The Diamond Slipper

The Diamond Slipper Page 28

by Jane Feather

  He grab­bed her wrists be­hind his neck and bro­ke her grip as he pus­hed him­self up on­to his kne­es. She lay be­ne­ath him, her skirts lif­ted in a tent on the wi­de ho­op. She ga­zed up at him, her ton­gue mo­is­te­ning her lips, her eyes wild with ex­ci­te­ment, her che­eks pink. He threw her skirts up to her wa­ist, ba­ring her long cre­amy thighs en­cir­c­led by la­ce-ed­ged gar­ters, the thick curly bush at the ba­se of the smo­oth whi­te pla­ne of her belly, the sharp po­in­ted hip­bo­nes, the tight whorl of her na­vel.

  He fe­as­ted his eyes on the sight as she lay re­ady and wa­iting, her hips shif­ting eagerly, her thighs par­ting to re­ve­al the fa­int dew of aro­usal on the­ir sa­tiny in­ner slo­pes.

  Her fin­gers we­re busy on his brit­c­hes, un­but­to­ning him, as he knelt abo­ve her, her bre­ath co­ming swift and hot from her par­ted lips. His hard flesh sprang forth. She en­c­lo­sed him in her fist, hol­ding him, fe­eling the blo­od pul­sing in the thick cor­ded ve­ins. Her thumb brus­hed over the tip of the shaft whe­re the mo­ist drops of his own aro­usal gat­he­red. She smi­led up at him, ra­ised her hips, and gu­ided him in­si­de her. It was as if she had al­ways known how to do this.

  The cur­rent of joy at the­ir jo­ining le­aped thro­ugh them, so ex­p­lo­si­ve they both cri­ed out. Leo held him­self abo­ve her, his we­ight on his flat palms; his mo­uth ca­me down on hers, stif­ling the­ir cri­es. He mo­ved slowly wit­hin her, trying to pro­long the mo­ment yet kno­wing it was ho­pe­less. The­re was too much spon­ta­ne­o­us ex­ci­te­ment in this co­up­ling and no way he co­uld con­t­rol his own aro­usal let alo­ne Cor­de­lia's rip­pling con­vul­si­ons of ple­asu­re.

  "No… no," she whis­pe­red ur­gently aga­inst his mo­uth, sen­sing that he was go­ing to le­ave her. "Stay with me."

  He wan­ted to stay fo­re­ver in the he­avenly cham­ber of her body. He wan­ted to fe­el her joy aga­inst his flesh as his own burst from him. But ca­uti­on, pre­va­iled. He kis­sed her aga­in, hol­ding him­self on the ed­ge of her body as the wa­ve bro­ke over her, then he wit­h­d­rew from her just as his own cli­max rip­ped thro­ugh him. He fell he­avily upon her, tos­sed and tum­b­led in the sea of sen­sa­ti­on, his he­art be­ating wildly aga­inst his ribs so that Cor­de­lia co­uld fe­el its po­un­ding aga­inst her bo­som as if his he­art was trying to bre­ak thro­ugh flesh to jo­in with hers.

  She stro­ked his ha­ir, her eyes clo­sed on a warm red dar­k­ness. She was at pe­ace, as if she had co­me ho­me. Her body's pres­sing hun­ger had be­en for the mo­ment as­su­aged, and the lo­ve she felt for this man had fo­und ex­p­res­si­on. And she knew with the de­epest joy that his for her had be­en con­ta­ined in the lo­ving of his body.

  Slowly, Leo ra­ised his he­ad, pus­hed him­self back on­to his kne­es, and lo­oked down at her.

  She smi­led im­pishly. "I think I'm le­ar­ning this bu­si­ness very qu­ickly, don't you?" She ra­ised her arms abo­ve her he­ad and a ray of sun­s­hi­ne ca­ught the ser­pent bra­ce­let en­cir­c­ling her wrist. The di­amond slip­per glit­te­red aga­inst her whi­te skin.

  He to­ok her wrist, tur­ning it over as he exa­mi­ned the bra­ce­let. The ser­pent who tem­p­ted Eve. Eve who tem­p­ted Adam.

  But Leo had bit­ten the ap­ple with full know­led­ge of its con­se­qu­en­ces, and now this wo­man was in his he­art. He wo­uld lo­ve her and he wo­uld pro­tect her.

  "What are you thin­king? You lo­ok very stern." Al­most shyly, she to­uc­hed his mo­uth.

  He smi­led. "I was thin­king of the bur­dens of lo­ve," he sa­id lightly. "Co­me, get up and tidy yo­ur­self. You must le­ave -qu­ickly."

