He glanced sideways at the screen from where the girl had emerged. Presumably, it concealed some young man who had fallen victim to that tidal wave of desire. He tapped his fingers lightly against the wooden frame. "It's quite safe for you to come out now."

He left the hidden lover to make his escape and strolled toward the guest apartments, a deep frown drawing his sculpted eyebrows together.

Christian emerged when the booted footsteps had receded. He looked up and down the gallery. There was no sign of Cordelia. What had been going on? He'd heard them talking, but they had been too far along the gallery for him to make out the words. But then there'd been a long silence, a silence enlivened only by the shuffle of feet on the marble, the rustle of rich material. Then he'd heard Cordelia's racing steps out of the gallery. What had happened out here? Who was the man? And what had he been doing with Cordelia?

Frowning fiercely, the young musician made his way to his own humble chamber over the kitchens.

A flunky was waiting for Leo in the salon of the guest apartments. "Lord Kierston, Her Imperial Highness requests your presence," he said with some haste. "She is in audience with Duke Brandenburg. If you would follow me."

Leo followed the flunky through the corridors of the palace. He was familiar with the intricacies of the place after a visit six years earlier, when he'd had a private audience with the Austrian empress on behalf of his own family, who claimed kinship to the Hapsburgs through a distant cousin. Like most English noble families, the Beaumonts had relatives and connections across the continent, and there was always a home and a welcome to be had at any royal court.

But for the last three years, Leo had spent most of his time at the court of Versailles, cultivating the friendship of his sister's widower, Prince Michael von Sachsen, because only thus could he keep a watchful eye on Elvira's children.

"Ah, Viscount Kierston, how delightful that you could be part of this historic occasion." The empress greeted him cordially. Maria Theresa was now a widow of fifty-three and after sixteen children, her former beauty was just a shadow. She gave him her hand to kiss, then waved him to a chair. "We are very informal this afternoon," she said with a smile. "We are discussing the arrangements for Cordelia Brandenburg's marriage to Prince Michael von Sachsen."

Leo bowed to Duke Brandenburg the prospective bride's uncle, with the bland expression of an experienced diplomat. "My brother-in-law wishes me to stand proxy at the marriage of your niece, Duke. I trust that meets with your approval."

"Oh, most certainly." Duke Franz Brandenburg smiled with his fleshy lips, revealing yellow teeth, pointed like fangs. "I've examined the marriage contracts, and all appears to be in order." He rubbed his hands together in a gesture of satisfaction. Cordelia's price was high, but Prince Michael von Sachsen, the Prussian ambassador to the court of Versailles, had not even bargained.

Leo contented himself with a short nod. Michael had decided very suddenly to take another wife, some young virgin who would bear him a male heir. Twin daughters could be sold in the matrimonial market when the time was right, but they could not inherit, and could not perpetuate the name of von Sachsen. Cordelia Brandenburg, the empress's goddaughter, was a most eligible bride for a von Sachsen prince. At sixteen, she would be well tutored in the social requirements, but otherwise unsophisticated, inexperienced, and, of course, a virgin.

Leo's only interest in his brother-in-law's prospective bride was as a stepmother to his twin nieces. They were at the age now when they needed the softening influence of a mother. Their father was a distant autocrat, leaving their daily care in the hands of an elderly indigent relative whom Leo despised. Louise de Nevry was too narrow-minded to supervise the education and welfare of Elvira's spirited children.

He became suddenly aware that his hands were clenched into fists, his jaw so tight, pain shot up the side of his head. He forced himself to relax. Whenever he thought of his twin sister's sudden death, an almost unbearable tension and unfocused rage would fill him. It had been so unnecessary. So abrupt. Her marriage had changed her certainly, dampened her wonderful exuberance, and her ready laughter was heard less often. But when he'd left her and gone to Rome that February of 1765, she'd been as full of life, as beautiful as ever. He could still see her deep blue eyes, their mother's eyes, smiling as she bade him farewell. There had been a shadow in the depths of her eyes that he had put down to melancholy at their parting. They had always hated to be too distant from each other.

A week later she was dead. And now when he conjured up her image, all he saw was that shadow in her eyes, and now he remembered that it had been there for many months, and that sometimes her laughter had sounded strained, and that once he had surprised an expression on her face that he had never seen before. Almost of terror. But Elvira had laughed when he'd probed, and he'd thought nothing of it until after her death. Now he could think of little else.

