The Diamond Slipper

Chapter Eleven

The night was still young when the last wedding guests left the prince's palace on rue du Bac. It had been a very restrained, decorous celebration, and Cordelia's fears that she would be escorted to her bedchamber amid raucous ribaldry were unfounded.

She was accompanied upstairs by three elderly ladies, distant relatives of the prince's, who showed no inclination to offer the young bride words of wisdom, caution, or courage. They chattered among themselves about the wedding guests as they went through the motions of preparing the bride for bed, and Cordelia began to feel like an inconvenient hindrance to their gossip.

"Mathilde can look after me perfectly well, mesdames," she ventured, shivering in her shift because the self-styled attendant who was holding her bridal nightgown seemed to have forgotten what she was to do with it, so caught up was she in a detailed analysis of Madame du Barry's coiffure.

Mathilde sniffed and deftly removed the garment from the woman's hands, muttering, "The princess will catch her death in a minute."

Countess Lejeune blinked, seeming to return to her surroundings in some surprise. "Did you say something, my dear?" she inquired benignly of Cordelia, who was pulling off her shift.

"Only that I am most grateful for your attentions, mesdames, but my maid can very well see to everything now. You must wish to be going home before the hour is much further advanced," she mumbled through the tumbling mass of hair, dislodged as she'd dragged the shift over her head.

"Oh, but we must see you into bed, the prince will expect it," the countess declared, nodding at her companions, who nodded vigorously in return. "But I daresay your maid can attend you better than we can, so we'll sit over here to wait until you're in bed."

Cordelia grimaced and caught Mathilde's eye. Her nurse shook her head and pursed her lips as she dropped the heavy lace-trimmed nightgown over Cordelia's head. The chatter from the three women beside the hearth rose and fell in an unbroken rhythm as Mathilde brushed the bride's hair, adjusted the ruffles of the nightgown, and turned back the bed.

"My mistress is abed," Mathilde proclaimed loudly, folding her hands in her apron and glaring at the three women. She might play the subservient servant in the prince's company, but she found nothing intimidating about three elderly gossipmongers.

"Oh, then our work is done," the countess declared comfortably, coming over to the bed, where Cordelia had slipped between the sheets. "I bid you good night, my dear."

"Mesdames." Cordelia turned her head to receive the air-blown kisses as they gathered around the bed. "I am most grateful for your kind attentions."

The ironical note in her voice failed to reach them. They smiled, blew more kisses, and disappeared in a chattering buzz.

"Could have done without that useless lot," Mathilde stated. "Can't imagine what good they thought they were doing."

"I doubt they thought about it." The amusement had died out of Cordelia's eyes now. She lay back against the pillows, her face very pale against the white lawn. "I wish this didn't have to happen, Mathilde."

"Nonsense. You're a married woman and married women have relations with their husbands," the nurse said bracingly. She handed Cordelia a small alabaster pot. "Use this ointment before your husband comes to you. It will ease penetration."

The matter-of-fact statement did more than anything could to bring home the reality of what was to happen. Cordelia unscrewed the lid of the pot. "What is it?"

"Herbal ointment. It will prepare your body to receive your husband and will dull the pain if he's not considerate."

"Considerate? How?" Cordelia dipped a finger in the unscented ointment. Mathilde's advice was important, she knew, and yet her words seemed to exist on some other plane, coming to her from a great distance.

Mathilde pursed her lips. "What happened between you and the viscount would have made the loss of your virginity less painful had he chosen to take it on that occasion," she stated. "But few men think of their wives in these matters. So use the ointment quickly. Your husband will be here soon."

Cordelia obeyed, and her actions seemed to belong to someone else. She couldn't seem to connect with what she was doing. The door opened as she handed the alabaster pot back to Mathilde, who dropped it into her apron pocket before turning to greet the prince with a deep curtsy.

Cordelia could see two men standing behind her husband in the corridor-presumably her husband's ceremonial escort to the nuptial chamber. Michael turned and said something softly over his shoulder. There was a laugh, then the door was pulled closed from the corridor. Michael stepped into the room. He was wearing an elaborately brocaded chamber robe, and when he turned his gaze onto the still, pale figure in the big bed, Cordelia saw the predatory light in his eyes, the complacent, almost triumphant, twist to his mouth.

