The Diamond Slipper

Home > Other > The Diamond Slipper > Page 26
The Diamond Slipper Page 26

by Jane Feather


  It se­emed to Cor­de­lia that she had ab­di­ca­ted res­pon­si­bi­lity for her body. It se­emed to know all on its own what to do, how to res­pond. She was awa­re of so­met­hing bu­il­ding de­ep in her belly, a li­qu­id ful­lness gro­wing in her lo­ins, and now she tur­ned in his arms to press her na­ked­ness aga­inst him.

  Leo sto­od up, lif­ting her with him. She lo­oked up at him and smi­led slowly. "Is it ti­me?"

  "Only if you wish it," he sa­id qu­i­etly, hol­ding her aga­inst him, se­ar­c­hing her ex­p­res­si­on. She re­ac­hed up to to­uch his mo­uth with her thumb, run­ning the pad ac­ross his lips in an un­k­no­wingly sen­su­al ges­tu­re that was all the an­s­wer he ne­eded.

  Leo la­id her on the bed aga­in, then swiftly strip­ped off his clot­hes. Cor­de­lia hadn't se­en a na­ked man be­fo­re. She ga­zed at the le­an, po­wer­ful fra­me, the flat belly and nar­row hips, the erect shaft jut­ting from the nest of curly black ha­ir, the long hard thighs. And for an in­s­tant her body clo­sed tight, shrin­king in upon it­self as if in de­fen­se aga­inst the in­t­ru­si­on of a vi­olent tres­pas­ser.

  Leo sat on the bed, his hand stro­king her belly un­til he felt her re­lax aga­in, her body be­co­me flu­id be­ne­ath his to­uch. He was wa­iting for a sign and she ga­ve it to him. She re­ac­hed to to­uch his erect flesh, her eyes half clo­sed as she felt him, le­ar­ned his sha­pe, his tex­tu­re. Ma­king of his stran­ge flesh so­met­hing she knew and un­der­s­to­od. When she gu­ided him wit­hin the mo­ist por­tal bet­we­en her thighs, she knew that she wan­ted this man in­si­de her, ma­king her who­le as he jo­ined with her in flesh and in spi­rit.

  He ga­zed in­tently down in­to her eyes, lo­oking in­to her very so­ul as he held him­self at the very ed­ge of her body. "Tell me how you fe­el, swe­et­he­art."

  She knew he wan­ted to pull so­met­hing from her, so­met­hing mo­re than the res­pon­ses of her body. He wan­ted to he­ar her say how much she wan­ted this. How much she ne­eded it. That wit­ho­ut it, she co­uld ne­ver be he­aled, ne­ver be who­le aga­in.

  "I ne­ed you so much. I lo­ve you so much," she rep­li­ed, her eyes can­did, her ton­gue lightly mo­is­te­ning her sud­denly dry lips. "I want you in­si­de me, Leo."

  He drew her legs up on­to his sho­ul­ders, run­ning his hands down the backs of her thighs, cup­ping the cur­ve of her but­tocks. Then he en­te­red her fully with one long, le­isu­rely, de­ep mo­ve­ment.

  And as she felt him mo­ving wit­hin her, Cor­de­lia fell from so­me gre­at and mi­ra­cu­lo­us he­ight. She tum­b­led over and over, light as a thre­ad of silk, thro­ugh a gol­den et­her. Her mo­uth was dry and she co­uld he­ar lit­tle sob­bing cri­es that on one pla­ne she knew we­re her own, and when she lan­ded and the li­qu­id rush of her ple­asu­re flo­wed from her she clung to her lo­ver as he mo­ved aga­in wit­hin her, and aga­in, ta­king his own ple­asu­re now, sa­vo­ring the glo­ri­o­us tig­h­t­ness of her ho­ne­yed she­ath, un­til he wit­h­d­rew from her and let his own cli­max cas­ca­de over him, his se­ed spil­ling warm and wet on her belly and thighs.

  She stro­ked his back as he lay bre­at­h­less upon her. Her legs had fal­len to the bed in an un­ga­inly sprawl, her he­art was thud­ding, her body as limp as a new­born kit­ten's.

  Fi­nal­ly, Leo rol­led si­de­ways, re­li­eving her of his we­ight. He lay on his back, one hand flung ac­ross her belly, the ot­her over his eyes. He wa­ited for the gu­ilt, the so­ur re­mor­se, the bi­ting self-con­tempt, but he felt only a won­d­ro­us joy as if he had both gi­ven and re­ce­ived a pri­ce­less gift.

