Forbidden (10 page)

Last night she'd very properly refused his advances. This morning he'd very properly extended the invitation to her since he knew of her interest, but had also very properly avoided any further contact.

Everything was very proper.

There was satisfaction in knowing she'd refused him.

There
was
satisfaction,
was there not
!

She turned to the cityscape beyond the carriage windows when the requisite answer failed to immediately surface, unwilling to admit her emotions weren't precisely falling in line with propriety.

Georges Martel, the second son of a second son, was a fainter version of the magnetic Duc, the dust of academia having softened the harsh masculinity so obvious in his cousin. But his manners were as superb when he greeted Daisy and his voice as attractive as he launched into a description of his original research begun ten years before.

"Etienne and I crossed Russia in the early eighties, following the migration routes across the Aleutians into North America. We were away two years."

"The Duc on a scientific expedition?" the skepticism in Daisy's voice was obvious.

Georges looked at the young woman seated across from him, her summer frock like a colorful splash of scented femininity in his book-lined study, and wondered why Etienne had requested this tour for her. Did he feel that, as a Red Indian, she'd be interested in his research? Somehow, he thought, Etienne's reason was probably less simple. His cousin's voice had been oddly constrained when he spoke of the woman. Unusual. As was this request for a tour. So he answered the lady's skepticism with some detail.

"Etienne financed the expedition," he began. "Without him my research wouldn't have been authenticated. And he was the one who always urged me on when problems arose. If not for him, I'd have turned back the first time our guides bolted."

"Bolted?" Daisy understood whitemen traveling through strange lands. She continually had to reassess her image of the idle, leisured Duc.

"Our Tashkent guides were horse thieves first. Luckily they had no interest in any of the scientific materials. Etienne found us new guides and horses."

"And you went on… for two years? Your family didn't mind?"

"I'm not married and my parents support my choice. As for my brothers…" He smiled. "They're too busy racing horses to notice when I'm gone."

"And the Duc's family?"

Georges hesitated, debating whether the lady was being coy. Etienne didn't actually have a family. He thought that fact was common knowledge. He and Isabelle had never gotten along. And while the Duc loved his children, once they were away at school, his daily life no longer revolved around their schedules.

"Justin and Jolie were at school," Georges briefly said, reluctant to disclose details of Etienne's private life. "Would you like to see the artifacts we brought back?"

For the next hour, Daisy was absorbed in the rich history of the Asian tribes, fascinated by the slow march of man across the continents. Familiar deities emerged from cultures long preceding hers, deities transmuted by time into benevolent gods protecting the Absarokee nation. Georges described the provenance of each of the sculptured pieces, estimated their dates, detailed the artists' techniques, and brought the ancient cultures alive. Within her own traditions, Daisy discovered astonishing similarities apparently surviving intact through thousands of years. Moved and delighted, she was deeply interested in the papers Georges had published.

Later, seated with Georges over tea in his study, poring over charts and photographs of their journey, she wished Etienne were with them to add his account to his cousin's. He had been the expedition cartographer, Georges told her, another facet of the Duc exposed to further alter her image. Picturing him crossing the landmass of Russia and the Arctic in extremity and danger as Georges traced their journey on the map spread between them, she realized Etienne was considerably more complex than the facile courtier she'd envisioned.

"Come back whenever you wish," Georges invited when she rose to leave. "Any friend of Etienne's is always welcome." After spending time with Daisy, Georges better understood his cousin's response. She was interesting, interested, and very beautiful.

As Daisy walked through the imposing double doors of the Hôtel Soubise and crossed the medieval cobbled courtyard to the carriage waiting for her, she wondered where the Duc was playing polo this afternoon. In the next instant, she questioned why she was impractical enough to be curious. She'd made her position clear last night. Even if the Duc weren't married, even if he weren't notorious for the brevity of his affairs, they had absolutely nothing in common.

At her approach, the crested carriage-door swung open, and from the shadowed interior a familiar deep voice drawled, "He must have liked you. The tour usually takes twenty minutes."