"Lord Kierston?"

He returned to his surroundings with a jolt. The empress was talking to him. "I understand you have assurances from the French king that if Cordelia is wed to Prince Michael, she will be permitted to accompany my daughter to Versailles," the empress asked.

The assurances were actually from Madame du Barry, the king's mistress, but, as they all knew, the du Barry's word was as good as the king's. "Yes indeed, Your Majesty. His Majesty understands that it will be hard for the archduchess to leave everything and everyone she knows behind her on her marriage to the dauphin."

"My daughter will embrace France as her country," Maria Theresa stated. "She knows her duty. She knows that she was born to obey." She nodded decisively. "And Cordelia, of course, will be delighted to accompany Marie Antoinette-and to accept such an advantageous marriage. You have discussed this with her, Duke?" She turned to Franz with an inquiring smile.

The duke shrugged. "I saw no need to do so, madame. Cordelia also knows that she was born to obey. Now is time enough to tell her of her good fortune."

Good fortune? Leo's face was expressionless. Michael was a desiccated Prussian prince of rigid temperament; a sixteen-year-old might well be a trifle skeptical of such good fortune. Michael had not been as rigid when he'd married Elvira, but her death had darkened him in some way.

"So, my niece will wed Prince Michael by proxy and will accompany the dauphine to Versailles. You, Viscount, will be her escort, I understand."

"Yes, Duke. It will be my honor and privilege." Leo inclined his head in acknowledgment, thinking wearily of how tedious it was going to be accompanying some simpering debutante on such a long and arduous journey.

"Cordelia should be informed immediately. Send for Lady Cordelia." The empress gestured to her secretary, who bowed and left the room with swift step. "I would have this matter settled before the festivities of the wedding truly begin. We will be done with all business so we may enjoy ourselves on this joyous occasion with a free heart." Maria Theresa smiled benignly.

Cordelia stared down at the Latin text in front of her. The words made no sense; the grammatical structure was impenetrable. As she stumbled over the translation, she could sense the puzzled impatience of Abbe Vermond, the archbishop of Toulouse, who tutored both Cordelia and Marie Antoinette. Cordelia never stumbled. She took great pleasure in the intricacies of the Latin language, as she did in philosophy, history, and mathematics. Unlike Toinette, whose attention span was almost nonexistent, Cordelia was in general a bright, quick pupil. But not today.

She was alternately hot and cold, alternately filled with confused embarrassment and bemused anger when she thought of the exchange with the Englishman. And then when her body remembered the imprint of his through the light muslin of her gown, when her lips remembered the cool pliancy of his mouth, when her tongue remembered the taste of his mouth, she was awash with pulsing longing that she knew she should consider shameful, and yet she could find within herself not one iota of guilt or shame. It was pure exciting pleasure.

She glanced sideways at Toinette's fair head bent over her books. The archduchess was doodling in the margin of the text, idle scribbles of birds and flowers. She yawned, delicately covering her mouth with her fair white hand, her boredom palpable in the warm room filled with spring sunshine.

Had Toinette ever felt these strange stirrings, this heady flush of an unknown promise? Cordelia was certain she hadn't. Toinette would have confided such mysterious longings to her friend.

There was a knock at the door. Toinette sat up, blinking the daze from her eyes. Cordelia looked over with only mild curiosity at the flunky who stood in the doorway. "Lady Cordelia is summoned immediately to the empress."

"What could my mother want with you?" Toinette asked, frowning. "Why would she see you without me?"

"I can't imagine." Cordelia wiped her quill carefully and laid it on the blotter beside the inkstand. Such a summons was unprecedented, but one didn't keep the empress waiting. "If you would excuse me, mon pere." She curtsied to the archbishop and went to the door. The flunky bowed her out and escorted her to the empress's audience chamber, although she knew the way perfectly well.

She entered the audience chamber, her eyes swiftly taking in those present. A quiver of shock and surprise went through her at the sight of the English viscount standing behind the empress's chair. Dropping her eyes, she made a deep obeisance to the empress and thus missed the expression in the viscount's eyes. Her uncle, his gouty leg propped on a footstool, his hand resting on the silver knob of his cane, gave her a curt nod.