Portrait of Seduction (28 page)

“I’m sorry.” Oliver’s voice was tight like a vise. “I’m sorry you were captured. I’m sorry that whatever you endured in prison turned you into…into
this.
But I will not bear the burden of your agony. And I certainly will not allow you to hurt Greta, some warped means of punishing me.”

“You were never who you claimed, you know.” Karl was becoming more pale by the second. His legs twitched. “You ran around like a commoner, like the rest of us. Now look at you. You’ll take your place with Venner and marry this strumpet and forget about me. Traitor,” he spat.

The scream of another whizzing cannon blast cut through the tension. Greta flinched in Oliver’s arms.

“We’re going,” Oliver said. “And you’re wrong. I won’t forget you. I will simply try to forget what you’ve become.”

He stood and slowly helped Greta to her feet. “Numb,” she whispered.

“Lean on me.”

He took the slight weight of her body against his own, grateful beyond belief that he had arrived in time. They were halfway to the door when Greta made him stop. “The paintings,” she said.

“Paintings?”

“The missing originals. He had them.”

She crossed the room with staggering steps. Her arms were not steady enough to hold what she found there. Oliver bundled the dozen rolled paintings in the nearby tarp, securing it over his shoulder. There was no time to free the rest from their frames.

Oliver looked upon his dying friend once more. Karl’s eyes lolled back in his head. But then he blinked once more and turned the full force of his mad hatred at Oliver.

“Good-bye, Karl.”

“Burn in hell,
mein alter Freund.
”

Turning away, Oliver promised himself he’d mourn later. Right now he had to get Greta out of the city before it crumbled.

They emerged into the semi-darkness of late afternoon. Greta coughed on the stink of gunpowder, so potent now. Her feet were shredding with pain as circulation returned. But Oliver…Oliver held her upright and urged her to keep moving.

“The horse is gone,” he muttered.

But he didn’t stop moving. He turned them toward the river, where people still surged over the inadequate bridges. She felt as if her mind had left her body. It was hovering somewhere over the water, watching as she and Oliver maneuvered through the crowd. A deep coldness crept up from her fingers and toes. Soon she was shaking so badly that she could not walk.

“Greta?”

How had she wound up sitting on the pavement?

“Greta, look at me.” Oliver’s warm hands framed her face. His icy blue eyes were distant, mesmerizing stars. “Greta, stay with me,
Liebe.
You’ve weathered a great shock.”

Her teeth chattered. “Was…so…scared.”

“I know you were. I know.”

He pulled her close against his chest. His heart beat steadily, quickly. She concentrated on that speedy rhythm, but it seemed too fast, too far away to follow. Darkness lined the edges of her eyes, pushing inward, until it blotted out the yellows and oranges of sunset. What was the use of a blind painter? Better just to sleep.

At first she could not make sense of his words. Oliver’s voice was just another part of a dream. But he kept talking. And soon his words cut through her fog.

“When I went back to where you’d been…and found you gone…Greta, I cannot tell you how I panicked.”

The darkness had receded, only just. She gripped the open fabric of his shirt. A huge explosion ripped to life only a few buildings away. The force of the cannonball tore apart a town home. People screamed as rubble rained into the street.

“Can you walk?” Oliver asked, his expression determined. “I know it will be difficult, but I need you to do this.”

She nodded. She would not die. Not now.

With Oliver’s help she made it to her feet. Dizziness still washed across her vision, but she blinked it away like the last wisps of sleep. She clung to Oliver’s arm and followed his every move. Little hidden alleyways, back gardens and crevices between homes ushered them toward the river. More cannon fire, lobbed from the south, hurtled onto hapless buildings and screaming people. Bits of debris showered through the air, stinging Greta’s cheeks and arms.

They reached the river. The nearest bridge was half a mile north and almost entirely impassable.

“We’ll never make it that way,” Oliver said.

“We have to try.”

