Cor­de­lia didn't res­pond. She was still thin­king fu­ri­o­usly. Mat­hil­de wo­uld co­me back. She wo­uld co­me to her even if she'd be­en for­bid­den by the prin­ce. If she was physi­cal­ly ca­pab­le of do­ing so.

  The do­or ope­ned be­hind her and her he­art jum­ped in­to her thro­at. She lo­oked at him in the mir­ror in front of her. He sto­od in the do­or­way. He had re­mo­ved his sword, but apart from that was still dres­sed in his wed­ding fi­nery, the gold em­b­lem of Prus­sia pin­ned to his sash.

  She drew the folds of her cham­ber ro­be tig­h­ter aro­und her as she ro­se to fa­ce him. "Whe­re is Mat­hil­de, my lord?" She spo­ke wit­ho­ut in­f­lec­ti­on, but her eyes we­re fil­led with an­ger and con­tempt. Not a sha­dow of fe­ar. She had go­ne be­yond fe­ar.

  "She has be­en rep­la­ced as yo­ur abi­ga­il." He smi­led his asp's smi­le. "I told you that you had ne­ed of a wo­man with mo­re ex­pe­ri­en­ce of the du­ti­es of a lady's ma­id at Ver­sa­il­les than so­me el­derly nur­se­ma­id."

  "I see." Still her vo­ice was flat. "Elsie in­forms me that she has no pre­vi­o­us ex­pe­ri­en­ce of an abi­ga­il's work an­y­w­he­re, let alo­ne Ver­sa­il­les. But I da­re­say you as­su­me that she co­mes by the re­qu­ired know­led­ge in so­me ot­her way. Per­haps she bre­at­hes it in, or it co­mes to her in dre­ams."

  Mic­ha­el's pa­le eyes be­ca­me opa­que. For a mi­nu­te he co­uldn't be­li­eve what he was he­aring. This cold, de­ri­si­ve sar­casm from a chit of a girl and in front of a ser­vant to bo­ot. Then a mus­c­le twit­c­hed in his che­ek, and the pul­se in his fo­re­he­ad be­gan to throb, and his eyes be­ca­me cold and de­adly.

  Cor­de­lia knew that she had not aro­used his an­ger to this ex­tent be­fo­re, and des­pi­te the des­pe­ra­ti­on that fu­eled her de­fi­an­ce, sick tre­mors of fe­ar star­ted in her belly. She fo­ught them down, for­cing her­self to me­et the thre­at in tho­se ter­rib­le eyes. What co­uld he do to her wor­se than he had al­re­ady do­ne?

  "Get out of he­re!" He spun ro­und to the pet­ri­fi­ed El­sie, who with a lit­tle gasp drop­ped the ha­ir­b­rush and fled the ro­om, duc­king past the prin­ce in the do­or­way.

  Mic­ha­el flung the do­or clo­sed. He ca­me ac­ross to her and she sto­od her gro­und, still me­eting his eye, her chin held high.

  "By God," he sa­id softly, "I will bre­ak you, ma­da­me. I will bre­ak you to the sad­dle li­ke any self-wil­led filly." He to­ok the si­des of the vel­vet ro­be and threw them open. His eyes drop­ped to her body, whi­te, na­ked, its per­fec­ti­on mar­red only by the tra­ces of his pre­vi­o­us pos­ses­si­ons.

  An ho­ur la­ter he left her. He was hum­ming to him­self as he went in­to his dres­sing ro­om, whe­re his va­let still wa­ited to put him to bed. He had not re­mo­ved his clot­hing be­yond what had be­en ne­ces­sary to ac­hi­eve his pur­po­se and now, still hum­ming softly, al­lo­wed the man to un­d­ress him and hang up his clot­hes in the ar­mo­ire. The va­let as­sis­ted the prin­ce in­to his cham­ber ro­be and then sto­od wa­iting, his hands fol­ded, to see if his mas­ter had fur­t­her or­ders for him.

  "Bring me a glass of cog­nac and then go."

  The man obe­yed, bo­wed a go­od night, and so­un­d­les­sly left the ro­om, than­k­ful for his dis­mis­sal. He had fo­und it im­pos­sib­le to clo­se his ears to the ugly so­unds co­ming from the prin­cess's bed­c­ham­ber.

