"Good God, why should they be present?" He looked genuinely astonished at such a suggestion.

"I had thought it perhaps appropriate," Cordelia said. Obviously she'd made another error.

"Absolutely not," he stated with finality, opening the door to Cordelia's chamber. "They will be waiting at the house to pay their respects to you."

Cordelia pulled a wry face, averting her head as she stepped past him into the room. It didn't sound as if it would be a warm and encouraging moment of introduction. The prince moved inside after her, closing the door at his back. The wave of queasiness broke over her again. But surely he wouldn't do anything in front of Mathilde.

Mathilde rose from her chair, where she'd been mending a torn flounce on one of Cordelia's gowns, and curtsied to her new master.

"You're the princess's maid, I understand."

"Yes, my lord. Mathilde. I've looked after my lady since she was a babe." Mathilde was the picture of anxious subservience as she curtsied again. There was no sign in this humble maid of the assertive woman whom Viscount Kierston knew. But both she and Cordelia knew that if Mathilde didn't find favor with Prince Michael, he could cast her out of his household without compunction.

"Mathilde was my wet nurse."

Michael frowned. "You need an abigail well versed in the fashions of the court. An elderly wet nurse is hardly an appropriate attendant for the wife of the Prussian ambassador."

Cordelia thought quickly. "It must be as you please, my lord," she said, trying to sound softly submissive. "You know better than I, of course. But Mathilde was in great favor with the empress Maria Theresa. She has often attended the dauphine and was in the empress's confidence."

Michael considered this. While they were a long way from Vienna, it was well known that Maria Theresa had ears and eyes in every court. It wouldn't do for an ambassador to offend the empress of Austria even in such a slight matter as the disposition of an elderly maidservant. "Well, we shall see how she works out. If necessary, I will employ a proper abigail for you, and your nurse can work under her as laundress and seamstress."

Cordelia glanced at Mathilde, whose expression was completely impassive as she remained in a deep curtsy. "I'm sure you will find Mathilde is as well versed in the duties of a lady's maid as any other, sir."

Michael looked annoyed at this persistence. "I will be the best judge of that. I doubt either of you know exactly what's required of such a position at Versailles. How could you, indeed?" He gestured to Mathilde. "Put your mistress to bed, woman, and send me word when she's prepared."

Cordelia's palms dampened.

"Be quick about it," he instructed, then turned on his heels and stalked from the room.

"I'm not prepared tonight, Mathilde." Cordelia paced the room with agitated step. "I don't think I could bear him to touch me tonight."

"You'll bear what comes your way, like women before you and those that'll come after," Mathilde stated calmly. "But I don't believe the prince will take you tonight. He's a man who goes by the book." She began to unhook Cordelia's gown.

"How do you know that?" Cordelia stepped out of her petticoat.

Mathilde shrugged, her fingers busy with Cordelia's laces. "There's much I know, dearie, that doesn't need the telling. But I'll say this. I don't care for that man. There's something underneath that we'd best watch out for."

"Like what?" Cordelia reached up to unpin her hair. Mathilde was adept at sensing what people tried to conceal about themselves, and her intuitive insight was always enlightening.

"I'm not sure as yet." Mathilde took the gown to the armoire. "I can feel a darkness… some secret he's holding. Time will tell."

Not too enlightening or at all reassuring, but Cordelia didn't press the issue.

Once Cordelia was in bed, Mathilde plumped the pillow behind her head and smoothed the coverlet. "I'll send for your husband, then." She straightened Cordelia's lace-edged nightcap and examined her critically. "Pretty as a picture," she said with a sudden fierce frown. "And a lamb for the slaughter if that man has his way," she added sotto voce as she left the room to fetch the prince. But he wouldn't have his way if Mathilde had anything to do with it.

Left alone, Cordelia's apprehension rose anew. She drew a loose ringlet into her mouth, sucking on the end, wondering whether Mathilde really knew Prince Michael's mind.

Michael came into the room, clad in a chamber robe of brown velvet. He had discarded his wig, and his gray hair was tied at the nape of his neck. It was rather sparse on top in contrast to his straggly eyebrows. Mathilde hovered by the door.

The prince approached the bed. He examined his bride and then, surprisingly, smiled. Again Cordelia was reminded of a flickering asp's tongue and was not reassured by the smile. She realized she was still sucking her hair and hastily pushed the sodden ringlet behind her ear.

