Free The Diamond Slipper by Jane Feather Page A

way to the formal baroque gardens of the palace, the night air cooling her cheeks. That explosion of passion had shaken her. There had been a moment when he had frightened her, when she had sensed in him a force that could sweep her away into some maelstrom in which she would lose all sense of her own identity.
    She shivered, wondering with a deep liquid surge in her loins what it would be like to experience that unleashed force.

Chapter Five
    F OR THE HUNDREDTH time that day, Cordelia took up the miniature of her husband-to-be and scrutinized it. It was as if each time she stared into that calm, expressionless countenance, she expected to find some clue to the man himself. She knew that her own miniature was a fair likeness of herself, but that somehow it didn’t capture any sense of the person she was. Presumably Prince Michael was as frustrated by this as she was.
    The clock chimed five. In one hour she would be married by proxy to the man whose face gazed out at her from the lacquered frame. And she knew herself to be woefully unprepared for marriage, for wifehood, for motherhood—either to mother the prince’s two little girls or to bring forth her own child. The idea of going blind into the unknown made her skin prickle with anxiety.
    Mathilde bustled in, her arms full of silver cloth. “Come, come, child. Time’s hurrying along and you must be downstairs to meet your uncle at five minutes to six.” She laid the gown on the bed, panting slightly, her cheeks flushed. The gown was so heavily stitched with silver thread and seed pearls that it weighed almost as much as Cordelia herself.
    Cordelia put down the miniature and stood up. The gown she would wear for her second wedding was already packed in the leatherbound chests she would take to Paris. It was made of cloth of gold and was even heavier than this one.
    She shook off her wrapper with an impatient gesture that masked her sudden apprehension, and stood still as Mathilde laced her and fastened the tapes of her panniers. They were so wide she would have to slide sideways throughall but the widest double doors. She stepped into the first of her six petticoats.
    Twenty minutes later she was finally hooked into the gown. Her hair had been powdered and dressed hours before, and when she examined herself in the cheval glass, she saw a woman who bore no relation to herself. A painted, powdered doll, with jeweled heels so high and clothes so stiff and heavy she could walk only with the smallest steps. She’d endured ceremonial dress on other occasions since she’d left the schoolroom, but familiarity didn’t lessen its discomforts.
    Duke Franz Brandenburg was leaning heavily on his cane, his watch in his hand, when his niece entered the small salon in the imperial apartments of the Hofburg Palace.
    “You are late,” he pronounced in his customary irascible manner. “I cannot abide unpunctuality.”
    Cordelia curtsied and offered no defense. It was four minutes to six, but a minute was as bad as an hour in her uncle’s book.
    “Come.” He limped to the door. “It’s the grossest incivility to keep Viscount Kierston waiting. He’s being most generous in taking on such a charge, and there’s no need to make it more irksome than it already is.” Belatedly, he offered her his arm at the door. “He must be a very close friend and confidant of Prince Michael’s to do him such service. Unless, of course, he’s in his debt,” he added waspishly. “That’s probably it. No man in his right mind would voluntarily take on such a burden.”
    Cordelia kept her mouth shut as the cantankerous voice maundered on in his disparaging fashion. Not that she expected anything else from her uncle. His niece was a burden to him; therefore she must be to any other man.
    Marie Antoinette would be married by proxy the following day in the Augustine church, which was large enough to accommodate the entire court. Cordelia’s ceremony was to take place in the small Gothic chapel