"Cor­de­lia, I was do­ing that prob­lem!" he pro­tes­ted. "How da­re you swe­ep it away li­ke that?"

  "Oh, I do beg yo­ur par­don." She lo­oked up at him thro­ugh her ha­ir. "I didn't me­an to be dis­co­ur­te­o­us, but I tho­ught you ag­re­ed to play a ga­me." Aga­in, he was cer­ta­in that she was be­ha­ving wit­ho­ut ar­ti­fi­ce. This was the im­pe­tu­o­us, high-spi­ri­ted Cor­de­lia who had thrown flo­wers at a stran­ger from an up­s­ta­irs win­dow.

  "I did not ag­ree to an­y­t­hing. You didn't gi­ve me a chan­ce to vo­ice an opi­ni­on," he snap­ped. "Put tho­se pi­eces down and go to bed at on­ce." He smac­ked the back of her hand as she pla­ced the black king on its squ­are.

  "Ow." Cor­de­lia lo­oked inj­ured, rub­bing her hand. "The­re was no ne­ed to do that. And why sho­uld we both sit alo­ne and sle­ep­less, when we can do so­met­hing ple­asant that will ta­ke our minds off the things that are ma­king it dif­fi­cult to sle­ep?"

  She so­un­ded so ra­ti­onal, her ex­p­res­si­on ra­di­ating be­wil­de­red hurt, that Leo felt the now fa­mi­li­ar bub­ble of in­con­ve­ni­ent la­ug­h­ter for­ming in his chest. La­ug­h­ter and the equ­al­ly fa­mi­li­ar sur­ge of de­si­re at the li­nes of her body be­ne­ath the thin shift. Whi­le he was strug­gling for com­po­su­re, Cor­de­lia to­ok ad­van­ta­ge of his mo­men­tary di­sad­van­ta­ge. She ho­oked a sto­ol with her toe and plun­ked her­self down be­fo­re the ches­sbo­ard. Re­mo­ving a black and a whi­te pawn, she held them in clen­c­hed fists be­hind her back, jug­gling them, be­fo­re stret­c­hing her hands out to him.

  "Which hand do you cho­se, my lord?"

  It se­emed that short of bo­dily re­mo­ving her, he was des­ti­ned to play chess with her. Har­m­less eno­ugh, su­rely? Re­sig­ned, he tap­ped her clo­sed right hand.

  "You drew black!" she dec­la­red with a no­te of tri­umph that he re­cog­ni­zed from the af­ter­no­on's di­cing. "That me­ans I ha­ve the first mo­ve." She tur­ned the chess tab­le so that the whi­te pi­eces we­re in front of her and mo­ved pawn to king fo­ur. Then she sat back, re­gar­ding him ex­pec­tantly.

  "Unu­su­al mo­ve," he com­men­ted iro­ni­cal­ly, pla­ying the co­un­ter­mo­ve.

  "I li­ke to play sa­fe ope­nings," she con­fi­ded, brin­ging out her qu­e­en's pawn. "Then when the bo­ard opens up, I can be­co­me un­con­ven­ti­onal."

  "Go­od God! You me­an the­re's one ac­ti­vity you ac­tu­al­ly cho­ose to play by the bo­ok! You as­to­und me, Cor­de­lia!"

  Cor­de­lia me­rely grin­ned and bro­ught out her qu­e­en's knight in res­pon­se to his pawn chal­len­ge.

  They pla­yed in si­len­ce and Leo was suf­fi­ci­ently ab­sor­bed in the ga­me to be ab­le to clo­se his mind to her scan­tily clad pre­sen­ce ac­ross from him. She pla­yed a go­od ga­me, but he had the ed­ge, ma­inly be­ca­use she to­ok risks with a deg­ree of aban­don.

  Cor­de­lia frow­ned over the bo­ard, che­wing her bot­tom lip. Her last gam­b­le had be­en a mis­ta­ke, and she co­uld see se­ri­o­us dan­ger in the next se­ve­ral mo­ves if she co­uldn't pla­ce her qu­e­en out of harm's way. If only she co­uld in­ter­cept with a pawn, but no­ne of her pawns we­re in the pro­per po­si­ti­on, un­less…

  "What was that no­ise?"

  "What no­ise?" Leo lo­oked up, star­t­led at the so­und of her vo­ice bre­aking the long si­len­ce.