"You may go, woman." His nasal voice had a rasp to it.

Mathilde glanced once toward the bed. For a second her intent gaze held Cordelia's, then, almost imperceptibly, she gave a decisive little nod before hastening from the room, closing the door quietly behind her. But once outside, she moved into the shadows of the tapestry-hung wall and settled down to wait. There was nothing more she could do to help her nursling now, but she could stay close.

Cordelia stared fearfully as her husband approached the bed. He said nothing but leaned over and blew out the candles at the bedside. Then he reached up and pulled the heavy curtains around the bed, enclosing them in a dark cavern. Cordelia's little sigh of relief in the black silence was lost under the creak of the bedropes as she felt him climb in beside her. He was still wearing his chamber robe.

Nothing was said during the next grim minutes. Her fear and revulsion were so strong, her body was closed tight against him despite Mathilde's lubricating ointment. But her resistance seemed to please Michael. She heard him laugh in the darkness as he forced himself into her, driving into her unwilling body with a ferocity that made her scream. He seemed to batter against the very edge of her womb, plunging, surging, an alien force that violated her to her soul. She felt his seed rush into her, heard his grunting satisfaction, then he pulled out of her, falling heavily to one side.

She was shaking uncontrollably with the physical shock. Her nightgown was pushed up to her belly, and with a little sob she pushed it down to cover herself. The sticky seepage between her legs disgusted her, but she was too terrified of disturbing him to move. She lay trying to stop the shaking, to breathe properly again, to swallow the sobs that gathered in her throat.

The ghastly assault was repeated several times during that interminable night. At first she fought desperately, pushing him, twisting her body, trying to keep her thighs closed. But her struggles seemed only to excite him further. He smothered her cries with his hand, flattened hard across her mouth, and he used his body like a battering ram as he held her wrists above her head in an iron grasp. Blindly, she tried to bite the palm of his hand, and with a savage execration he forced her body over until her face was buried in the pillows and he had both hands free to prise apart her legs while he plunged within her again.

The next time, she had learned the lesson and she lay still, rigid beneath him, not moving until it was over. Again, apart from his short brutal exclamations, he said nothing to her. He breathed heavily, snored during the times he slept, moved over her when he was ready again. Cordelia lay awake, trembling, nauseated, but filled now with a deep raging disgust both for the man who could treat her with such contempt and for her own weakness that forced her submission.

The memory of those moments of glory with Leo at Melk belonged to another life, another person. And she would never know what sensual wonders lay beyond that explosion of pleasure, never know what it was to share her body in love with another.

When dawn broke, Cordelia knew that somehow she must escape this marriage. Even if she couldn't cease to be Michael's wife in name, she must somehow keep her own sense of who and what she was, separate from the violation of her body. She must take her self out of the equation. She must rise above her husband's contemptuous and contemptible acts of possession and maintain her own integrity. Only thus could she keep the self-respect that was so much more important than the mere brutalizing of her flesh.

Michael was now sleeping heavily. Gingerly, Cordelia slid from the bed, pulling back the curtains to let in the gray light of morning. Blood stained the sheet, stained her nightgown, smeared her thighs. Her body felt torn and broken; she moved stiffly like an old woman across to the washstand.

"Cordelia? What are you doing? Where are you?" Michael sat up, blinking blearily. He pushed aside the bed-curtains, opening them fully, then bent his eye on the bed-linen. That same complacent triumph quirked his lip. He looked at Cordelia, standing with the washcloth in her hand. He saw the blood on her nightgown. He saw the trepidation in her eyes as she waited to see if he would rape her again.

"I daresay you need your maid," he said, getting out of bed, stretching luxuriantly. The chamber robe he still wore was untied and fell open as he raised his arms. Hastily, Cordelia averted her eyes.

Michael laughed, well pleased after his wedding night. He reached over and chucked her beneath the chin. She shrank away from him and he laughed again with overt satisfaction. "You will learn not to fight me, Cordelia. And you will learn how to please me soon enough."

