"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 sha­re 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."

 

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