The Diamond Slipper Page 7

  "Do I tempt you, my lord?" She glan­ced up at him with de­mu­re eyes, long black las­hes flut­te­ring in a per­fect moc­kery of flir­ta­ti­on.

  "Cor­de­lia!" ex­c­la­imed Chris­ti­an yet aga­in. He'd ne­ver se­en his fri­end be­ha­ve in this man­ner. "Ha­ve you had too much cham­pag­ne?"

  She sho­ok her he­ad, her eyes still fi­xed upon the vis­co­unt. "Well, do I tempt you, my lord?"

  "To many things," he rep­li­ed dam­pe­ningly. "Few of them ple­asant."

  "I was only fun­ning," she sa­id, al­t­ho­ugh she knew she hadn't be­en, but so­me de­vil in­ha­bi­ted her when she was in the vis­co­unt's com­pany, and she co­uldn't se­em to help her­self. "I don't think you ha­ve a sen­se of hu­mor, sir. If you had, you wo­uldn't we­ar that bo­ring and uni­ma­gi­na­ti­ve cos­tu­me."

  Leo glan­ced at his ref­lec­ti­on in the mir­ror. "What's wrong with it?" He so­un­ded chag­ri­ned.

  "It's dull. I wo­uld ha­ve dres­sed you as a Ro­man le­gi­on­na­ire in­s­te­ad… in a short to­ga and leg­gings, and tho­se san­dals with the cros­sed la­ces that go up to the knee. Now, that wo­uldn't ha­ve be­en bo­ring in the le­ast. Oh, and a cir­c­let of gil­ded la­urel le­aves aro­und yo­ur he­ad. Very ap­pe­aling."

  Leo was so oc­cu­pi­ed trying to sort out this ima­ge of him­self so blit­hely pre­sen­ted that it to­ok him a mi­nu­te to re­ali­ze that she'd thrown him off ba­lan­ce aga­in. He glan­ced at Chris­ti­an and saw to his fur­t­her chag­rin that the yo­ung man was grin­ning.

  "Cor­de­lia's very go­od at cos­tu­mes, my lord," Chris­ti­an vo­lun­te­ered. "She de­signs all the cos­tu­mes for the plays the ro­yal fa­mily put on in the the­at­re at Schon­b­runn. I know what she was we­aring to­night was shoc­king, but it was very cle­ver."

  Leo glan­ced aga­in at his ima­ge in the mir­ror and ca­ught him­self ref­lec­ting that it was a very bo­ring cos­tu­me. A le­gi­on­na­ire's re­ga­lia wo­uld ha­ve be­en much mo­re ima­gi­na­ti­ve and ex­ci­ting.

  De­ar God! What wo­uld he be thin­king next? "She was as con­s­pi­cu­o­us as a fla­min­go in a do­ve­co­te," he sta­ted rep­res­si­vely. "Now, co­uld we get to the mat­ter in hand? If Po­ligny is pi­ra­ting Chris­ti­an's work, then he must be ex­po­sed."

  "Yes, but even if we do that, Chris­ti­an's po­si­ti­on he­re will be im­pos­sib­le, even with the em­p­ress's sup­port. Po­ligny has so many fri­ends, so much in­f­lu­en­ce."

  "That's what I told you" Chris­ti­an po­in­ted out, "and you ac­cu­sed me of be­ing a pes­si­mist."

  "Well, I tho­ught abo­ut it a bit mo­re." Cor­de­lia wan­de­red over to the tab­le and the bot­tle of cham­pag­ne. "Is the­re a glass for me?"

  "I'm af­ra­id not." Leo sip­ped his own wi­ne.

  "Ne­ver mind. I can sha­re Chris­ti­an's." She su­ited ac­ti­on to words, ta­king Chris­ti­an's glass from his un­re­sis­ting fin­gers. "This is what I ha­ve in mind. Chris­ti­an sho­uld ex­po­se Po­ligny in a bro­ad­s­he­et that will hit the stre­ets the day we all le­ave Vi­en­na."

  Leo's ga­ze shar­pe­ned. The mu­si­ci­an was le­aving too?

  "But won't that lo­ok as if I'm af­ra­id to de­fend my po­si­ti­on?" Chris­ti­an to­ok the glass back and sip­ped.