  Mic­ha­el dra­ined the cog­nac in one gulp. Ta­king from his poc­ket the key that he'd auto­ma­ti­cal­ly tran­s­fer­red from his su­it co­at, he went over to the chest, un­loc­ked it, and to­ok out the pre­sent jo­ur­nal. He re­fil­led his glass, then sto­od le­afing thro­ugh the da­ily en­t­ri­es. He sip­ped from his glass, his mo­uth ta­ut. Had the lock be­en ope­ned de­li­be­ra­tely that mor­ning? He co­uldn't be­li­eve that it had be­en an­y­t­hing but an ac­ci­dent. Not­hing ap­pe­ared to ha­ve be­en dis­tur­bed, at any ra­te. It was ex­t­ra­or­di­nary that he co­uld ha­ve be­en ca­re­less, but it se­emed the only ex­p­la­na­ti­on-he must not ha­ve se­cu­red the pad­lock pro­perly the pre­vi­o­us night. He had per­haps be­en overly an­xi­o­us to get to his wi­fe.

  He wal­ked in­to his adj­o­ining bed­c­ham­ber and pla­ced the jo­ur­nal on the sec­re­ta­ire. Then he re­tur­ned to the chest. He drew out the vo­lu­me for 1765. His mo­uth grew thin­ner, his frown de­eper, as he re­ad thro­ugh the en­t­ri­es. Thro­ug­ho­ut, his com­ments in­di­ca­ted that El­vi­ra blo­omed, da­ily in­c­re­ased in be­a­uty. How much did that be­a­uty owe to her tri­umph at cuc­kol­ding her hus­band?

  He snap­ped the bo­ok clo­sed and dra­ined his glass on­ce aga­in. He rep­la­ced the jo­ur­nal in the chest and went back to the sec­re­ta­ire. Dip­ping qu­ill in the in­k­s­tand, he be­gan the day's me­ti­cu­lo­us entry. It was long, con­ta­ining as it did a de­ta­iled des­c­rip­ti­on of the wed­ding, the de­me­anor of the ro­yal party, and the sub­se­qu­ent ce­leb­ra­ti­ons. Only then did he des­c­ri­be the last ho­ur with his wi­fe.

  He pla­ced his pen on the blot­ter and sta­red un­se­e­ing at the do­od­ling pat­tern of drip­ping ink. Cor­de­lia was bid­ding fa­ir to be­co­me as un­sa­tis­fac­tory a wi­fe as El­vi­ra had be­en. But he had fa­iled with El­vi­ra. He wo­uld not fa­il with this one. He wo­uld mas­ter this one in li­fe.

  Cor­de­lia lay na­ked on the bed, cur­led in­to a tight ball, her body con­vul­sed with vi­olent shi­vers, dry sobs gat­he­ring in her thro­at. It had be­en wor­se… much, much wor­se than usu­al. If he had hurt her in ra­ge, she tho­ught, it wo­uld ha­ve be­en easi­er to be­ar. But he had used her, in­f­lic­ting pa­in with an icy de­li­be­ra­ti­on that had ne­ga­ted her very self, had re­du­ced her to an ani­mal, so­ul­less, spi­rit­less, worth no mo­re than a clod of earth.

  She knew she had cri­ed out du­ring the worst of it, al­t­ho­ugh she had sworn to her­self that she wo­uld ke­ep si­lent. Now her we­ak­ness fil­led her with self-dis­gust. Per­haps she de­ser­ved such tre­at­ment. Per­haps she'd in­vi­ted it with her co­wardly crin­ging. A wa­ve of na­usea ro­se in­vin­cib­le and she rol­led off the bed with a mo­an, re­ac­hing for the cham­ber pot. She co­uld see her­self in her mind's eye, cro­uc­hed on the flo­or, vo­mi­ting hel­p­les­sly with shock and self-dis­gust, a trem­b­ling, fe­ar­ful, be­aten ani­mal.

  But as the he­aving of her sto­mach qu­i­eted and cold swe­at mis­ted her skin, her bra­in se­emed to cle­ar. The vo­mi­ting had so­me­how pur­ged her spi­ri­tu­al­ly as well as physi­cal­ly. She ro­se un­s­te­adily to her fe­et, lo­oking aro­und for so­met­hing to co­ver her chil­led na­ked­ness. The ro­be he'd torn from her lay on the flo­or, and she pul­led it on, hud­dling in­to it. She lo­oked aro­und the dark ro­om, whe­re the sha­pes of the fur­ni­tu­re sto­od out gray aga­inst the glo­om. The win­dow was a black squ­are, but be­yond she co­uld see the fa­in­test lig­h­te­ning at the ed­ges of the dar­k­ness.

