The Diamond Slipper

Chapter One

The procession of gilded coaches, plumed, gaily caparisoned horses, and officers resplendent in the blue and gold uniforms of Versailles wound through the great gold gates of the palace, coming to a halt in the center of the massive square.

"Look at those two carriages!" a fair-headed girl hanging perilously far out of an upstairs window exclaimed to her companion leaning out beside her. "They are both to carry me into France. Which do you prefer, Cordelia? The crimson one or the blue one?"

"I can't see it makes much difference," Lady Cordelia Brandenburg responded. "Of all the ridiculous things. There's the Marquis de Durfort riding into the city as if he'd traveled all the way from France, when instead he only left Vienna an hour ago."

"But it's protocol," the archduchess Maria Antonia said in shocked reproof. "It's how it has to be done. The French ambassador must enter Vienna as if he's come all the way from Versailles. He must formally ask my mother for my hand in marriage on behalf of the dauphin of France. Then I will be married by proxy before I go into France."

"Anyone would think you hadn't been promised to the dauphin for the last three years," Cordelia stated. "What a stir it would cause if the empress refused the ambassador's request." She chuckled mischievously, but her companion didn't see the joke.

"Don't be absurd, Cordelia. I shan't allow you to be so impertinent when I am queen of France." She wrinkled her pert nose.

"Considering your bridegroom is only sixteen, I imagine you'll have to wait awhile before becoming queen," Cordelia retorted, not in the least affected by her royal friend's scolding.

"Oh, pshaw! You're such a wet blanket! When I'm dauphine, I shall be the most popular and important lady at Versailles." Toinette twirled in a crimson swirl of silk as her hoop swung out around her. With an exuberant gesture, she began to dance around the room, her dainty slippered feet faultlessly executing the steps of a minuet.

Cordelia cast a glance over her shoulder and then turned back to the considerably more interesting scene in the court below. Toinette was a gifted dancer and never lost an opportunity to show off.

"Now, I wonder who that is," Cordelia mused, her voice suddenly sharp with interest.

"Who? Where?" Toinette came back to the window, pushing Cordelia to one side, her fair head a startling contrast to her companion's raven black curls.

"There. Dismounting from the white stallion. A Lippizaner, I think."

"Yes, it must be. Look at those lines." Both girls were passionate horsewomen, and for a moment the horse interested them more than its rider.

The man drew off his riding gloves and looked around the court. He was tall, slim, dressed in dark riding clothes, a short, scarlet-lined riding cape swinging from his shoulders. As if aware of the observers, he looked up at the creamy ocher facade of the palace. He stepped back and looked up again, shading his eyes with his hand.

"Come in," the archduchess said. "He's seen us."

"So what?" Lady Cordelia responded. "We're only looking. Don't you think he's handsome?"

"I don't know," Toinette said with a touch of petulance. "Come away. It's shockingly bad etiquette to stare like that. What would Mama say?"

Cordelia had little difficulty imagining what the empress Maria Theresa would say if she found her daughter and her daughter's friend staring out of the window like a pair of oglers at the opera. However, something kept her at the window, even as Toinette tugged at her arm.

The man continued to look up at her. Mischievously, Cordelia waved and blew him a kiss. For a moment he looked thoroughly taken aback, then he laughed and touched his fingers to his lips.

"Cordelia!" The archduchess was scandalized. "I'm not going to stay in here if you're going to behave like that. You don't even know who he is."

"Oh, some equerry, I expect," Cordelia said airily. "I doubt we'll come across him in all the palaver." She plucked half a dozen yellow roses from a bowl on the deep window-sill. Leaning as far out as she could, she tossed them down. They fell in a cloud around the horseman, one of them landing on his shoulder, caught in the folds of his cloak. He extricated it and carefully inserted it in the buttonhole of his coat. Then he doffed his plumed hat and bowed with a magnificent flourish, before moving out of sight as he entered the palace below the window.

