"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.

Her mouth grew more pinched. Monsieur Brion, the majordomo, had not been particularly forthcoming with his information regarding their new princess. Either he really knew very little about her, or he was tormenting the governess. He had said only that he believed her to be younger than his former mistress and that she was an Austrian aristocrat.

The Austrian court was known for its strict adherence to form and ritual. The empress Maria Theresa was known throughout the civilized world as a deeply moral woman who ruled her land by the highest ethical standards and would tolerate no moral laxity at her court. A young woman reared in such an atmosphere would be sure to uphold the highest standards in the schoolroom. She would surely support Madame de Nevry's efforts to turn her charges into model young women who knew their duties, knew to speak only when spoken to, knew to honor and revere those put in authority over them.

Louise had formed an image of her employer's new wife. She had been given no description of the lady and had not been shown the miniature, but wishful thinking and what she believed she knew of her employer's needs and tastes in a wife had informed the picture of a dourly respectable young woman of religious temperament and an absolute sense of duty. Her youth should make it easy for Louise to influence her in schoolroom matters. It shouldn't be difficult to ensure she deferred to a governess who had known her charges since babyhood and could be expected to know what was best for them.

In was late in the afternoon and Louise had enjoyed a substantial dinner. Her head dropped onto her chest and her voice stopped in midsentence. Lulled by these comforting reflections and slightly muzzy after her usual liberal enjoyment of wine at dinner, she dozed. A little snore escaped her, her head jerked on her dropping bosom, and she started upright. She glared at her charges, who were sitting bolt upright opposite, their eyes shining with laughter.

The governess coughed, adjusted her pince-nez, and began her reading again. The girls dutifully plied their needles, but Louise was uncomfortably aware that they were struggling to suppress their giggles. However, she could say nothing without further loss of dignity. Her voice droned on until the clock struck six.

Amelia and Sylvie immediately looked up and exchanged a glance. It was the hour of the wedding.

Viscount Kierston took his place in the front pew of the king's private chapel in the Hotel de Ville. Organ music swelled to the rafters, saving him from participating in the speculative conversation around him. The talk was all of the prince's bride. None of the wedding guests had been at Compiegne, so no one had yet seen the young woman. Leo had been pestered with questions from the moment of his arrival in the chapel. Was she beautiful? Had the king approved her? How young was she? He had answered briefly, refusing to be drawn into the gossip, and with many disgruntled looks, his questioners had given up.

He closed his eyes against the persistent throbbing in his temples. The rough red wine of the Compiegne tavern had done its work only too well, plunging him into drunken oblivion before dawn. He had woken at noon with a vile headache, nauseated, and in a worse than vile humor.

"Were you in Vienna, Kierston, when the scandal broke about the empress's musician?" A rotund gentleman in crimson and gold velvet leaned over his shoulder from the pew behind, fanning himself indolently as the incense fumes swirled from the censer. "I heard tell the pupil in the business has come to Paris."

Leo forced his dulled wits to focus. Cordelia had firmly dumped the responsibility for Christian in his lap. "Yes, I'm sponsoring him until he can find a patron," he said, knowing that the Due de Carillac considered himself a foremost patron of the arts. "The young man has a divine touch," he continued. "I'm certain that once the king hears him, he'll need no further patronage."

"Ah." Carillac stroked his chin, his beady little eyes gleaming from their folds of flesh. "But at present he's footloose, you say. You are not offering him patronage yourself?"

"It's not my style, my lord," Leo said coolly. A man needed more than his fair share of pride, influence, and the power of wealth to be a successful patron. By the same token, patrons competed with superficial civility for the artists most likely to succeed. Carillac was one of the most cutthroat competitors in the field, and if his interest could be roused in Christian, then the young musician would be well on the way to establishing himself.

"Good, good," Carillac murmured, nodding to himself. "We'll talk more on this matter."

