by Carrie Lofty
“Open my trousers,” he said.
Greta’s fingers made quick work of his buttons—those eager, talented fingers, so clever and sure. His erection pushed free of the restraint, pulling a quiet gasp from them both.
“I have a very good idea of what you want,” she said. “But I want you to say it.”
“Wanton woman.”
“Tell me.”
“Put your mouth on my cock.”
She closed her eyes and shivered. Then she did exactly as she was told. Her fingers had nothing on how eagerly she used her mouth to drive him mad. Oliver gripped the wrought iron until the need to feel her heat was too much. He closed his palm around the back of her neck as fire licked up from his groin. Leaning his head back against the bench, he pumped gently in time with the strokes of her tongue. So wet and hot. So damn beautiful to watch. He threaded his fingers into the loose hairs along her nape and thrust.
“Don’t stop,” he ground out.
She obeyed again, thrilling him with such power. Her pace quickened. She took more of him. Her hands gripped him at the base, stroking in time, until he could no longer hold back. Oliver’s climax hit him like slamming into a wall. His whole body jerked, lifting his hips off the bench. He clenched his teeth together to silence his cry of ecstasy.
The world of that gated garden slowly returned, as did the knowledge of what they had just done. She had taken him to completion using her mouth. He did not know whether the mortification or the pleasure would kill him first.
But nothing about Greta’s expression showed the least distress. She straightened, still on her knees, and licked her bottom lip. “Well, now,” she whispered with a grin. “That was an education.”
Greta could not imagine how she looked, kneeling there with her gown and hair disheveled, but she was potent. Formidable. The side of her that had always demanded more from life was, at that moment, sated. Her body was tight and aching, but her mind was quiet. This man had taken something for himself. Pure, selfish pleasure. She wanted to give them both honors for such an unlikely turn of events.
After he returned the favor.
“You shouldn’t be the one looking so satisfied,” he said.
“But I am.” She crawled back up to his lap and snuggled against his bare chest. He smelled of man—this one man who made her blood race. “I’m the inexperienced one, and yet I would wager piles of gold that you’ve never done that in a moonlit garden.”
Oliver chuckled softly against her temple. “You would be right. Now you have another choice.”
“Hmm?”
“Here or indoors?”
“Very interesting.” While she enjoyed the thrill of being outside, Greta was nearly overcome with curiosity about his quarters. She imagined it orderly and neat, of course, but she dearly wanted to know more about him. Mementos? Photographs? Books? Which details would tell her more about Oliver Doerger? “Can we go to your room?”
His hands stilled their petting along her lower back. “Yes,” he said, although the word seemed dragged into the night.
“Good. Off we go, then.”
Greta turned in his lap and presented her laces. He did them up with the efficiency of a ladies’ maid, peppering kisses along her nape. As much as she enjoyed teasing him, provoking him, pleasuring him, she put no sensation above how dearly cherished he made her feel. Unexpected tears pricked behind her eyelids at the thought of being able to keep such a miracle for herself. The Venners had each other, as did the De Vosses. Greta would have some benefactor such as Herr Weiser, but she would never possess this wonder of being so adored.
With her gown in order and Oliver dressed once more, she jumped off his lap and began walking toward the house. He followed with silent steps, although she could feel his agitation at her back. They could not afford to be caught. That much she knew. But she was feeling reckless and aroused—half crazy for wanting from their affair what she could never have.
Oliver caught her hand. “Up to the fourth floor. Third door on the left. Follow me in a minute.”
He strode into the townhouse without a backward glance.
Greta stood in the entrance to the garden. Her body still buzzed with unresolved desire, but that wasn’t what had her in such fits. This hadn’t been how she should feel. Seeking pleasure from Oliver had been a simple game. A challenge. And as she’d hoped, an education. But a weight in her chest was steadily stealing her composure.
After what seemed like a lifetime, she made her way indoors and found Oliver’s room. Every step threatened to bring the whole household down around her. Don’t get caught. Just…don’t. Even as she dared to wonder what would happen if they were. Her uncle would be notified, and her place in good society made tenuous. Heart beating like mad, she wondered if such misbehavior might mean avoiding a marriage to Herr Weiser. Only the knowledge that Oliver might lose his job kept her from wishing for such a radical scenario. He valued his status with the Venners too much—and worked too hard to maintain it—for her to jeopardize that.
Her hands trembling, she knocked oh-so-softly on his door. He was there in an instant to let her in, a heavy sigh of relief pushing out of his beautiful chest.
“You keep putting that shirt back on,” she said. “I do not approve.”
Oliver offered a lopsided grin, the one he shared when he was embarrassed but secretly pleased. She dearly loved being able to drag that mix of emotions out of him. “This is my room, so I can dress as I please. Take it off me.”
“You’re becoming quite adept at giving me orders.”
“I have no difficulty giving us what we both want.”
Greta stripped him of his shirt and walked her hands down the ridges of his stomach muscles. “Wonderful,” she breathed.