  "Over the­re. In the cor­ner. A sort of scrab­bling." She ges­tu­red to the far cor­ner of the ro­om. Leo tur­ned to lo­ok. When he lo­oked back at the bo­ard, her pawn had be­en ne­atly di­ver­ted and now pro­tec­ted her qu­e­en.

  Leo didn't no­ti­ce im­me­di­ately. "Pro­bably a mo­use," he sa­id. "The wo­od­work's ali­ve with them."

  "I ho­pe it's not a rat," she sa­id with an exag­ge­ra­ted shi­ver, and con­s­pi­cu­o­usly uni­ted her ro­oks. "Let's see if that will help."

  It was Leo's turn to frown now. So­met­hing had chan­ged on the bo­ard in front of him. It didn't lo­ok the way he re­mem­be­red it, but he co­uldn't see… and then he did.

  Slowly, he re­ac­hed out and pic­ked up the de­vi­ated pawn. He ra­ised his eyes and lo­oked ac­ross at her. Cor­de­lia was flus­hing, so tran­s­pa­rently gu­ilty he wan­ted to la­ugh aga­in.

  "If you must che­at, why don't you do it pro­perly," he sa­id con­ver­sa­ti­onal­ly, re­tur­ning the pawn to its ori­gi­nal po­si­ti­on. "You in­sult my in­tel­li­gen­ce to ima­gi­ne that I wo­uldn't no­ti­ce. Do you think I'm blind?"

  Cor­de­lia sho­ok her he­ad, her che­eks still pink. "It's not re­al­ly pos­sib­le to che­at at chess, but I do so ha­te to lo­se. I can't se­em to help it."

  "Well, I ha­ve news for you. You are go­ing to le­arn to help it." He rep­la­ced her ro­oks in the­ir pre­vi­o­us po­si­ti­on. "We are go­ing to play this ga­me to the bit­ter end and you are go­ing to lo­se it. It's yo­ur mo­ve, and as I see it, you can't help but sac­ri­fi­ce yo­ur qu­e­en."

  Cor­de­lia sta­red fu­ri­o­usly at the pi­eces. She co­uldn't bring her­self to ma­ke the only mo­ve she had, the one that wo­uld me­an sur­ren­de­ring her qu­e­en. Wit­ho­ut it she wo­uld be hel­p­less; be­si­des, it was a symbo­lic pi­ece. She wo­uld be ac­k­now­led­ging she'd lost on­ce she ga­ve it up. "Oh, very well," she sa­id crossly. "I sup­po­se you win. The­re's no ne­ed to play fur­t­her."

  Leo sho­ok his he­ad. He co­uld re­ad her tho­ughts as if they we­re writ­ten in black ink. Cor­de­lia was the worst kind of lo­ser. She co­uldn't be­ar to play to a loss. "The­re's every ne­ed. Now ma­ke yo­ur mo­ve."

  Her hand mo­ved to ta­ke the qu­e­en and then she wit­h­d­rew it. "But the­re's no po­int."

  "The po­int, my de­ar Cor­de­lia, is that you are go­ing to play this ga­me to its con­c­lu­si­on. Right up to the mo­ment when you top­ple yo­ur king and ac­k­now­led­ge de­fe­at. Now mo­ve."

  "Oh, very well." She shot out her hand, half ri­sing on her sto­ol, le­aning over the bo­ard as if it to­ok her who­le body to mo­ve the small wo­oden car­ving. Her kne­es ca­ught the ed­ge of the tab­le, top­pling it, and the en­ti­re ga­me di­sin­teg­ra­ted, pi­eces tum­b­ling to the car­pet. "Oh, what a nu­isan­ce!" Has­tily, she ste­adi­ed the roc­king tab­le.

  "Why, of all the gra­ce­less, brat­tish, me­an-spi­ri­ted things to do!" Leo, fu­ri­o­us, le­aped up. Le­aning over the des­t­ro­yed bo­ard, he grab­bed her sho­ul­ders, half sha­king, half ha­uling her to­ward him.

  "But I didn't do it on pur­po­se!" Cor­de­lia ex­c­la­imed. "Inde­ed I didn't. It was an ac­ci­dent."

  "You ex­pect me to be­li­eve that?" He jer­ked her hard to­ward him, al­most lif­ting her over the bo­ard, un­su­re what he in­ten­ded do­ing with her, but for the mo­ment lost in di­sap­po­in­ted an­ger that she co­uld do so­met­hing so ma­li­ci­o­us and chil­dish. Cor­de­lia's pro­tes­ta­ti­ons of in­no­cen­ce grew ever mo­re vo­ci­fe­ro­us.