An explosion was near enough that heat climbed up her back. He took her hand and ran. They headed north, no matter how hopeless the bridge appeared. Greta sent up a quick prayer and gripped Oliver’s hand all the tighter. The sky was beginning to darken. Every flare of munitions turned the night into a warped, flame-colored version of day.

The push onto the bridge took all Greta’s strength, all her resolve, but she could not stop. They were so close. She caught Oliver’s eye and offered him a tired but determined smile.

Greta had never been so fatigued, so weary, so utterly drained. Every bone was made of glue. Her head felt too light, as if it might float away and leave her that melted creature she’d been when collapsed on the pavement.

Oliver held her. She leaned her back against his chest. Their bodies staved off the evening chill. Together they stood like that, overlooking the city from high atop a nearby mountain. Fires dotted the streets. Explosions continued to buffet the helpless buildings and the people huddled inside. Exhaustion shook her shoulders. They had made it out, but what of those left behind? Had Oliver made any mistake, she could be one of them—bound, raped, left for dead in that anonymous storeroom. Even Oliver’s strong arms, the solidity of him, could not stave off a shiver.

“Oliver!” came a man’s voice.

Atop his horse, Venner galloped toward them. Oliver shouted his brother’s name and raced toward him on foot. The men met on the slope of a hill, where Venner dismounted. They exchanged a fierce embrace.

Oliver’s smile was bright and wide. “
Verdammen Sie,
I’m glad to see you.”

Venner pointed up the road he’d traveled. “The carriages are two miles farther on the road toward Linz. I came back in the hopes of finding you both.”

“Worried about me, brother?”

“Intolerably.”

Wearing a frown, Greta walked to meet them. Oliver scooped her into his arms and twirled her around. “Everything’s all right,” he said. “They’re all safe.”

It couldn’t be…

“You…you didn’t know where they were?”

More soberly now, Oliver regarded her with those clear, perceptive eyes. No painter, no matter how masterful, would ever capture that shade of blue. “As soon as I discovered you missing, I left them to find you.”

After a painful swallow, she touched his cheek, his mouth, his hair. “Dear God, you chose me.”

“And I’d do it again.”

Delight unlike anything she had ever felt threatened to make her giddy. The Venners were safe. They had all escaped the city. And Oliver…

“You chose me,” she whispered again.

His mouth opened but he did not speak. Instead he kissed her—such a gentle, unimaginable sweetness. Greta did not urge him toward a deeper intimacy. Not then. Not when the simple touch of lip to lip was more pleasure than the entire whole could summon.

“I love you,” he said. “I put you second to my duties because I knew what loving you would mean. I would have to admit to my past, admit who I am. Maybe I would even have to live up to something greater than I’ve grown comfortable being. My family will always be very important to me. They’re all I’ve had for so long. But Greta…” His voice broke. He kissed her on the temple and held her in trembling arms. “I don’t know how I would’ve survived had Karl—”

“Shhh.” She covered his mouth with her fingers. “Don’t. Please. Leave all of it in that room. I never want to go back there, even in memory.”

Rather than revisit those terrible moments, Oliver gathered her close and held her tightly. Her champion and protector. The man she loved and who loved her in return. No reservations now. No doubts.

Venner gently cleared his throat. When Greta emerged from the shelter of Oliver’s embrace, she found Venner looking out across the river, his attention carefully averted. “The guards have orders to continue on to Anhalt without me come dawn. We must hurry to catch up.”

Oliver’s frown showed his concern. As always. It warmed her heart, making her the safest woman in the world. “Greta, do you think you can make it?”

“We can make it,
mein Lieber.
” She smiled softly. “Just promise we’ll be together.”

“I promise.”

Principality of Anhalt

Two Months Later

The sounds of an orchestra tuning shouldn’t have been enough to make Oliver’s mouth go dry, but it did. For years he had endured the terrible sounds of battle, and for years after that he had crept through the shadows to keep the Venners well-positioned. Nothing should frighten him now. Yet he knotted his fingers behind his back, barely staving off a nervous jitter.

