She would come as soon as the retort was empty and the beaker full, Cordelia decided—two hours' preparation would not be thrown away on a man's oafish whim! As to appearances, well, he would just have to take her as she was.
Still, she patted her hair, wishing she had time to arrange it properly—not to mention donning a pretty gown and washing her hands and face.
Actually, she had very little cause for concern. Cordelia had grown into a very beautiful woman, though she gave it very little thought. There was so much to do—peasants with illnesses, children who must be taught, women who must be aided in their daily burdens. Now and then, she might snatch a few minutes to think about a new dress, or even steal an hour to work at making one. There were even odd moments when she would experiment with a new hairstyle, though those tended to be very, very early in the morning, and only on Sundays.
Makeup? She never thought of it—and never thought it would do her much good, either.
She was half right. Her complexion was flawless, her cheeks rosy, her lips so red that no paint could improve upon them. Her features were those of the classic beauty, and the curves of her body were generous and perfectly proportioned. Her legs were long, her posture straight, almost regal.
Of course, these last were almost always hidden under a work-dress of strong, serviceable fabric. There was, after all, so very much to do.
Even the rough cloth could not hide her loveliness, though—from anyone but herself. Cordelia, of course, did not know she was a beauty.
"How dare he?" she fumed to herself, watching the last of the solution boil out of the retort. "What the devil could send him here at such a bad time?"
Alain paced the solar, fretting and chafing. What could be keeping Cordelia so long? His sunny mood was beginning to cloud over, exposing the nervousness underneath. He was remembering that he was proposing a liaison that would last twice as long as he had already lived, and was beginning to wonder if he really wanted that. Still, his lieges, sovereigns, and parents had told him he should wed, so he would.
He consoled himself with the thought that Cordelia had no doubt rushed to dress in her finest and arrange her hair. It wasn't at all necessary, he assured himself—but it was flattering.
So he was jolted to his boot-soles when she bustled into the room, unannounced and without ceremony, in a stained white work-apron and blue broadcloth dress, her hair disordered and her face smudged. He stared in shock as she curtsied, then managed to force a smile. He didn't know which was worse—the annoyance that rippled over her face as she looked up at him, or her distracted air, as though she had something more important on her mind. More important than him!
"Your Highness," she said. "How good of you to come."
Alain stared. "Highness?" What way was that to greet an old friend, a companion of childhood? But the shock gave way to a cold wave of calculation that was new to him, though quite welcome under the circumstances—the emphasis on his exalted station would make her even more aware of the honor he was doing her. "Milady Cordelia." He forced a smile.
Cordelia saw, and withheld another momentary surge of anger. Not bad enough that he had let himself show his dismay at her appearance—now he had the gall to go chilly on her! But she could play that game, too. She gave him a smile of her own, making it very obvious that she was forcing it, and gestured to an hourglass-shaped chair. "Will you sit, my Prince?"
"I thank you, milady." Alain sat and, since they were being formal, gestured to another chair. "I pray you, sit by me."
"You are too kind," Cordelia said with withering sarcasm, but took the chair that he offered her in her own solar—or her own mother's, at least. "To what do I owe the pleasure of this sudden visit, Prince Alain?"
Alain was surprised to feel relief at her use of his name. He decided to unbend a bit himself. "To the beauty of your face and the lightness of your form, Lady Cordelia." He had rehearsed that line several times on his way from his parents' castle, but the effect was somewhat marred by his choking on the words as he gazed at her smudges and stains.
Inwardly, Cordelia was fuming. How dare he praise her appearance when she knew she looked like last week's wet wash? "My thanks, Alain—but you had little need to journey so far to so little purpose."
"The purpose was scarcely small," he returned gallantly, "for you are fair as a summer's day." He said it without choking, this time. "Indeed, 'tis your beauty and sweetness that have minded me to honor you."
"Oh, have you indeed?" she said softly, outrage kindling within her.
"In truth, I have—for my mother and father have deemed 'tis time for me to wed. 'Tis you who are my choice, sweet Cordelia, and 'tis you who shall be future Queen of Gramarye!"
Cordelia sat quite still, staring at him as a maelstrom of emotions churned within her. True, she had always more or less planned to marry Alain, and the thought of being Queen one day was an interesting added fillip—but to be treated with such cavalier disregard, to be the pawn of his whim rather than the queen of his heart ... ! She felt the anger mounting and mounting, and knew she would not be able to contain it very long.
Alain frowned. "Have you nothing to say?"
"What should I say?" she asked in a very small voice, eyes downcast.
"Why, that you rejoice at your good fortune, that you are sensible of the honor I do you, that you acclaim me as your lord and master!"
I shall acclaim you as a pompous ass, Cordelia thought, but she didn't say so—yet. "Am I to have no voice in this matter, my lord?"
The return to formality was like a stiletto through him. "Assuredly, you are! 'Tis for you to say yea or nay, surely!"
"How good of you to deign to allow me this," she said, syrupy sweet.
Alain relaxed, complacency restored. She was sensible of the honor after all. "'Tis nothing."
"Oh, ave, 'tis nothing!" The anger boiled up, and Cordelia knew she could contain it no longer. "'Tis nothing to you, a woman's feelings! 'Tis nothing to you if you humiliate where you should elevate!"
"How now?" Alain stared, thunderstruck.
"I am nothing to you, am I? Only a brood mare, to .be bought at your whim when you have a moment to spare from your great concerns? Nothing to you, nothing but a minor matter that you attend to when the mood is on you?" She rose from her chair. "Nothing to you? Only a marriage, only a lifetime's union, and 'tis nothing to you?"
"Nay, certainly not!" He leaped to his feet, stung to the quick. "You twist my meaning!"
"Nay, I attend to the meaning of your tone and your actions, not to your words alone! Why, you great gilded popinjay, you puffed-up princeling!"
"I am your future sovereign!"
"Of my nation, but most assuredly—not of my heart! How could you be, when you have no thought of love or yearning?"
"Do you take me for a heartless wretch?" Alain cried. "Surely I must love you!"
"Oh, aye, surely you must, if your parents command it! Yet had you thought of it before I said the word? Had you never thought to say it, never thought to woo, to court? A fine prince are you, if you can but command!"
The absurdity of the charge struck him. "'Tis the place of the prince to command, and of the subject to obey!"
"Oh, my apologies, sire!" Cordelia dropped an elaborate, exaggerated curtsy. "Assuredly, if you order me to marry, I must obey, must I not? If you command, my heart must obediently adore you!"
"Why, you heartless witch, you storming shrew! I am your Prince, and I do command you!" Alain shouted, then drew himself up and glared down at her coldly. "I command you to answer me straight! Will you be my wife, or no?"
Cordelia dropped her prettiest curtsy, bowed her head, smiled up at him, and said, quite clearly, "No."