The Diamond Slipper (35 page)

He closed his eyes, his foot unconsciously resting on the chest as the carriage jolted in a pothole.

It was midafternoon when he reached the palace on the rue du Bac. The household had been alerted by a runner of the master’s impending arrival, and when he entered the cavernous hall, even his most critical eye could see nothing amiss. Monsieur Brion remained in Versailles, but his second-in-command was bowing respectfully even before the prince set foot in the house.

“When would you wish to dine, my lord?”

“Later,” the prince said with an irritable gesture. “Bring claret to the library and send for Madame de Nevry immediately.”

The majordomo went off to inform the harassed cook that he’d better delay the spit-roasting ducks, and sent a footman posthaste to the schoolroom.

Louise was nursing a cold, her head wrapped in a turban,
a blanket around her shoulders, a tisane, heavily doctored from her silver flask, in her hands. The little girls sat at the table, laboriously copying their letters. There was a lowering silence in the room to match the overcast sky beyond the shuttered window.

“My lord commands the governess to attend him in the library,” the footman intoned from the door in a tone of studied insolence. The governess was ill liked in the household and treated with scant respect.

The children looked up, curiosity mingling with anxiety in their bright eyes. Louis sniffed and stared at the footman. “Prince Michael is at Versailles,” she said thickly.

“No he’s not. He’s in the library and he demands your presence immediately.” The footman sneered. The smell of brandy in the room mingled unpleasantly with the powerful distillation of herbs that the sufferer was periodically inhaling to relieve her congestion. He offered a mocking bow and departed, carelessly leaving the door ajar.

Louise rose to her feet in a flurry. The blanket dropped to the floor, her fingers scrabbled at the tightly wound turban. “Oh my goodness. What could have brought the prince here so unexpectedly? How can I go to him like this? Where’s my wig? Oh my goodness, in my old gown, too!”

The girls watched, sucking the tips of their quills, their eyes shining with enjoyment at their governess’s frantic antics. Their father’s unexpected arrival meant little to them except that they would probably have to endure one of the dreaded presentations in the library that evening.

Fluttering, complaining, Louise crammed her wig onto her sparse gray hair. “I mustn’t keep his lordship waiting, but, oh dear, how can I go to him in this old gown? What will he think?”

Her audience didn’t venture an opinion, just continued their bright-eyed observation of the spectacle. Finally, Louise’s mutterings faded as she scurried down the corridor, frantically smoothing her skirt, wondering if the mud on the hem of her petticoat was too noticeable. She’d worn it in the
rain the previous day, but linen was expensive to launder and it hadn’t occurred to her that she would see anyone but her charges for the next few days.

Amelia and Sylvie threw down their pens, simultaneously leaped to their feet, and did a silent dance around the gloomy room, celebrating their moment of freedom. It was a ritual they performed whenever they were free of observation.

“Do you think Madame Cordelia came with Papa?” Out of breath, Amelia fell in a panting heap into a chair.

“Yes, yes, yes!” squealed her sister excitedly, still dancing like a dervish in the middle of the room. “And Monsieur Leo too!”

Amelia jumped up again, grabbed her sister’s hands, and they twirled in a circle, skirts flying, hair escaping pins, chanting the names of the two people who lightened their daily drabness.

“If she did, she’ll come to see us soon.” Amelia, a little less robust than her sister, collapsed onto the floor in a puff of stiff tarlaton skirts.

Sylvie dropped beside her, her legs sticking out in front of her like thin sticks from beneath her own ruffled skirts. “I wish,” she said. “I wish wish
wish
!”

“I wish wish
wish
,” her sister repeated fervently and they both sat still, closing their eyes tightly.

“What are you doing on the floor?” The outraged tones of their governess destroyed their dream. They both scrambled to their feet, guiltily brushing down their skirts, standing, hands folded, to gaze penitently at their governess.

Louise looked as if she’d suffered an acute shock. Her wig was slightly askew and two bright spots of color burned on her powdered cheeks. “Sit down at the table,” she snapped, “and continue with your lesson.” She turned back to the open door and called shrilly, “Marie … Marie … where are you, girl?”

“Here, madame.” The flustered nursery maid came running.

“Pack Mesdames Amelia and Sylvie’s best clothes and all necessities for a journey.”

The nursery maid stared, mouth ajar. The prince’s daughters had never left the palace on rue du Bac except for sedate walks in the park with their governess and the occasional drive with Viscount Kierston.

“What’s the matter with you, girl? You look like a halfwit. Do as you’re told.”

“Yes, madame.” The girl bobbed a curtsy and scuttled away.

“Where are we going, madame?” Sylvie gnawed at her fingernail, too absorbed by the momentous occurrence to notice the bitter paste.

“Never you mind,” the governess snapped, taking perverse delight in keeping them in ignorance. “Get on with your lessons or there’ll be no supper tonight.”

The girls dutifully bent their heads over their copying, but their eyes met across the table, brimming with excitement and questions. What could be happening?

Louise unscrewed her little flash and took a swig of the contents hearty enough to have done justice to a drover after a hard day’s work. She was in shock.

Summoned to Versailles for the children to be presented to the king and the dauphine! It was an astounding prospect. The prince had been very unforthcoming about the circumstances that had led to the summons, but it was clear to the governess that he was seriously displeased. He had made it clear that the children’s conduct would reflect entirely on her care of them but that she could expect to keep to the palace rooms assigned to them for the most part. The princess would take responsibility for her stepdaughters when they were to be seen in public.