Cordelia laughed and drew back from the window. "That was amusing," she said. "It is fun when people enter the spirit of the game." A contemplative little frown drew her thin arched eyebrows together. "An ordinary equerry wouldn't be riding a Lippizaner, would he?"

"No, of course not." The archduchess was still annoyed. "You've probably been flirting with a senior official from Versailles. He must assume you're a kitchen maid or something."

Cordelia shrugged. "I don't suppose he's important. Anyway, I'm sure he won't recognize me close to."

"Of course he will," Toinette scoffed. "No one else has such black hair."

"Oh well, I'll just powder it," Cordelia declared, selecting a grape from a bunch in a crystal bowl and popping it into her mouth. A silver clock on the mantel chimed prettily.

"Goodness, is that the time?" she exclaimed. "I must fly, or I'll be late."

"Late for what?"

Cordelia looked for a moment unnaturally solemn. "I'll tell you before you go to France, Toinette." And she had whisked herself out of the room in a cloud of primrose yellow muslin.

The archduchess pouted crossly. Cordelia didn't seem to mind that their friendship was about to come to an end. Versailles had decreed that when Maria Antonia married the dauphin and came to France, she must leave behind everything that was tied to the Austrian court. She was allowed to take none of her ladies, none of her possessions, not even her clothes.

Disconsolately, she plucked grapes from the bunch, wondering what secret Cordelia was holding these days. She was as ebullient and mischievous as ever, but she was always disappearing mysteriously for hours at a time, and sometimes she had the air of someone dealing with a weighty problem. Which was not in the least in character,

Cordelia, well aware of her friend's disgruntled puzzlement, sped down the corridor toward the east wing of the palace. She couldn't risk confiding in anyone: Not only was the secret too dangerous, but it was not hers to tell. Christian's livelihood was at stake. He was dependent upon the goodwill of his master, Poligny, the empress's court musician, and to lose it would mean losing the empress's patronage. And he would certainly lose that goodwill once he accused Poligny publicly of stealing his pupil's compositions. The accusation must be made from an unassailable position.

Cordelia turned down a little-used corridor and entered a long gallery through a massive wooden door. She was in the west wing of the palace. The gallery was lined with heavy tapestried screens. She ducked behind the third one.

"Where have you been? Why can you never be on time,

Cordelia?" Christian's great brown eyes were filled with anxiety, his mouth taut with concern, his countenance pale.

"I'm sorry. I was watching the arrival of the French wedding party in the courtyard," she said. "Don't be cross, Christian. I've had a brilliant idea."

"You don't know how dreadful it is to hide here, trembling at every mouse," he whispered fiercely, a tight frown wrinkling his broad brow. "What idea?"

"Supposing we produce an anonymous broadsheet, saying that Poligny's latest opera was actually written by his star pupil, Christian Percossi?"

"But how could we prove it? Who's going to believe an anonymous accusation?"

"You publish your original score in the broadsheet. Sign the statement 'A friend of the truth,' or something like that. Include a sample of Poligny's compositions to show the difference in the two hands. It'll be enough to start people talking."

"But he'll have me thrown out of the palace before anything can happen," Christian said glumly.

"You're such a pessimist!" Cordelia exclaimed, her voice inadvertently rising from the undertone they'd both been using. "Sometimes I wonder why I bother with you, Christian."

His smile was a little sheepish. "Because we're friends?"

Cordelia groaned in mock frustration. She and Christian Percossi had been friends for five years. It was a secret friendship, because within the rigid hierarchy of the empress Maria Theresa's court a close friendship was unthinkable between a humble pupil of the court musician and the Lady Cordelia Brandenburg, goddaughter of the empress and bosom companion of her daughter, Maria Antonia, known to her intimates by the diminutive Marie Antoinette.

"Listen," she said, urgently taking his long, slender, musician's hands within her own. "The empress is known for her fairness. She may be as starched as a ruff, but she won't permit Poligny to cast you off without a fair hearing. We just have to ensure that she sees the broadsheet and the evidence before Poligny can move against you. And we have to make certain that Poligny is taken by surprise. He mustn't have time to create a defense by attacking you."

