"Yes, of course," Cordelia said, averting her eyes. She withdrew her hand from his and tucked a loose ringlet behind her ear.

Leo took her hand again, turning it over to examine the purpling bruise on her inner wrist. "How did this happen?"

Cordelia tried to pull her hand free. "I knocked it on the edge of the bath this morning. I slipped as I was getting out. The soap… or… something…" She stopped. She'd always had a tendency to expand fibs, and Mathilde had long ago told her that the best lies were the simplest. Not that she ever lied to Mathilde, only to her uncle.

Leo's frown deepened but he released her wrist. "I must go now. I'll set up a meeting with Christian and the Due de Carillac without delay."

He was rewarded by a vibrant smile, a return to the lively Cordelia that he knew. "Oh, that would be wonderful. I knew you would be able to help him."

"Your faith is touching," he said lightly. "I'll see you at court, Cordelia."

She nodded and kept on smiling through the forlorn knowledge that once he'd left her, she'd be alone again. Without friends or support in this house. Except for Mathilde. She had Mathilde, and Mathilde's support was worth more than an army of foot soldiers.

The thought buoyed her as Leo left the boudoir. Sitting on the deep cushioned window seat, she looked out onto the courtyard below the window. The palace flanked the courtyard on three sides, the great iron gates to the street occupying the fourth side. Leo emerged from the main doorway to her left. He stood for a minute at the head of the flight of steps leading down to the cobbles, slapping his gloves into his palm in a gesture so familiar that a wave of insuperable longing broke over her. She had endured a hellish wedding night, filled with pain and mortification, and she yearned for what the act of love could bring. Now she wanted Leo with a naked lust that at this moment had nothing to do with love, let alone friendship. She wanted his body, the feel of his skin, his smell in her nostrils, his taste on her tongue. She wanted him inside her, each powerful thrust touching her womb, his flesh filling her, possessing her as she took him into her and made him part of her self. She had never experienced the wonders of such loving, but in her blood she knew they existed.

The need was so strong, a soft groan broke from her lips. Her forehead pressed against the cold windowpane and she touched the glass with her tongue, imagining she was stroking the smooth planes of his belly. She could almost feel the hard contours of his thighs molded beneath her palms, the throb of his erect shaft against her fingers. He would bring her such pleasure, a pleasure that would eradicate the dreadful violations of her husband's possession.

"Is there something of particular interest in the courtyard, madame?"

She started violently, turned, and stared at her husband, who stood in the doorway, his expression glacial. Her erotic dream vanished into the black clouds of reality. This man was reality, not the man now mounting his horse in the courtyard.

"I was daydreaming, my lord."

"A bad habit," he said. "You have many, I am discovering." He came into the room, banging the door shut behind him. "I understand from Madame de Nevry that you have again disobeyed my orders with regard to my daughters."

Cordelia stood up, feeling slightly sick. Michael had a strange look to his eyes. He was angry, but there was also a curious satisfaction, a hungry anticipation that sent cold shudders through her belly. "I wish only to befriend them, my lord."

"But I gave you instructions that you were to see them only with my permission. Instead of which, you deliberately disturb their routine, bring them down from the schoolroom, encourage them to disobey their governess-"

"No, indeed I did not," she protested.

"Do not interrupt me," he said icily, and that dreadful anticipation in his eyes seemed to strengthen. "Did you or did you not disobey my direct instructions regarding my daughters?"

There seemed nothing for it. Cordelia put up her chin and met his glare with a steady stare. "If you say so, my lord. But I consider that I was merely fulfilling my duties as stepmother."

"Those duties will be defined by me, not by you, as you must learn. Come." He crossed the room to the door to Cordelia's bedchamber. "Come," he repeated, the word a whiplash in the tense silence. He opened the door.

"What do you want of me?" She couldn't help asking, even though her voice shook, and she knew the question betrayed her fear.

Again that terrible satisfaction flared in his eyes. "I want a wife who knows her place, my dear. And I intend to have one. Come!" He held the door open.

Cordelia walked past him into her bedchamber. He followed her in and she heard the key turn in the lock.

Leo rode along the left bank of the Seine toward the Belle Etoile, where he had told Christian to put up.