  She co­uld not sle­ep. She co­uld not get back in­to that bed. She wan­ted Mat­hil­de, with the de­ep, over­po­we­ring, spe­ec­h­less ne­ed of a wo­un­ded child for its mot­her.

  Wit­ho­ut any cle­ar tho­ught, she left the bed­c­ham­ber, cros­sed the sa­lon, and let her­self out in­to the cor­ri­dor. Can­d­les in wall scon­ces lit the de­ser­ted ex­pan­se, and as the do­or to the apar­t­ment clo­sed be­hind her, a gre­at wa­ve of re­li­ef and re­le­ase bro­ke over her. She was free. Out of the stif­ling, shac­k­ling dar­k­ness of her pri­son. Whe­re she was go­ing or what she was do­ing we­re qu­es­ti­ons that didn't even po­se them­sel­ves. She clam­be­red pa­in­ful­ly on­to a bro­ad win­dow­sill over­lo­oking an in­ner co­ur­t­yard, gat­he­red the ro­be se­cu­rely aro­und her, res­ted her he­ad on her drawn-up kne­es, and wa­ited for day­light. Wa­ited for Mat­hil­de.

  Leo left a card party just as dawn stre­aked the sky. He was mildly the wor­se for cog­nac. Cards, cog­nac, and com­pa­ni­on­s­hip had se­emed the only dis­t­rac­ti­ons from the nig­gling une­ase that ma­de sle­ep an im­pos­si­bi­lity. He co­uldn't se­pa­ra­te Cor­de­lia from El­vi­ra for so­me re­ason. He was bo­und to them both by ti­es who­se si­mi­la­rity he co­uldn't ex­p­la­in to him­self. El­vi­ra was his sis­ter, his twin. He lo­ved her un­con­di­ti­onal­ly. Her wel­fa­re was his res­pon­si­bi­lity. And now he was ha­un­ted by the idea that per­haps he had fa­iled to me­et that res­pon­si­bi­lity.

  Cor­de­lia was a yo­ung girl who­se li­fe had to­uc­hed his by chan­ce for a few we­eks. He lus­ted af­ter her. If he was truly ho­nest, he co­uld ad­mit that to him­self. But pu­re lust and a pas­sing res­pon­si­bi­lity didn't ac­co­unt for what he felt to­ward Cor­de­lia.

  The con­fu­sed yet ob­ses­si­onal tho­ughts con­ti­nu­ed to tum­b­le in his he­ad amid the brandy fu­mes as he ma­de his way to his own hum­b­le ro­om on an out­si­de sta­ir­ca­se in the north wing. On an inex­p­li­cab­le whim, he de­vi­ated from his co­ur­se, ta­king a si­de sta­ir that led in­to the cor­ri­dor out­si­de the von Sac­h­sen apar­t­ment. The clo­ser he ca­me to the do­or, the gre­ater his une­ase. It was al­most li­ke a mi­as­ma fil­ling the mar­b­le-flo­ored pas­sa­ge.

  He wal­ked past the do­ub­le do­ors. Tur­ned and wal­ked past them aga­in. Then with an im­pa­ti­ent shrug, he swung on his he­el and star­ted back the way he'd co­me. And then he stop­ped. Slowly, he ret­ra­ced his steps. A cro­uc­hed fi­gu­re hud­dled on the de­ep win­dow­sill. The fi­gu­re was so still he hadn't no­ti­ced it at first.

  The lus­t­ro­us blue-black ri­ver po­ured down her back. Her fa­ce was tur­ned from him, res­ting on her kne­es.

  "Cor­de­lia?" He la­id a hand on her sho­ul­der.

  With a start she tur­ned her he­ad. Her eyes we­re al­most va­cant, dark ho­les in a fa­ce whi­ter than her ro­be. "I'm wa­iting for Mat­hil­de."

  Leo frow­ned. "In the cor­ri­dor? Whe­re is she?"

  "I don't know. Mic­ha­el sent her away. But she won't le­ave me. I know she won't."

  He saw the sha­dow of the emer­ging bru­ise on her che­ek­bo­ne. And he knew what he had be­en trying so hard to deny. Gently, he mo­ved asi­de the ro­be at her neck. Fin­ger bru­ises sto­od out aga­inst the smo­oth whi­te skin. The well of ra­ge was bot­tom­less. Wa­ve af­ter wa­ve bro­ke over him. He saw El­vi­ra, he saw the sha­dow in her eyes. He saw Cor­de­lia, be­reft, her spi­rit, her co­ura­ge, her la­ug­h­ter van­qu­is­hed.