Still holding his hands tightly, she stood on tiptoe to kiss him lightly. "Don't lose heart, Christian. We will prevail."

Christian hugged her. Once, they'd thought they felt more for each other than simple friendship, but their naive experimentations had quickly convinced them both that they were not destined to be lovers. But he still enjoyed the feel of her lithe suppleness beneath her court dress, the scent of her skin and hair.

Cordelia drew her head back, smiling up into the musician's hungry brown eyes, enjoying the angular beauty of his face. Her hands moved through his crisp fair curls. "I do love you, Christian. Even more than I love Toinette, I think." She frowned, puzzled at this novel thought. She'd never before attempted to grade her feelings for her two best friends. Then she shook her head in characteristic dismissal of such an irrelevant issue. She wouldn't fail either of them if they needed her. "Try to get the evidence together and we'll talk later. But now I must go."

Christian let his hands fall away from her and looked helplessly into her face. "I wish we didn't have to hide in corners, snatching moments to talk. It was much easier when we were children."

"But we aren't now," Cordelia stated. "And now I'm much more carefully Watched. Besides, once you spring your surprise on Poligny, no one must suspect my involvement. Then I can work on the empress in your favor… or at least," she amended, "on Toinette while she's still here." She gave his hands another quick squeeze, trying to infuse him with some of her own optimistic determination. Christian was so sensitive, so easily cast down. It was because of his undeniable genius, of course, but it could be somewhat irritating.

"I'm going now. Wait for five minutes before you leave." On tiptoe she kissed him again and then was gone from behind the screen, leaving Christian with the faint fragrance of orangeflower water that she used on her hair and the lingering impression of her quicksilver personality like the diffusion of a fading rainbow.

Cordelia slipped backward into the long gallery. She smoothed down her skirts, turned to stroll casually toward the door at the far end of the gallery, and came to face to face with the man who rode the Lippizaner.

He turned from his contemplation of a particularly bloody hunting scene on a tapestry on the far wall. He still wore his scarlet-lined riding cape, startling against the impeccable white of his ruffled shirt.

"Well, well," he said. "If it isn't the flower girl. Where did you spring from?"

Cordelia was for once in her life at a loss under the quizzical scrutiny of a pair of merry golden eyes, aglint with flecks of hazel and green. Her heart was suddenly beating very fast. She told herself it was fear that her clandestine exchange with Christian had been overheard, but for some reason she didn't seem to find that worrying. Something else was causing this tumultuous confusion, the moistening of her palms.

"Cat got your tongue?" he inquired, lifting a slender dark eyebrow.

"Behind the screen… I was behind the screen." Cordelia finally managed to speak. "I… I was adjusting my dress… a hook came loose." She gathered the shreds of her composure around her again, and her eyes threw him a defiant challenge, daring him to question the lie.

"I see." Leo Beaumont regarded her with amused curiosity. Whatever had been going on behind the screen had had little to do with dress repairing. Hooks and eyes didn't cause such a delicious flush or such a transparently guilty conscience. He glanced pointedly toward the screen, and his eyes filled with laughter as he thought he understood. A secret assignation. "I see," he repeated, amusement bubbling in his voice. "I'm hurt. I thought your kisses were exclusively for me."

Cordelia swallowed and inadvertently touched her lips with her tongue. What was happening to her? Why wasn't she telling him to mind his business? She told herself that she had to stay in order to prevent him from looking behind the screen and identifying Christian. "Who are you?" she demanded with a rudeness that she hoped would distract him.

"Viscount Kierston at your service." He bowed solemnly, seemingly unperturbed by her lack of finesse.

An English viscount. No mere equerry, then. Cordelia nibbled her lip. His eyes continued most unnervingly to hold her own blue-gray gaze. Close to, he fulfilled the promise of her distant window observation. She found herself taking inventory. Tall, slender, with a broad forehead and pronounced widow's peak, his hair, almost as black as her own, confined in a bag wig at his nape. There was something disturbingly sensual about his mouth, a long upper lip above a deeply cleft chin.