Inexplicably, the spring sun seemed to shine with added radiance.

His strong hand came out to help her in. Seating her opposite him on the green velvet seat, he tapped twice on the forward paneling.

"Do you need a sherry after the dryness of Georges's lecture?" he asked as the carriage moved off across the courtyard.

"Georges's lecture wasn't dry, as you very well know. Why didn't you join us?"

"I was being sensible."

She understood immediately his quiet brief declaration, uttered entirely without inflection yet Byzantine in substance. "You didn't play polo today." She wanted the words to authenticate their feelings.

"I had other things on my mind," he tersely said, not forthcoming with the desired words, not inclined to bare the quixotic nature of his impulses. "Would you like a drink?"

"Do you want to talk?"

"No." His answer was softly abrupt.

"Where would you like to have a drink?" she quietly asked, her own inclinations as utterly deviant from ordinary behavior as the Duc's.

Lounging in the seat opposite her, casually dressed in a lightweight tweed jacket, and riding pants, his boots slightly dusty, he only looked at her from under his dark brows. His black hair was disheveled as though he'd restlessly run his hands through it, its silky darkness lying in curls against his tanned neck and the creamy silk of his shirt collar. And she was reminded again how very beautiful he was.

"I don't know about Adelaide's," she began when he didn't answer.

"I have a small house on the Seine."

"I don't want to go there," she brusquely said.

"I've never taken a woman there," he said, almost equally brusquely.

Did that include his wife, she found herself jealously thinking, marveling at the same time at the degree of possessiveness she was already feeling. How could he affect her so? Like a prize she wanted, or a beautiful object close enough to reach out and take if she wished.

"Not Isabelle either," he tersely said. "Satisfied?" He was making concessions to her—openly.

"I don't want to be demanding."

"But you just are," he said with a small smile.

"I'm sorry."

He shrugged as if to say it didn't matter or perhaps it mattered but he didn't care—right now—this moment.

Would he care tomorrow? Would the whole world change, Daisy wondered, or more aptly, how much would her world change? For the first time in her life she was relinquishing control of her emotions. Her father would be happy. He'd always thought her too grave and pragmatic. Intense feelings of family washed over her momentarily.

"We
are
different," she said, as if some explanation was required for this tremendous step she was about to take.

"Why would you want to be the same?"

He could have been more courteous. He normally practiced an amiable cordiality without effort. Contrary emotions, however, were buffeting long-established principles of living for him as well. He'd never taken a woman to his house near Colsec because it was his refuge from the excesses of his life. Colsec was his private haven, with only a cook and one manservant. No one knew of it—not his family nor his friends. He was intruding into his sanctuary today. Out of necessity, he told himself. He couldn't bring Daisy home, although the Hôtel de Vec was large enough that he'd entertained ladies frequently in his apartments without offending anyone in his family. Somehow he knew Daisy wouldn't approve of meeting at his family home. His bachelor apartment near the Place de la Concorde would be even more awkward. He found he couldn't treat her like all the other women.

So his private retreat would be sacrificed today for the singular Mademoiselle from America. The thought pinched for a moment like a tight boot.

"I don't know if I like you when you're sullen," Daisy said, his whole lounging posture, creased brows, and silence the picture of discontent.

"I don't know if I like you at all," he murmured, his eyes traveling with impolite regard down the flowered organza of her spring gown, returning with deliberate scrutiny to her lavish bosom before moving upward to her face. "Although don't be alarmed," he ambiguously added.

"I'm not alarmed." Her voice was clear and sure. "I'm old enough to know what I'm doing."

"How old is that?" Not that it mattered. He was curious only.

"Thirty."

His brows rose in swift surprise. She looked much younger. With the pale green ribbons in her hair and the delicate flowered gown, she looked sixteen. "Why is it you're never married?"

"I've never been in love."

He smiled thinly. "A romantic woman. Need I remind you," he said, glancing out the window briefly at the passing scenery, "it's not a prerequisite for marriage."