  "I can en­du­re an­y­t­hing if you lo­ve me," Cor­de­lia whis­pe­red, stro­king his hand as it lay he­avily on her belly. "You've ma­de me strong aga­in, Leo. You've gi­ven me back myself."

  He sta­red up­ward at the mol­ding on the ce­iling, his joy and con­fi­den­ce se­eping from him li­ke li­feb­lo­od from a wo­und. If he lo­ved her, how co­uld he en­du­re that she sho­uld go back to Mic­ha­el?

  "I will ta­ke you away from Mic­ha­el," he sa­id. "But I ha­ve to plan. If we act in has­te, it won't work. It will be too easy to pur­sue us, and Mic­ha­el has every le­gal right to do as he wis­hes with a ru­na­way wi­fe. Do you un­der­s­tand, Cor­de­lia?" He sat up, ca­ught her be­ne­ath the arms, and drew her up fa­cing him. He cup­ped her fa­ce. "Do you un­der­s­tand what I'm sa­ying?"

  Cor­de­lia nod­ded and smi­led trus­t­ful­ly. "Yes. I will wa­it. And I will en­du­re." She to­uc­hed his fa­ce. "I swe­ar to you that it won't be so bad now that I ha­ve you to lo­ve me. Not­hing can to­uch me now, Leo. Not­hing."

  He sho­ok his he­ad al­most im­pa­ti­ently. He had less fa­ith than Cor­de­lia in the po­wer of me­re emo­ti­on as shi­eld and buc­k­ler. "You must go back now," he sa­id he­avily. "I will work as fast as I can to get you away, but for now…"

  "Yes, I un­der­s­tand." She smi­led, the sa­me vib­rant smi­le he had le­ar­ned so re­luc­tantly to lo­ve. "If only I co­uld find out what hap­pe­ned to Mat­hil­de." Her smi­le was wi­ped cle­an from her fa­ce and she sta­red in hor­ror. "He co­uldn't ha­ve had her kil­led… or… or im­p­ri­so­ned, co­uld he?"

  "Of co­ur­se not," Leo sa­id with a con­fi­den­ce he didn't fe­el. Mic­ha­el wo­uldn't re­sort to mur­der, he was cer­ta­in, but an oub­li­et­te in so­me dark French pri­son wo­uldn't be hard to ar­ran­ge for an er­rant ser­vant.

  Hur­ri­edly, he threw on his clot­hes, whi­le Cor­de­lia shrug­ged in­to the ro­be. Her co­lor had re­tur­ned and the whi­te vel­vet now ac­cen­tu­ated her ra­di­ant be­a­uty in­s­te­ad of drow­ning her de­athly pal­lor.

  "Let me carry you. Yo­ur fe­et will fre­eze on the flo­ors." Mar­b­le and sto­ne we­re hard on ba­re fe­et, and Cor­de­lia didn't de­mur as he swung her easily in­to his arms. She felt very dif­fe­rent this ti­me. Stron­ger, fir­mer, mo­re sup­ple, no hint of le­af­li­ke fra­ilty.

  "I can de­fe­at Mic­ha­el," Cor­de­lia sa­id in­to his ear. "I am stron­ger than he is. I don't ne­ed to prey upon pe­op­le in or­der to fe­el po­wer­ful. I will be­at him at his own ga­me, Leo."

  "And what hap­pe­ned the last ti­me you tri­ed that?" he as­ked dryly. Much as this re­turn of the vi­tal Cor­de­lia de­lig­h­ted him, he was only too pa­in­ful­ly awa­re of the dan­gers.

  "I'll be ca­re­ful," she sa­id af­ter a mi­nu­te. "I won't ma­ke the mis­ta­ke of glo­ating aga­in."

  They tur­ned on­to the cor­ri­dor that ho­used the von Sac­h­sen apar­t­ments, and Leo felt Cor­de­lia ten­se in his arms. His mo­uth tig­h­te­ned. The tho­ught of put­ting her back in­to that hel­lho­le fil­led him with re­vul­si­on, but he co­uld see no al­ter­na­ti­ve. Not for the im­me­di­ate fu­tu­re.

  As they ap­pro­ac­hed the do­or a fi­gu­re emer­ged from a cor­ner of lin­ge­ring sha­dows not yet pi­er­ced by the early light.

  "Mat­hil­de?" whis­pe­red Cor­de­lia, al­most in dis­be­li­ef. Then she was strug­gling in Leo's hold. He set her down and she ran ba­re­fo­ot to­ward the wo­man who held out her arms to re­ce­ive her.