Lucifer! What was she thinking? Her mind flew to Christian, cowering behind the screen, but his image seemed to blur under the English viscount's steady gaze and her own rapt bemusement.

"You now have the advantage of me," he prompted gently, noting the elegance of her gown, the silver pendant at her throat, the pearl-sewn ribbon in her hair. "I take it you're not a flower girl or a parlor maid, despite your fondness for kisses."

Cordelia flushed and said awkwardly, "I trust you'll keep that little incident between ourselves, my lord."

His mouth quirked. "But I found your greeting on my arrival quite delightful."

"It was unwise of me to throw the flowers, sir," she said stiffly. "I am sometimes unwise, but it was only a game, and I intended no discourtesy, or… or…"

"Excessive familiarity," Leo supplied helpfully. "I assure you I didn't take it in the least ill, and to prove it to you, allow me to make good a distant promise." Taking Cordelia's chin between finger and thumb, he kissed her before she fully grasped what he meant. His lips were cool and pliant, yet firm.

Instead of withdrawing in shock and outrage, Cordelia found herself responding, opening her lips for the strong muscular probe of his tongue, greedily inhaling the scent of his skin. His hands moved over her back, cupping her buttocks, lifting her toward him. She pressed herself into his body, her breath swift and uneven as hot waves of hungry passion broke over her. She nipped his bottom lip, her hands raking through his hair, her body totally at the mercy of this desperate craving.

Leo drew back. He stared down at her, his own passion fading slowly from his eyes. "Dear God," he said softly. "Dear God in heaven. What are you?"

Cordelia felt the color draining from her face as the wild, uncontrolled passion receded and she understood what she'd done. Understood what, but not why. Her body was still on fire, her legs shaking. With an inarticulate mumble, she turned and fled the gallery, holding up her skirts with one hand, her hoop swinging, her jeweled heels tapping on the marble floor.

Leo shook his head in bewilderment. What had started as a little playful dalliance with an appealingly mischievous young woman had taken an astounding turn. He wasn't used to losing himself in the kisses of an ingenue, but whoever she was, she weaved a powerful magic with that unbridled passion. Reflectively, he touched his bitten lip. Then with another little shake of his head, he turned to leave the gallery.

He glanced sideways at the screen from where the girl had emerged. Presumably, it concealed some young man who had fallen victim to that tidal wave of desire. He tapped his fingers lightly against the wooden frame. "It's quite safe for you to come out now."

He left the hidden lover to make his escape and strolled toward the guest apartments, a deep frown drawing his sculpted eyebrows together.

Christian emerged when the booted footsteps had receded. He looked up and down the gallery. There was no sign of Cordelia. What had been going on? He'd heard them talking, but they had been too far along the gallery for him to make out the words. But then there'd been a long silence, a silence enlivened only by the shuffle of feet on the marble, the rustle of rich material. Then he'd heard Cordelia's racing steps out of the gallery. What had happened out here? Who was the man? And what had he been doing with Cordelia?

Frowning fiercely, the young musician made his way to his own humble chamber over the kitchens.

A flunky was waiting for Leo in the salon of the guest apartments. "Lord Kierston, Her Imperial Highness requests your presence," he said with some haste. "She is in audience with Duke Brandenburg. If you would follow me."

Leo followed the flunky through the corridors of the palace. He was familiar with the intricacies of the place after a visit six years earlier, when he'd had a private audience with the Austrian empress on behalf of his own family, who claimed kinship to the Hapsburgs through a distant cousin. Like most English noble families, the Beaumonts had relatives and connections across the continent, and there was always a home and a welcome to be had at any royal court.

But for the last three years, Leo had spent most of his time at the court of Versailles, cultivating the friendship of his sister's widower, Prince Michael von Sachsen, because only thus could he keep a watchful eye on Elvira's children.