"A very childish habit," he remarked, sitting on the edge of the bed. "But you are very young."

"I will grow up, my lord." Cordelia determined that she wouldn't let him see how he intimidated her. She met his gaze.

Michael didn't move for a minute, then ordered over his shoulder, "Leave us, woman."

The door closed softly behind Mathilde. Michael leaned over, took Cordelia's chin between thumb and forefinger, and brought his mouth to hers. Cordelia closed her eyes on a shudder of revulsion, then as the pressure of his mouth increased and his fingers tightened on her chin, she began to fight for breath. Her lips were pressed against her teeth. She could feel him trying to prise open her lips with his tongue and she kept them closed, resisting with every ounce of her will. And finally he drew back, his fingers falling from her face. She opened her eyes and read the naked arousal in his.

"You are a little innocent, aren't you?" he said with undisguised satisfaction. "You must learn to accommodate a man's needs rather more willingly, my dear."

He rose from the bed, his erection jutting against his robe. He stood looking down at her, his hands resting on his hips, and she could see the swelling beneath his robe.

She really was quite appealing, Michael thought. Apprehension and innocence became her remarkably well. Her attraction couldn't be more different from Elvira's sophisticated allure. And her youthful scent, the freshness of her skin, the blue-black lights in her luxuriant fall of hair were a refreshing change from the occasional harlots he'd enjoyed since Elvira's death.

"We will begin tomorrow," he said, swinging to the door. "I will see you in the morning. We make an early start for Paris."

"I understood that the royal party will be staying here for a few days." Cordelia was startled out of her numb shock.

"But we have no need to remain with them," the prince informed her. "You are not a member of the dauphine's household, my dear. You will not be required to attend upon her on a daily basis, and you have your own life to lead now." The door clicked shut behind him.

Cordelia scrubbed her mouth with the back of her hand, desperate to rid herself of the memory of his lips. Ever since she could remember, her life and Toinette's had been intertwined. From earliest childhood they had shared their secrets, their joys, and their troubles. On one level they had both known that the archduchess's destiny would be of great and public significance, whereas Cordelia would be permitted a more private future, albeit one not of her own choosing. And yet, until now, Cordelia realized that she hadn't fully understood how separate her life would be from Toinette's once their journey into the future was completed.

And only now did she fully realize how alone she was.

"Is it tonight that we will see our new mother, madame?" Sylvie put her thumbnail into her mouth and hastily spat it out. In her excitement she'd forgotten about the foul-tasting yellow paste.

"The wedding is to be solemnized at six o'clock," Madame de Nevry stated. "I have no idea what time your father and his wife will come to the house, but since I've received no instructions from the prince, I assume it will be after your bedtime. I daresay the princess will send for you in the morning." The governess picked up her Bible. "Now, finish your seam, Sylvie. Amelia, that hem is quite crooked. Unpick it and start again." Louise resumed her reading aloud of the Book of Job.

"I wonder if she'll like us," Amelia whispered to her sister in the undertone that no one but themselves could ever hear. It was the barest movement of their lips as their heads were bent side by side. She began the painstaking task of unpicking her ragged stitches.

"Probably she won't," her sister murmured. "Probably she's like Papa. She'll be busy at court."

"Did you say something, Sylvie?" Madame looked up sharply over her pince-nez.

"No, madame." Sylvie shook her head, gazing innocently over the crumpled scrap of material she was attempting to sew.

The governess looked suspiciously between the two girls. Two identical fair heads bent over their task, two pairs of still-dimpled hands wrestling with needles and thread. "I don't wish to hear another sound until the reading is finished," she pronounced, picking up the holy book again.

Amelia's small foot pressed hard on her sister's. "May I ask, madame, if Monsieur Leo will be coming after the wedding?"

"I have no idea."

Amelia subsided. Monsieur Leo was not a popular subject with their governess.

Louise's lips pursed. She heartily disapproved of the viscount. He made the girls overexcited and indulged them shockingly. But when she'd attempted to point this out to the prince, she'd received very short shrift. She'd been made to understand that it was not her place to complain about her employer's brother-in-law. Louise had interpreted this to mean that Viscount Kierston was to be allowed to spoil the children if it pleased him. It was to be hoped that the new princess would see the folly of this and exert her own influence.