"And you should know," she replied with quiet emphasis.

His eyes held hers for one cool moment. "And I should know," he softly breathed.

On that cheerful note they rolled to a stop at the end of a small private lane before a pretty thatched-roof cottage less precious than Marie Antoinette's playtoys at Versailles, but nearly of a size.

It was wretched, Etienne thought, helping Daisy down, to want a woman this badly.

If he was less miserable, Daisy thought, she wouldn't be feeling this overwhelming need to comfort him.

They were an odd and mismatched pair on the brink of a seduction.

It was moot at the moment who was the seducer and who the seducee.

It was additionally moot whether one enormous gigantic mistake was about to occur.

And to add to the general disarray of circumstances, apparently both his servants were gone—it must be market day, he never could remember. The house was stoutly locked.

A riot of flowers surrounded the cottage in gardens, on trellises, in pots and window boxes. While Etienne stood cursing on the front stoop, unable to open the door, Daisy plucked a double white rose from the trellis near the door and slipped it into his lapel buttonhole.

"Cheer up. Everything will be fine. I don't intend to eat you alive."

Looking down at Daisy standing beside him, her small hand still resting on his lapel, her smile open and warm, her dark eyes winsome with gaiety, he suddenly grinned. "I was hoping you would."

"In that case, then, I might make an exception. I'm glad the servants are gone."

He paused for a moment considering. "I suppose you're right." His grin widened. Although he'd never thought of servants as intruding. One never noticed. Somehow the idea of a secluded hermitage with Daisy was appealing.

"When do you think they'll be back"—she moved a step closer—"from the market?" Her voice had changed.

With the trellis behind her, the pale roses framing her dark beauty, she seemed suddenly as though she belonged at Colsec. "Tonight."

"That late." She smiled suggestively, a siren in flowered organza and pale green hair ribbons.

"Have I told you I adore you?" he said, gently, placing his hands on her bare arms.

"How reassuring," she replied, smiling up at him. "I was afraid you made love with a scowl."

Her directness was delightful. "Are you propositioning me?"

"Did we drive all the way out here to really have a drink?" she mildly inquired.

Which reminded him tardily of the coachman.

"You're welcome to wait in the village, Guillaume," he shouted to the driver. "Come back at dusk." Since Guillaume had been raised in Colsec, he didn't require a more detailed invitation.

A moment later, the Duc and Daisy were utterly alone, standing before Etienne's locked cottage.

"Well?" Daisy said with an age-old female inflection requiring some masculine action.

"Stand back," the Duc immediately said. Picking up a garden spade leaning against the brick wall, he broke the window adjacent to the door, reached in and unlatched the lock. Pushing the door open, he smiled warmly at Daisy. "Welcome, Mademoiselle Black, to my humble home."

The cottage was a jewel box of a home, several million francs removed from humble, filled with Etienne's favorite paintings and furniture and a great many Indian artifacts collected during his expedition with Georges. The tile floors were covered with thick woven rugs in the deep tones of natural dyes, patterned in severe geometric styles. The furniture was leather and pillow-strewn with a primitive simplicity that reminded Daisy intensely of her own Absarokee heritage. Masks, totems, and sculptures brought vividly to mind the painted shields, parfleches, and special decorated lodges of her culture.

She stood arrested in the entrance to the small timber-ceilinged parlor taking in the staggering sense of déjà vu. Even the flowers in vases and those visible through the large mullioned windows in the extravagant garden behind the house were natural to her prairie home.

"Do you like it?" The Duc's voice was deep and soft and very near.

Without turning she knew he was no more than a foot behind her.

"The flowers—where did they come from?" She moved then so she faced him.

"We had a botanist with the expedition. Everything was documented and carefully saved. My gardeners have been working ten years to transform those few seeds into this display."

"I feel like I'm home."

"I thought you might. It was my rationale for bringing you here."

"This was deliberate? You wouldn't have had to go to so much trouble." Her voice had taken on that edge they'd both been struggling with.