  "It might, but not if yo­ur evi­den­ce is in­con­t­ro­ver­tib­le." She held out her hand for the glass, tal­king ra­pidly but suc­cinctly. "It'll ca­use a stir at the very le­ast, and the news will re­ach Pa­ris, so that when you ar­ri­ve the­re you sho­uld al­re­ady be a ce­leb­rity and it sho­uldn't be dif­fi­cult to find an in­f­lu­en­ti­al pat­ron. Ever­yo­ne knows you're a ge­ni­us. And if they don't, they'll dis­co­ver it im­me­di­ately, as so­on as you be­gin to play. What do you think, sir?" She tur­ned to Leo, who had be­en wat­c­hing the in­ter­p­lay bet­we­en the two with a deg­ree of amu­se­ment. The­ir ease with each ot­her was com­p­le­tely free of lo­ver­li­ke un­der­cur­rents; it re­min­ded him of the way he and El­vi­ra had be­en to­get­her.

  Sor­row, as fresh as it had ever be­en, was­hed thro­ugh him. He pic­ked up the bot­tle and re­fil­led his glass.

  Cor­de­lia, se­e­ing the sud­den sha­dow in the vis­co­unt's eyes, lo­oked over at Chris­ti­an. But Chris­ti­an was frow­ning, ab­sor­bed in the bu­si­ness at hand.

  "Do you think my hus­band might be pre­pa­red to spon­sor Chris­ti­an?" she as­ked, as the vis­co­unt to­ok a sip of his wi­ne and se­emed to emer­ge from wha­te­ver black lan­d­s­ca­pe he'd be­en in­ha­bi­ting. "Just ini­ti­al­ly, I me­an. Just to in­t­ro­du­ce him to the right pe­op­le."

  Leo stro­ked his chin and con­si­de­red this. Em­b­ra­cing the ca­use of an im­po­ve­ris­hed yo­ung mu­si­ci­an, even if he was a ge­ni­us, didn't so­und at all li­ke Mic­ha­el. "I wo­uldn't pin my ho­pes on it," he sa­id even­tu­al­ly.

  Chris­ti­an lo­oked cres­t­fal­len, but Cor­de­lia sa­id im­pul­si­vely, "But sup­po­sing I as­ked for it as a wed­ding pre­sent? It wo­uldn't be a big thing."

  Leo co­uldn't help la­ug­hing. "My de­ar girl, a bri­de do­esn't march up to her hus­band at first me­eting and de­mand a wed­ding pre­sent."

  "I sup­po­se not," she sa­id glumly.

  "Be­si­des, I don't ha­ve the mo­ney for the jo­ur­ney," Chris­ti­an po­in­ted out.

  "Oh, I ha­ve mo­ney, that's not a prob­lem," she sa­id with a re­turn of en­t­hu­si­asm. "I can lend you wha­te­ver you ne­ed."

  "I don't wish to bor­row mo­ney from you, Cor­de­lia."

  "Pshaw! Fal­se pri­de," she sa­id dis­mis­si­vely. "You'll pay it back when you're rich and fa­mo­us and known the world over. But you must ha­ve a spon­sor in Pa­ris. Per­haps the king…" She glan­ced in­ter­ro­ga­ti­vely at Leo.

  "It's not im­pos­sib­le. The king is a ge­ne­ro­us pat­ron, but it's not easy to ga­in his no­ti­ce."

  Cor­de­lia che­wed her lip. She co­uld think of the so­lu­ti­on, but she won­de­red if it wo­uld be im­per­ti­nent to sug­gest it. It wo­uld, of co­ur­se, but not­hing ven­tu­red, not­hing ga­ined. Ho­we­ver, it wo­uld be un­for­gi­vab­le to put both men on the spot in front of each ot­her.

  "The cham­pag­ne has ma­de me very thirsty," she sa­id. "I wish I had so­me le­mo­na­de."

  "I'll fetch you a glass," Chris­ti­an sa­id in­s­tantly, as she'd known he wo­uld. He set the cham­pag­ne glass on the tab­le and hur­ri­ed from the ro­om.

  Cor­de­lia pic­ked up the dis­car­ded glass and sip­ped, trying to think how to ap­pro­ach the de­li­ca­te su­bj­ect.

  "I tho­ught the cham­pag­ne ma­de you thirsty," Leo ob­ser­ved, le­aning back aga­inst a pi­er tab­le, fol­ding his arms, re­gar­ding her with an iro­ni­cal eye.

  "I want to ask you so­met­hing pri­va­te," she sa­id.

  "Why do I ha­ve the sen­se of im­pen­ding tro­ub­le?" He re­ac­hed be­hind him for his own glass.

  "Will you spon­sor Chris­ti­an?"

  Leo clo­sed his eyes bri­efly.

  "Ple­ase. It wo­uldn't be that much tro­ub­le, wo­uld it?" She ca­me up to him, to­uc­hing his arm aga­in. "He re­al­ly is a ge­ni­us. You'll see."