  Ben­ding, he lif­ted her from the win­dow­sill, crad­ling her in his arms. She sa­id not­hing as he car­ri­ed her away.

  He car­ri­ed her thro­ugh the qu­i­et cor­ri­dors and up de­ser­ted sta­ir­ca­ses, his he­art fil­led with ra­ge. She cur­led aga­inst his chest, her arms aro­und his neck. Her eyes we­re clo­sed, the thick las­hes dark half-mo­ons aga­inst the de­athly pal­lor of her che­eks, and he tho­ught she slept. Her bre­at­hing was de­ep and re­gu­lar and he co­uld fe­el her he­art be­ating aga­inst his hand.

  At the he­ad of a ste­ep sto­ne sta­ir­ca­se, he ope­ned a nar­row wo­oden do­or on­to a small cham­ber. It was simply fur­nis­hed with a bed, an ar­mo­ire, a was­h­s­tand, two cha­irs, and a ro­und tab­le be­ne­ath the nar­row win­dow that lo­oked out on­to the Co­ur de Mar­b­re. It was very much a bac­he­lor apar­t­ment.

  Leo la­id Cor­de­lia on the bed and her eyes ope­ned. They we­re star­t­led, then frig­h­te­ned, then slowly her ga­ze cle­ared and he saw with a sur­ge of re­li­ef that she was fully awa­re, the va­cant lo­ok in her eyes dis­p­la­ced by know­led­ge and re­cog­ni­ti­on.

  He bent over her and un­fas­te­ned the vel­vet ro­be, slip­ping a hand be­ne­ath her to draw it away from her body. His mo­uth was tight, his eyes grim as he exa­mi­ned her clo­sely, ga­uging how badly Mic­ha­el had hurt her. The marks on her body we­re not se­ve­re, but he knew that the re­al wo­unds had be­en to her self, to the de­ter­mi­ned, co­ura­ge­o­us, ef­fer­ves­cent spi­rit that ma­de her what she was.

  Cor­de­lia lay still be­ne­ath his ga­ze, her own eyes, fe­ar­less now, ga­zing up at him. She was warm at last and the dre­ad­ful sha­king had stop­ped. But Leo's ra­ge and pa­in we­re a pal­pab­le for­ce in the ro­om. His hands as he ra­ised her arms, her legs, tur­ned her over, we­re as gen­t­le as a do­ve's wings, but his eyes we­re fe­ar­so­me.

  "I don't ex­pect he did this to El­vi­ra," she sa­id softly. "She was dif­fe­rent from me. Per­haps she didn't pro­vo­ke him. I can't se­em to help pro­vo­king him."

  He was not sur­p­ri­sed that Cor­de­lia had gu­es­sed the so­ur­ce of his men­tal agony. He had no­ti­ced how in­sig­h­t­ful she was when it ca­me to her fri­ends. He to­uc­hed her che­ek with a fin­ger­tip and she smi­led.

  "It was be­ca­use I be­at him at cards," she sa­id, re­ac­hing up to hold his wrist, ke­eping his hand aga­inst her fa­ce. "He sent Mat­hil­de away be­ca­use I ma­de pe­op­le la­ugh at him." She tur­ned her fa­ce aga­inst his hand and kis­sed his palm. "Ple­ase hold me."

  Leo sat down and lif­ted her in­to his arms. She was fra­gi­le, al­most in­sub­s­tan­ti­al, re­min­ding him of a ske­le­ton le­af. Her ba­re skin was soft and warm be­ne­ath his hands, and he slid one hand aro­und to cup the ro­un­d­ness of her bre­ast. She mo­ved aga­inst him, ra­ising a fin­ger to pull lo­ose his cra­vat. She kis­sed the pul­se at his thro­at, and her bre­ath was a swe­et rus­t­le of ne­ed and lon­ging aga­inst his skin.

  "I ne­ed you to show me how it can be," she whis­pe­red with soft ur­gency. "I ne­ed to know that it do­esn't ha­ve to des­t­roy. It do­esn't ha­ve to be vi­le. On­ce you sho­wed me a lit­tle of what it co­uld be li­ke. Show me now, Leo. Ple­ase." It was a he­ar­t­felt plea, no hint of mis­c­hi­ef or se­duc­ti­on.

  "Ma­ke me who­le aga­in," she whis­pe­red, ra­ising her he­ad to kiss his mo­uth, her body lif­ting slightly on his lap. His hands mo­ved over her of the­ir own ac­cord, tra­cing the con­to­urs of her form, the nar­row­ness of her rib ca­ge, the swell of her bre­asts, the flat belly.