"No," he said evenly, "it wasn't deliberate. Had I been deliberate," he went on, his tone carefully modulated, "I wouldn't have brought you here." He took a cautious breath, unfamiliar with revealing his inner feelings, and added, "My friends don't even know of this house. My servants know me by one of my minor titles. I'm private here. So, no… my intention wasn't deliberate bringing you to Colsec. It was a completely senseless decision without a taint of the Duc de Vec you find so offensive."

"I'm sorry," Daisy quietly said, "For my obvious bad manners."

"I could apologize as well, I suppose… but why don't I show you my small domain instead? I don't know," he said with a moodiness he'd been fighting all afternoon, "if I want to apologize."

"What do you find so resentful?"

"The unprecedented upheavals in my life," he simply said. "I had over the years fashioned an orderly life of reasonable content." He looked around the small parlor that until today had been an exclusive male reserve. "I find your presence," he quietly added, "threatening to that reasonable content."

She was surprised at his choice of words. "Reasonable content hardly approximates your public persona. You're a man of excess."

"A term," he dryly said, "as superficial as the concept."

"If I offer you excess too," Daisy declared, trying to be as open as possible in this minefield of possibilities, "will that threaten you?"

The Duc smile. "We're talking about different things."

"You admit you're no monk."

He shrugged and held out his hand instead of answering. "Come. I don't like the direction of this conversation. The past doesn't interest me." He smiled down at her like an indulgent father. "Unless of course, you're interested in telling me of your childhood." He wanted to know the young girl who'd become the unusual woman he wanted with such novel and mixed emotions. As though he might be able to solve the puzzle of her allure and his uncommon desire if she began at the very beginning.

He asked her small details as they toured his cottage and when they came into his bedroom under the eaves painted white like a milkmaid's dairy, sparsely furnished with only a large bed and one chair, she moved toward the bed.

He checked her movement, pulling her through the open glass doors to the small balcony built over the river, seating her in a chaise—much worn and collapsible—like one an officer might take on a campaign.

"Sit by me," Daisy said, when he released her hand and moved away.

"Later," he answered, as though he had some timetable she didn't know, and Daisy felt a small heat race through her body. He dropped onto a small hassock of woven willow near her. "Tell me about your mother," he said, not sure himself why he was adverse to haste in this afternoon rendezvous. "Did she find happiness in her marriage?"

Daisy nodded, wondering if perhaps her mother's content with Seven Arrows had forever spoiled Daisy for society marriages. Her father Hazard's marriage as well was a love match. Both her parents had found lasting happiness with companions that made the Martin Soderbergs of the world pale in comparison.

"My mother died," Daisy quietly began, "because she and Seven Arrows were never apart. When he hunted, she always went with him, although a woman on a hunt was unusual. When a grizzly attacked Seven Arrows, she tried to save him. He was armed only with a knife, and her rifle jammed with five rounds still in the chamber." Daisy's voice dropped to a whisper as the vivid memories returned. "They were both badly mauled."

"I'm sorry… I shouldn't have asked." He touched her hand lightly. "Are you all right?"

She nodded. "So many years have passed, the memories are much less painful, but…" She sighed. "I miss the days of my childhood. That entire way of life has vanished. Disappeared as though it never existed." She lifted her eyes so they regarded him. "Father's right, of course, to have salvaged what he could for his people."

"And you've become an advocate for them."

"It was expected of me."

"A novel idea," Etienne said with a small rueful smile. "Nothing was expected of me. It was enough to be born de Vec."

"Do you regret that?" Her question was tentative since his mood was so elusive and pensive.

"I don't regret my children." They were the only positive in his life that he was certain of. "And my grandchild."

Their pictures were on the bedroom walls. She'd noticed immediately, aware the cottage was indeed his private sanctuary. One didn't bring one's potential lovers to sparsely furnished, stark bedrooms with photos of one's family the only decor. It warmed her enormously to know she'd been invited to such a private retreat. "Tell me about them."