"Did I not please you last night, my lord?" Despite her exhaustion there was a snap to her voice, but Michael was so full of his own gratification he heard only what he wanted to hear.

"As much as a virgin can please a man," he said airily, retying his girdle. "I'll not require you to take the initiative in these matters, but you must learn to open yourself more readily. Then you will please me perfectly." He strode to the door, a spring in his step. "Ring for your maid. You need attention." He sounded mightily pleased with himself at this evidence of his potency.

Cordelia stared at the closed door, fighting for composure. Then she dragged off her soiled nightgown and began to scrub herself clean, to scrub as if she would remove the layer of skin that he'd sullied.

Mathilde had kept her vigil all night, and as soon as the prince appeared in the corridor, she stepped forward. "I'll go to my mistress now, my lord?"

"Good God, woman! Where did you spring from? I just told the princess to ring for you."

"I have been up and waiting this past hour, my lord."

"Mmm. So you're a faithful attendant at least. Yes, go to her. She needs attention." He waved her toward the door with another smug smile. His bride had found him a most devoted husband, and he couldn't remember when last he'd been so aroused, so filled with potent energy. Certainly not since he'd begun to suspect Elvira's unfaithfulness.

But that was past history. He had a new bride and a new lease on life. Cordelia would not disappoint him, he would make certain of it.

Mathilde bustled into the dimly lit chamber. "His lordship looked right pleased with himself."

"He is loathsome," Cordelia said in a fierce undertone. "I cannot bear that he should touch me ever again."

Mathilde came over to her. Her shrewd eyes took in the wan face, the lingering shock in the blue-gray eyes. "Now, that's a foolish thing to say. For better or worse, he's your husband and he has his rights. You'll learn to deal with it like millions of women before you and millions to come."

"But how?" Cordelia brushed her tangled hair from her eyes. "How does one learn to deal with it?"

Mathilde saw the bruise on her nursling's wrist and her expression suddenly changed. "Let me look at you."

"I'm all right," Cordelia said, "I just feel dirty. I need a bath."

"I'll have one sent up when I've had a look at you," Mathilde said grimly. Cordelia submitted to a minute examination that had Mathilde looking grimmer and grimmer as she uncovered every bruise, every scratch.

"So, he's a brute into the bargain," Mathilde muttered finally, pulling the bell rope beside the door. "I knew there was something dark in him."

"I got hurt because I tried to fight him," Cordelia explained wearily.

"Aye, only what I'd expect from you. But there's other ways," Mathilde added almost to herself. She turned to give orders to the maid who answered the bell. "Fetch up a bath for your mistress… And bring breakfast," she added as the maid curtsied and left.

"I couldn't eat. The thought of food makes me feel sick."

"Nonsense. You need all the strength you can get. It's not like you to wallow in self-pity." Mathilde was not prepared to indulge weakness, however unusual and well justified.

Cordelia would need all her strength of character to survive untouched by her husband's treatment. "You'll have a bath and eat a good breakfast and then you'd best set about making your mark on the household. There's a majordomo, one Monsieur Brion, who's a force to be reckoned with, I gather. And then a governess.

"What about the governess?" Cordelia, as always, responded to Mathilde's bracing tones. She wasn't such a milksop as to be crushed after one wedding night. There was much more to this new life than the miseries of conjugal sex. Time enough to fret about it again tonight, when presumably it would be repeated. She shuddered and pushed the thought from her. She must not allow fear of the nights to haunt her days.

Mathilde turned from the armoire where she was selecting a gown. "Dusty spinster, I understand from the housekeeper. Keeps to herself mostly, thinks she's too good for the servant's hall. Some distant relative of the prince's."

"And the children?" Cordelia's legs seemed to be lacking in strength. She sat on the edge of the bed.

"No one sees much of them. Governess pretty much has sole charge." Mathilde came over to the bed with a chamber robe.

Cordelia slipped her arms into the clean robe. "Do they say whether the prince has much to do with his daughters?"

