by Jane Feather
"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.
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 s
hare 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."