  Cor­de­lia swung her­self off the bed, stra­ig­h­te­ning her skirts. She ti­di­ed her di­sor­de­red ha­ir in the mir­ror. Her skin was tran­s­lu­cent, her lips red­de­ned, her eyes glo­wing. "I do lo­ok wan­ton," she sa­id in so­me awe.

  Leo ca­me up be­hind her. He pla­ced his hands on her sho­ul­ders and lo­oked in­to her eyes in the mir­ror. "You must not ta­ke risks, Cor­de­lia. Do you un­der­s­tand me?"

  "I won't ta­ke un­ne­ces­sary risks," she pro­mi­sed. "Did you find so­mew­he­re sa­fe for Mat­hil­de?"

  "She's with Chris­ti­an at his lod­gings in the town," he sa­id shortly. "I will con­t­ri­ve a me­eting for you la­ter."

  "You're cross aga­in," Cor­de­lia ac­cu­sed, tur­ning from the mir­ror. "I ha­te it when you're ve­xed with me."

  "Then do as I tell you," he sa­id as curtly as be­fo­re. "You are a very frus­t­ra­ting child."

  "No child," she sa­id with anot­her im­pish chuc­k­le. "Chil­d­ren don't know what I know." She re­ac­hed up to kiss him aga­in. "Chil­d­ren can't do what I can do." She whir­led to the do­or, blew him anot­her kiss over her sho­ul­der, and va­nis­hed, le­aving him sha­king his he­ad at empty spa­ce.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Mic­ha­el was wa­iting for her when she re­tur­ned to the­ir apar­t­ments. "Just whe­re ha­ve you be­en?" His fa­ce was dark and she felt the ba­rely con­t­rol­led thre­at be­hind his words. It was not dif­fi­cult to he­ed Leo's war­ning. Ho­we­ver much she was pre­pa­red to defy Mic­ha­el, she co­uldn't be­ar him to stri­ke her aga­in.

  She cur­t­si­ed po­li­tely. "I was sum­mo­ned to the da­up­hi­ne, my lord. As I told you."

  "You left the ro­yal apar­t­ments over an ho­ur ago," he sta­ted, co­ming to­ward her. "I sent a fo­ot­man to in­qu­ire and to es­cort you back he­re. He was told you had al­re­ady left."

  It se­emed she was al­ways to be un­der ob­ser­va­ti­on. "After I left Her Hig­h­ness, I went for a walk in the gar­dens, sir. The­re was no ti­me to vi­ew them yes­ter­day."

  Mic­ha­el didn't know whet­her to be­li­eve her or not. She was lo­oking a lit­tle dis­he­ve­led, her ha­ir lo­oser than it sho­uld be, the ruf­fles on her sle­eves tur­ned back. "You are un­tidy, ma­da­me. It do­es not su­it my pri­de for my wi­fe to be se­en ab­ro­ad lo­oking as if she had slept in her clot­hes."

  It was such a won­der­ful­ly apt com­pa­ri­son in the cir­cum­s­tan­ces that Cor­de­lia wan­ted to la­ugh des­pi­te her­self. Ho­we­ver, this si­tu­ati­on did not war­rant amu­se­ment. "The wind was brisk, sir. And when I re­ali­zed that I had be­en out over-long, I hur­ri­ed back. I ima­gi­ne that's why I'm so­mew­hat di­sor­de­red."

  Des­pi­te her po­li­te­ness, her for­mal cur­t­si­es, Mic­ha­el was not con­vin­ced that he had fi­nal­ly sub­du­ed her. The­re was so­met­hing be­ne­ath the sur­fa­ce of tho­se bril­li­ant blue eyes that dis­tur­bed him.

  Elvi­ra had ta­ught him to be alert to all the tricks and wi­les of a be­a­uti­ful wo­man. To know that when they plot­ted de­ce­it, they we­re at the­ir most in­no­cent.

  "If you wo­uld ex­cu­se me, sir, I'll go my bed­c­ham­ber to tidy myself." She exe­cu­ted anot­her per­fect curtsy.

  Mic­ha­el re­gar­ded her coldly. She lo­oked up and met his ga­ze with a sta­re as un­f­lin­c­hing and pe­net­ra­ting as his, and he knew he'd be­en right. She was far from sub­du­ed.

  "Go. We le­ave for the ope­ra in half an ho­ur." He tur­ned away with a con­tem­p­tu­o­us ges­tu­re of dis­mis­sal. Cor­de­lia went in­to her own bed­c­ham­ber to sum­mon the hap­less El­sie.

