by Jane Feather
"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 usu
rp 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.
Chapter Twelve
Leo, hiding his concern, remained with his brother-in-law for the best part of an hour. Cordelia had already fallen foul of her husband. It didn't surprise him. Michael had made it clear over the business with Christian that he intended to rule his wife with an iron hand, and Leo knew that Cordelia wouldn't accept that easily. But what had happened between them to cause that shadow of fear in her eyes? And dear God, had he really seen that same look in Elvira's eyes?
But Michael saw none of this disturbed conjecture. As usual, Leo chatted inconsequentially about court matters, snippets of goss
ip, dropping the occasional juicier morsels into the conversation, knowing that the prince had sharp ears for anything useful either to his own diplomacy or to his personal ambition.
Since Elvira's death Leo had worked hard to give Michael the impression of an idle courtier who loved to play, who knew everyone, was universally liked. A man who could be trusted with Michael's daughters, an uncle who wouldn't undermine their father's authority or attempt to involve himself in decisions concerning them. Michael wouldn't hesitate to ban Leo from the schoolroom if the uncle's interest became inconvenient.
Leo's commitment to watch over Elvira's children as their mother would have done was one of the driving forces of his life. It was the reason he stayed in Paris instead of returning to his native England. Michael had no emotional attachment to his daughters, but Leo knew that he saw them as diplomatic currency, to be sold to the highest bidder. Leo would fight for their welfare when the time came, but in the meantime he played the benign and harmless uncle. When Michael looked upon Elvira's brother, he saw a smiling mouth, slightly hooded eyes, an elegantly dressed form always relaxed. Unlike Cordelia, he saw little or no resemblance to Elvira, but then, he wasn't looking for it.
And now, Leo thought, he had added Cordelia's welfare to his responsibilities under Michael's roof. "So you will be taking the princess to Versailles for the wedding?" He sipped his wine, idly crossing one silk-clad knee over his thigh.
"I have instructed the majordomo to arrange for our removal in three days' time, when the king's party returns from Compiegne."
"I daresay I'll see you there then." Leo set down his glass. "The king has most graciously insisted that I attend the ceremony. I suspect at the du Barry's own insistence." He laughed lightly, rising to his feet. "His Majesty's favorite is generous with her favors. It was a signal mark of honor that she attended your wedding yesterday."