There was an expectant rustle from the body of the chapel. Leo turned to look toward the door. His aching bloodshot eyes saw at first only a shimmer of gold. As it moved toward him the shimmer became Cordelia, her black hair drawn up beneath a cap of gold thread and a diamond-studded tiara, leaving her face pale and exposed. As she passed him her eyes met his, and they were darkest charcoal with little flickering lights of a smoldering brazier in their depths. Then she stepped forward on the prince's arm, and the organ after a final chord fell silent as they reached the altar.

Christian slipped silently through the door as the service began and made his way around the side of the chapel, keeping to the shadows. He had no invitation, of course, but he felt it was important for him to be there for Cordelia. She had no one else from her past as witness to her marriage. Toinette was still at Compiegne, and the viscount was a new friend who didn't know Cordelia as Christian did. He didn't share their history.

Christian stopped in the shadow of a marble column from where he could see the couple at the altar. The prince was an imposing figure in a rich suit of cream damask edged in silver lace. His shoulders were broad, his belly a distinct presence. He had the appearance of a once muscular, powerful athlete now running slightly to seed. But everything about his bearing exuded the confidence and authority of a man used to power and exerting influence. Cordelia, despite the weight of her cloth-of-gold gown and the glitter of diamonds in her hair, looked fragile, almost insubstantial beside her husband.

The prince had taken her hand and was sliding one of the previously blessed rings onto her finger. As Christian watched, Cordelia did the same for him. It was done. Christian looked across the aisle to where Viscount Kierston sat in the front pew. The viscount's expression was chiseled in stone. He held his body rigid, his hands clasping the rail in front of him. Christian saw that his knuckles were white. This was the man Cordelia professed to love. A man who, she said, would not accept that love because he refused to acknowledge his own feelings. It seemed to Christian at this solemn moment in the dimly lit chapel heavy with incense that Leo Beaumont was acknowledging a depth of feeling that could only be described as anguish.

The bride and groom were returning down the aisle. Cordelia's face was, if possible, even paler than before. Her gloved hand rested on her husband's damask sleeve. This time she didn't so much as glance toward Leo but kept her eyes on the square of light ahead of her. She had tried to close her mind to every aspect of the ceremony, so similar to the one that had taken place in Vienna but so horrendously different. Leo's physical presence in the chapel was so powerful she could almost feel him as an aura around her, and she wanted to weep, to scream at the wrongness of it all, to curse at the unutterable unfairness. But she could do none of these things.

As they emerged into the courtyard from the chapel, the fresh evening air cleared her head of the fug of incense and solemnity. Now she felt detached from herself and her surroundings, hearing the congratulations from a distance, barely registering the eagerly curious eyes, the quick covert assessments of this new addition to the enclosed life of the court of Versailles. She was truly aware only of Prince Michael. He seemed a huge defining presence at her side.

"Princess, pray accept my congratulations."

Leo's voice jerked her back to reality. She looked up at him, aware of the sudden flush on her cheeks. His face was a mask, his eyes flat. He bowed.

Cordelia curtsied. "Thank you, my lord." Her voice seemed rather small, and for a moment a sense of helplessness threatened to overwhelm her. She wanted to fling herself into his arms, demand that he sweep her up and away from this place. That he banish the nightmare reality with the dream of love.

"You will accompany us to the rue du Bac for the reception, Leo?" Prince Michael smiled his thin smile. He looked as pleased with himself as he felt. His bride was quite lovely in her gold wedding dress, and her little hand on his sleeve was quivering with all the understandable trepidation of a virgin. The night to come promised hours of pleasure. He placed his hand possessively over Cordelia's as he issued the invitation.

Leo saw the movement. Bile rose bitter in his throat. "I beg you'll excuse me, Prince," he said with another formal bow.

"Oh, no, indeed I shall not. You have done me such a service, my dear Leo. Come, Cordelia, add your voice to mine. You owe his lordship much thanks for his kind care of you during your journey. Pray insist that he join us in our celebration so we may thank him properly."

The color now ebbed in her cheeks. She knew she couldn't endure Leo to join such a travesty of a celebration. Every minute, she would be dreading the time when the reception came to an end and her husband bore her away to the marital bed. Leo's presence at that public ceremony would be unendurable.

"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."