants, at least, she had status enough to wield a little authority.
The kitchen was crammed with maids, footmen, coach drivers, valets and servers. Some were there to work, obviously struggling to get on with their responsibilities in the face of so many interlopers, but they laughed along, smiling at newcomers who idled and exchanged food and gossip. For some of them, this would be the closest they came to the evening’s entertainment.
Greta slipped inside and stood to the left of the main pantry entrance, simply watching the interactions she had never thought to consider. One maid tickled the back of a groom’s neck with a lace handkerchief. The head cook, Frau Grieg, argued with a younger woman about the soup stock. Three footmen stomped in with a rush of fresh summer evening breezes. They grabbed a loaf of bread and hurried back outdoors. Humid, fragrant steam over the cooking pots swirled in their wake.
Moments passed, hypnotizing Greta. She began to see past the uniforms to the people beneath, oddly aware of handsome men and very pretty girls. She had simply never thought to look. For how long had she been missing out on such drama? On whole lives? The realization left her oddly distressed by her lack of awareness. The flush of her cheeks was surely shame, because if it wasn’t shame, she would have to admit to a much dismal emotion—envy.
But none of the men was Oliver.
“Can I help you, Fräulein Zweig?” asked one of the cook’s many assistants.
Greta shook her head. Any artificial authority she imagined had dissipated. Her throat clenched tightly at the thought of how out-of-place she must appear. She was an intruder.
“Nein, dankt. Guten Abend.”
Back in the ballroom she found only the sorts of faces and finery one could expect at a nobleman’s fête. Plainness was bolstered and beauty amplified by jewels and silks. Another grating minuet began. Men and women paired together, some with more enthusiasm then others. Anna had found a tall gentleman with graying hair, while Theresa was dancing with an Austrian Hussar in full uniform.
Greta should be dancing too. She should be spending time nearer to her uncle so as to receive fortuitous introductions. How could he match her with anyone if she did not stick near his side as a reminder? But she turned away from the music and candlelight and swirling couples, intent now, desperate now, in her search for one particular valet.
An idea occurred to her as to where he might be. She wove through the partygoers and young men holding trays of food and wine. Descending from the ballroom and leaving the west wing, her breath accelerated. Sweat gathered along the creases of her palms, beneath the gloves that still did not match—this time a deep rose gown paired with satin a shade too pale.
Her anticipation became a weight caged in her chest, as if her heart had been replaced by a cannonball. Only, her heart was beating much too loudly, too heavily, to be made of iron. Straining, pulsing, its rhythm was completely out of keeping with the light exertion of merely walking. She turned the corner and stopped short.
Oliver stood at the exact center of the manor’s central corridor, leaning against the wall. He presented such an incongruous picture, his arms crossed, his posture lax, while clad in the staunch formalwear of his station. Images of the first moment she had seen his powdered wig and oxblood livery
flashed behind her eyes. Back then, on the verge of saving her from an armed attacker, he had been such a contradiction too—calm voice, deceptively relaxed posture and deadly skill.
She made a strangled noise and reflexively touched the healed cut along her throat.
He turned. An expression she could not interpret warped his features, turning him into even more of a stranger. He pushed away from the wall with negligent ease, as if this hallway belonged to him and he could take all the time in the world. A hundred guests were packed into the ballroom one floor above them, but they were alone.
Greta touched her neck once more before proceeding. Her body moved as would a toddler struggling with the demands of balance and gravity. She could claim no grace, no certainty, only a breathlessness that was so out of keeping with any feeling she had ever known.
Closer now, with only the four-foot width of an Old Testament scene between them, Greta inclined her head.
Oliver bowed. “Good evening, Fräulein Zweig. No dancing for you?”
“Not tonight, no.”
“I would, if you wanted to.”
She tipped her head. “Would do what?”
“Dance with you.”
“Oh!” She glanced up and down the corridor as if his bold words would suddenly conjure an audience. “Don’t be absurd. You know that’s impossible.”
“Few things are.”
His penetrating stare was back in force. Pale, pale eyes shone silver beneath the nearby wall sconce, while that flickering flame cast warm colors over his skin. The contrast was delicious. But then, he was unequaled at bringing contrasts together into an exhilarating whole. He was a servant, yes, but Greta’s heart beat so stridently that he might as well be the master.
“I am not dancing with you, Herr Doerger.”
“Oliver, remember?”
“I do. But liberties were taken when we last saw one another.”
“Liberties you do or do not intend to repeat?”
The satin of her gloves made the slightest noise as she tightened her fingers. His eyes shifted, absorbing even that tiny movement. Did the man miss anything? She had never been so thoroughly observed. So…absorbed. She was accustomed to taking that liberty as an artist. What purpose did his constant vigilance serve?
“Who are you?” she asked, surprising herself.
“Oliver Doerger.” He took a step closer. “Valet to Lord Venner.” And another. “And the man, I think, who gave you your first proper kiss.”
Face aflame, Greta turned away from him and faced her copy of Joachim Patinir’s Landscape with Christ.
“Or we could avoid the issue and consider the Dutch treatment of skies,” he continued, regarding the same painting. “What’s your opinion—are they genuine or painted from imagination?”
“How did you…?”
Oliver raised his brows. “I told you not to underestimate me.”
Greta focused on the painting, noticing how subtly she’d managed the variations of color along the horizon. A quiet pride lit her chest. That had turned out more agreeably than she’d remembered. “I like to think they’re real, and perhaps they really appear as such in the Netherlands. But their use of color is generally so striking. It shows off the contrasts between each color—blue with orange, yellow with purple.”
“Nearly too perfect to be genuine.”
“Exactly.”
