by Carrie Lofty
“I want inside you,” came his harsh words. The vibrations rumbled under her lips, down into her throat.
She leaned forward, permitting him room enough to fit the large, firm head of his cock against her entrance. Oliver stilled. Their eyes met. Greta did not look away, no matter the blush flaming across her cheeks, as he slowly, achingly pushed inside. She gasped and he moaned, until he was buried to the hilt in her welcoming body.
The waiting was too much. Filled, utterly filled, Greta shifted to find relief from the building tension. Oliver clasped her outer hips with the wide span of his calloused hands. He gripped so tightly that the muscles of his arms and pectorals tensed, standing out in glorious relief. Strong and sure, he guided her movements—up and down, sometimes grinding in a circle, until she caught the delicious rhythm.
With her palms spread flat against his tight abdominals, Greta made good on the vulgar comment he had said with such a straight face. She rode him. She took the full, wide length of him with each plunge. Her breath came in fitful gasps as she tossed her head back. The tension built and built until a scream perched at the back of her throat.
Oliver grabbed her shoulders and brought her low across his chest. He circled her torso with his vise-like arms, thrusting upward.
“Not a sound,” he whispered against her ear.
“Can’t—”
“Not a sound, Greta. Hold it in.”
Her teeth sank into the resilient flesh of Oliver’s shoulder. She did as she was told, no matter how much she wanted to scream and shake. To her surprise, the pleasure intensified. It had nowhere to go, gathering and throbbing from her core until it burst over her in a blinding rush.
Oliver awoke to find his arms empty.
He and Greta had struggled back to bed, their bodies satiated and limp. The pain in his ankle was all the more potent after the last tremors of his climax had faded, but Greta had helped him with silent patience. She had undressed him, bathed him, rubbed his aching muscles—just as she promised. He remembered drifting off to sleep with the image of Greta in his mind, her back turned as she washed herself, as if overcome by a modesty their lovemaking should have burned away. She had slipped into bed beside him, her body fitting his with sensual ease.
But now she was gone.
That realization roused him like the alarm of a fire brigade. He sat up in bed, swinging his legs over the side. Sheets twisted and tangled around his thighs. He thrust them aside and prepared for the lance of pain when his bad ankle took his weight.
“No, don’t,” was Greta’s soft command.
Wearing a green wrap, she was sitting cross-legged on a nearby bench. Her sketchpad lay open across her lap. Charcoal smudged her fingertips and the apple of one pale cheek. Her hair remained a tangle of silken blond ringlets, cast artlessly over one shoulder.
She was safe.
Oliver slumped back against the pillows, his arm flung over his eyes. But the images followed him there, even with his lids pinched shut. Slashed paintings. The door left cracked open. A knife laid with perfect precision among the bottles and bobbles atop her vanity table. His mind was not so kind as to leave him with those nightmarish possibilities. Even though he knew, in his gut, that Karl had been up to his old, destructive tricks, he could not deny the vividness of his imagination. Oliver could have returned to a ruined studio, only to find Greta soaked in her own blood, stretched lifelessly across the bed. The image slammed into his chest, right over his heart.
He had told her that he loved her, and she had not found the courage to return those words. But Oliver had no regrets. Finding her dead, with those words of love never said aloud—that would have been beyond regretting. That would have poisoned a very dear part of his soul.
Never one to believe in wars that could not be won, no matter his experience to the contrary, he refused to allow himself any more time to indulge in morbid fantasies. Greta was alive. She was as alive and vibrant and maddeningly sexy as ever a woman could be.
And he would make Karl pay for the hurt he inflicted.
He dragged his arm away from his face and sat up, his whole body aching from their shared passions. It was a beautiful ache.
“You snore,” she said with a smile.
“I do?”
“Ja.”
Oliver smiled. “I’ve never stayed with anyone long enough to learn that.”
Greta stopped sketching and tipped her head. “Have you been in love before?”
“No.”
“Aren’t you scared?”
“Terrified.”
“You never seem it.”
“Discipline.” He turned on the bed and grabbed a nearby blanket to cover his nudity.
“Spoil sport,” she said, her grin playful.
“You’re covered.”
“I was sketching you.”
“May I see it?”
Greta shrugged and pushed heavy hair off her shoulder. “Don’t expect much.”
He edged off the bed, but she stopped him before his foot touched the floor.
“I’ll come to you,” she said.
Sitting side by side on the bed, Oliver could smell the soap she had used to wash. His mouth watered as if she were a succulent meal for a starving peasant. But he set aside the lustful reaction to concentrate on her work.
Greta laid the book across his lap, then looked away. He found himself staring at sketch after sketch of his nude body. Perhaps she had moved the sheet, or perhaps he had tossed in his sleep, but the sheet had slipped to a rather revealing angle. She had rendered the line of his thigh where it met his hip and the line of his torso. On another, she had drawn just his hand. Another was a detail of his mouth, nose and eyes.
In each one, Oliver saw the flashes of genius that made her such a vibrant artist. Every stroke of charcoal had life. Movement and breath. There was no other way to explain it. But he also saw a woman who thought rather highly of her subject. He could not believe he was that handsome. Her bias made him a god.