"Ah, Viscount Kierston, how delightful that you could be part of this historic occasion." The empress greeted him cordially. Maria Theresa was now a widow of fifty-three and after sixteen children, her former beauty was just a shadow. She gave him her hand to kiss, then waved him to a chair. "We are very informal this afternoon," she said with a smile. "We are discussing the arrangements for Cordelia Brandenburg's marriage to Prince Michael von Sachsen."

Leo bowed to Duke Brandenburg the prospective bride's uncle, with the bland expression of an experienced diplomat. "My brother-in-law wishes me to stand proxy at the marriage of your niece, Duke. I trust that meets with your approval."

"Oh, most certainly." Duke Franz Brandenburg smiled with his fleshy lips, revealing yellow teeth, pointed like fangs. "I've examined the marriage contracts, and all appears to be in order." He rubbed his hands together in a gesture of satisfaction. Cordelia's price was high, but Prince Michael von Sachsen, the Prussian ambassador to the court of Versailles, had not even bargained.

Leo contented himself with a short nod. Michael had decided very suddenly to take another wife, some young virgin who would bear him a male heir. Twin daughters could be sold in the matrimonial market when the time was right, but they could not inherit, and could not perpetuate the name of von Sachsen. Cordelia Brandenburg, the empress's goddaughter, was a most eligible bride for a von Sachsen prince. At sixteen, she would be well tutored in the social requirements, but otherwise unsophisticated, inexperienced, and, of course, a virgin.

Leo's only interest in his brother-in-law's prospective bride was as a stepmother to his twin nieces. They were at the age now when they needed the softening influence of a mother. Their father was a distant autocrat, leaving their daily care in the hands of an elderly indigent relative whom Leo despised. Louise de Nevry was too narrow-minded to supervise the education and welfare of Elvira's spirited children.

He became suddenly aware that his hands were clenched into fists, his jaw so tight, pain shot up the side of his head. He forced himself to relax. Whenever he thought of his twin sister's sudden death, an almost unbearable tension and unfocused rage would fill him. It had been so unnecessary. So abrupt. Her marriage had changed her certainly, dampened her wonderful exuberance, and her ready laughter was heard less often. But when he'd left her and gone to Rome that February of 1765, she'd been as full of life, as beautiful as ever. He could still see her deep blue eyes, their mother's eyes, smiling as she bade him farewell. There had been a shadow in the depths of her eyes that he had put down to melancholy at their parting. They had always hated to be too distant from each other.

A week later she was dead. And now when he conjured up her image, all he saw was that shadow in her eyes, and now he remembered that it had been there for many months, and that sometimes her laughter had sounded strained, and that once he had surprised an expression on her face that he had never seen before. Almost of terror. But Elvira had laughed when he'd probed, and he'd thought nothing of it until after her death. Now he could think of little else.

"Lord Kierston?"

He returned to his surroundings with a jolt. The empress was talking to him. "I understand you have assurances from the French king that if Cordelia is wed to Prince Michael, she will be permitted to accompany my daughter to Versailles," the empress asked.

The assurances were actually from Madame du Barry, the king's mistress, but, as they all knew, the du Barry's word was as good as the king's. "Yes indeed, Your Majesty. His Majesty understands that it will be hard for the archduchess to leave everything and everyone she knows behind her on her marriage to the dauphin."

"My daughter will embrace France as her country," Maria Theresa stated. "She knows her duty. She knows that she was born to obey." She nodded decisively. "And Cordelia, of course, will be delighted to accompany Marie Antoinette-and to accept such an advantageous marriage. You have discussed this with her, Duke?" She turned to Franz with an inquiring smile.

The duke shrugged. "I saw no need to do so, madame. Cordelia also knows that she was born to obey. Now is time enough to tell her of her good fortune."

Good fortune? Leo's face was expressionless. Michael was a desiccated Prussian prince of rigid temperament; a sixteen-year-old might well be a trifle skeptical of such good fortune. Michael had not been as rigid when he'd married Elvira, but her death had darkened him in some way.

