"I do indeed owe you much thanks for all your consideration, Lord Kierston," she murmured. "But perhaps, sir, his lordship is fatigued after his journey."
"Good heavens, I've seen Viscount Kierston ride to hounds all day and dance all night," Prince Michael said dismissively. "Come now, man, say you'll join us."
For a minute Leo could see no graceful way out.
Then he took Michael's arm and drew him aside with an almost urgent movement. He spoke in a swift undertone. "I must ask you to excuse me, Michael. The occasion… a happy one, I know… brings me so many memories of Elvira on her wedding day that I will be but poor company."
Michael said grudgingly, "Then I cannot insist. But you will visit us soon?"
"Of course." Leo turned back to Cordelia, who was struggling to eavesdrop while pretending polite lack of curiosity. "I beg to be excused, ma'am. I am engaged elsewhere. But pray accept my congratulations again and my wishes for your every happiness."
She put her chin up and said more strongly than she'd so far managed, "You will come to visit my husband's daughters soon, I trust. You have said so often how attached you are to them."
Leo offered a small bow of silent acknowledgment and was about to leave when he caught sight of Christian, hovering a few feet away. "Michael, permit me to introduce Christian Percossi. He's newly arrived from Vienna, where he was the pupil of the court composer." He beckoned the young man over.
"Christian is a close fr-acquaintance of mine," Cordelia put in, smiling warmly at Christian as he bowed to the prince. She forgot her own concerns for the moment in her eagerness to do something for her friend. "He had some difficulties with Poligny, his master, who stole his work, and now he has need of new patronage. Viscount Kierston has been kind enough to sponsor him." She put out her hand to Christian, drawing him forward.
Michael gave the blushing young man a frigid stare. "You are acquainted with my wife, sir?"
"We were children together," Cordelia said.
"I did not ask you, madame," Michael said icily. "I do not care to be interrupted."
Cordelia flushed crimson under this public rebuke. Hasty words of defense and attack rose to her lips, and it was only with the greatest effort that she contained them. Her eyes darted to Leo, whose expression was grim. Christian was tongue-tied.
"I find it distasteful to think of someone of my wife's position at court consorting with a mere musician, a mere pupil, indeed," Michael continued in the same icy tones. "Viscount Kierston may be sponsoring you, but my wife will not acknowledge your acquaintance." He gave Leo a curt nod, then turned on his heel. "Come, Cordelia." He took her arm and bore her off.
She cast one look over her shoulder at the chagrined and startled Christian and the grim-faced viscount, then said resolutely, "My lord, I must protest at being humiliated in that fashion. I cannot believe it was necessary to take me to task so harshly in front of my friends."
"You will not count people below your status among your friends," he said. "Neither will you interrupt me, nor will you expound you own views without being asked. It is not seemly and I will not tolerate my wife putting herself forward in public. I trust I make myself clear."
They had reached the carriage that would take them to Michael's palace in the rue du Bac. Cordelia was overwhelmed with anger and confusion. No one had ever before spoken to her in such insulting fashion. People listened to her when she talked; she was intelligent and well read and quite amusing on occasion. She was used to thinking for herself, and this man was telling her that henceforth she was to be mute, to have no views of her own.
Oh God, what kind of life was she starting?
Michael handed her into the carriage, his expression self-satisfied as if he'd just accomplished a serious task. He climbed in after her and took his seat opposite, regarding her with an almost predatory gaze from beneath hooded lids. Cordelia leaned back and closed her eyes. She couldn't bear to look at him, so smug, so… so hungry.
The night was still young when the last wedding guests left the prince's palace on rue du Bac. It had been a very restrained, decorous celebration, and Cordelia's fears that she would be escorted to her bedchamber amid raucous ribaldry were unfounded.
She was accompanied upstairs by three elderly ladies, distant relatives of the prince's, who showed no inclination to offer the young bride words of wisdom, caution, or courage. They chattered among themselves about the wedding guests as they went through the motions of preparing the bride for bed, and Cordelia began to feel like an inconvenient hindrance to their gossip.
"Mathilde can look after me perfectly well, mesdames," she ventured, shivering in her shift because the self-styled attendant who was holding her bridal nightgown seemed to have forgotten what she was to do with it, so caught up was she in a detailed analysis of Madame du Barry's coiffure.
Mathilde sniffed and deftly removed the garment from the woman's hands, muttering, "The princess will catch her death in a minute."
Countess Lejeune blinked, seeming to return to her surroundings in some surprise. "Did you say something, my dear?" she inquired benignly of Cordelia, who was pulling off her shift.
"Only that I am most grateful for your attentions, mesdames, but my maid can very well see to everything now. You must wish to be going home before the hour is much further advanced," she mumbled through the tumbling mass of hair, dislodged as she'd dragged the shift over her head.
"Oh, but we must see you into bed, the prince will expect it," the countess declared, nodding at her companions, who nodded vigorously in return. "But I daresay your maid can attend you better than we can, so we'll sit over here to wait until you're in bed."
Cordelia grimaced and caught Mathilde's eye. Her nurse shook her head and pursed her lips as she dropped the heavy lace-trimmed nightgown over Cordelia's head. The chatter from the three women beside the hearth rose and fell in an unbroken rhythm as Mathilde brushed the bride's hair, adjusted the ruffles of the nightgown, and turned back the bed.
"My mistress is abed," Mathilde proclaimed loudly, folding her hands in her apron and glaring at the three women. She might play the subservient servant in the prince's company, but she found nothing intimidating about three elderly gossipmongers.
"Oh, then our work is done," the countess declared comfortably, coming over to the bed, where Cordelia had slipped between the sheets. "I bid you good night, my dear."
"Mesdames." Cordelia turned her head to receive the air-blown kisses as they gathered around the bed. "I am most grateful for your kind attentions."
The ironical note in her voice failed to reach them. They smiled, blew more kisses, and disappeared in a chattering buzz.
"Could have done without that useless lot," Mathilde stated. "Can't imagine what good they thought they were doing."
"I doubt they thought about it." The amusement had died out of Cordelia's eyes now. She lay back against the pillows, her face very pale against the white lawn. "I wish this didn't have to happen, Mathilde."
"Nonsense. You're a married woman and married women have relations with their husbands," the nurse said bracingly. She handed Cordelia a small alabaster pot. "Use this ointment before your husband comes to you. It will ease penetration."
The matter-of-fact statement did more than anything could to bring home the reality of what was to happen. Cordelia unscrewed the lid of the pot. "What is it?"
"Herbal ointment. It will prepare your body to receive your husband and will dull the pain if he's not considerate."
"Considerate? How?" Cordelia dipped a finger in the unscented ointment. Mathilde's advice was important, she knew, and yet her words seemed to exist on some other plane, coming to her from a great distance.