He set the drawings aside, his heart full for reasons he could not articulate. She had not said that she loved him, but those drawings felt like just such an admission.
“You have a remarkable gift.”
She laughed softly. “You were a very patient subject.”
“I’ll repeat the favor every night, if you wish.”
“I may take you up on that.”
As if realizing the implication of her words, Greta took her sketchbook and stood away from the bed. He watched her progress as she entered the adjoining studio. Only then did he see that she had stacked her ruined canvases against the far wall. He took a deep, pain-laced breath at the thought of how difficult that task must have been to perform. All her work…ruined.
Oliver winced as he stood, but the ankle felt much improved. The swelling had reduced. He carefully made his way to the studio, pausing to lean in the doorway.
“Oliver? My uncle will be returning tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?”
She met his gaze, her eyes bright and glassy. “Herschel said his plans remain unchanged. He’s bringing the girls back here.”
So it would be over. Soon. All this feeling, all this wonder and freedom—tomorrow it would end.
He crossed the room, his ankle a mere nuisance compared to his need to hold his woman. He gathered Greta into his embrace, clinging to her as if he had the right to do so. She looped trembling arms around his waist, her cheek pressed flush against his bare chest.
“What do you want?” he asked against her temple. “What can I do?”
“Nothing, I’m afraid. This will be between me and Thaddeus. There won’t be any avoiding his disappointment in how I’ve behaved with you.” She signed heavily. “And of course he’ll have choice words about my parents.”
He guided her to a bench and urged her to sit in his lap. She was warm, soft, beautiful. And she sat with him as if it were the most natural act. “You’ve mentioned your parents before. Will you tell me? What happened?”<
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“You always seem as if you know everything,” she said with a rueful little smile. “I assumed you would’ve learned by now.”
Oliver acknowledged the gentle reproach in her words, knowing she was nearly right. He could have learned. But part of his regard meant restraining the impulse to pry into her secrets. “I wanted to hear it from you, if at all.”
She released a slow exhale, then tugged the fallen blanket around them both. “My mother was supposed to marry a minor nobleman who had a great deal of money.”
“This already sounds familiar,” Oliver said, his throat filling with tiny daggers.
“Yes, it does. Perhaps that’s why I resisted so long. I knew history was repeating.” She closed her eyes, then nodded as if giving herself permission to continue. “She was in love with a professor. He studied theology and music and astronomy. A brilliant man. He was actually my uncle’s tutor for a time, which is how they met. So when my grandparents died, she defied her brother and married against his wishes. I suppose she thought she could resist his will, even if she might not have resisted her parents.”
A professor. Not exactly a socially repulsive position. Oliver wanted to crawl out of his own skin and become someone worthy of her affection, if only to keep her from further pain. But he could not. He was still obligated to Christoph, to the deception from which he had not yet extricated himself. So he simply smoothed his palm over her upper arm, silently urging her to continue.
“Uncle Thaddeus made their marriage a nightmare. He belittled my father at every opportunity, pointing out his lack of breeding and etiquette. He gave her expensive presents that my father had no hope of affording. My mother was…to be kind, she was not the most constant woman. Sometimes she would defy him and refuse the gifts, or cry, but she never once asked him to stop. Every gesture became a competition. The strain of it—I remember feeling that strain even as a child. I never wanted to be in the same room with both men, as if I would become their battleground too.”
She shivered, her eyes distant. “Eventually it become too much, I think. My father determined to be free of all contact and financial support. Mother…she didn’t go with him. I never knew why, although Thaddeus has always claimed it was a weakness in her character, that she could not follow through with the daring she had perpetrated.”
Oliver tucked her close, his lips against her temple.
“Father went to live in Salzburg on his own and died three months later of pneumonia. Mother was devastated. I don’t believe she ever recovered. She blamed herself, except for one terrible row when she blamed my uncle. He was so incensed, he threw her out of the manor. I never saw her again—not until the funeral a year later. She had been…”
Her voice broke. Oliver tightened his hold, but no caress could protect her from the memories. “She had been living rough, used by men. Thaddeus insisted that the coffin remain open so I could see what her defiance had wrought.”
“Monstrous,” he whispered. “And you’ve been living with his scorn ever since? Accepting the brunt of his displeasure?”
“He never leveled it at me directly,” she said. “Only little snubs against my father, or unflattering comparisons to my mother’s flighty nature. Eventually, when my penchant for painting came to light, I saw it as a means of earning his acceptance. Maybe even his affection.” She lifted her head to look at him directly. “I’ve been a fool, haven’t I?”
Oliver smoothed the hair back from her wet cheeks, his heart full. “We all are, it seems, when it comes to the need to belong.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
A messenger arrived the next day, bearing news for Oliver.
He read the letter, absorbing its message, even as he tried to find his way clear of the mess he had made with Greta. Shoving the folded paper into his coat, he watched her prepare her paints and materials—the simple, contented joy he had learned to need as much as her smile. She wanted to finish a painting of him before her uncle returned to the manor. Oliver had heard the unspoken message—before they would separate.