  "The­re, baby, the­re, baby," Mat­hil­de cro­oned, stro­king her ha­ir, her back. Her eyes, sharp and bright and shrewd, lo­oked over her nur­s­ling's he­ad at the vis­co­unt. She se­emed to re­ad ever­y­t­hing she ne­eded to know in his fa­ce, be­ca­use she nod­ded and a grim lit­tle smi­le to­uc­hed her mo­uth.

  "What did he do to you, Mat­hil­de?" Cor­de­lia stra­ig­h­te­ned, pus­hing her ha­ir out of her eyes, her ret­re­at in­to bab­y­ho­od pas­sed. "Did he hurt you?"

  "Bless you, no, de­arie," Mat­hil­de sa­id briskly. "But he's tur­ned me off wit­ho­ut a cha­rac­ter, wit­ho­ut a sou, just the clot­hes on my back. But ne­ver you fret, Cor­de­lia, he'll not ke­ep me from you."


  "But what will you do? Whe­re will you go? I can gi­ve you mo­ney, of co­ur­se, but-"

  "The­re's plenty of pla­ces for a body to lie qu­i­et in this pa­la­ce," Mat­hil­de told her. "The pla­ce is a small city, with sta­ir­ca­ses and no­oks and cran­ni­es ever­y­w­he­re. I'll be aro­und, de­arie. I'll be wat­c­hing you even if you don't of­ten see me." She didn't say that the prin­ce had gi­ven her a cho­ice of le­aving qu­i­etly, or of be­ing ar­res­ted on a char­ge of theft and spen­ding the rest of her na­tu­ral li­fe in the Bas­til­le, her nur­s­ling lost to her fo­re­ver. The thre­at still hung over her if the prin­ce ever la­id eyes on her aga­in.

  She didn't say this, but Cor­de­lia ma­de a go­od gu­ess. She lo­oked at Leo, a qu­es­ti­on in her eyes.

  "I'll ta­ke ca­re of Mat­hil­de," he sa­id, tur­ning to the el­derly wo­man. "Cor­de­lia will ne­ed you un­til I can get her away from her hus­band. I'll hi­de you and we'll con­t­ri­ve so­me­how that you sho­uld see her of­ten."

  Mat­hil­de lo­oked shrewdly at Cor­de­lia, then aga­in at the vis­co­unt. Then she nod­ded, but this ti­me with brisk sa­tis­fac­ti­on. "Well, that's as it sho­uld be," she sa­id ob­li­qu­ely. "I al­ways knew it had to be. The lit­tle one will only lo­ve on­ce. Just li­ke her mot­her."

  She drew Cor­de­lia to her aga­in and kis­sed her. "I'll get you so­met­hing that will gi­ve you so­me res­pi­te from that bru­te of a hus­band, don't you worry now."

  "What kind of thing?" Cor­de­lia was im­me­di­ately cu­ri­o­us. Mat­hil­de was as de­vi­o­us as she was cle­ver, and she knew many stran­ge arts. If she we­re pit­ted aga­inst Mic­ha­el, Cor­de­lia wo­uld put her mo­ney on her nur­se an­y­ti­me.

  "Ne­ver you mind."

  "Lis­ten to me, Cor­de­lia." Leo spo­ke ur­gently. He didn't ha­ve Cor­de­lia's fa­ith in Mat­hil­de's abi­lity to draw Mic­ha­el's te­eth, and even if he did ha­ve, the wo­man was of­fe­ring no im­me­di­ate so­lu­ti­on. "You must pro­mi­se me that you won't pro­vo­ke him aga­in."

  "I can't let him think he's be­aten me," she sa­id fi­er­cely.

  "Swal­low yo­ur pri­de for a whi­le. Just un­til I can con­t­ri­ve so­met­hing." He tip­ped her chin, for­cing her to lo­ok up at him.

  "I'll be very ca­re­ful," she con­ce­ded. "Not go­od eno­ugh! Do you lo­ve me?" "You know that I do."

  "And you ha­ve put this hi­de­o­us si­tu­ati­on in my hands. Ha­ven't you?" "Yes, but-"

  "The­re­fo­re you will do as I tell you. I can­not help you if you don't do as I say. Is that cle­ar, Cor­de­lia?"

