her, and Leo again saw Elvira. No one could be in the same room with Elvira without becoming wittier, prettier, handsomer, livelier. Even Michael in the early days of their marriage had taken on some of her hues.
Amelia and Sylvie occasionally showed glimpses of their mother’s spirit, but they were intimidated by their dour governess, who was under strict orders from her employer to stamp out any signs of unseemly liveliness in the girls and to train and educate them to know their duty.
Leo, suddenly aware of his clenched jaw, forced his thoughts back to the ballroom. He made some vague observation to his companion as they stood at the side of the ballroom, his eyes still searching the crowd of dancers for Cordelia. She would have changed into her costume after dinner, but he was sure he’d know her, no matter how elaborate her disguise. Nothing would conceal the essential Cordelia.
When his companion’s attention was claimed by another guest, he took the opportunity to move away, strolling around the ballroom, avoiding the strategically placed firemen with their pumps—eight hundred of them stationed in the window embrasures to watch the thousands of candles. He’d been told that the empress had installed medicines, beds for emergencies, and physicians in the apartments surrounding the temporary wooden structure of the ballroom in the grounds of the Belvedere Palace. It struck him as typical of that monarch’s obsession with detail.
A quadrille was being danced by four squares of couples. He paused to watch, his eye immediately falling upon a lissome figure scandalously clad in britches that molded her calves and thighs. A tunic covered her hips for the most part, but when she moved in the dance, the tunic moved with her, offering tantalizing glimpses of a small round bottom.
Her hair was pulled back from her brow and confined in a silk snood, her black silk loo mask covered eyes and nose, but Leo knew immediately that it was Cordelia.
What in Lucifer’s name was she playing at?
He pursed his lips on a soundless whistle and glanced involuntarily toward the dais where the empress sat with her daughter, her sons, and the senior courtiers of both France and Austria. Did she have the faintest idea that her goddaughter was dressed in this scandalous fashion? Cordelia was safe from Duke Franz because his gout kept him from the ball, but she was still risking serious censure. And she was drawing every eye in her vicinity.
She was outrageous and utterly seductive. And after tomorrow evening’s proxy marriage, she would be totally in his charge until he delivered her to Prince Michael. It would be his responsibility to see she didn’t flout the conventions on the procession through France. There would be rigidly defined rules of etiquette for this ceremonial journey with its many stops as the French people were introduced to their new dauphine, and there would be no room for nonconformity, however appealing the rebel might be.
And she was
very
appealing. Even as he frowned with disapproval, he couldn’t deny how much she stirred him.
The strains of music faded as the graceful dance ended. Cordelia smiled distractedly at her partner, then turned away, striding off the floor with the freedom of movement her costume allowed. It was clear to Leo that she was looking for someone as she circled the room, prowling with a long-legged feline grace that sent a shiver down his spine. Judging by the quiver of arrows on her back, she was playing Diana the Huntress. She didn’t seem to be aware of the attention she was drawing. The stares, the whispers, scandalized, envious, and in many cases undeniably lascivious, followed her every step.
Michael would have a seizure if he could see her, Leo thought. But instead of being shocked, he wanted to laugh. Sheer madness. Encouraging her was the last thing hewanted to do. Dear God, whyever had he agreed to take on such a charge? But, of course, he’d been expecting a timid, obedient
Amelia and Sylvie occasionally showed glimpses of their mother’s spirit, but they were intimidated by their dour governess, who was under strict orders from her employer to stamp out any signs of unseemly liveliness in the girls and to train and educate them to know their duty.
Leo, suddenly aware of his clenched jaw, forced his thoughts back to the ballroom. He made some vague observation to his companion as they stood at the side of the ballroom, his eyes still searching the crowd of dancers for Cordelia. She would have changed into her costume after dinner, but he was sure he’d know her, no matter how elaborate her disguise. Nothing would conceal the essential Cordelia.
When his companion’s attention was claimed by another guest, he took the opportunity to move away, strolling around the ballroom, avoiding the strategically placed firemen with their pumps—eight hundred of them stationed in the window embrasures to watch the thousands of candles. He’d been told that the empress had installed medicines, beds for emergencies, and physicians in the apartments surrounding the temporary wooden structure of the ballroom in the grounds of the Belvedere Palace. It struck him as typical of that monarch’s obsession with detail.
A quadrille was being danced by four squares of couples. He paused to watch, his eye immediately falling upon a lissome figure scandalously clad in britches that molded her calves and thighs. A tunic covered her hips for the most part, but when she moved in the dance, the tunic moved with her, offering tantalizing glimpses of a small round bottom.
Her hair was pulled back from her brow and confined in a silk snood, her black silk loo mask covered eyes and nose, but Leo knew immediately that it was Cordelia.
What in Lucifer’s name was she playing at?
He pursed his lips on a soundless whistle and glanced involuntarily toward the dais where the empress sat with her daughter, her sons, and the senior courtiers of both France and Austria. Did she have the faintest idea that her goddaughter was dressed in this scandalous fashion? Cordelia was safe from Duke Franz because his gout kept him from the ball, but she was still risking serious censure. And she was drawing every eye in her vicinity.
She was outrageous and utterly seductive. And after tomorrow evening’s proxy marriage, she would be totally in his charge until he delivered her to Prince Michael. It would be his responsibility to see she didn’t flout the conventions on the procession through France. There would be rigidly defined rules of etiquette for this ceremonial journey with its many stops as the French people were introduced to their new dauphine, and there would be no room for nonconformity, however appealing the rebel might be.
And she was
very
appealing. Even as he frowned with disapproval, he couldn’t deny how much she stirred him.
The strains of music faded as the graceful dance ended. Cordelia smiled distractedly at her partner, then turned away, striding off the floor with the freedom of movement her costume allowed. It was clear to Leo that she was looking for someone as she circled the room, prowling with a long-legged feline grace that sent a shiver down his spine. Judging by the quiver of arrows on her back, she was playing Diana the Huntress. She didn’t seem to be aware of the attention she was drawing. The stares, the whispers, scandalized, envious, and in many cases undeniably lascivious, followed her every step.
Michael would have a seizure if he could see her, Leo thought. But instead of being shocked, he wanted to laugh. Sheer madness. Encouraging her was the last thing hewanted to do. Dear God, whyever had he agreed to take on such a charge? But, of course, he’d been expecting a timid, obedient
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