The Diamond Slipper

Chapter Ten

By the end of the evening at Compiegne, Michael was still undecided about his wife. She lacked the subservient modesty he had expected to find in one so young, brought up in the court of Maria Theresa. But her voice was soft, her tones sweet and melodious, and he could detect no sign of stridency or presumption in speech or bearing.

Also in her favor, she was perfectly at home at court. She had carried off her introduction to the king with impeccable grace, neither intimidated nor overbold, and His Majesty had clearly been pleased with her. A wife who was looked kindly upon by the king and was in the confidence of the dauphine would be a significant asset.

He decided to withhold judgment until he'd learned a little mote of her. When the royal party finally took themselves off to bed, he went over to his bride, who was talking with or rather listening to an elderly duchess in full monologue.

"If you'll excuse me, madame, I must take my wife away."

Cordelia looked up at the slightly nasal voice at her shoulder, and for a second her relief at this rescue was clear in her eyes. But immediately she dropped her gaze as relief at one rescue merely heralded the moment she'd been dreading all evening. What would happen now?

Would her husband expect some physical intimacies? The thought of as much as a kiss made her shudder.

"Ah, yes, I wouldn't keep you from your wife, Prince." The duchess unfurled her fan, saying with a malicious smile, "It's well known how a young bride can enliven the energies of a man a little… past his prime, shall we say?"

Prince Michael merely bowed, not a flicker of emotion crossing his face. "I bid you good night, madame."

Cordelia curtsied to the duchess and stepped back to take her husband's arm. "What a witch!" she said.

"What did you say?" Michael couldn't believe his ears. He looked around to see if the outrageous comment could have been overheard.

"I said she was a witch," Cordelia repeated, seemingly unaware of her husband's shock. "What a nasty, malicious thing to say… to both of us."

"Are you accustomed to using such language in Vienna?" he demanded frigidly.

"Oh." Cordelia realized her mistake. She seemed to have started on the wrong foot. "I do beg your pardon, sir. I'm afraid I tend to be somewhat outspoken." She offered him a rueful smile.

"That is a tendency you will learn to control, my dear," he stated, clearly unmoved by the smile. "And you will learn too that the duchess's malice is minor compared with most at Versailles. If you pay heed to it, you will be a laughingstock. I assure you I will not tolerate that in my wife."

This harshness was so unexpected, so severe, she couldn't keep the shock and dismay from her eyes as she continued to look up at him, the smile fading slowly from her face.

Michael watched her discomfiture with satisfaction, noting that her blue-gray eyes were actually quite lovely, made even more so by her distress. His loins stirred faintly.

In horror, Cordelia recognized the dawning of desire in her husband's eyes. It was an expression she had learned to distinguish in the last year, since her position at court had changed from child to debutante and she'd become the focus of attention for many a young courtier. But what she saw in her husband's suddenly desirous gaze gave her the shivers. There was a ruthlessness to this hunger.

"You understand me," he said.

Only too well. Cordelia nodded. "You make yourself very clear, my lord."

"Good. And so long as you hear me as clearly, then we shall get along very well. Come, I will escort you to our apartments." The prince took her hand and tucked it firmly beneath his arm. Cordelia wondered sickly if he was about to satisfy his sudden appetite.

"Will you be playing at cards tonight, my lord?" The noise from the card rooms flanking the salon indicated that the usual inveterate gamblers were settling in for the night.

"No, not tonight," he said curtly, parading her through the salon, nodding and smiling his asp's smile from side to side as he met familiar greetings. "Tomorrow will be a long day. The king has graciously suggested that we solemnize our marriage in the private chapel of the Hotel de Ville in Paris."

"I understood you to say it would be a very quiet ceremony." She would not let him detect the tremor in her voice as she fought to control her panic. She wasn't ready for her wedding night. Not tonight. She had prepared herself to endure it on the morrow, but she couldn't possibly face it unprepared.

"It will be. Just Viscount Kierston and a few close friends."

"And your daughters?"

"Good God, why should they be present?" He looked genuinely astonished at such a suggestion.