Mathilde bent to gather up the bloodstained nightgown. "Hardly sees them. But it's his voice that rules in the nursery even so. That governess, Madame de Nevry she's called, is scared rigid of him. Or so the housekeeper says." She glanced sharply at Cordelia. "There's a bad feeling in this house. They all fear the prince."

"With reason, I imagine," Cordelia said. She frowned. "I wonder why the viscount didn't say anything when I asked him about my husband. I gave him every opportunity to tell me the worst."

"Maybe he doesn't know. A man can have one face for the outside world and another for the inside. And you've got to live in a house to know its spirit."

"But what of Leo's sister-Elvira? She lived here, she must have known these things. Didn't she tell him?"

"How are we to know that?" Mathilde shook her head in brisk dismissal of the topic. "We manage our own affairs, dearie."

Cordelia had always had utter faith in Mathilde's ability to manage affairs of any kind. She didn't always know how she did it, but she hadn't yet come across a situation that stumped her old nurse. The thought gave her renewed strength and courage. "I shall go and visit the nursery as soon as I'm dressed." Forgetting her earlier queasiness, she broke into a steaming brioche from the tray the maidservant had placed on the table. In the small bathroom adjoining her chamber, footmen filled the copper tub with jugs of water brought upstairs by laboring boot boys.

"What should I wear, do you think? Something gay and bright. I want them to think of me as someone cheerful and not at all stuffy."

Mathilde couldn't hide her smile at the quaint notion that anyone might think Cordelia stuffy.

Cordelia eased her body into the hot water with a groan of relief. Mathilde had sprinkled herbs on the surface and emptied the fragrant contents of a small vial into the water. Immediately, Cordelia felt the soreness and stiffness fading away with the throbbing of her bruises. She let her head rest against the copper rim of the bath and closed her eyes, inhaling the delicate yet revivifying scent of the herbs.

Mathilde placed the breakfast tray beside the tub, and after a while Cordelia nibbled on the brioche and sipped hot chocolate as the steam wreathed around her. Her habitual optimism finally banished the lingering horror of the night. It had been hell, but the worst was over because she now knew the worst. And now there were two little girls in a nursery waiting to make her acquaintance. Were they scared? she wondered.

Madame de Nevry was in a very bad temper. Amelia and Sylvie, well versed in their governess's moods, knew they were in for a miserable day the minute she marched into the nursery soon after dawn and ordered their nurse to prepare cold baths for them.

"But I am already so cold," Sylvie whimpered, standing on the bare floorboards, shivering in her nightgown. It was too early for the rising sun to have taken the chill off the night air that filled the nursery from the perpetually opened window.

"It is your father's wish that you should learn to endure discomfort," Madame stated, pinning the child's hair in a tight knot on the top of her head. The prince had actually said only that his daughters were not to be pampered, but the governess chose to interpret the instruction according to her own mood.

Sylvie whimpered again as her scalp was pulled back from her forehead and the pins dug into her skin. Nurse, looking very disapproving, lifted her and dumped her skinny little body in the tub of ice-cold water. Sylvie cried out at the top of her lungs and received a slapped hand from the governess for her pains. Amelia stood and watched, waiting her turn with rather more stoicism than her sister.

They had heard the sounds of the party the previous evening as they'd lain in bed listening to the confused noises of carriage wheels, shouting linkboys, doors opening and closing in the house far below the nursery, the faint strains of music. They'd imagined the food at the banquet, but since their own diet was plain to the point of tastelessness and had never been anything else, they could only imagine a table laden with the strawberries and chocolates they had sometimes been given by Monsieur Leo, when he could sneak the treat into the schoolroom.

"Come, Amelia." Madame snapped her fingers impatiently as Nurse lifted the still-squalling Sylvie out of the freezing water and wrapped her in a thick towel. Madame's face was thin and pinched, and her lips and the tip of her nose had a blue tinge to them as if they'd been inked with a quill pen. On her cheeks burned two vermilion spots of color. She looked like a paint palette, Amelia thought, raising her arms passively as Nurse drew off her nightgown.

