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He stood up and offered her his hand.
Flushing, hesitant, she rose too and he led her from the room.
She thought in a sort of panic of what she should do. Did the King think that, unprotected as she seemed, she would permit him to make love to her? How could she rebuff him without bringing both herself and Rendel under his disfavour? She had no idea how to politely dismiss him.
One of the footmen, lounging against the wall, sprang to life as they came out, and hurried to bring candles to light their way.
Her fingertips upon the King’s silken sleeve, Cornelia led him to the gallery. The footman flung the door open and bowed them inside, his curious glance resting on them both.
When the door was closed, Cornelia dropped her hand from the King’s arm and did the only thing which instinct told her would serve her in this predicament. She leant her head upon the mantel shelf and wept softly.
The King watched her, aghast. ‘No, no,’ he mumbled in dismay. ‘Don’t cry, my dear. I cannot bear to hear a woman cry.’
She wept more loudly and felt a relief in letting her tears flow.
The door behind them was flung open and Rendel, unsteady but dangerous, stared across the room at them.
‘Ah, Rendel,’ said the King on a sigh of relief. ‘Your wife seems distressed.’
He hurriedly walked to the door. Cornelia’s sobs redoubled. Rendel, glowering, stood aside. He did not bow as the King passed him and the King averted his glance.
Cornelia, when the door had shut upon the King, scrubbed at her eyes and straightened, turning to face Rendel.
‘What happened?’ Rendel asked brusquely, his voice thickened by drink.
‘Nothing,’ she said coldly.
‘Why were you crying, then?’
‘I was making sure that nothing would happen,’ she retorted.
He crossed the room, his heavy coat open, his shirt wine- stained and ruffled, and grinned down into her face. ‘Clever of you. But then, you are clever, aren’t you? If there is one thing the King detests, it is to have a woman crying on his shoulder. He has paid dearly for that weakness. Madame Barbara plays upon it constantly.’ He sat down heavily beside the half-cold fire, his long legs stretched out, and yawned, his hands behind his head, staring insolently at her. ‘Well, well. Here we are, then.’
‘May I now retire, sir?’ she asked icily.
He grimaced. ‘No, Madame, you may not. I require your presence.’
‘I should have thought you had women enough for your pleasure, sir,’ she said stingingly.
The grey eyes glittered. ‘Pretty little things, aren’t they? Especially Kitty. ‘
Cornelia clenched her fists. She could willingly have slapped his face at that moment, but she would not afford him the pleasure of provoking her. She turned to leave him, head averted. He lunged forward, caught her wrist and pulled her down on to his lap.
Held so tightly that she could not breathe, she struggled half-heartedly, her heart shaking, her senses leaping frantically to life in his arms.
He laughed at her efforts to escape, pushing back her hair so th
at he could see her face clearly. She gave up her attempt and glared at him, scowling.
‘Madame Spitfire,’ he drawled thickly, cupping her chin with his thin fingers. He bent his head, and his lips, hard and ruthless, forced hers to respond. She sighed and relaxed against him, aware with self-disgust that despite all that had happened tonight he could still do as he pleased with her. The physical attraction which bound them held firm.
He pulled away, his voice sharpening. ‘Now, Madame, tell me … Did you enjoy your visit to the city today?’
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
She stared up at him, momentarily confused. ‘What?’
The face which stared down, so close to hers, was dark and brooding.