"I had thought it perhaps appropriate," Cordelia said. Obviously she'd made another error.

"Absolutely not," he stated with finality, opening the door to Cordelia's chamber. "They will be waiting at the house to pay their respects to you."

Cordelia pulled a wry face, averting her head as she stepped past him into the room. It didn't sound as if it would be a warm and encouraging moment of introduction. The prince moved inside after her, closing the door at his back. The wave of queasiness broke over her again. But surely he wouldn't do anything in front of Mathilde.

Mathilde rose from her chair, where she'd been mending a torn flounce on one of Cordelia's gowns, and curtsied to her new master.

"You're the princess's maid, I understand."

"Yes, my lord. Mathilde. I've looked after my lady since she was a babe." Mathilde was the picture of anxious subservience as she curtsied again. There was no sign in this humble maid of the assertive woman whom Viscount Kierston knew. But both she and Cordelia knew that if Mathilde didn't find favor with Prince Michael, he could cast her out of his household without compunction.

"Mathilde was my wet nurse."

Michael frowned. "You need an abigail well versed in the fashions of the court. An elderly wet nurse is hardly an appropriate attendant for the wife of the Prussian ambassador."

Cordelia thought quickly. "It must be as you please, my lord," she said, trying to sound softly submissive. "You know better than I, of course. But Mathilde was in great favor with the empress Maria Theresa. She has often attended the dauphine and was in the empress's confidence."

Michael considered this. While they were a long way from Vienna, it was well known that Maria Theresa had ears and eyes in every court. It wouldn't do for an ambassador to offend the empress of Austria even in such a slight matter as the disposition of an elderly maidservant. "Well, we shall see how she works out. If necessary, I will employ a proper abigail for you, and your nurse can work under her as laundress and seamstress."

Cordelia glanced at Mathilde, whose expression was completely impassive as she remained in a deep curtsy. "I'm sure you will find Mathilde is as well versed in the duties of a lady's maid as any other, sir."

Michael looked annoyed at this persistence. "I will be the best judge of that. I doubt either of you know exactly what's required of such a position at Versailles. How could you, indeed?" He gestured to Mathilde. "Put your mistress to bed, woman, and send me word when she's prepared."

Cordelia's palms dampened.

"Be quick about it," he instructed, then turned on his heels and stalked from the room.

"I'm not prepared tonight, Mathilde." Cordelia paced the room with agitated step. "I don't think I could bear him to touch me tonight."

"You'll bear what comes your way, like women before you and those that'll come after," Mathilde stated calmly. "But I don't believe the prince will take you tonight. He's a man who goes by the book." She began to unhook Cordelia's gown.

"How do you know that?" Cordelia stepped out of her petticoat.

Mathilde shrugged, her fingers busy with Cordelia's laces. "There's much I know, dearie, that doesn't need the telling. But I'll say this. I don't care for that man. There's something underneath that we'd best watch out for."

"Like what?" Cordelia reached up to unpin her hair. Mathilde was adept at sensing what people tried to conceal about themselves, and her intuitive insight was always enlightening.

"I'm not sure as yet." Mathilde took the gown to the armoire. "I can feel a darkness… some secret he's holding. Time will tell."

Not too enlightening or at all reassuring, but Cordelia didn't press the issue.

Once Cordelia was in bed, Mathilde plumped the pillow behind her head and smoothed the coverlet. "I'll send for your husband, then." She straightened Cordelia's lace-edged nightcap and examined her critically. "Pretty as a picture," she said with a sudden fierce frown. "And a lamb for the slaughter if that man has his way," she added sotto voce as she left the room to fetch the prince. But he wouldn't have his way if Mathilde had anything to do with it.

Left alone, Cordelia's apprehension rose anew. She drew a loose ringlet into her mouth, sucking on the end, wondering whether Mathilde really knew Prince Michael's mind.

Michael came into the room, clad in a chamber robe of brown velvet. He had discarded his wig, and his gray hair was tied at the nape of his neck. It was rather sparse on top in contrast to his straggly eyebrows. Mathilde hovered by the door.