Sylvie's whimpers faded as she huddled in the towel. The goosebumps on her skin went down and her shivers lessened while her twin was doused and soaped and doused again, her lips blue with cold, her teeth chattering.

Even after they were dressed, they were still not properly warm, and a meager breakfast of bread and butter and weak tea did little to improve matters. Madame's blue nose turned pink as she drank her own tea. The girls had noticed it always did when she poured something from a little flask into her cup. And her cheeks grew even redder.

"We will study the globe this morning." Louise gestured to the large round globe with her pointer. "Sylvie, you will find England and tell me the name of the capital city."

Sylvie peered at the bumps and squiggles and lines. Everything looked the same to her. She closed her eyes and stabbed with her forefinger.

Louise put up her pince-nez and examined the spot. If asked to perform the task she had set Sylvie, she would have had difficulty. However, Sylvie's choice appeared to be in a range of mountains, and Louise was fairly convinced that England was not a mountainous land.

It was at this point that the door opened to reveal an astounding vision, shimmering, glowing with color in the drab room.

"Good morning. My name is Cordelia and I have come to make your acquaintance."

The girls stared openmouthed as a black-haired girl in a gown of turquoise silk stepped into the room, her jeweled heels tapping on the oak boards. She was smiling, her mouth red and warm, her eyes so big and blue they seemed to swallow them.

She bent and held out her hand to Sylvie. Leo had said something about hair ribbons, but she couldn't remember which was which. "Are you Sylvie or Amelia?"

"Sylvie. There's Amelia."

Cordelia took both their hands in hers, overpowering-ly aware of how small they were. She had never been much aware of children before, but these two, gazing at her with such solemnity, filled her with a strange awe.

"Princess, we were not expecting you." The glacial tones drew Cordelia upright again.

"You must be the children's governess. Madame de Nevry, I believe?" She smiled warmly, reflecting that nothing would be gained by alienating this disagreeable-looking woman.

"That is so, Princess. As I said, we were not expecting you. The prince gave me no instructions as to receiving you." She struggled to hide her dismayed shock at a vision that bore no resemblance to her imaginings of the new Princess von Sachsen. The girl was barely out of the schoolroom herself, and she was beautiful. Even to Louise's jaundiced eye, the vibrant beauty pulsing from the princess was undeniable.

"No, well, I daresay that's because he doesn't know I'm here," Cordelia said cheerfully. "I thought it would be much nicer to meet Sylvie and Amelia without any formal fuss and bother." She turned back to the girls, who still regarded her with openmouthed disbelief. "Shall we be friends, do you think? I do so hope we shall." She took their hands again, holding them in her own warm grasp.

"Oh, yes," they said in unison on a little gasp of delight. "Do you know Monsieur Leo? He's our friend too."

"Yes, I know him," she said, ignoring the preparatory mutterings from the governess. "I know him very well, so we shall all be friends." She straightened again to include the governess in the conversation. "I understand from my husband and Viscount Kierston that His Lordship is a frequent visitor to his nieces."

"That may be so," Louise allowed without moving so much as a muscle. "However, if you'll excuse us, Princess, the children must do their lessons."

"Oh, how drear that they should have to have lessons on the day I arrive." Cordelia's nose wrinkled and she moved closer to the governess on the pretext of studying the globe. "Are you having a geography lesson?"

"We were," Louise said pointedly.

Cordelia nodded as her suspicions were confirmed. The woman smelled like a soused herring, and it was barely nine o'clock in the morning. Surely Michael couldn't know that his daughters' governess drank. But for time being, she would keep the knowledge to herself. She had much to learn about this household.

"Then I'll leave you for the moment," she said amenably. "But I'd like the girls to visit me in my boudoir before dinner. There's no need for you to accompany them." She treated the governess to a dazzling smile. "At one o'clock, shall we say." Bending, she swiftly kissed the children. "We shall learn to know each other soon." Then she was gone, leaving Sylvie and Amelia in a warm daze and their governess as frozen rigid as a stalagmite.

"Practice your writing," she commanded, gesturing to the table and the pens and parchment.