  She se­emed to be co­ming ali­ve un­der his to­uch; her body fil­ling aga­in with the vi­tal spi­rit that ma­de her who she was, ope­ning aga­in li­ke a we­at­her-torn bud un­der the rays of a sud­den sun.

  Slip­ping his hands free, he gently cir­c­led her neck, his fin­gers light as fe­at­her­down smo­ot­hing away the ro­ugh marks of Mic­ha­el's im­p­rints. He knew that what he was do­ing was right. Only by van­qu­is­hing Mic­ha­el's prints upon her body co­uld he he­al her. "Are you su­re you want this now, swe­et­he­art?" he as­ked qu­i­etly. "It's so so­on af­ter he hurt you. Are you su­re you're re­ady?"

  She co­uld fe­el her own pul­se be­ating ra­pidly aga­inst his fin­gers. His eyes we­re now dark and un­re­adab­le, but they se­emed to swal­low her who­le.

  "Ple­ase," she sa­id aga­in. Her vo­ice was a plea, the re­si­due of her pa­in and fe­ar lin­ge­ring, but the ne­ed in her eyes co­uld not be de­ni­ed. It was a ne­ed not for pas­si­on but for ten­der­ness, for the he­aling to­uch that wo­uld clo­se the wo­unds of vi­ola­ti­on.

  He mo­ved his hands to cup her fa­ce, tra­cing the cur­ve of her che­ek­bo­nes, the li­ne of her jaw. He was ter­ri­fi­ed of hur­ting her, of ma­king the wrong mo­ve, of frig­h­te­ning her. He pas­sed his hands over her in a de­li­ca­te ca­ress, al­most he­si­tantly brus­hing his fin­ger­tips over her nip­ples, lo­oking in­to her eyes for the first sign of dis­may, of wit­h­d­ra­wal. And when he saw no­ne, he bent his he­ad to kiss her bre­asts, ta­king her nip­ple in­to his mo­uth, suc­k­ling, gra­zing, un­til he felt the crown of her bre­asts har­den un­der his ton­gue.

  Cor­de­lia's he­ad fell back aga­inst his sho­ul­der, her na­ked body lying ac­ross his lap. She felt her­self open and vul­ne­rab­le, an of­fe­ring for his eyes, his mo­uth, his hands, and she yet knew that to fe­el open and vul­ne­rab­le he­re, with Leo, was sa­fe, an es­sen­ti­al part of the won­der of lo­ving. Only on­ce had she co­me clo­se to un­der­s­tan­ding that won­der, but she knew with every bre­ath she to­ok that at Leo's hands to­night she was go­ing to un­der­s­tand it fully.

  He mo­ved his mo­uth from her bre­asts to the hol­low of her thro­at. "I'm so af­ra­id of hur­ting you. I want to to­uch you, swe­et­he­art, but I ne­ed you to tell me if I may."

  "Ple­ase," she whis­pe­red. "Ple­ase to­uch me." She didn't se­em ab­le to mo­ve, her body was as lan­gu­id as a cat's in the sun, and yet be­ne­ath the sur­fa­ce her blo­od flo­wed swift.

  Leo's fin­gers mo­ved bet­we­en her par­ted thighs. Aga­in, he he­si­ta­ted, ex­pec­ting her to tig­h­ten aga­inst him, but she re­ma­ined open, pas­si­ve, and yet the­re was not­hing pas­si­ve abo­ut the he­at of her body or the swift ri­se and fall of her bre­asts or the sud­den har­de­ning of the sen­si­ti­ve bud that ro­se un­der his dan­cing to­uch. He wat­c­hed her fa­ce. Her eyes we­re clo­sed tight, but her lips we­re warm and red, and the­re was a tran­s­lu­cent glow to her che­eks. "Swe­et­he­art?"

  Her eyes ope­ned. She stir­red be­ne­ath his aro­using to­uch. "I lo­ve you, Leo."

  He smi­led, mo­ved his damp hand up over her belly, shif­ted her on his lap so that her he­ad fell in­to the cro­ok of his arm. He kis­sed her, this ti­me with a to­uch of his own ur­gency, his ton­gue pres­sing aga­inst the bar­ri­er of her lips, as­king, not de­man­ding, en­t­ran­ce. Her lips par­ted im­me­di­ately and his ton­gue ex­p­lo­red the swe­et ca­vern of her mo­uth. She mo­ved be­ne­ath him now, and her own ton­gue jo­ined ten­ta­ti­vely with his.

 

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