It was the princess’s doing, of that the governess was convinced. That interfering, unorthodox, frivolous girl had created this disruption in Louise’s carefully ordered world. She had a horror of crowds and public appearances. The children’s routine would be destroyed, the princess would
encourage them to misbehave, and then the governess would be held accountable. It was appalling, terrifying. And so inconsiderate when she was as sick as she was. The prince hadn’t even seemed to notice her sniffles and watery eyes. She certainly needn’t have worried that her appearance might cause unfavorable comment; her employer had barely looked at her throughout the interview. He’d drunk his wine and stared at the wall above her head while he’d rapped out his orders.

She began to wind the turban around her head again, quite forgetting that she still had on her wig. Sylvie gave a snort of laughter and buried her face in her arms. Amelia kicked her sister under the table.

Louise looked across at them, frowning, her mouth pursed tight. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror above the empty grate and hastily pulled off the turban and the wig. She glared at the girls who were now solemn faced, bent studiously over their papers, their little legs swinging beneath the table.

Muttering, the governess rewound the turban and took up her flask. Sylvie and Amelia, flushed with laughter and excitement, exchanged another gleeful look.

Chapter Eighteen

O
N THE STROKE
of midnight, Cordelia yawned delicately behind her fan and murmured to her dance partner that she was utterly exhausted. Her coach was about to turn back into a pumpkin if she didn’t seek her bed without delay.

He smiled a little pityingly. To be exhausted at midnight was rather pathetic at the height of the wedding festivities, but the princess had been a less than exhilarating partner, so he was perfectly ready to escort her off the floor. He bowed punctiliously and left her at the double doors of the ballroom.

Cordelia glanced casually around the throng swirling and swaying beneath the brilliant light thrown by hundreds of massive crystal chandeliers. There was no sign of Leo. Had he left already? Was he waiting for her? He’d said she was not to go to him before midnight. Presumably, he’d been present at the king’s couchée—an absurd ceremony, Cordelia thought. The king in his nightgown retired to his ceremonial bed surrounded by his courtiers, then as soon as they’d left, he got up again and went off into the town, or even to Paris, or simply to the card tables in his private apartments. It was the same at the morning levee. Most mornings, the king had been up and dressed for hours, before returning again to the state bed to be ceremonially and publicly dressed by his gentlemen of the bedchamber.

But at least once the ceremony of the couchée had been observed, the court was freed from royal observance for the remainder of the evening, so it had some useful purpose.

Cordelia slipped out of the salon and glided away from the bright, noisy scene. The antechamber was much quieter, containing only a few card players being entertained by a
group of musicians. Christian had played for the king earlier in the evening. It was a mark of great honor and the king had been visibly impressed; the Duc de Carillac, Christian’s patron, had beamed with pride and pleasure. Christian’s once uncertain future was looking assured, Cordelia thought. But her satisfaction was tinged with the wry reflection that while Christian’s future was now assured, her own and Toinette’s, once so certain, had developed some distinct hiccups.

But all such distracting thoughts vanished as she sped down the quieter corridors and up the narrow stairs of the less fashionable parts of the palace, each step drawing her ever closer to Leo.

His door at the head of the stone staircase was ajar. Cordelia paused, glancing behind her down the stairs. There was no one around. The other doors along the passage that stretched from the stairs were all closed; a few candles flickered dimly in wall sconces. Cordelia lightly laid her fingers on the door. Why was it open? Had Leo perhaps gone somewhere? If so, it couldn’t have been far. He wouldn’t leave his door open if he was expecting to be gone long. Perhaps his servant was in the room. But Leo was expecting her. He wouldn’t summon his servant. She pushed and the door swung soundlessly inward.

She stepped into the chamber. It was empty. A curtain fluttered at the open window. Fresh candles burned brightly on the dresser and the mantel. A decanter of wine stood on a table, a half-full glass beside it.

“Leo?” She took another, this time tentative, step, feeling like an intruder. Her heart skipped. Her scalp crawled. She had the sense that she was not alone.

Something flashed across her eyes. Then she was staring into a soft, velvety blackness.

“Leo?” she whispered again as the blindfold was drawn tight and tied at the back of her head. She heard the door close quietly.

“Don’t be afraid.” There was a depth to his voice, a potent current of lust.

“I’m not,” she said truthfully, standing very still, trying to orientate herself in this private darkness. Her mounting excitement mingled now with the sense of entering some dangerous and unknown territory.

She could feel him standing in front of her, and she put out her hands to touch him. He was naked. Her heart beat faster. She was fully dressed, buttoned, hooked, laced into corsets, hoops, three petticoats, and a heavy gown of thickly embroidered ivory taffeta. She became conscious suddenly of every garment on her body, of her garters fastened at her thighs, of her silk stockings, of the lace edging to the stays that pushed her breasts up over the low neck of her gown. Of the shape and texture of her flesh and bone beneath.

Her hands moved over him, an eye in every fingertip. Deprived of sight, she found that her fingers were extra sensitive. They saw as they touched, they absorbed every little bump and ripple on his skin as she stroked his chest, finding his nipples. Delicately, she licked her fingertips and caressed his nipples with the damp tips, feeling them lift and harden. She listened to his breathing, more aware of every sound in the stillness than she’d ever been before. The tiny hiss of a spurting candle, the rustle of her feet on the woven rug, the sudden catch in his breath when she slid her hands down over his rib cage into the concave space below. She played in his navel with a dampened fingertip, clasped his narrow waist between her hands.

He put his hand on her head, not hard but with an urgency, pushing her down. She slipped to her knees, her skirts billowing in an ivory corolla around her. Her hands gripped his buttocks, her thumbs pressing into the hard pelvic bones, and she nuzzled blindly against his belly, stroked with her tongue, before gathering his erect flesh on her tongue and drawing him into her mouth.

She moved her mouth up and down the hard pulsing stem, keeping her hands where they were, using only her
face and her mouth to hold and caress him. She inhaled deeply of the scent of his arousal, savored the saltiness of his flesh on her tongue.