She sat down abruptly by the empty hearth and stared at her reflection in the burnished grate. Surreptitiously, she withdrew the little silver flask from her pocket and took a swift gulp. She could not believe that the prince had countenanced his bride's surprise visit to his daughters. He lived his life by rite and rote and laid down strict orders for the schoolroom as he did for the rest of the household. But what was Prince Michael doing with such a frivolous, volatile, vibrant, unorthodox young bride?

Louise took another gulp. From what she knew of her relative, he wouldn't tolerate those qualities in the girl for very long.

Cordelia returned to the main part of the palace and descended the curving staircase to the cavernous hall with its marble pillars and vast expanse of marble floor.

Monsieur Brion appeared from nowhere and came to the stair with stately step, bowing low as she reached the bottom. "Is there something I can do for you, Princess?"

"Yes, I should like to be shown around the palace, please. And I should like to meet with the housekeeper and the cook." Cordelia's smile was warm, but the majordomo had the astonishing feeling that his new mistress, for all her youth, was not going to be easy to manage.

"If you have instructions for either the cook or the housekeeper, madame, I will be pleased to relay them for you."

Cordelia shook her head. "Oh, I don't think that will be necessary, Monsieur Brion. I am perfectly capable of giving my own instructions. Please ask them to come to me in my boudoir at noon. Now, perhaps you would like to show me around."

"Cordelia, is there something you wish for?"

She turned at her husband's voice. He stood in the doorway to the left of the hall and, judging by the table napkin in his hand, was presumably in the middle of his breakfast. Her eyes fixed upon his hands. They were square, thick fingered, with clumps of graying hair on the knuckles. Her skin seemed to shrink on her bones at the hideous memory of those hands marking her body. Only with the greatest difficulty did she keep from stepping backward, away from him.

"I was asking Monsieur Brion to accompany me on a tour of the palace, sir."

Michael considered this and could find no fault. "By all means," he said with a nod at Brion. "I shall be in the library in one hour. Perhaps you would join me there, madame."

Cordelia acquiesced with a curtsy and waited until her husband had returned to his interrupted breakfast before turning back to the majordomo. "Shall we go?"

Monsieur Brion bowed. This was a different kind of bride from her predecessor, unsophisticated, less canny, and yet he thought he could detect a certain strength. In this household one garnered allies wherever one could. "Where would you wish to start, madame?"

An hour later Monsieur Brion showed his new mistress into the library. He was still uncertain about the princess. She had been shockingly informal with the servants they'd met, but the questions she'd asked him about the household had been uncomfortably penetrating, and he was convinced that his earlier assessment had been correct-he had felt the sting of a most powerful will beneath.

Michael carefully wiped the nib of his pen and placed it in perfect alignment with the edge of the blotter before rising from the secretaire when his wife entered.

"I trust you were pleased with what you saw, madame."

Cordelia couldn't bring herself to step further into the room, a step that would bring her that much closer to her husband. "You have a most beautiful palace, sir. I particularly admired the Boucher panels in the small salon." She had to learn to conduct ordinary conversations with this man. She had to separate the daytime husband from the nighttime ravisher. If she couldn't do that, she would be crushed like an ant beneath his boot.

Michael had turned back to his secretaire. With small, precise movements, he sanded the sheet on which he'd been writing and closed the leatherbound book. "Did you notice the Rembrandts in the gallery?"

"Yes, but I preferred the Canaletto." She watched as he carried the book to an ironbound chest beneath the window. He withdrew a key from his pocket, unlocked the chest, and, with the same precision, placed the book inside, then dropped the lid and locked the chest. Cordelia couldn't see what was in the chest, but it struck her as strange that he should have to lock up his writings. But then she reflected that perhaps they were diplomatic secrets and observations. An ambassador was as much a spy for his monarch as he was a diplomat.

"The Canaletto is very fine, but the subject matter is more frivolous than Rembrandt's."

Cordelia didn't argue this point. Her eyes continued to roam the room and fell upon the portrait above the mantel. She knew immediately who it was. The physical resemblance between the woman and Leo Beaumont was unmistakable. Although the woman's eyes were blue instead of hazel, the resemblance was contained in their expression, in the nose, in the quirk of that sensual mouth.

