"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.