The prince approached the bed. He examined his bride and then, surprisingly, smiled. Again Cordelia was reminded of a flickering asp's tongue and was not reassured by the smile. She realized she was still sucking her hair and hastily pushed the sodden ringlet behind her ear.

"A very childish habit," he remarked, sitting on the edge of the bed. "But you are very young."

"I will grow up, my lord." Cordelia determined that she wouldn't let him see how he intimidated her. She met his gaze.

Michael didn't move for a minute, then ordered over his shoulder, "Leave us, woman."

The door closed softly behind Mathilde. Michael leaned over, took Cordelia's chin between thumb and forefinger, and brought his mouth to hers. Cordelia closed her eyes on a shudder of revulsion, then as the pressure of his mouth increased and his fingers tightened on her chin, she began to fight for breath. Her lips were pressed against her teeth. She could feel him trying to prise open her lips with his tongue and she kept them closed, resisting with every ounce of her will. And finally he drew back, his fingers falling from her face. She opened her eyes and read the naked arousal in his.

"You are a little innocent, aren't you?" he said with undisguised satisfaction. "You must learn to accommodate a man's needs rather more willingly, my dear."

He rose from the bed, his erection jutting against his robe. He stood looking down at her, his hands resting on his hips, and she could see the swelling beneath his robe.

She really was quite appealing, Michael thought. Apprehension and innocence became her remarkably well. Her attraction couldn't be more different from Elvira's sophisticated allure. And her youthful scent, the freshness of her skin, the blue-black lights in her luxuriant fall of hair were a refreshing change from the occasional harlots he'd enjoyed since Elvira's death.

"We will begin tomorrow," he said, swinging to the door. "I will see you in the morning. We make an early start for Paris."

"I understood that the royal party will be staying here for a few days." Cordelia was startled out of her numb shock.

"But we have no need to remain with them," the prince informed her. "You are not a member of the dauphine's household, my dear. You will not be required to attend upon her on a daily basis, and you have your own life to lead now." The door clicked shut behind him.

Cordelia scrubbed her mouth with the back of her hand, desperate to rid herself of the memory of his lips. Ever since she could remember, her life and Toinette's had been intertwined. From earliest childhood they had shared their secrets, their joys, and their troubles. On one level they had both known that the archduchess's destiny would be of great and public significance, whereas Cordelia would be permitted a more private future, albeit one not of her own choosing. And yet, until now, Cordelia realized that she hadn't fully understood how separate her life would be from Toinette's once their journey into the future was completed.

And only now did she fully realize how alone she was.

"Is it tonight that we will see our new mother, madame?" Sylvie put her thumbnail into her mouth and hastily spat it out. In her excitement she'd forgotten about the foul-tasting yellow paste.

"The wedding is to be solemnized at six o'clock," Madame de Nevry stated. "I have no idea what time your father and his wife will come to the house, but since I've received no instructions from the prince, I assume it will be after your bedtime. I daresay the princess will send for you in the morning." The governess picked up her Bible. "Now, finish your seam, Sylvie. Amelia, that hem is quite crooked. Unpick it and start again." Louise resumed her reading aloud of the Book of Job.

"I wonder if she'll like us," Amelia whispered to her sister in the undertone that no one but themselves could ever hear. It was the barest movement of their lips as their heads were bent side by side. She began the painstaking task of unpicking her ragged stitches.

"Probably she won't," her sister murmured. "Probably she's like Papa. She'll be busy at court."

"Did you say something, Sylvie?" Madame looked up sharply over her pince-nez.

"No, madame." Sylvie shook her head, gazing innocently over the crumpled scrap of material she was attempting to sew.

The governess looked suspiciously between the two girls. Two identical fair heads bent over their task, two pairs of still-dimpled hands wrestling with needles and thread. "I don't wish to hear another sound until the reading is finished," she pronounced, picking up the holy book again.

Amelia's small foot pressed hard on her sister's. "May I ask, madame, if Monsieur Leo will be coming after the wedding?"

"I have no idea."