"So, my niece will wed Prince Michael by proxy and will accompany the dauphine to Versailles. You, Viscount, will be her escort, I understand."

"Yes, Duke. It will be my honor and privilege." Leo inclined his head in acknowledgment, thinking wearily of how tedious it was going to be accompanying some simpering debutante on such a long and arduous journey.

"Cordelia should be informed immediately. Send for Lady Cordelia." The empress gestured to her secretary, who bowed and left the room with swift step. "I would have this matter settled before the festivities of the wedding truly begin. We will be done with all business so we may enjoy ourselves on this joyous occasion with a free heart." Maria Theresa smiled benignly.

Cordelia stared down at the Latin text in front of her. The words made no sense; the grammatical structure was impenetrable. As she stumbled over the translation, she could sense the puzzled impatience of Abbe Vermond, the archbishop of Toulouse, who tutored both Cordelia and Marie Antoinette. Cordelia never stumbled. She took great pleasure in the intricacies of the Latin language, as she did in philosophy, history, and mathematics. Unlike Toinette, whose attention span was almost nonexistent, Cordelia was in general a bright, quick pupil. But not today.

She was alternately hot and cold, alternately filled with confused embarrassment and bemused anger when she thought of the exchange with the Englishman. And then when her body remembered the imprint of his through the light muslin of her gown, when her lips remembered the cool pliancy of his mouth, when her tongue remembered the taste of his mouth, she was awash with pulsing longing that she knew she should consider shameful, and yet she could find within herself not one iota of guilt or shame. It was pure exciting pleasure.

She glanced sideways at Toinette's fair head bent over her books. The archduchess was doodling in the margin of the text, idle scribbles of birds and flowers. She yawned, delicately covering her mouth with her fair white hand, her boredom palpable in the warm room filled with spring sunshine.

Had Toinette ever felt these strange stirrings, this heady flush of an unknown promise? Cordelia was certain she hadn't. Toinette would have confided such mysterious longings to her friend.

There was a knock at the door. Toinette sat up, blinking the daze from her eyes. Cordelia looked over with only mild curiosity at the flunky who stood in the doorway. "Lady Cordelia is summoned immediately to the empress."

"What could my mother want with you?" Toinette asked, frowning. "Why would she see you without me?"

"I can't imagine." Cordelia wiped her quill carefully and laid it on the blotter beside the inkstand. Such a summons was unprecedented, but one didn't keep the empress waiting. "If you would excuse me, mon pere." She curtsied to the archbishop and went to the door. The flunky bowed her out and escorted her to the empress's audience chamber, although she knew the way perfectly well.

She entered the audience chamber, her eyes swiftly taking in those present. A quiver of shock and surprise went through her at the sight of the English viscount standing behind the empress's chair. Dropping her eyes, she made a deep obeisance to the empress and thus missed the expression in the viscount's eyes. Her uncle, his gouty leg propped on a footstool, his hand resting on the silver knob of his cane, gave her a curt nod.

Leo turned aside, struggling to regain his composure. This was Cordelia Brandenburg! No simpering debutante but a mischievous, challenging, and sensual young woman. Just as Elvira had been before her marriage.

"Cordelia, my dear, your uncle has arranged a most advantageous match for you," the empress said without preamble. "Prince Michael von Sachsen is the Prussian ambassador to the court of Versailles. As his wife, you will take your place in that court, and you will be able to remain as friend and companion for Marie Antoinette."

Cordelia's mind whirled. She couldn't immediately take it in. She was to be married as well as Toinette? They would be going to France together? It was too good to be true- that she might be free of her uncle's tyrannical rule and the confines of the Austrian court. And live instead in that glittering palace of Versailles, in the fairy-tale world of the French court.

"Viscount Kierston, the prince's brother-in-law, will stand proxy for your wedding, which will take place the day after the archduchess's proxy marriage to the dauphin." Her uncle was speaking now in his flat assertive tones.