  Then mat­ters be­ca­me very con­fu­sed. He was sha­king her, she was yel­ling, his mo­uth was on hers. Her yells ce­ased. His hands we­re hard on her arms, and her body was pres­sed aga­inst his. Her mo­uth, al­re­ady open on her in­dig­nant cri­es, wel­co­med the plun­ging thrust of his ton­gue. Her hands mo­ved down his body. With an in­s­tin­c­ti­ve cer­ta­inty of what was right, she grip­ped his but­tocks thro­ugh the dark silk of his brit­c­hes. The hard bul­ge of his erect flesh jut­ted aga­inst her lo­ins, and she mo­ved her body ur­gently aga­inst his as her ton­gue dro­ve in­to his mo­uth on her own vo­ya­ge of ex­p­lo­ra­ti­on, de­man­ding, tas­ting, wan­ting. She was awa­re of not­hing but the wan­ting-an over­po­we­ring ti­dal wa­ve of de­si­re that throb­bed in her lo­ins, ra­ced thro­ugh her blo­od, po­un­ded in her pul­ses. Ever­y­t­hing she had felt be­fo­re was but a fa­int sha­dow of this wild, aban­do­ned hun­ger.

  Leo fo­ught for cla­rity, but he co­uld fe­el every li­ne of her body un­der his hands. Her skin bur­ned be­ne­ath her shift, he­ating his palms as he ran them over her, le­ar­ning the sha­pe of her, her cur­ves and her in­den­ta­ti­ons. He grip­ped the lo­ose ma­te­ri­al at the back of the gar­ment and pul­led it tight so that her body was mol­ded by the li­nen. He lo­oked down at the pink glow of her bre­asts be­ne­ath the whi­te, the hard crowns jut­ting aga­inst the ma­te­ri­al, the dark sha­dow at the apex of her thighs. And all ho­pe of cla­rity was lost to him.

  Her lips we­re par­ted, her bre­ath swift as he exa­mi­ned her sha­pe. She put her hands on her hips and lif­ted her he­ad with a chal­len­ging tri­umph, her eyes scor­c­hing with the­ir pas­si­on and hun­ger. With a ras­ping bre­ath, he drag­ged the shift over her he­ad and put his hands on her body. His ca­res­ses we­re ro­ugh and ur­gent, and she met each hard stro­ke with a swift in­d­rawn bre­ath of aro­usal, thrus­ting her body at him, wan­ting him to to­uch every inch of her, to brand her skin with his mark.

  She fell back ac­ross the chess tab­le un­der the pres­su­re of his body. The sharp ed­ges of the fal­len pi­eces pres­sed in­to her ba­re back but she didn't no­ti­ce, ca­ught up in the red mist of this wild de­si­re. Her hips lif­ted for the hands, now ca­res­sing her in­ner thighs, ope­ning her pe­ta­led cen­ter, fin­ding the ex­qu­isi­tely sen­si­ti­ve co­re of her pas­si­on. The wa­ves bu­ilt in her belly, bu­ilt to an un­be­arab­le cres­cen­do when she tho­ught she wo­uld die. And then she did, top­pling slowly from a scar­let he­ight of ec­s­tasy in­to a soft blac­k­ness that le­ac­hed every oun­ce of strength from her body, and she co­uld he­ar her own sob­bing cri­es of aban­do­ned de­light.

  Leo held her aga­inst him as the shud­de­ring joy con­vul­sed her, his hands un­der her back as she spraw­led ac­ross the chess tab­le. He held her un­til her eyes ope­ned and she smi­led, her fa­ce tran­s­fi­gu­red with a won­d­ro­us ra­di­an­ce.

  "What did you do to me?"

  "Swe­et Jesus!" He slid his flat palms out from un­der her and stra­ig­h­te­ned. His gol­den eyes we­re al­most black as he sta­red down at her, spre­ade­ag­led in such wan­ton aban­don ac­ross the tab­le.

  "For God's sa­ke, get up!" His vo­ice was harsh. He pul­led her up­right on­to her fe­et. "Put yo­ur shift on." He pus­hed her to­ward the whi­te crum­p­led gar­ment on the flo­or. The de­ep im­p­rints of the chess pi­eces we­re on her back as she bent to pick up the shift. "I don't be­li­eve myself," he mut­te­red, awa­re of his own aro­usal now as a pa­in­ful ne­ed.