  She he­si­ta­ted, wan­ting to ag­ree but kno­wing that her spi­rit wo­uld not al­low her to gi­ve Mic­ha­el even the il­lu­si­on of vic­tory. Then fo­ot­s­teps so­un­ded from along the cor­ri­dor be­hind them. He­els tap­tap­ping on the mar­b­le. Vo­ices ca­me clo­ser. One of them be­lon­ged to a co­ur­ti­er ac­qu­a­in­tan­ce of Mic­ha­el's. Cor­de­lia had va­nis­hed li­ke a whi­te wra­ith thro­ugh the do­or to the­ir apar­t­ment and Mat­hil­de had mel­ted in­to the sha­dows, be­fo­re Leo co­uld mo­ve.

  Leo swo­re un­der his bre­ath. She had not pro­mi­sed. Didn't she un­der­s­tand that she had la­id upon him the he­avi­est bur­dens a man co­uld be­ar-her trust and her lo­ve? He had car­ri­ed tho­se bur­dens for El­vi­ra too, but he had drop­ped them. He wo­uld not fa­il Cor­de­lia in the sa­me way. But de­ar God in he­aven, how was he to pro­tect her when she de­li­be­ra­tely co­ur­ted dan­ger?

  Cor­de­lia clo­sed the do­or to the sa­lon. Mon­si­e­ur Bri­on sto­od in the kit­c­hen do­or­way, his ex­p­res­si­on star­t­led as he sta­red at the ba­re­fo­ot prin­cess in her cham­ber ro­be. Cor­de­lia lo­oked ac­ross the ro­om and met his ga­ze ste­adily. She knew he and all the ser­vants knew what went on at night be­hind her bed­c­ham­ber do­or. Just as she knew how Mic­ha­el mi­su­sed them when it ple­ased him. Now, with her cle­ar-eyed ga­ze, she of­fe­red the ma­j­or­do­mo an al­li­an­ce.

  Mon­si­e­ur Bri­on bo­wed. "Go­od mor­ning, ma­da­me." Ca­su­al­ly, he adj­us­ted an or­na­ment on a si­de tab­le be­fo­re sa­ying, "His hig­h­ness has not yet rung for his cof­fee."

  Cor­de­lia smi­led. "Thank you. You may send El­sie to wa­ke me with my cho­co­la­te in ten mi­nu­tes."

  Mon­si­e­ur Bri­on bo­wed aga­in, and Cor­de­lia went in­to her own ro­om. She threw off the cham­ber ro­be and clim­bed in­to bed. The she­ets we­re cold. She pul­led up the co­ver­let and smi­led to her­self. She wo­uld not bre­ak. Now she wo­uld not bre­ak. She had the lo­ve of her li­fe. She knew what lo­ve was. And know­led­ge was po­wer. The know­led­ge of lo­ve wo­uld pro­tect her.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Cor­de­lia lay abed un­til ten o'clock that mor­ning. She was fil­led with a gre­at las­si­tu­de al­t­ho­ugh no de­si­re to sle­ep and co­uld see no re­ason to get up when lying dre­amily in bed was so ple­asant. Ho­we­ver, at ten o'clock she re­ce­ived a sum­mons to at­tend the da­up­hi­ne. In­do­len­ce va­nis­hed at the pros­pect of so­me pri­va­te con­ver­sa­ti­on with her fri­end af­ter the stiff for­ma­lity of the past we­eks. She was al­so in­ten­sely cu­ri­o­us abo­ut To­inet­te's ex­pe­ri­en­ces and im­p­res­si­ons of her own new hus­band, the da­up­hin.

  In dis­ha­bil­le she hur­ri­ed in­to the sa­lon to in­form her hus­band of the sum­mons. He was sit­ting at bre­ak­fast and lo­oked up as she en­te­red. His eyes slowly ran over her and she knew he was lo­oking for the marks he had left upon her the pre­vi­o­us night. He co­uld see the blue bru­ise on her che­ek­bo­ne, the se­ri­es of fin­ger bru­ises on her neck whe­re he'd held her down. And she saw the tri­um­p­hant sa­tis­fac­ti­on spark in his eyes.

  She re­tur­ned his scru­tiny with a co­ol con­tempt and, to her own sa­tis­fac­ti­on, saw puz­zle­ment rep­la­ce the gra­ti­fi­ca­ti­on in his ga­ze. She was sup­po­sed to be co­wed, bru­ised, de­fe­ated. And she wasn't. If an­y­t­hing, she was stron­ger than she'd ever be­en, and she knew that strength ra­di­ated from her.