  He ope­ned his eyes and lo­oked down at her. Im­me­di­ately, he reg­ret­ted it. She was ga­zing up at him, her che­eks flus­hed, her ha­ir to­us­led aro­und her he­art-sha­ped fa­ce. His eyes be­ca­me ri­ve­ted to the de­ep dim­p­le in her chin, the full sen­su­al bow of her lips. She brus­hed her ha­ir im­pa­ti­ently from her fa­ce, tuc­king it be­hind her ears, and his ga­ze fell upon the small shells lying flat aga­inst the si­des of her he­ad. Her ear­lo­bes we­re long, beg­ging for the gra­zing ca­ress of his te­eth.

  "Ple­ase," she sa­id softly. "It wo­uld me­an so much to me. Chris­ti­an can't was­te his ge­ni­us he­re. It's
not fa­ir to the world!"

  "How can I pos­sibly be res­pon­sib­le for dep­ri­ving the world of ge­ni­us?" he sa­id, his lips cur­ving in an in­vo­lun­tary smi­le. "You co­uld charm the birds out of the air, the fish out of the sea, Cor­de­lia."

  Her eyes glo­wed and he knew he'd blun­de­red aga­in. "Co­uld I, my lord?" Her lit­tle whi­te te­eth clip­ped her bot­tom lip.

  He ca­ught her fa­ce in both hands, his fin­gers pus­hing in­to the tan­g­led rin­g­lets. His mo­uth on hers was hard, as if he wan­ted to pu­nish both of them for this cra­zi­ness that he co­uldn't help. His ton­gue for­ced her lips apart, pro­bing, ra­va­ging her mo­uth, al­most as if he wo­uld thus pe­net­ra­te her body to the ob­s­ti­na­te, ir­re­sis­tib­le spi­rit that dro­ve it. His hands we­re hard on her fa­ce as he fo­ught thro­ugh the mists of mad­ness to con­t­rol his sur­ging aro­usal.

  But un­be­li­evably, she la­ug­hed aga­inst his mo­uth, her bre­ath a mo­ist and swe­et whis­per, and her ton­gue dan­ced with his. Her body mo­ved aga­inst him, her own hands mo­ving uner­ringly to his but­tocks, pres­sing his lo­ins aga­inst her.

  Leo star­ted back, his hands fal­ling to his si­des. He sta­red at her, her flus­hed fa­ce, her smi­ling mo­uth, the dre­amy aro­usal in her eyes.

  "Get out of he­re."

  Cor­de­lia sto­od her gro­und. She ran her hands thro­ugh her ha­ir, pus­hing the di­sor­de­red curls off her fa­ce. "Don't you think you co­uld lo­ve me at all, Leo? Not even one lit­tle bit?"

  With a sa­va­ge exec­ra­ti­on, he pus­hed past her and stro­de from the ro­om.

  Cor­de­lia snap­ped a thum­b­na­il bet­we­en her te­eth. At le­ast he hadn't sa­id no. But per­haps simply fol­lo­wing her in­s­tincts as she was ac­cus­to­med to do­ing was a mis­ta­ke. Per­haps ho­nesty put him off be­ca­use he was ac­cus­to­med to pla­ying the sop­his­ti­ca­ted ga­mes of flir­ta­ti­on be­fo­re the glit­te­ring mir­rors of Ver­sa­il­les. But she didn't know how to play tho­se ga­mes. She didn't know how to be an­y­t­hing but her­self.

  Too ke­yed up to go to bed and in too much tur­mo­il to ma­na­ge to be co­he­rent in com­pany, she ma­de her way to the for­mal ba­ro­que gar­dens of the pa­la­ce, the night air co­oling her che­eks. That ex­p­lo­si­on of pas­si­on had sha­ken her. The­re had be­en a mo­ment when he had frig­h­te­ned her, when she had sen­sed in him a for­ce that co­uld swe­ep her away in­to so­me ma­el­s­t­rom in which she wo­uld lo­se all sen­se of her own iden­tity.

  She shi­ve­red, won­de­ring with a de­ep li­qu­id sur­ge in her lo­ins what it wo­uld be li­ke to ex­pe­ri­en­ce that un­le­as­hed for­ce.