  When she re­tur­ned to the sa­lon, Prin­ce Mic­ha­el was at the sec­re­ta­ire, wri­ting. Cor­de­lia pa­used in the do­or­way. She didn't think he was yet awa­re of her. She wat­c­hed, al­most hol­ding her bre­ath. Was he wri­ting in his jo­ur­nal aga­in?

  Sud­denly, he tur­ned, his ex­p­res­si­on as dark as be­fo­re. "Why are you cre­eping aro­und?"

  "I wasn't. I just en­te­red the ro­om. I didn't wish to dis­turb you."

  He tur­ned back to sand the she­et and clo­sed the bo­ok with a snap. Cor­d
e­lia to­ok a step clo­ser. It was a led­ger. "Do you ke­ep track of the ho­use­hold ac­co­unts, sir?" She was so sur­p­ri­sed that the qu­es­ti­on pop­ped out be­fo­re she ga­ve it due tho­ught.

  "When I fe­el the ne­ed," he sa­id, and she co­uld see that he was coldly fu­ri­o­us, but for on­ce not with her. "When I sen­se so­me dis­c­re­pancy in my wi­ne ship­per's bill. When the wi­ne I drink do­esn't match with the wi­ne I've bo­ught." He snat­c­hed up the led­ger, loc­ked it in the dra­wer of the sec­re­ta­ire, and stro­de ac­ross to his dres­sing ro­om. The do­or ban­ged shut be­hind him.

  Was Mon­si­e­ur Bri­on rob­bing his mas­ter? All ser­vants did it as a mat­ter of co­ur­se. A few bot­tles he­re and the­re wo­uld go un­no­ti­ced in most aris­toc­ra­tic ho­use­holds. But su­rely Bri­on wo­uldn't ha­ve be­en stu­pid eno­ugh to le­ave tra­ces for the prin­ce? Per­haps Mic­ha­el just sus­pec­ted it. If so, he'd lo­ok for pro­of.

  Mic­ha­el re­tur­ned, his ex­p­res­si­on as cold and re­mo­te as be­fo­re. He of­fe­red her his arm and they left the apar­t­ments to jo­in the throng hur­rying to the ope­ra ho­use in or­der to be at the­ir pla­ces be­fo­re the ro­yal party ar­ri­ved.

  In every bay in the co­lon­na­ded ope­ra ho­use hung a half chan­de­li­er aga­inst the sur­fa­ce of a mir­ro­red bac­k­d­rop so that the ref­lec­ti­on of­fe­red a com­p­le­te il­lu­mi­na­ted pi­ece. The audi­to­ri­um was ab­la­ze with light from fo­ur­te­en mas­si­ve crystal chan­de­li­ers sus­pen­ded on blue ro­pe to match the cold co­balt blue of the the­ater han­gings. Cor­de­lia was ac­cus­to­med to mag­ni­fi­cen­ce, but she had no words to des­c­ri­be this sce­ne. The co­ur­ti­ers of both se­xes se­emed to scin­til­la­te as the­ir jewe­led gar­ments and rich ador­n­ments ca­ught the light. The buzz of vo­ices ro­se to the ex­qu­isi­tely pa­in­ted ce­iling, drow­ning out the strings from the or­c­hes­t­ra pit as the mem­bers of the or­c­hes­t­ra tu­ned the­ir in­s­t­ru­ments.

  The prin­ce was res­pon­ding to gre­etings as they ma­de slow prog­ress to the­ir own box. Cor­de­lia cur­t­si­ed, mur­mu­red her own sa­lu­ta­ti­ons, her eyes mis­sing not­hing.

  The­ir com­pa­ni­ons in the box we­re al­re­ady se­ated, but the two front se­ats had be­en left for the prin­ce and prin­cess. She sat on the low cus­hi­oned sto­ol spe­ci­al­ly de­sig­ned to ac­com­mo­da­te her wi­de ho­op, ar­ran­ged her skirts, ope­ned her fan, and lo­oked aro­und. Mic­ha­el was in con­ver­sa­ti­on with the­ir com­pa­ni­ons, so for the mo­ment she was unob­ser­ved.

  She saw Chris­ti­an strol­ling thro­ugh the pit, and her he­art jum­ped. She le­aned over the vel­vet-pad­ded ra­il of the box, fan­ning her­self in­do­lently, the pa­in­ted chic­ken skin of the fan fa­cing her hus­band so that he co­uldn't see her fa­ce. Chris­ti­an lo­oked up and she sig­na­led fran­ti­cal­ly with her eyes. His own lit up and he be­gan to push his way to­ward her box. Just in ti­me he re­mem­be­red and stop­ped in his tracks. His eyes, fil­led with frus­t­ra­ted ra­ge, mo­ved to her hus­band. Cor­de­lia re­ali­zed with a start that her gen­t­le-tem­pe­red, pes­si­mis­ti­cal­ly fa­ta­lis­tic fri­end was re­ady to do mur­der. Pre­su­mably he knew the full truth if he now sha­red a ro­of with Mat­hil­de.