  After a long mi­nu­te, she cur­t­si­ed de­li­be­ra­tely. "Go­od mor­ning, my lord." She held out the writ­ten sum­mons. "I am to vi­sit the da­up­hi­ne this mor­ning. I tho­ught you wo­uld wish to know."

  He to­ok the pa­per from her and cast his eye over the mes­sa­ge be­fo­re com­men­ting fri­gidly, "It is go­od that you re­ma­in in her fa­vor. I wo­uld not wish you to be­co­me a mem­ber of her ho­use­hold, that wo­uld oc­cupy you too much at co­urt, but you will en­su­re that she con­ti­nu­es to re­gard you with go­od­will."

  "She is my fri­end, my lord. Such fri­en­d­s­hips are not at the whim of po­li­tics." Her eyes flas­hed, her chin lif­ted. She lo­at­hed and des­pi­sed him, and she wo­uld let him see it.

  His brow dar­ke­ned. "Ha­ve you not as yet le­ar­ned the un­wis­dom of aro­using my an­ger, Cor­de­lia?"

  "The­re are so­me things I find it dif­fi­cult to le­arn, sir," she re­tor­ted, with anot­her in­so­lent curtsy.

  He ro­se from the tab­le and ca­me to stand over her and with grim tri­umph she saw the frus­t­ra­ti­on in his eyes. "You will le­arn," he sa­id softly. "Ma­ke no mis­ta­ke, my de­ar."

  "Did El­vi­ra aro­use yo­ur an­ger, sir?" She reg­ret­ted the words the in­s­tant they we­re spo­ken. She had pro­mi­sed Leo she wo­uldn't de­li­be­ra­tely pro­vo­ke Mic­ha­el to vi­olen­ce, but it was too la­te now. He struck her mo­uth with the flat of his hand.

  "You try my pa­ti­en­ce, ma­da­me."

  The slap had not be­en hard eno­ugh to do any da­ma­ge, but the shock and sen­se of vi­ola­ti­on still roc­ked her to her co­re. She co­uldn't ke­ep the dis­t­ress from her eyes, and she knew that he'd se­en it. She had no cho­ice but to le­ave him in pos­ses
­si­on of the fi­eld.

  "If you will ex­cu­se me, my lord, I will pre­pa­re myself to wa­it upon the da­up­hi­ne."

  Inste­ad of an­s­we­ring, he tur­ned from her and re­tur­ned to the tab­le. Cor­de­lia left the ro­om.

  In the pri­vacy of her cham­ber, she to­uc­hed her lips fle­etingly with her fin­ger­tips as she exa­mi­ned her­self in the glass. The­re was no swel­ling or bru­ising, but the bru­ise on her che­ek­bo­ne was very no­ti­ce­ab­le. Wo­uld it be best to try to co­ver it, or to le­ave it and in­vent so­me lie? To­inet­te wo­uld be bo­und to ask.

  "What gown sho­uld I put out, my lady?"

  Cor­de­lia jum­ped. She'd for­got­ten El­sie. The girl se­emed to fa­de in­to the wal­lpa­per when she wasn't ac­tu­al­ly do­ing so­met­hing. She sto­od now be­hind the ar­mo­ire, her hands twis­ting in her ap­ron, ra­di­ating an­xi­ety to ple­ase. Cor­de­lia for­ced her­self to smi­le. It wasn't the girl's fa­ult that she wasn't Mat­hil­de.

  "Let me see." She went her­self to the ar­mo­ire, rif­fling thro­ugh the con­tents. She ne­eded a gown that wo­uld co­ver her thro­at. The pre­va­iling fas­hi­on was for ex­t­re­me de­col­le­ta­ge, but she fo­und a ro­be a I'an­g­la­ise of saf­fron mus­lin over a gre­en sa­tin pet­ti­co­at. The gown had a wi­de la­ce ruf­fled col­lar and a mus­lin fic­hu that co­uld be used to con­ce­al a mul­ti­tu­de of sins.

  Elsie to­ok the gown re­ve­rently. "Will you be pow­de­ring yo­ur ha­ir, m'lady?"

  "No, it's not a fas­hi­on I ca­re for," Cor­de­lia sa­id. "On sta­te oc­ca­si­ons it has to be do­ne, but not for every day."

  "How tightly sho­uld I la­ce you, m'lady?" El­sie ap­pro­ac­hed with a cor­set.

  Cor­de­lia bit back a sigh. "I'll tell you when to stop. But fetch my stoc­kings first."

  "The whi­te silk ones."

 

‹ Prev