Leo turned slowly back to the room. Cordelia stared at him. "You… you are to be my husband." She didn't know what she was saying, the words spoke themselves.

"Proxy, child… proxy," the empress corrected sharply. "Prince Michael von Sachsen is to be your husband."

"Yes… yes, of course." But Cordelia barely heard the empress. She looked at the viscount and a warm river of excitement gushed through her veins. She couldn't put words to its cause; it seemed to spring from some bubbling source existing both in her mind and in her loins. It was as strange and terrifying a sensation as it was wonderful.

She smiled at Leo and the look in her eyes was so nakedly sensual that Leo was afraid that the others in the room would see it and wouldn't fail to read it correctly. He stepped forward, drawing something from his pocket.

"I have a betrothal gift from Prince Michael, Lady Cordelia. He kept his voice toneless and he avoided meeting her eye as he placed a small package in her hand. "You will also find a miniature of the prince." He stepped back, out of her line of sight.

Cordelia opened the flat velvet box and unwrapped the tissue. She withdrew a gold, pearl-studded charm bracelet and held it up to the light of the window. The jeweled charms swung together in the slight breeze.

"Very pretty," approved the empress.

Leo frowned. He hadn't thought to wonder about the prince's betrothal present. It had seemed unimportant. But the bracelet had been Elvira's, a gift from her husband on the birth of the twins. His mouth thinned. Michael kept a tight hold on his pursestrings, but to give a new wife a gift from a dead one seemed insensitive to say the least.

"Oh, look, there's another charm!" Cordelia was momentarily distracted from her emotional turmoil. She picked up a tiny diamond-encrusted slipper. "See how delicate it is." It lay in the palm of her hand, the diamonds glittering in the light. "He "must mean it to be my own special charm."

"We will send the bracelet and the charm to the jewelers, Cordelia, and they will attach the slipper," Maria Theresa said briskly, returning to business. "Leave it on the table there. Now take a look at the miniature of Prince Michael."

Cordelia reluctantly laid down the bracelet and unwrapped the small circular package that had accompanied the box. The portrait of her future husband looked up at her from a lacquered frame. It was hard to get any sense of the person behind the flat image. She saw pale eyes under beetling brows, a thin straight mouth, a jutting jaw. His hair was concealed beneath a curled and powdered wig. He looked humorless, even severe, but since she was accustomed to dealing with both characteristics in her uncle, she was untroubled by it. He had no obvious physical defects that she could see, except for his age. He was definitely not in the first flush of youth. But if that was all to object to in her future husband, then she was luckier than many of her peers who were sold, regardless of inclination, to whoever suited their family's needs.

Her gaze darted toward Viscount Kierston. Was he married? That strange fizz of excitement was in her blood again. Her eyes widened and she almost took a step toward him. But he moved away and there was such a sharp warning in his own eyes that she recollected herself abruptly.

"How recent is the portrait?" she asked dutifully.

"It was taken last month," the viscount replied.

"I see. And does the prince have a miniature of me?"

"Yes, of course," her uncle said with a touch of impatience. "He received it months ago. One wouldn't expect Prince Michael to offer for you sight unseen."

"No, of course not," Cordelia murmured. "But I, of course, must accept him as my husband." It was almost sotto voce, but Leo heard it. His lips twitched despite his unease at the unnerving intensity of her gaze.

"The viscount will be your escort on the journey to Versailles," the duke stated, thumping his cane on the floor. He hadn't heard what she'd said, but he knew his niece and guessed it was something impertinent.

"I will be most grateful for His Lordship's escort." Cordelia curtsied demurely to the viscount. "I am obedient to the wishes of my empress and my uncle in all things." Her eyes flicked upward to meet the viscount's, and again he was taken aback by the light of passion blazing in the blue-gray depths. What was she? An innocent on the verge of sensual awakening? Or a woman who had held the secrets of that territory in her blood since birth?

The fine hairs on the nape of his neck prickled with the chilling certainty that he was going to find out.