  Embar­ras­sment flo­oded her. How co­uld she be­ar that pe­op­le sho­uld know of her nightly hu­mi­li­ati­ons? She who had al­ways be­en so un­fa­ilingly op­ti­mis­tic, so self-con­fi­dent, so much the stron­ger par­t­ner in her fri­en­d­s­hips. But Chris­ti­an was not pe­op­le, she re­min­ded her­self. To­inet­te was not pe­op­le. They we­re her fri­ends and the­re was not­hing sha­me­ful abo­ut de­pen­ding on fri­en­d­s­hip for com­fort and sup­port. She didn't al­ways ha­ve to be the strong one; she co­uld show we­ak­ness too.

  She mo­ut­hed a mes­sa­ge to Chris­ti­an and he nod­ded with a qu­ick duc­king mo­ve­ment of his he­ad. Then he tur­ned and pus­hed back in­to the pit.

  Leo Be­a­umont step­ped in­to a box op­po­si­te. He tur­ned and sa­id so­met­hing to a lady in a crim­son tur­ban, spor­ting pe­acock fe­at­hers with di­amonds and tur­qu­o­ises for the eyes. She la­ug­hed and Cor­de­lia co­uld he­ar her high-pit­c­hed whinny as she tap­ped the vis­co­unt's wrist with her fan. Leo me­rely smi­led and set­tled in­to his se­at. Pun­c­ti­li­o­usly, he bo­wed to­ward Mic­ha­el's box. Mic­ha­el re­tur­ned the sa­lu­te; Cor­de­lia bob­bed her he­ad. She co­uld fe­el Leo's ten­si­on on every cur­rent of air that cros­sed the spa­ce bet­we­en them.

  Mic­ha­el, ho­we­ver, se­emed qu­ite una­wa­re that the­re we­re two men in the ope­ra ho­use pre­pa­red to chal­len­ge him to the de­ath. Ca­su­al­ly, he to­ok a snuf­fbox from his poc­ket. Cor­de­lia had spent her li­fe at co­urt and knew that co­urt ru­les for­ba­de any pub­lic en­mity bet­we­en co­ur­ti­ers. It wo­uld be an in­sult to the king. Men met so­ci­al­ly, al­ways the epi­to­me of co­ur­tesy, whi­le mur­de­ro­us hat­red fre­qu­ently sim­me­red be­ne­ath the af­fab­le sur­fa­ce.

  The ar­ri­val of the ro­yal party put an end to the­se ref­lec­ti­ons as she ro­se with the rest of the audi­en­ce. The king and his fa­mily to­ok the­ir pla­ces in the ro­yal box, the co­urt sat down aga­in, the mu­sic be­gan.

  It was a te­di­o­us ope­ra, the mu­sic he­avy and bo­ring. The chan­de­li­ers we­re kept alight thro­ug­ho­ut so that pe­op­le-wat­c­hing ra­pidly be­ca­me the chi­ef en­ter­ta­in­ment as the per­for­man­ce lum­be­red along on the sta­ge. To­inet­te was lo­oking very bo­red, fid­ge­ting in her cha­ir, whis­pe­ring to her com­pa­ni­ons.

  Cor­de­lia al­lo­wed her tho­ughts to run along the­ir own chan­nels un­til the in­ter­lu­de of bal­let at the end of the first act. To­inet­te, who ado­red dan­cing, al­so sat up, le­aning for­ward to watch at­ten­ti­vely.

  It was a char­ming pi­ece, but Cor­de­lia was par­ti­cu­larly struck by one yo­ung dan­cer's so­lo. The girl was ex­qu­isi­te, da­inty, and an ex­cel­lent bal­le­ri­na. Cor­de­lia le­aned over the ed­ge of the box. Chris­ti­an was sit­ting rapt in the first row of the pit, just be­hind the or­c­hes­t­ra. Cor­de­lia re­cog­ni­zed the tilt of his he­ad and knew that he was lost to the world, every fi­ber of his be­ing con­cen­t­ra­ted on the mu­sic… and per­haps al­so the sta­ge.