“As opposed to Neuwirth. He wouldn’t know contrast if it bit him on the foot.”
“Oh, absolutely,” she said with a laugh. Only then did she realize what had happened. She blinked up at Oliver, utterly flabbergasted. She poked and prodded with her gaze, but he gave up nothing. He could either harbor the world’s best rounded mind, or he had studied. Greta could hardly tell which was more impressive.
“And what shall we debate next time?” he asked.
“Da Vinci’s study of the male form.” She clapped her hands over her mouth, face burning again. The words had been blurted without thought.
Oliver only smiled. “If I must.”
Again Greta scanned the corridor. They were so public. Anyone could turn the distant corners and catch them together. Her nipples tightened beneath her confining bodice. She must be a hideous reprobate to find excitement in such a scenario, but her body told no lies.
“You make me speak out of turn,” she whispered.
He had bridged the span between them. She could hear him breathing quietly out of his nose. “I think you enjoy it. Just like that kiss we shared.”
“That was to keep you quiet.”
“Not so. There was no fine, remember? You gave that gift to me freely.”
A quick glance up and down his long body reaffirmed the garb of a servant. The wig, pulled back into a neat ponytail and tied with a black ribbon, added a strange sort of softness to his features. And mystery. What else was he hiding?
She had seen him in the clothes of a gentleman—and in her dreams, as he kissed her, he wore those same garments. To find him back in uniform made her slightly nauseated. Indulging in a moment of recreation in his arms, no matter how brief or harmless, was simply not an easy prospect—not with such glaring reminders. Yet her desire would not ebb. Eagerness gathered in her blood, wanting to see him stripped. No barriers. No distractions from flesh touching flesh.
A heavy swallow caught in her throat. Every inhale reacquainted her with the spicy warmth of his essence. “I remember,” she whispered.
“I’m glad of that.” Also wearing gloves, he touched her chin. More blasted barriers.
But not where his mouth met hers. Snapping energy tingled between their lips. Greta almost cried out at that touch, surprised by how shocking it was all over again. He eased against her with a steady pressure. Instinctively she knew to angle her head. Oliver took the move for the invitation it was. His tongue slipped across her bottom lip, then inside.
Greta held tight to the sleeves of his uniform, her mind going fizzy and hot. Her body throbbed with its own drumbeat. Only the stiff resistance in Oliver’s arms, in his neck and back, kept her from sinking completely into the kiss.
She pulled back. His face was as unyielding as his posture, playing tricks on her mind. Surely he wasn’t the same man who had just initiated such a dangerous kiss.
“What is it?” she asked.
Oliver cleared his throat. “I believe I may have to go back on my promise regarding your pursuits.”
Her knees lost their constancy. She was still holding his sleeves, a grip she tightened as she asked, “What do you mean?”
“Lady Venner bought a painting from Lord Leinz when we were last here.”
“Which painting?” she asked in a tense whisper.
“A landscape full of peacocks.”
Greta closed her eyes, closed him out. No, no, no…
“It’s beautiful.” His breath touched her, petting the strands of hair that lay across her forehead. “I have never seen such colors. Last night I couldn’t sleep, knowing I would see you again. I went to Lord Venner’s study and opened the crate, just to study those colors.” He cupped her nape. “I’m fascinated by how you see the world.”
She could hardly know whether to be appalled at this turn of events or warmed by his praise. Both, perhaps. Her body still hummed and jittered from that brief kiss.
“How did you know it was mine?”
“A guess. I needed to see your face when I asked.”
He would be able to feel her heavy pulse beating against his palms, even through his gloves. Heat gathered between her legs. She emptied her lungs so as to take another deep breath of him. Lord above, she had never felt such a rush. They were poised on the verge of another kiss. She needed that release, an end to the dreadful hammering of her heart.
“Your face, Greta.” He touched his lips to her forehead. “Your face gives away so much.”
And then she was free. He pushed away from her. Greta clung to the wall for support. She could not breathe nor hear, her senses abandoning her as surely as had
Oliver. What had happened? Her dizzy brain found no answers—only a renewal of his stern expression.
“Having your uncle make deals on your behalf is a wise business practice, Fräulein. You would never be able to convince anyone.”
Fear and a powerless rage replaced her desire, although the effects on her body were closely related—the breathlessness, the tight limbs, the need to take those violent sensations out on someone else. She needed to, lest the disappointment crush her to the floor.
“I had nothing to do with it,” she said tersely. “I create the copies. What Uncle Thaddeus does with them once I’ve finished is beyond my control.”
“A clever justification. It must make your burden of guilt much easier to bear.”
“I have no guilt.”
“A lack of conscience might help there as well.”
“A lack of—” She flung herself away from the wall. “You have some nerve. I could have you thrown out this moment.”
“Then do so.” He crossed his arms once again. Where was the deferent servant he was dressed to portray? Greta only saw a man whose body projected confidence from every angle, every strong line. A man who determined when and how she felt desire. “But in this instance, I believe earning my silence will be a better decision than provoking me to reveal what I know.”
“You’ll never be believed.”
“Not directly. But Lord Venner places a great deal of trust in my judgment. If he learns of my suspicions, there will be no saving you.” He stared, dragging out the threat. “Don’t force my hand, Greta.”
“So, more blackmail then? What will it take this time, I wonder?” Even as she formed the taunt, she knew that provoking him in this other, more intimate way was unaccountably dangerous. Part of her was already prepared to surrender what he might demand.
Oliver held his tongue, simply watching her. As she did when interacting with her uncle, Greta closed off vulnerable places. Hid them. Pretended they never existed. To let Oliver see her fear or—even worse—the full extent of her curiosity and darkness would give him even more power.