  Cor­de­lia tur­ned back to him, clut­c­hing the shift to her bo­som. "I still don't un­der­s­tand what hap­pe­ned." Her eyes we­re be­wil­de­red be­ne­ath the still-misty ra­di­an­ce of ful­fil­lment. "We didn't-"

  "No, we didn't," he in­ter­rup­ted harshly. "But what I did was bad eno­ugh. For pity's sa­ke, go to bed, Cor­de­lia, and le­ave me alo­ne."

  For on­ce her im­pul­si­ve pro­test di­ed on her lips. She tur­ned back to the ga­ping bo­ok­s­hel­ves, still clut­c­hing her shift. He tri­ed not to ga­ze at the long swe­ep of her back, the per­fectly ro­un­ded bot­tom, the slen­der length of her thighs. He tri­ed, but fa­iled.

  At the bo­ok­s­helf she sa­id over her sho­ul­der. "I re­al­ly didn't in­tend to knock over the bo­ard. It was truly an ac­ci­dent."

  "It do­esn't mat­ter," he sa­id we­arily.

  "But it do­es. I don't want you to think that I'd do so­met­hing that des­pi­cab­le." She had one hand on the shelf, her ear­nest ga­ze se­eking his.

  Leo ga­ve a harsh crack of la­ug­h­ter. "My de­ar girl, in the list of the eve­ning's des­pi­cab­le events, that one is hardly worth con­si­de­ring."

  "That wasn't des­pi­cab­le," she sa­id, her vo­ice very low. "Not­hing so won­der­ful co­uld be wrong."

  Leo clo­sed his eyes. "You don't know what you're sa­ying," he sa­id. "Now, go to bed."

  Cor­de­lia slip­ped thro­ugh the gap in­to her own cham­ber and pus­hed the shelf back in pla­ce. She ne­eded Mat­hil­de's wis­dom, but it wo­uld ha­ve to wa­it un­til the mor­ning. She fell in­to bed, as limp as a kit­ten, and was as­le­ep in se­conds.

  Chapter Eight

  Dawn stre­aked the sky when Mat­hil­de en­te­red Cor­de­lia's bed­c­ham­ber ac­com­pa­ni­ed by a ma­id car­rying a ewer of ste­aming hot wa­ter. The girl set this on the dres­ser be­fo­re tur­ning to re­kin­d­le the fi­re aga­inst the early mor­ning chill.

  Cor­de­lia slept on be­hind the bed­cur­ta­ins as Mat­hil­de la­id out her ri­ding ha­bit and re­pac­ked the trunk with the clot­hes she'd worn the pre­vi­o­us day.

  "Bring the prin­cess a pot of cof­fee, girl. She'll ne­ed so­met­hing to warm her; the­re's a nip in the air."

  The ma­id cur­t­si­ed and left the cham­ber, whe­re the fi­re now bur­ned brightly. Mat­hil­de drew back the bed­cur­ta­ins.

  "Wa­ke up now, child. The bell for pri­me rang so­me ten mi­nu­tes ago and bre­ak­fast is to be at se­ven in the gre­at hall."

  Cor­de­lia rol­led on­to her back and ope­ned her eyes. For a mo­ment she won­de­red whe­re she was. Then the wa­ve of me­mory bro­ke over her. She sat up, rub­bed her eyes, and lo­oked ru­eful­ly at Mat­hil­de.

  "I'm in lo­ve."

  "Holy Mary, not with that yo­ung mu­si­ci­an, I trust!" Mat­hil­de ex­c­la­imed. "He's a ni­ce eno­ugh lad, but not for the li­kes of you, m'de­ar."

  "No, not Chris­ti­an." Cor­de­lia sat cross-leg­ged on the bed. "The vis­co­unt."

  "Holy Mot­her!" Mat­hil­de cros­sed her­self. "And sin­ce when has this hap­pe­ned?"

  "Oh, sin­ce first I saw him. I be­li­eve he fe­els so­met­hing for me too, but he won't say so."

  "I sho­uld ho­pe not. What ho­no­rab­le man wo­uld dec­la­re his fe­elings for anot­her man's wi­fe?" Mat­hil­de pus­hed a lo­ose gray lock back be­ne­ath her star­c­hed cap.

  "Mat­hil­de, I don't wish to be mar­ri­ed to my hus­band," Cor­de­lia sa­id with low-vo­iced in­ten­sity.

  "Well, the­re's not­hing to be do­ne abo­ut it, girl. It was the sa­me with yo­ur mot­her. It's the sa­me with most wo­men of yo­ur class. They marry whe­re ad­van­ta­ge le­ads them, not the­ir he­arts."