Around him men in formal attire smoked fine cigars and swirled cognac in crystal glasses. They smiled and talked, lounged and laughed. Men of privilege, wealth, influence. Oliver had to stop himself from cringing, or asking outright, “Why am I here?”

This was his life now.

He wondered what the valets were doing. Where were they congregating, sharing stories and the rare plug of tobacco? They would be tucked away in some little anteroom, like he had been on the night of that fateful opera. Only now, instead of a soprano’s soaring voice echoing through the walls, it was a twenty-piece orchestra.

Christoph slid into place beside him. He wore a most uncharacteristic grin, one that actually turned his lips fully upward. Funny how he still managed to look grim and stern, despite the smile. “You look uncomfortable,” he said.

Oliver squelched a reflex to check his livery for correctness, from the proper alignment of his coat buttons to the perfect placement of his blasted wig. He wore no such uniform now. Instead he sported a brand new suit that was worth more than he’d made during all four years in the army. The cravat was so starched and precisely tied that he wondered how he would remove the thing. After all, he had not been the one to tie it.

Oliver had a valet of his own now.

He had felt the same way about the cravat he wore as a bridegroom. But Greta had managed to remove it with her usual aplomb and enthusiasm—using only her teeth.

His own grin sprang to life, surpassing even that of his teasing brother. “Rather uncomfortable, yes. The wedding was one thing. But this…” He waved his hand discreetly toward the assembled peers and nobles. “This feels much more conspicuous.”

“Probably because your wedding was attended by only six people, including one fussy newborn.”

“Probably.”

He had been a married man for all of five weeks. The idea of Greta well and truly sleeping by his side every night—as his wife, no less—still humbled him with a flushed sort of pride. His chest could not help but swell, and his body jerked to life. He loved her more than was sane.

Which explained why he had agreed to this particular torment.

“It’s not truly necessary, you know,” Christoph said. “There is no need to lead the first waltz of the evening. Cousin Ludwig will not mind if you decline. I know for a fact his oldest son is quite eager for the privilege with Lady Hildholtz.”

“True,” Oliver said under his breath, “but Lady Hildholtz is quite eager to spend time with his younger brother.”

“Fact?”

He merely shrugged. “Some habits die hard. But shall I always be burdened by such honor?”

“I don’t see why not. The alternative is telling Greta that you’d rather back down from your promise.”

Oliver could think of no more effective threat. Greta had her heart set on leading the first waltz, since having been asked to do so by Count Ludwig’s wife. “To celebrate you and your new husband,” she had said.

He would have preferred, of course, to remain a quiet new addition to the family. Christoph had proclaimed him his brother, which silenced any overt discussions of Oliver’s parentage, but what if the stigma remained? What if he was never truly accepted into this world of finery? He feared ever being able to give Greta the life she deserved. No matter that he had become Christoph’s paid political advisor, part of him remained the hurting, thieving boy who’d been called before his father in shame.

Marrying Greta, in some small way, still felt like deception. He feared the worst of Karl’s last sputtered accusations.

“Look around you,” Christoph said solemnly.
“Look.”
The men in the smoking room chatted among themselves. No one paid them any mind. “You know how Lord Brunnen came into his title.”

“By blackmailing his mistress’s father, yes,” Oliver said in a low voice.

“And Baron Wiltheizer.”

“By selling the most exquisite cakes in Vienna and winning the heart of a widowed baroness with an uncontrolled sweet tooth.”

“So tell me you don’t belong here. Our father was our father, Oliver, and he was wrong to treat you and your mother as he did. But it’s time to put that all behind us.” He leaned nearer, his expression serious. “I’d be bored to pieces without you.”

“And ill-informed to boot.”

“Exactly.”

The doors to the ballroom opened. The count’s majordomo cleared his throat. “My lords and distinguished guests, the ladies await your company for the first waltz.”

Oliver’s hands began to sweat. He surreptitiously wiped them on his trousers as his pulse raced. The battle he’d nearly won against doubt turned swiftly in its favor. But he had to let go—of his father, of his past, of Karl’s ruined mind and sad fate. All of it.