"This is your late wife?" She examined the rich, voluptuous figure with a deep curiosity and a strange little thrill that she knew arose because the act of looking upon Leo's twin in some way connected her with Leo himself.

"Yes. It's a particularly fine Fragonard." The prince's tone did not encourage further discussion of the portrait, but Cordelia didn't move away. She wanted to touch the soft curving white arm, the shining fair hair, so powerfully did the woman's personality come across. Had she also suffered through hellish nights?

"She's wearing my bracelet," she said with a shock of recognition, holding up her wrist in demonstration.

"The bracelet was my gift to Elvira on the birth of her daughters," Michael said, his tone now thoroughly frigid. "It is a priceless work of art and I believed it to be a suitable betrothal gift. There is no need to talk of it further."

Cordelia didn't immediately respond. She examined the bracelet on her wrist and then the one on Elvira's wrist. "She has another charm," she said. "A heart. Is it jade?"

Michael's lips thinned. Was she stupid or stubborn to persist in these observations when he'd made it clear he didn't wish to discuss the subject? "You have your own charm. The bracelet now belongs to you. I wish now to discuss with you the arrangements for our sojourn in Versailles during the dauphin's wedding."

Cordelia touched the delicate diamond slipper. She supposed that by removing the charm dedicated to Elvira and replacing it with one dedicated to the new owner, her husband considered he had been acting with all due consideration. But still, it felt a little peculiar to be wearing the dead woman's jewelry, however beautiful.

"Viscount Kierston said you have an apartment at Versailles." She turned back to the room, her finger unconsciously tracing the shape of the serpent around her wrist.

"Yes, the king has graciously allotted me a suite of rooms on the third staircase. You will find them commodious enough, I believe."

Cordelia knew that apartments at Versailles, thirty miles outside Paris, were greatly coveted and were only allocated to the king's favorites or those with significant influence. "Does Viscount Kierston have an apartment at Versailles?" she asked casually.

"He is much favored by Madame du Barry. He has a small room on the outer staircase through her influence."

That didn't sound too comfortable, but for a bachelor it was probably considered sufficient. Her heart lifted. At least he would be at Versailles also. He had promised to stand her friend.

"I intend to instruct my daughters' governess to bring them to the drawing room before dinner to pay their respects to you." Michael changed the subject, impatient with this question-and-answer session that had nothing to do with the matters at hand.

"Oh, I've already met them," Cordelia said cheerfully. "I visited the schoolroom earlier. They are such lovely children."

"You did what?" Michael stared in astonishment.

Cordelia swallowed. Obviously, she'd made a mistake. "I didn't think it would displease you, my lord. I was anxious to meet them."

Michael moved toward her and she stood her ground with the greatest difficulty. "You will not ever take such matters on yourself, do you hear me, Cordelia? I rule this household and you will not ever attempt to usurp my rule."

"But… but how could my visiting the schoolroom be considered usurping your authority?" she protested, forgetting her fear of him in her indignation.

"You will do nothing-nothing, do you hear me? — without my permission. No one in this household takes a step without my permission." He had put his hands on her now, and a deep shiver began in her belly.

"But they are servants, my lord. I am your wife," she said. She would not back down. She would not show her fear.

His fingers tightened around her upper arms, bringing back a flood of physical memories of the night. She could smell the muskiness of his skin, almost choking her as it had done during the ghastly hours of darkness. And he was hurting her again. "You are as much under my authority as any servant, my dear." His voice was low but intense. "You will forget that at your own risk. Do you understand?"

Cordelia closed her lips tightly. She averted her face from his, now so close to her she thought she would faint with loathing.

"Answer me!" he demanded.

"You're hurting me." It was all the answer he was going to get.

"Answer me!"

"In order for me to understand, my lord, I beg you will explain to me exactly how you would wish me to involve myself with your daughters." She ignored the pain in her arms. She had had confrontations of a like sort with her uncle. She hadn't given way to him; she would not give way to her husband.

