The Diamond Slipper cb-1 Read online

  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 displace
d 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.

  It seemed to Cordelia that she had abdicated responsibility for her body. It seemed to know all on its own what to do, how to respond. She was aware of something building deep in her belly, a liquid fullness growing in her loins, and now she turned in his arms to press her nakedness against him.

  Leo stood up, lifting her with him. She looked up at him and smiled slowly. "Is it time?"

  "Only if you wish it," he said quietly, holding her against him, searching her expression. She reached up to touch his mouth with her thumb, running the pad across his lips in an unknowingly sensual gesture that was all the answer he needed.

  Leo laid her on the bed again, then swiftly stripped off his clothes. Cordelia hadn't seen a naked man before. She gazed at the lean, powerful frame, the flat belly and narrow hips, the erect shaft jutting from the nest of curly black hair, the long hard thighs. And for an instant her body closed tight, shrinking in upon itself as if in defense against the intrusion of a violent trespasser.

  Leo sat on the bed, his hand stroking her belly until he felt her relax again, her body become fluid beneath his touch. He was waiting for a sign and she gave it to him. She reached to touch his erect flesh, her eyes half closed as she felt him, learned his shape, his texture. Making of his strange flesh something she knew and understood. When she guided him within the moist portal between her thighs, she knew that she wanted this man inside her, making her whole as he joined with her in flesh and in spirit.

  He gazed intently down into her eyes, looking into her very soul as he held himself at the very edge of her body. "Tell me how you feel, sweetheart."

  She knew he wanted to pull something from her, something more than the responses of her body. He wanted to hear her say how much she wanted this. How much she needed it. That without it, she could never be healed, never be whole again.

  "I need you so much. I love you so much," she replied, her eyes candid, her tongue lightly moistening her suddenly dry lips. "I want you inside me, Leo."

  He drew her legs up onto his shoulders, running his hands down the backs of her thighs, cupping the curve of her buttocks. Then he entered her fully with one long, leisurely, deep movement.

  And as she felt him moving within her, Cordelia fell from some great and miraculous height. She tumbled over and over, light as a thread of silk, through a golden ether. Her mouth was dry and she could hear little sobbing cries that on one plane she knew were her own, and when she landed and the liquid rush of her pleasure flowed from her she clung to her lover as he moved again within her, and again, taking his own pleasure now, savoring the glorious tightness of her honeyed sheath, until he withdrew from her and let his own climax cascade over him, his seed spilling warm and wet on her belly and thighs.

 
She stroked his back as he lay breathless upon her. Her legs had fallen to the bed in an ungainly sprawl, her heart was thudding, her body as limp as a newborn kitten's.

  Finally, Leo rolled sideways, relieving her of his weight. He lay on his back, one hand flung across her belly, the other over his eyes. He waited for the guilt, the sour remorse, the biting self-contempt, but he felt only a wondrous joy as if he had both given and received a priceless gift.

  "I can endure anything if you love me," Cordelia whispered, stroking his hand as it lay heavily on her belly. "You've made me strong again, Leo. You've given me back myself."

  He stared upward at the molding on the ceiling, his joy and confidence seeping from him like lifeblood from a wound. If he loved her, how could he endure that she should go back to Michael?

  "I will take you away from Michael," he said. "But I have to plan. If we act in haste, it won't work. It will be too easy to pursue us, and Michael has every legal right to do as he wishes with a runaway wife. Do you understand, Cordelia?" He sat up, caught her beneath the arms, and drew her up facing him. He cupped her face. "Do you understand what I'm saying?"

  Cordelia nodded and smiled trustfully. "Yes. I will wait. And I will endure." She touched his face. "I swear to you that it won't be so bad now that I have you to love me. Nothing can touch me now, Leo. Nothing."

  He shook his head almost impatiently. He had less faith than Cordelia in the power of mere emotion as shield and buckler. "You must go back now," he said heavily. "I will work as fast as I can to get you away, but for now…"

  "Yes, I understand." She smiled, the same vibrant smile he had learned so reluctantly to love. "If only I could find out what happened to Mathilde." Her smile was wiped clean from her face and she stared in horror. "He couldn't have had her killed… or… or imprisoned, could he?"

  "Of course not," Leo said with a confidence he didn't feel. Michael wouldn't resort to murder, he was certain, but an oubliette in some dark French prison wouldn't be hard to arrange for an errant servant.