  Co­uld his at­ten­ti­on al­so be held by the dan­cer? she won­de­red with a sur­ge of in­te­rest. It wo­uld be a won­der­ful par­t­ner­s­hip. Chris­ti­an's mu­sic and the girl's in­s­pi­red dan­cing. May­be mo­re than a wor­king par­t­ner­s­hip, she ca­ught her­self thin­king. Chris­ti­an ne­eded so­me­one to ca­re for him, to lo­ve him for his ge­ni­us and his gen­t­le­ness and sha­ke him out of his pes­si­mis­tic glo­oms. And she wo­uldn't al­ways be aro­und to do it. Not if Leo to­ok her away… Her fin­gers cur­led in­to her palms and she bre­at­hed de­eply for a mi­nu­te.

  "Do you not find that dan­cer very ta­len­ted, sir?" she ob­ser­ved to the man sit­ting be­hind her. "Do­es she dan­ce of­ten for the co­urt?"

  "She's be­en for­tu­na­te eno­ugh to catch the king's eye," the Due de Fev­re told her.

  His duc­hess chuc­k­led be­hind her fan. "And we all know what that me­ans. The lit­tle Clot­hil­de is on her way to a ni­ce lit­tle bil­let in the Pa­re aux Cerfs."

  The king's pri­va­te bor­del­lo-that wo­uld not su­it Cor­de­lia's ten­ta­ti­ve plans at all.

  "She co­mes of a very res­pec­tab­le and de­vo­ut mer­c­hant fa­mily, I'm told," Prin­ce Mic­ha­el re­mar­ked. "I un­der­s­tand her fat­her is very re­sis­tant to her ap­pe­aring on the sta­ge, and one can only ima­gi­ne how he wo­uld vi­ew her re­si­ding in the Pa­re aux Cerfs, even with the king as lo­ver."

  "But da­re a man defy his so­ve­re­ign?"
the du­ke sa­id. "Dro­it de se­ig­ne­ur…" His rat­her squ­e­aky tit­ter was un­p­le­asant.

  "Aren't the girls se­lec­ted by Ma­da­me du Barry?" Cor­de­lia in­qu­ired, her eyes wi­de over her fan.

  "The king usu­al­ly sta­tes a pre­fe­ren­ce, ma­da­me," the duc­hess in­for­med her.

  Cor­de­lia co­uld tell that Mic­ha­el wasn't too happy with the to­ne of the con­ver­sa­ti­on. He mo­ved res­t­les­sly in his se­at, his mo­uth pur­sed and tight. "Do you enj­oy the bal­let, my lord?" she in­qu­ired, trying for a de­mu­re lit­tle smi­le.

  "I find I pre­fer the ope­ra," he sa­id as ple­asantly as be­ho­oved a man who knew ap­pe­aran­ces must be ma­in­ta­ined.

  "Per­se­us in par­ti­cu­lar, sir, or ope­ra in ge­ne­ral?" She pli­ed her fan.

  Mic­ha­el's an­s­wer was lost as a fo­ot­man ar­ri­ved in the box. "Her Hig­h­ness the Da­up­hi­ne re­qu­ests the ple­asu­re of the com­pany of Prin­ce and Prin­cess von Sac­h­sen."

  Mic­ha­el lo­oked for on­ce ap­pro­ving. Cor­de­lia ro­se, re­ve­ling in the mis­c­hi­evo­us tho­ught that he might ap­pro­ve of his wi­fe's in­f­lu­en­ce when it ca­me to the no­ti­ce of the da­up­hi­ne, but when he he­ard whe­re el­se it had led, he was go­ing to be very dis­com­po­sed. But he wo­uldn't be ab­le to bla­me her.

  She pla­ced her hand on his prof­fe­red arm, and they pro­ce­eded to the ro­yal box, the flunky cle­aring the way for them with bo­oming sho­uts of "Ma­ke way for Prin­ce and Prin­cess von Sac­h­sen." On sta­ge the bal­let con­ti­nu­ed with or wit­ho­ut the at­ten­ti­on of its audi­en­ce.

  The king gre­eted Mic­ha­el ami­ably and of­fe­red his hand to Cor­de­lia with a che­er­ful "Ah, the ot­her lit­tle Vi­en­ne­se. Prin­cess von Sac­h­sen, the card pla­yer par ex­cel­len­ce. You sho­uld know that I find myself very well ple­ased with tho­se who co­me from Schon­b­runn." Cor­de­lia cur­t­si­ed and kis­sed his hand. The da­up­hin gre­eted her with a stiff nod that de­no­ted ill ease rat­her than ar­ro­gan­ce. To­inet­te ga­ve her her hand to kiss.

 

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