  Chapter Five

  For the hun­d­redth ti­me that day, Cor­de­lia to­ok up the mi­ni­atu­re of her hus­band-to-be and scru­ti­ni­zed it. It was as if each ti­me she sta­red in­to that calm, ex­p­res­si­on­less co­un­te­nan­ce, she ex­pec­ted to find so­me clue to the man him­self. She knew that her own mi­ni­atu­re was a fa­ir li­ke­ness of her­self, but that so­me­how it didn't cap­tu­re any sen­se of the per­son she was. Pre­su­mably Prin­ce Mic­ha­el was as frus­t­ra­ted by this as she was.

  The clock chi­med fi­ve. In one ho­ur she wo­uld be mar­ri­ed by proxy to the man who­se fa­ce ga­zed out at her from the lac­qu­ered fra­me. And she knew her­self to be wo­eful­ly un­p­re­pa­red for mar­ri­age, for wi­fe­ho­od, for mot­her­ho­od- eit­her to mot­her the prin­ce's two lit­tle girls or to bring forth her own child. The idea of go­ing blind in­to the un­k­nown ma­de her skin pric­k­le with an­xi­ety.

  Mat­hil­de bus­t­led in, her arms full of sil­ver cloth. "Co­me, co­me, child. Ti­me's hur­rying along and you must be dow­n­s­ta­irs to me­et yo­ur un­c­le at fi­ve mi­nu­tes to six." She la­id the gown on the bed, pan­ting slightly, her che­eks flus­hed. The gown was so he­avily stit­c­hed with sil­ver thre­ad and se­ed pe­arls that it we­ig­hed al­most as much as Cor­de­lia her­self.

  Cor­de­lia put down the mi­ni­atu­re and sto­od up. The gown she wo­uld we­ar for her se­cond wed­ding was al­re­ady pac­ked in the le­at­her­bo­und chests she wo­uld ta­ke to Pa­ris. It was ma­de of cloth of gold and was even he­avi­er than this one.

  She sho­ok off her wrap­per with an im­pa­ti­ent ges­tu­re that mas­ked her sud­den ap­pre­hen­si­on, and sto­od still as Mat­hil­de la­ced her and fas­te­ned the ta­pes of her pan­ni­ers. They we­re so wi­de she wo­uld ha­ve to sli­de si­de­ways thro­ugh all but the wi­dest do­ub­le do­ors. She step­ped in­to the first of her six pet­ti­co­ats.

  Twenty mi­nu­tes la­ter she was fi­nal­ly ho­oked in­to the gown. Her ha­ir had be­en pow­de­red and dres­sed ho­urs be­fo­re, and when she exa­mi­ned her­self in the che­val glass, she saw a wo­man who bo­re no re­la­ti­on to her­self. A pa­in­ted, pow­de­red doll, with jewe­led he­els so high and clot­hes so stiff and he­avy she co­uld walk only with the smal­lest steps. She'd en­du­red ce­re­mo­ni­al dress on ot­her oc­ca­si­ons sin­ce she'd left the scho­ol­ro­om, but fa­mi­li­arity didn't les­sen its dis­com­forts.

  Du­ke Franz Bran­den­burg was le­aning he­avily on his ca­ne, his watch in his hand, when his ni­ece en­te­red the small sa­lon in the im­pe­ri­al apar­t­ments of the Hof­burg Pa­la­ce.

  "You are la­te," he pro­no­un­ced in his cus­to­mary iras­cib­le man­ner. "I can­not abi­de un­pun­c­tu­ality."

  Cor­de­lia cur­t­si­ed and of­fe­red no de­fen­se. It was fo­ur mi­nu­tes to six, but a mi­nu­te was as bad as an ho­ur in her un­c­le's bo­ok.

  "Co­me." He lim­ped to the do­or. "It's the gros­sest in­ci­vi­lity to ke­ep Vis­co­unt Ki­er­s­ton wa­iting. He's be­ing most ge­ne­ro­us in ta­king on such a char­ge, and the­re's no ne­ed to ma­ke it mo­re ir­k­so­me than it al­re­ady is." Be­la­tedly, he of­fe­red her his arm at the do­or. "He must be a very clo­se fri­end and con­fi­dant of Prin­ce Mic­ha­el's to do him such ser­vi­ce. Un­less, of co­ur­se, he's in his debt," he ad­ded was­pishly. "That's pro­bably it. No man in his right mind wo­uld vo­lun­ta­rily ta­ke on such a bur­den."

  Cor­de­lia kept her mo­uth shut as the can­tan­ke­ro­us vo­ice ma­un­de­red on in his dis­pa­ra­ging fas­hi­on. Not that she ex­pec­ted an­y­t­hing el­se from her un­c­le. His ni­ece was a bur­den to him; the­re­fo­re she must be to any ot­her man.