  "Men's ad­van­ta­ge," sa­id Cor­de­lia bit­terly, and Mat­hil­de didn't con­t­ra­dict her. "My mot­her didn't lo­ve my fat­her?"

  Mat­hil­de sho­ok her he­ad. "No, yo­ur mot­her lo­ved out­si­de her mar­ri­age, and she lo­ved with all her he­art. But she did not­hing to be as­ha­med of." Mat­hil­de ra­ised a war­ning fo­re­fin­ger. "She was ho­nest to her de­at­h­bed."

  "But un­hap­py?"

  Mat­hil­de pur­sed her lips then she sig­hed and nod­ded. "Yes, child. Des­pe­ra­tely so. But she knew whe­re her duty lay, and so will you."

  Cor­de­lia be­gan to mas­sa­ge her fe­et, frow­ning fi­er­cely. "My mot­her sta­yed at the Aus­t­ri­an co­urt. The­re's no fre­edom the­re. Per­haps if she'd be­en at Ver­sa­il­les-"

  "No, don't you be thin­king any such thing," in­ter­rup­ted Mat­hil­de. "You'll be in tro­ub­le wor­se than a sna­ke pit, thin­king li­ke that."

  "I think I al­re­ady am," Cor­de­lia sa­id slowly, pus­hing her thumbs hard in­to the so­le of her fo­ot, ke­eping her eyes on her task.

  Mat­hil­de sat down he­avily on the end of the bed, her fa­ce grim. "What are you sa­ying, child? Has the vis­co­unt had know­led­ge of you?"

  "Yes and no." Cor­de­lia lo­oked up, flus­hing, bi­ting her bot­tom lip. "What you told me hap­pe­ned on the mar­ri­age bed didn't hap­pen, but he to­uc­hed me in… in very in­ti­ma­te ways and… and so­met­hing won­der­ful hap­pe­ned to me. But I don't un­der­s­tand qu­ite what."

  "Mercy me!" Mat­hil­de threw up her hands. "Tell me what hap­pe­ned."

  Cor­de­lia did so, so­mew­hat hal­tingly, her fa­ce bur­ning even tho­ugh Mat­hil­de had ca­red for her sin­ce in­fancy and knew all her most in­ti­ma­te sec­rets. "But if what we did was not in­ter­co­ur­se, Mat­hil­de, what was it?" she fi­nis­hed.

  Mat­hil­de sig­hed. This si­tu­ati­on was mo­re tro­ub­le­so­me than if her nur­s­ling had lost her vir­gi­nity in an ex­p­lo­si­on of pas­si­on. Ini­ti­ati­on was ra­rely ple­asu­rab­le ho­we­ver pas­si­ona­te, and was un­li­kely to en­co­ura­ge re­pe­ti­ti­on. But true ple­asu­ring on­ce ex­pe­ri­en­ced was a dif­fe­rent mat­ter.

  "The­re are so­me men who are wil­ling and know how to ple­asu­re a wo­man, child. But for the most part, they're not in­te­res­ted in mo­re than the­ir own sa­tis­fac­ti­on. You'd best put what hap­pe­ned be­hind you and for­get abo­ut it. Be gra­te­ful for a gen­t­le hus­band and as many ba­bes as you can con­ce­ive. It's the best a wo­man can ho­pe for."

  Cor­de­lia drop­ped her fo­ot, sa­ying blun­ting, "I don't be­li­eve that, Mat­hil­de. And I don't think you be­li­eve it eit­her."

  Mat­hil­de bent over her to ta­ke her fa­ce bet­we­en her hands. "Lis­ten to me, de­arie, and lis­ten well. You must ta­ke what's gi­ven you in this world. I'll not watch you fa­de away from wis­hing, as yo­ur mot­her did. You're strong, I've ma­de you so. You must lo­ok for what you can ha­ve, and for­get what you can't."

  "My mot­her didn't ca­re for my fat­her?"

  "She didn't see what the­re was to ca­re for in him be­ca­use she was too busy pi­ning for what she co­uldn't ha­ve." Mat­hil­de re­le­ased her fa­ce and stra­ig­h­te­ned, her ex­p­res­si­on sud­denly hard and de­ter­mi­ned. "I've not ra­ised you to han­ker for the im­pos­sib­le. I've ta­ught you to ta­ke what you ha­ve and ma­ke the most of it Now, get up and get dres­sed. We don't ha­ve all mor­ning."

 

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