She kissed him on the chin, then turned away. No matter her desire, which had backed gently away from its frenzy, she wanted to explore his little cave of a room. Furnished with dark woods and dark fabrics, it was a wholly masculine space. The overstuffed chair by the fireplace seemed large enough to accommodate his wide shoulders and long legs. Beside it sat a stack of books and a sheaf of papers. She recognized the topmost book as the artist’s compendium she had mentioned during their first night together.
“Homework?” she asked.
Oliver crossed the room with quick strides, attempting to shuffle the stack out of sight. But Greta was faster. She snatched the sheaf of papers and held them to her chest.
“Don’t,” he said.
“Tell me what they are or I shall be forced to look.”
“Greta, please.” He hung his head, then peeked up at her from beneath his lashes. “Just…oh, never mind.”
Unbearably intrigued, she opened the pages. His neat, tight script lined each one. The entries were dated, beginning with his dinner at Leinz Manor. The first read, Greta mentioned Bruegel and Bosch, and was followed by a lengthy explanation of each artists’ major works, styles and contributions. Beneath that was a list of their students with their accomplishments and styles, and so on. The level of detail astonished Greta. She turned the page until she found an entry dated from the night of the Leinz ball. Greta said she studies da Vinci—and the whole process started again.
“Why?”
He rubbed his forearm. His pale eyes revealed a wildness she had rarely seen from him. “You assumed ignorance because of my employment. I wanted to prove otherwise—even if that meant a bit of study.”
Why she should become sentimental over such stark, businesslike notes was not strictly obvious, but it cut to her heart. No flourishes. No descriptions of their stolen moments. He was simply a man trying to educate himself, because of her and her wretched assumption. She had never been able to claim such influence over another living soul.
She closed the pages of notes and tenderly laid them on the side table. “Forgive me,” she whispered.
Strong arms closed around her, supporting her just when she needed that closeness. “There is nothing to forgive.”
“No
, that’s not true. All this time I’ve been so wretched. I’ve never known anyone like you. To bury yourself in these books—why? So you might one day engage me in conversation again? Who does that?”
“A man with too much pride.”
His rueful tone dragged a sad laugh out of her chest. “Hardly. A proud man would denigrate a subject he knew nothing about, not try to orient himself within it.”
“I was lacking. Now, perhaps, I am not. And besides, I enjoyed the idea of surprising you.”
She laughed again with more vigor. “More surprises through careful planning?”
“You cannot say I’m not consistent.”
“The very picture of consistency.”
Only then did she realize that she still stood in his arms—his bare arms. If ever there had been a male body made for admiring, it was Oliver’s. She traced the elegant line of his triceps. She walked slowly, so slowly, around to see his back, and thrilled when he stood straighter, his shoulders thrown back. Such a modest man should not enjoy being scrutinized so closely. Perhaps a touch of vanity was due such a marvelous physique, and she quite liked the idea of Oliver possessing such a delightful flaw.
Hands flat, she ran her palms down his back, along the bones of his spine, the angle of his clavicles, the curve of his ribs. Never had she wanted the tools of her craft more, if only to sketch him in broad, quick strokes. The idea of drawing his naked body while he watched—with all the intensity he had employed when observing her paint—was nearly as arousing as touch.
“We should have gone back to my room,” she whispered.
“Why?”
“Because I should like to draw you.”
“Maybe one day.”
But even as he said it, the grave timbre of his voice gave away the truth. There would be very few days between them. So few moments remained. Greta swiped the tears from the corners of her eyes and returned to face him.
“Or maybe not,” she said. “Maybe we only have tonight.”
“It’s more than I ever expected.”
“What, so we should be grateful? We sneak around like criminals just to carry on a conversation. It’s not fair. I—God, I feel like a child but I cannot help it.”
He wrapped his arms around her and tucked her head against his shoulder. “Be grateful. But know I feel the same way.”
“Do you?”
“Greta,” he said softly. “I would offer for you if I could. You must know that.”
Breathing became impossible. She hung onto him with all her strength, kissing his throat and his proud jaw. His words were an aphrodisiac, his essence like the strongest wine going straight to her head. She kept kissing him until his hands were a vise, holding her firmly against his hard body. She kept kissing him to stop from pleading.
Ask me, Oliver. Dare me.
But that was impossible. Utterly impossible. She had known it from the start. So she asked for the one thing they both could offer without reality intruding. “It’s my turn, isn’t it?”
Chapter Eighteen
“Come in.”
Oliver opened the door to Christoph’s office. “You wanted to see me?”
The esteemed Lord Venner appeared as neat and stiff within the confines of his private business retreat as he did any other time. Even Oliver could not maintain his public facade so well. Christoph sat behind his desk, his papers and pens aligned with a fastidious precision that any military man would have admired.
He folded his hands. Oliver braced for whatever might require such a formal meeting. Business? Politics? Or, as his tense gut feared, Greta?
“I have received a correspondence I believe you should see.” Christoph retrieved a letter from beneath a paperweight. “Read this.”
Still uncertain as to the nature of the meeting, Oliver did not feel comfortable enough to sit. He stood ramrod straight as he obeyed.
Damn you for this, Karl.
He frowned. “He’s been claiming that you’ll pay his expenses?”