Amelia subsided. Monsieur Leo was not a popular subject with their governess.

Louise's lips pursed. She heartily disapproved of the viscount. He made the girls overexcited and indulged them shockingly. But when she'd attempted to point this out to the prince, she'd received very short shrift. She'd been made to understand that it was not her place to complain about her employer's brother-in-law. Louise had interpreted this to mean that Viscount Kierston was to be allowed to spoil the children if it pleased him. It was to be hoped that the new princess would see the folly of this and exert her own influence.

Her mouth grew more pinched. Monsieur Brion, the majordomo, had not been particularly forthcoming with his information regarding their new princess. Either he really knew very little about her, or he was tormenting the governess. He had said only that he believed her to be younger than his former mistress and that she was an Austrian aristocrat.

The Austrian court was known for its strict adherence to form and ritual. The empress Maria Theresa was known throughout the civilized world as a deeply moral woman who ruled her land by the highest ethical standards and would tolerate no moral laxity at her court. A young woman reared in such an atmosphere would be sure to uphold the highest standards in the schoolroom. She would surely support Madame de Nevry's efforts to turn her charges into model young women who knew their duties, knew to speak only when spoken to, knew to honor and revere those put in authority over them.

Louise had formed an image of her employer's new wife. She had been given no description of the lady and had not been shown the miniature, but wishful thinking and what she believed she knew of her employer's needs and tastes in a wife had informed the picture of a dourly respectable young woman of religious temperament and an absolute sense of duty. Her youth should make it easy for Louise to influence her in schoolroom matters. It shouldn't be difficult to ensure she deferred to a governess who had known her charges since babyhood and could be expected to know what was best for them.

In was late in the afternoon and Louise had enjoyed a substantial dinner. Her head dropped onto her chest and her voice stopped in midsentence. Lulled by these comforting reflections and slightly muzzy after her usual liberal enjoyment of wine at dinner, she dozed. A little snore escaped her, her head jerked on her dropping bosom, and she started upright. She glared at her charges, who were sitting bolt upright opposite, their eyes shining with laughter.

The governess coughed, adjusted her pince-nez, and began her reading again. The girls dutifully plied their needles, but Louise was uncomfortably aware that they were struggling to suppress their giggles. However, she could say nothing without further loss of dignity. Her voice droned on until the clock struck six.

Amelia and Sylvie immediately looked up and exchanged a glance. It was the hour of the wedding.

Viscount Kierston took his place in the front pew of the king's private chapel in the Hotel de Ville. Organ music swelled to the rafters, saving him from participating in the speculative conversation around him. The talk was all of the prince's bride. None of the wedding guests had been at Compiegne, so no one had yet seen the young woman. Leo had been pestered with questions from the moment of his arrival in the chapel. Was she beautiful? Had the king approved her? How young was she? He had answered briefly, refusing to be drawn into the gossip, and with many disgruntled looks, his questioners had given up.

He closed his eyes against the persistent throbbing in his temples. The rough red wine of the Compiegne tavern had done its work only too well, plunging him into drunken oblivion before dawn. He had woken at noon with a vile headache, nauseated, and in a worse than vile humor.

"Were you in Vienna, Kierston, when the scandal broke about the empress's musician?" A rotund gentleman in crimson and gold velvet leaned over his shoulder from the pew behind, fanning himself indolently as the incense fumes swirled from the censer. "I heard tell the pupil in the business has come to Paris."

Leo forced his dulled wits to focus. Cordelia had firmly dumped the responsibility for Christian in his lap. "Yes, I'm sponsoring him until he can find a patron," he said, knowing that the Due de Carillac considered himself a foremost patron of the arts. "The young man has a divine touch," he continued. "I'm certain that once the king hears him, he'll need no further patronage."

"Ah." Carillac stroked his chin, his beady little eyes gleaming from their folds of flesh. "But at present he's footloose, you say. You are not offering him patronage yourself?"