"Viscount Kierston implied that it was hoped I would be a mother to them. I cannot do that if I'm permitted to see them only at your command."

With a shock, Michael realized that she was not intimidated. "They have no need of mothering," he said tautly. "Their governess will supervise their education and their day-to-day care. But she has no experience of court circles. You will be responsible for preparing them to move in those circles. You will also begin to prepare them for their betrothals. There will be no need for you to involve yourself in their general welfare. Is that understood?"

"Surely they're too young to be considered for betrothal?" she exclaimed.

"That is no business of yours." He shook her in rough emphasis. "You will keep your opinions to yourself." But he couldn't help adding with cold pride, "I have every hope of making the most advantageous, influential connections for them. It is not unrealistic to look to the highest courts in Europe. There are younger royal sons aplenty who could do worse than a connection with the von Sachsens."

Cordelia had been sacrificed to the pride of lineage. Could she help those two little girls avoid such a destiny? Perhaps-but not by setting herself up openly against her husband. It was time to beat a strategic retreat.

"It is, of course, for their father to decide." She lowered her eyes.

He said coldly, "These displays of defiance will do you no good, my dear. Do you understand that?" He was determined to hear her submission. He remembered the feel of her slender frailty beneath him during the night. Her resistance that he had overcome so easily. She was young. She would make mistakes. It was for him to correct them.

She would not say it. The tense silence was as thick and palpable as a blanketing fog.

A knock at the door made them both jump. His hands fell from her arms, and he swung round with a savage "What is it?"

"Viscount Kierston, my lord," announced Monsieur Brion. Leo entered the library on the announcement with all the informality of an old family friend. He was dressed in black, except for a short riding cloak that this time was lined in peacock blue. He held his lace-edged gloves in one hand, his other resting almost unconsciously on the hilt of his sword. His eyes were sharp and cold as icicles.

Cordelia's heart beat fast and her palms were suddenly damp. Would he be looking for Michael's mark upon her? Would he see some sign of the horrors of that possession? He mustn't know. She couldn't bear him to know.

"Prince Michael. Princess von Sachsen. Your servant." He bowed. Cordelia curtsied. He took her hand and her skin burned with his touch. She raised her eyes for an instant and looked deep into his. She read the question contained in his steady gaze, but she couldn't answer it. With a polite smile she withdrew her hand and stepped back, turning her eyes away.

"Welcome, Leo. You will drink to our wedding as you were unable to do last night." Michael took up a decanter of Rhenish wine on the sideboard. "Cordelia, you will join us in a glass."

It was not a suggestion. Cordelia took the glass of white wine. There was an expectant silence, then Leo raised his glass and said quietly, "To your happiness."

Cordelia drank the toast, the same polite smile fixed to her lips. She knew he was sincere. He would not wish her unhappiness no matter what lay between them.

Michael smiled and drank deeply. "Thank you, my dear friend."

Cordelia couldn't bear it another minute. She put her barely touched glass down. "If you will excuse me, my lords, I have asked the cook and the housekeeper to come to me in my boudoir at noon."

"There is no need for you to involve yourself in the day-to-day running of the household, madame," Michael said sharply. "I have already explained your duties. And they do not include consorting with the staff, who know how to manage their own duties perfectly well."

"You don't consider it necessary for servants to know their mistress, my lord?"

She was defying him again! Michael couldn't believe what he was hearing. But he could do nothing in Leo's presence. He took one menacing step toward her and his eyes blazed. "I have told you what I consider necessary."

Leo saw the look in her eyes as she seemed to withdraw her body into itself. Elvira had had that same shadow in her eyes. The shadow had appeared at the time he'd noticed that her bubbling laughter was heard less often. But whenever he'd questioned her, she'd put him off, changed the subject, and the shadow had been banished as swiftly as it had appeared, so that he'd never been certain that he'd seen it. Now he knew he had. Cordelia was not so adept at masking her feelings.

"It must be as you wish, my lord." Cordelia curtsied, her voice tight. "I bid you good day, Viscount Kierston." The door closed quietly behind her.