Then he saw Greta.

She stood in the middle of the ballroom, alone, wearing a dress of the deepest midnight blue. The golden brilliance of her hair was piled in elaborate drapes and folds atop her head, with some gently touching her cheeks. She was smiling at him. She held out her hand.

Oliver had no will—not of his own, anyway. His will was dominated by the need to make this woman smile, to keep her happy and safe. Whatever hesitation he’d had about stepping out of the shadows faded for the last time. He loved her more than fear or pride or the history that picked at his confidence. Who was he to deny her what she wanted?

And as she smiled in that devilish, teasing way of hers, it was obvious what she wanted.

Her husband.

He tugged the hem of his coat and tossed his brother a grin. The space between Oliver and Greta yawned open like a walk to a guillotine, but his long strides quickly consumed that distance. Taking one gloved hand in his own, he bowed formally and kissed her knuckles.

When he straightened, he stood very, very near to his wife. The midnight blue gown perfectly presented her cleavage, which sent a rush of blood to his gathering erection. Rather than suffer that particular embarrassment, he took her in his arms, pulling her close as the music started.

“Oh, my,” Greta gasped, her eyes widening.

“The fault is entirely yours.”

“No, blame my seamstress and my maid.”

“They are merciless.”

“But I am not. Dance with me, Oliver, my love, and you will be amply rewarded.”

“Done.”

On the next count of three, they began. Oliver had never needed to learn to dance, but Greta had done her best to offer him private lessons. That each lesson had degenerated into naked romps…as love-smitten newlyweds, they could not be held accountable for their actions.

“Are you wearing gloves for any particular reason?”

Greta screwed her pink lips into a frustrated pout. “I was working late on my painting.”

“The one of Salzburg burning.”

“It’s the end of an era. I want to get it just right. Perhaps no one else will ever see it, but I need to do this.”

After the French stormed in, Salzburg had been occupied for months—with Duke Ferdinand having taken refuge in Vienna. A series of negotiations to end hostilities meant the city was handed over to the Austrians. Just like that, hundreds of years of independence came to an end. All the work to protect the city and its citizens had come to naught, a fact that still sat awkwardly on Oliver’s shoulders. But he knew he had to let it go. The whims of powers far greater than his had been in control.

He focused instead on his wife. As always, loving her and keeping her safe came as easily as breathing. That was an obligation he would happily undertake for the rest of his life.

“I know I should take more care,” Greta continued, “and Maria keeps complaining that I don’t leave enough time to prepare, but…”

“But you get inspired.”

She stood on tiptoe and kissed him on the cheek. “Precisely. No one understands me like you do.”

With the trust of an innocent who had never been disappointed by her champion, she laid her head against his chest as they waltzed, lost to each other. Oliver finally released the breath he’d been holding. If ever he belonged anywhere in this world, he belonged right there, at that moment, dancing with his wife.

“Do you recognize the orchestra leader?” Greta asked, her voice almost sleepy.

He required two turns before he caught sight of the conductor. Oliver would know that crazed hair anywhere. Arie De Voss. And at his side, as always, with a violin tucked under her chin, was Mathilda.

“They made it out of the city,” he said, more than relieved.

“They had been in Vienna for a concert. Ingrid contacted them and brought them here, just as she did with my cousins.”

As if the mention of her name summoned her to the dance floor, Ingrid tugged Christoph into place. More couples followed. Soon the ballroom was filled with swirling, twirling partners, their steps guided by music.

Oliver touched his forehead to his wife’s, overcome by emotion. It would take time but he would belong. Already he belonged to the people who mattered most. The rest would accept him in time, or they wouldn’t. It mattered little when compared to finally claiming the woman he loved.

“Thank you,” he said. “For this.”

“You’re welcome. Although if I could find a way to save your life a time or two, that might help me draw even.”

“Do not worry on that account,
meine Allerliebste.
You’ve given me this life—a life out of the shadows, one filled with people who care for me. Filled with your love. Greta, for that I’ll always be grateful.”