"It's not my style, my lord," Leo said coolly. A man needed more than his fair share of pride, influence, and the power of wealth to be a successful patron. By the same token, patrons competed with superficial civility for the artists most likely to succeed. Carillac was one of the most cutthroat competitors in the field, and if his interest could be roused in Christian, then the young musician would be well on the way to establishing himself.

"Good, good," Carillac murmured, nodding to himself. "We'll talk more on this matter."

There was an expectant rustle from the body of the chapel. Leo turned to look toward the door. His aching bloodshot eyes saw at first only a shimmer of gold. As it moved toward him the shimmer became Cordelia, her black hair drawn up beneath a cap of gold thread and a diamond-studded tiara, leaving her face pale and exposed. As she passed him her eyes met his, and they were darkest charcoal with little flickering lights of a smoldering brazier in their depths. Then she stepped forward on the prince's arm, and the organ after a final chord fell silent as they reached the altar.

Christian slipped silently through the door as the service began and made his way around the side of the chapel, keeping to the shadows. He had no invitation, of course, but he felt it was important for him to be there for Cordelia. She had no one else from her past as witness to her marriage. Toinette was still at Compiegne, and the viscount was a new friend who didn't know Cordelia as Christian did. He didn't share their history.

Christian stopped in the shadow of a marble column from where he could see the couple at the altar. The prince was an imposing figure in a rich suit of cream damask edged in silver lace. His shoulders were broad, his belly a distinct presence. He had the appearance of a once muscular, powerful athlete now running slightly to seed. But everything about his bearing exuded the confidence and authority of a man used to power and exerting influence. Cordelia, despite the weight of her cloth-of-gold gown and the glitter of diamonds in her hair, looked fragile, almost insubstantial beside her husband.

The prince had taken her hand and was sliding one of the previously blessed rings onto her finger. As Christian watched, Cordelia did the same for him. It was done. Christian looked across the aisle to where Viscount Kierston sat in the front pew. The viscount's expression was chiseled in stone. He held his body rigid, his hands clasping the rail in front of him. Christian saw that his knuckles were white. This was the man Cordelia professed to love. A man who, she said, would not accept that love because he refused to acknowledge his own feelings. It seemed to Christian at this solemn moment in the dimly lit chapel heavy with incense that Leo Beaumont was acknowledging a depth of feeling that could only be described as anguish.

The bride and groom were returning down the aisle. Cordelia's face was, if possible, even paler than before. Her gloved hand rested on her husband's damask sleeve. This time she didn't so much as glance toward Leo but kept her eyes on the square of light ahead of her. She had tried to close her mind to every aspect of the ceremony, so similar to the one that had taken place in Vienna but so horrendously different. Leo's physical presence in the chapel was so powerful she could almost feel him as an aura around her, and she wanted to weep, to scream at the wrongness of it all, to curse at the unutterable unfairness. But she could do none of these things.

As they emerged into the courtyard from the chapel, the fresh evening air cleared her head of the fug of incense and solemnity. Now she felt detached from herself and her surroundings, hearing the congratulations from a distance, barely registering the eagerly curious eyes, the quick covert assessments of this new addition to the enclosed life of the court of Versailles. She was truly aware only of Prince Michael. He seemed a huge defining presence at her side.

"Princess, pray accept my congratulations."

Leo's voice jerked her back to reality. She looked up at him, aware of the sudden flush on her cheeks. His face was a mask, his eyes flat. He bowed.

Cordelia curtsied. "Thank you, my lord." Her voice seemed rather small, and for a moment a sense of helplessness threatened to overwhelm her. She wanted to fling herself into his arms, demand that he sweep her up and away from this place. That he banish the nightmare reality with the dream of love.

"You will accompany us to the rue du Bac for the reception, Leo?" Prince Michael smiled his thin smile. He looked as pleased with himself as he felt. His bride was quite lovely in her gold wedding dress, and her little hand on his sleeve was quivering with all the understandable trepidation of a virgin. The night to come promised hours of pleasure. He placed his hand possessively over Cordelia's as he issued the invitation.

Leo saw the movement. Bile rose bitter in his throat. "I beg you'll excuse me, Prince," he said with another formal bow.