As he turned away from the river, however, he spied the musician hurrying down the street toward him with an abstracted air.

"Christian?"

Christian stopped in his tracks. He looked up at the horseman, blinking, clearly trying to come back from whatever astral plane of genius he had been inhabiting. "Oh, Viscount Kierston." He smiled, with an air still somewhat bemused. "I was thinking of Cordelia. I'm so worried about her."

Leo swung down from his horse. He looped the reins over his arm. "There is a pleasant little tavern on the next street. Let's quench our thirst and talk in private."

Christian fell in beside him. "Have you seen her, sir? That man… her husband… the prince… he seemed so severe.

To talk to her in such manner and in such a place. I haven't been able to sleep for worrying."

"I think she worries as much about you," Leo said casually, wondering why he was reluctant to share his own concerns with the musician.

Outside a tavern on the rue de Seine, Leo handed his horse to a waiting urchin and politely stood aside as his companion dipped his head to pass beneath the narrow lintel. Inside, it was dim, the air musty, sawdust on the floor. It didn't strike Christian as a pleasant place at all, whatever the viscount said. But then, he wasn't to know that it had a very special reputation among those in the know.

"Wine, mine host!" Leo waved a hand toward the apron-clad tavernkeeper standing at the stained bar counter. "My usual." He brushed off a chair and sat down, swinging his sword to one side. He drew off his gloves and placed them on the table, saying with a smile, "You might find it hard to believe, but Raoul here has as good a cellar as any house in Paris. And I mean any house. There isn't a lord or prince of the blood whose cellar is more extensive."

Raoul, grinning, put a dusty bottle on the table. He wiped two glasses on his less-than-clean apron, plunking them beside the bottle. "Aye, that's right, milord. But don't ever ask where I gets it from." He tapped the side of his nose with another suggestive grin before drawing the long cork. His expression was reverential as he sniffed the cork, held it for Leo, then passed his nose across the neck of the bottle. As reverently, he poured a measure into one glass, swirling it around until the sides were coated, then he handed it to Leo.

Leo sipped and closed his eyes on a blissful sigh. "Manna."

Raoul nodded and filled both glasses to the brim. "I'll fetch a bite of cheese and some bread. It's no quaffing wine."

"Raoul is a sommelier who could teach the stewards at Versailles a thing or two." Leo took another sip of wine, then sat back, crossing his legs at the ankles. He didn't open the conversation until the tavern keeper had returned with a crusty loaf of bread and a round of cheese.

Christian controlled his impatience as best he could. He was indifferent to wine, and the ceremony and the savoring struck him as a complete waste of time. He broke a piece of bread, cut a piece of cheese, and ate with relish. Food was a different matter. He seemed always to be hungry.

"Have you heard of the Due de Carillac?" Leo finally began.

Christian nodded. "He's well known even in Vienna for his patronage."

"Well, I think he might be interested in offering you his support." Leo refilled his own glass after casting a glance at his companion's barely touched one.

Christian looked up from the cheese that he was cutting into again, and his eyes sparkled. "Really? Really and truly, sir?"

"Really and truly," Leo said, smiling. "I promised to bring you to him this afternoon… if you're free, of course."

"Oh, but of course I will be… whatever else could I be doing?" Christian stammered. "You are too kind, sir. I hate to think that I might have caused you trouble. I would never have asked for such a favor myself, but…"

"But Cordelia has no such scruples," Leo finished for him with another dry smile. "She's a most loyal friend, I believe."

"And I would do anything for her," Christian said, his delight fading from his eyes. "I don't like that husband, sir. He makes me uneasy."

And me also. But Leo didn't say that. He nibbled a crust of bread and said carefully, "Prince Michael is more than thirty years older than Cordelia. It's inevitable that he should feel a need to mold her to his-"

"But Cordelia cannot be molded." Christian interrupted passionately, banging his fist on the table in emphasis. "Surely you must know that, sir. You've spent time with her. She's her own person." He pulverized a bread crumb with his fingertips against the stained planking of the table.

Leo put a protective hand on the bottle as the table continued to shake. "Yes, I understand that," he said quietly. "But she will have to adapt in some way, Christian, surely you accept that."