“It does appear as such.”
Apparently, secrecy and warnings were not going to be enough.
Oliver took a deep breath, his chest tight. “I’m sorry for this, Lord Venner,” he said, reverting to formal address without thought. He was too embarrassed, too angry to do any less. “I can only ask that you cover the bill until I can make good on his debts.”
“Is that what you propose?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Very well.”
Oliver tipped his head to the side, as if listening. He saw no deception in his brother’s familiar face, but he knew enough to suspect this was not the end of the matter. “If that will be all?”
“No, I don’t think so.” Christoph matched him, second for tense second, as they took the measure of one another. “I will cover his debts with no expectation of repayment from you, but only if you tell me your connection to the man.”
Ah, so that was his true price.
The meeting was not, in fact, a particularly friendly one, but Oliver took the liberty of sitting. If he planned on journeying back to those days in the winter encampment, he would need to sit.
“Wait.” Christoph stood and retrieved a bottle of cognac from a high shelf. He poured two generous glasses and handed one across. His own portion of liquor was downed, surprisingly, in a few swallows.
Oliver nearly smiled. “I had no idea.”
“Never underestimate the demands of my position.”
“You know I don’t. But perhaps I overestimate your ability to weather those demands without assistance.”
“I wonder occasionally at the veracity of my bad habits had I remained a bachelor.” Christoph sighed and settled back into his chair. “Go on, Oliver. Please.”
After a few hearty slugs of his own, Oliver asked, “Do you remember the blacksmith on your father’s manor?”
“Our father’s manor.”
“He never claimed me. I don’t claim him either.”
“You do have his stubbornness. But yes, I recall the man.”
“His son was Karl Schulz, my best friend growing up.”
Recognition lit Christoph’s face, followed then, quite obviously, by memories of all the misdeeds Karl had committed. Oliver too. “He was not the best influence on you.”
“Or I on him, I suppose,” he said with a shrug. “Either way, we did not have much else. When I joined the Prussian army, I was not surprised to find him at my side, though how he came by his commission I never learned.”
“You mentioned as much the other day when he appealed for aid, that you had served together. Do you owe him some manner of debt? Is that what this is about?”
“I’m afraid so. I fell ill during my third winter of service.”
Inhaling, he looked out the far window. What had been, until then, a great adventure turned terrible that season. Killing had not been Oliver’s forte, but theft and deception—those were his specialties. He had been gratified by how well he could employ such underhanded skills toward a legitimate cause. Until that winter had changed everything.
“Pneumonia is no small matter on the battlefield—poor conditions, rotten food, exposure to the elements. I know I’m alive now only because of Karl’s dedication to my recovery. We were besieged. He was my nursemaid, my entertainment. No one else had the patience or time. As I said, we had little other than our friendship. I know I would’ve been lost without him, so perhaps his motivation was similar.”
Oliver remembered coughs that brought up blood and shakes so bad that he vomited. The cold had been never-ending, convincing him he would never be well, never be warm. Hell, he’d determined, was as chill as ice.
And Karl had been there through it all, urging him toward health.
“In mid-March, I was finally on the mend. It felt…God, it felt like waking from a months-long nightmare. I still wasn’t well enough for a full assignment, but I was well enough that Karl was ordered back to his regular duties.”
Save me a few sausages and a
piece of torte. And then he was gone.
“He was sent on a reconnaissance mission that never returned. Months went by. I only learned later that he had been caught behind enemy lines and detained by the French in a camp for prisoners of war.” Oliver itched beneath his wig, damning the hateful thing for the hundredth time. “I tried to find him after the war, but he was gone. Nowhere. I never got to thank him, nor to say good-bye.”
Christoph refilled Oliver’s glass but left his alone. “And this Baron Hoffer ruse?”
“The first time I saw him again was there at the opera. He told me he was trying to change his stars. Part of me thought he deserved the opportunity, after having suffered so much.” He drank another gulp of the cognac but set the rest aside. Never one for strong drink, even in his youth, his head was already foggy. “But I know where my loyalties are, Christoph. I wouldn’t do anything to endanger you, Ingrid or the baby.”
“And you think he could be dangerous.”
“I didn’t…”
Oliver stopped himself. I didn’t say that, he’d been ready to say. But right from the first, he had been suspicious of Karl and his methods. More than just the unlawful nature of it, Oliver feared the creeping madness that gleamed in Karl’s eyes. Their confrontation at Leinz Manor had been uncomfortable—two friends who suddenly found themselves radically out of step. But their argument on the night of Arie and Mathilda’s performance had rubbed him with an edge of genuine violence.
“I think his time as a prisoner has altered him,” Oliver said carefully. “He’s not the friend I once knew. I wouldn’t have vouched for him back then because I knew full well his lack of scruples—and I matched his disregard for propriety.”
Christoph almost grinned. “That you did.”
“But now we don’t even have friendship in common. He’s quite changed. More than that, his plans have me worried.”
“What plans?”
“He has a flat, but I’ve also learned that he rents a small storage room above a glassmaker’s shop. I don’t like it.”