  Ma­rie An­to­inet­te wo­uld be mar­ri­ed by proxy the fol­lo­wing day in the Augus­ti­ne church, which was lar­ge eno­ugh to ac­com­mo­da­te the en­ti­re co­urt. Cor­de­lia's ce­re­mony was to ta­ke pla­ce in the small Got­hic cha­pel be­si­de the ri­ding scho­ol. The gu­est list had be­en kept small, but no con­ces­si­ons had be­en ma­de in the for­ma­lity of the ce­re­mony.

  The ro­yal fa­mily we­re pre­sent, as we­re the se­ni­or mem­bers of the French de­le­ga­ti­on. The du­ke lim­ped up the ais­le, his ca­ne thum­ping with every step, his ni­ece on his arm. The bis­hop of St. Step­hen's sto­od be­fo­re the al­tar.

  Whe­re was the vis­co­unt? Cor­de­lia's eyes dar­ted aro­und the dim cha­pel. The day was over­cast and the­re was no eve­ning sun to light the sta­ined-glass win­dows. Sho­uldn't her hus­band, proxy or not, be wa­iting at the al­tar for her? No one se­emed con­cer­ned abo­ut this, and her un­c­le, now mer­ci­ful­ly si­lent, con­ti­nu­ed his me­asu­red prog­ress to­ward the al­tar wit­ho­ut fal­te­ring.

  As they re­ac­hed it, Vis­co­unt Ki­er­s­ton ap­pe­ared from the sha­dow of a sto­ne pil­lar, whe­re he'd be­en stan­ding in qu­i­et con­ver­sa­ti­on with anot­her co­ur­ti­er. It was al­most as if his ap­pe­aran­ce we­re an af­ter­t­ho­ught, it was so ca­su­al. Cor­de­lia, mum­mi­fi­ed in her stiff wed­ding gown and lac­qu­ered, pow­de­red ha­ir, felt a sur­ge of re­sen­t­ment that he
sho­uld tre­at this… her… with such in­so­uci­an­ce. It was a re­al mar­ri­age. As le­gal­ly and re­li­gi­o­usly bin­ding as any. The one that wo­uld fol­low in Pa­ris wo­uld carry no ex­t­ra we­ight or sig­ni­fi­can­ce.

  He step­ped up be­si­de her, ac­cor­ding the du­ke a curt nod but ig­no­ring Cor­de­lia. His at­ti­tu­de might be ca­re­less, but his dress was as for­mal as hers. His mid­night blue su­it was richly em­b­ro­ide­red with sil­ver ara­bes­qu­es. His ha­ir was con­ce­aled be­ne­ath a pig­ta­il wig, the qu­e­ue en­ca­sed in dark blue silk and ti­ed top and bot­tom with mat­c­hing silk rib­bons. Di­amonds win­ked from the folds of his la­ce-ed­ged cra­vat, spar­k­led on his long fin­gers, ed­ged the sil­ver buc­k­les of his red-he­eled sho­es.

  Cor­de­lia de­ci­ded he lo­oked in­ti­mi­da­ting, se­ve­re in his ele­gan­ce-but so very be­a­uti­ful. Her ear­li­er re­sen­t­ment va­nis­hed as qu­ickly as it had ari­sen. She was con­s­ci­o­us of every li­ne of his lit­he slen­der fra­me, of the sharply et­c­hed che­ek­bo­nes, the sen­su­o­us mo­uth, the long, lu­xu­ri­ant black eye­las­hes, so star­t­ling aga­inst the whi­te of his wig. Her pul­se ra­ced, her palms dam­pe­ned in her silk glo­ves.

  The bis­hop's vo­ice dro­ned on over her he­ad, but the words me­ant not­hing. Her un­c­le ga­ve her away with a cle­ar no­te of re­li­ef in his lo­uder-than-usu­al vo­ice, and she ba­rely no­ti­ced. She he­ard only the mo­ment when Leo Be­a­umont sa­id firmly that he to­ok this wo­man, Cor­de­lia Bran­den­burg, to be his wed­ded wi­fe. She clo­sed her mind to the "in the na­me of Prin­ce Mic­ha­el von Sac­h­sen," awa­re only of her ri­sing ex­ci­te­ment, the he­ady swirl of an­ti­ci­pa­ti­on. So­mew­he­re at the back of her bra­in lur­ked the know­led­ge that she was be­ing a fo­ol, that to play with this fan­tasy whi­le she sto­od at the al­tar be­ing mar­ri­ed to anot­her man was a re­ci­pe for di­sas­ter, but that didn't se­em to dim the lus­t­re of her fa­iry ta­le in the le­ast.