He had declared himself. She had refused to return his feelings, at least not aloud.
After learning her parents’ past he could hardly blame her too stridently. But a very selfish part of his heart, a part he was not used to acknowledging, wanted more than a hint of feeling, and certainly more than just sex. For too many weeks he had imagined her body naked beneath his. That was no longer enough. He was being unreasonable and fanciful and all those other foolish emotions he could hardly merit, but he loved her. He wanted Greta. All of her.
“I have to return to Salzburg,” he said.
“Mmm?”
“Greta.”
She blinked and looked down at the mortar and pestle in her hands. Once again, every brush was lined up with care along a paint-stained worktable. He got the impression that she would organize those stains if she could, so precisely did she approach the tools of her craft. He could watch her work for hours, watch the magic she could render on canvas. But that would wait…or it would never be at all.
“This letter is from Christo—from Lord Venner.” He grimaced inwardly. A valet never referred to his master by his given name. Had he become so comfortable with her that he could indulge in such a slipup? “Napoleon’s armies are within sight of Salzburg, with an ultimatum to surrender. Venner is working with the duke to negotiate terms, but he needs me there to help prepare for a possible evacuation. With that and Karl’s request to meet, I must return.”
She nibbled her lower lip. “Is there no one else to take your place?”
“You don’t want me to go.”
“No.”
Oliver tried to keep his smile in check—a difficult task. “Tell me why.”
“Because I have much more enjoyable uses for your talents.”
“I’m in earnest, Greta.”
“As am I.” She stood from the bench and wiped the pigment off her fingers. “My uncle is returning. I want you here.”
“If I stayed, would you admit to him that we’re in love?”
Her silence stretched until it became a razor against Oliver’s skin. He should not have pressed. Pressing would only reveal answers he did not want to know.
“I told you about my parents for a reason,” she said, eyes averted. “I hoped…I hoped you would understand what stands in our way.”
His temper was building at a speed out of keeping with their conversation. But it was more than this one moment. It was months of wanting and receiving less in return. He knew she still needed time. She was young, privileged and bore the burden of her parents’ example. No matter how much he craved it, he could not imagine her abandoning an entire life for him.
But neither could he deny Christoph’s request, nor his need to finally finish matters with Karl.
He stood and crossed to the window, looking out over the immaculate Leinz grounds. “We would not have to have anything more to do with your uncle. He would not determine any more of your future.”
“You would work for Venner.”
“Yes,” he said with as much pride as he could muster. Her doubtful tone, however, made that difficult.
Not for the first time, he wanted to admit his parentage. The words formed in his brain. His tongue even prepared to say them. But he could not. Still too much depended on secrecy. Christoph’s negotiations would affect the safety and security of the entire city. He needed Oliver to be as dependable and as invisible as ever. To be sidetracked with the scandal of having an illegitimate brother as an incognito household spy—a man caught seducing Thaddeus Leinz’s niece—would waste valuable credibility.
And time. They were running out of time.
More selfishly, he wanted her to take a chance. On him. No promises and no discussions of his parentage.
“Yes, that is what I’m saying. We would make our own way. You would be able to paint. The Venners would always be able to provide me with a good living.” He met her gaze squarely, his heart in his throat. “We would b
e together.”
“My parents thought the same thing, but my father died. What was left for my mother, then, but living under Thaddeus’s auspices? And in the end she didn’t even have that!”
“I won’t let anything happen to us. You wouldn’t be left alone.”
Greta swallowed. She turned to her row of paintbrushes and reordered them, this time according to the thickness of the handle. “You cannot promise such a thing, Oliver.”
“But you want me to stay. Why? So you won’t have to choose?”
She blanched.
“Ah, that’s it, then,” he said. “I stay here like a dog, always at your beck and call. Your secret. Was that always part of the thrill?”
“Don’t be absurd.”
“I’m not. You were perfectly fine taking risks with me, as long as you never had to face the ultimate risk—telling your uncle the truth.”
“You don’t know what he’s like!”
“I’m sure he’s terrifying.” He crossed to stand nearer, even daring to take her hands. His temper said that was hardly a brilliant idea, but he needed to touch—as if that contact might be the key to convincing her when sincerity failed. “I’m sure that to you, standing up to him will be one of the hardest tasks you ever undertake. But you’re a woman bent on taking chances. Wouldn’t this be worth the risk?”
Greta looked into Oliver’s eyes of clear ice blue and felt her insides crumble.
Take a chance. On them.
Why did she hesitate?
The warmth of his hands enveloping hers was suddenly too much. She let him go.
“I cannot,” she whispered.
The brightness and fire in Oliver’s ardent gaze slipped away. “Do I get a reason?”
None of the reasons in her mind made sense. He was a valet. That was the most prominent. They would always be poor. Every connection she had to good society would be severed forever. Her cousins would never be able to speak to her again. What if she did not realize what she had until it was gone? What if her dalliance with Oliver was passing fancy? Her parents had demonstrated what a stalwart love was required to beat back such censure—one they hadn’t always shared.
