Free Portrait of Seduction by Carrie Lofty Page B

supposed to be, all fine manners and disdainful glances.
    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