"Oh, no, indeed I shall not. You have done me such a service, my dear Leo. Come, Cordelia, add your voice to mine. You owe his lordship much thanks for his kind care of you during your journey. Pray insist that he join us in our celebration so we may thank him properly."

The color now ebbed in her cheeks. She knew she couldn't endure Leo to join such a travesty of a celebration. Every minute, she would be dreading the time when the reception came to an end and her husband bore her away to the marital bed. Leo's presence at that public ceremony would be unendurable.

"I do indeed owe you much thanks for all your consideration, Lord Kierston," she murmured. "But perhaps, sir, his lordship is fatigued after his journey."

"Good heavens, I've seen Viscount Kierston ride to hounds all day and dance all night," Prince Michael said dismissively. "Come now, man, say you'll join us."

For a minute Leo could see no graceful way out.

Then he took Michael's arm and drew him aside with an almost urgent movement. He spoke in a swift undertone. "I must ask you to excuse me, Michael. The occasion… a happy one, I know… brings me so many memories of Elvira on her wedding day that I will be but poor company."

Michael said grudgingly, "Then I cannot insist. But you will visit us soon?"

"Of course." Leo turned back to Cordelia, who was struggling to eavesdrop while pretending polite lack of curiosity. "I beg to be excused, ma'am. I am engaged elsewhere. But pray accept my congratulations again and my wishes for your every happiness."

She put her chin up and said more strongly than she'd so far managed, "You will come to visit my husband's daughters soon, I trust. You have said so often how attached you are to them."

Leo offered a small bow of silent acknowledgment and was about to leave when he caught sight of Christian, hovering a few feet away. "Michael, permit me to introduce Christian Percossi. He's newly arrived from Vienna, where he was the pupil of the court composer." He beckoned the young man over.

"Christian is a close fr-acquaintance of mine," Cordelia put in, smiling warmly at Christian as he bowed to the prince. She forgot her own concerns for the moment in her eagerness to do something for her friend. "He had some difficulties with Poligny, his master, who stole his work, and now he has need of new patronage. Viscount Kierston has been kind enough to sponsor him." She put out her hand to Christian, drawing him forward.

Michael gave the blushing young man a frigid stare. "You are acquainted with my wife, sir?"

"We were children together," Cordelia said.

"I did not ask you, madame," Michael said icily. "I do not care to be interrupted."

Cordelia flushed crimson under this public rebuke. Hasty words of defense and attack rose to her lips, and it was only with the greatest effort that she contained them. Her eyes darted to Leo, whose expression was grim. Christian was tongue-tied.

"I find it distasteful to think of someone of my wife's position at court consorting with a mere musician, a mere pupil, indeed," Michael continued in the same icy tones. "Viscount Kierston may be sponsoring you, but my wife will not acknowledge your acquaintance." He gave Leo a curt nod, then turned on his heel. "Come, Cordelia." He took her arm and bore her off.

She cast one look over her shoulder at the chagrined and startled Christian and the grim-faced viscount, then said resolutely, "My lord, I must protest at being humiliated in that fashion. I cannot believe it was necessary to take me to task so harshly in front of my friends."

"You will not count people below your status among your friends," he said. "Neither will you interrupt me, nor will you expound you own views without being asked. It is not seemly and I will not tolerate my wife putting herself forward in public. I trust I make myself clear."

They had reached the carriage that would take them to Michael's palace in the rue du Bac. Cordelia was overwhelmed with anger and confusion. No one had ever before spoken to her in such insulting fashion. People listened to her when she talked; she was intelligent and well read and quite amusing on occasion. She was used to thinking for herself, and this man was telling her that henceforth she was to be mute, to have no views of her own.

Oh God, what kind of life was she starting?

Michael handed her into the carriage, his expression self-satisfied as if he'd just accomplished a serious task. He climbed in after her and took his seat opposite, regarding her with an almost predatory gaze from beneath hooded lids. Cordelia leaned back and closed her eyes. She couldn't bear to look at him, so smug, so… so hungry.