He answered with a rare warmth in his tone, briefly detailing their dispositions, their residences within the blocklong Hôtel de Vec, their current interests. Justin had recently left St. Cyr and was restless. Like you, Daisy thought. Jolie had made a very grand love
match
and was happy. Unlike you, Daisy reflected, the deep hushed tones of his voice serene somehow like the warm spring day and the lazy flowing river below and his daughter's happiness. When he described his grandson Hector, his laughter was a revealing glimpse beyond the powerful figure of the man. His adoration was plain to see.

They talked then in easy conversation about children and nieces and nephews, exchanging pleasantries about the joys of youth. And much later, when he made no move to touch her nor gave indication of the amorous gallant, she said, "Do you mind if I take off my shoes?"

He almost said no, because he was weighing the risks of desire against the inevitable disillusion and he was much too happy or content or whatever word best described the sensations of pleasure he was feeling.

The river moved slowly below them. An occasional dragonfly swooped upward from the pale green water, through the dappled shadows of the willows. The sun was tempered by the shading trees and Daisy Black, the most tantalizing woman he'd ever seen, was three feet away, lounging cool and elegant before him. He could have her; she'd made it quite clear.

What he was debating was how long he wanted to savor this pleasant absolute against the possible unknown.

If one's emotions weren't involved—and until today he'd never realized they were a factor in making love—the facile pursuit of pleasure was predictable. He knew how he would feel be-fore, during, and after. Only the variations and subtleties changed. Now suddenly he didn't know. But he'd never been a coward so he said, smiling, "Please do."

As she untied the green silk ribbons on her small-heeled shoes, then slipped her white silk stockings from her legs, he watched, feeling perilously close to losing control. But years of pleasing women had tempered his urges, had taught him the rituals of self-restraint, and he called all his expertise into play. He would not embarrass himself—he grinned a small faint smile—and attack her, although the impulse was powerful.

"Your smile is intriguing. May I share the feeling?" Daisy softly said, not wanting to wait much longer to see if the Duc's reputation was genuine.

"Actually," he replied, his green eyes amused, "I was debating the merits of attacking you."

"A man of your finesse?"

"You see my dilemma." His grin widened. "I have a reputation to consider."

"It was that exact reputation I was considering exploring."

"Is this a research exercise?" He lifted one brow in ironic inquiry.

"Heavens no," Daisy said, untying one of the ribbons in her hair. "I thought I'd teach you what I know as well."

He looked momentarily surprised and she laughed like a child might in discovering a new treat.

"Didn't you know the Absarokee are an egalitarian society?" Her smile was teasing.

"I may have forgotten," the Duc carefully said, digesting her smile, her languorous tone, the deliberate statement of her past history.

Sliding the ribbon free, she dropped it with a graceful gesture next to her discarded shoes and stockings. Her dark-lashed eyes lifted to his. "Are you intimidated?"

"I don't think so," he quietly said, shrugging off his jacket with comfortable ease. "Should I be?" he added, smiling at her as he reached down to pull off his riding boots. He didn't suppose it would be polite to mention he held the record at Madame Beloy's bordello where the exhibitions tended toward the unusual in virtuosity and endurance.

Daisy began unbuttoning her dress as casually as he was discarding his clothes, his creme silk shirt having followed his jacket to the balcony floor. When he stepped out of his twill riding pants, Daisy remarked, "Those are different."

She was referring to his underclothing made of white cotton and briefer than the usual male style. He'd had them designed for comfort—particularly for playing polo.

"How would you know?" he retorted, his curt reply not based on any sound reasoning, but a response instead to her insolent self-possession.

"Because I've lived on this earth for thirty years and had my eyes open for a good deal of that time."

"Sarcastic women annoy me," he murmured, his gaze faintly glowering.

"As do arrogant men, me. Am I not allowed an innocuous remark?"

"Concerning your repertoire of men's underclothes, no. I've always considered it impolite to discuss previous lovers."

"My, we're touchy. Did I say anything about lovers?" Her smile was the kind he very much wanted to wipe away with an equally innocuous remark. "Surely," she added, "you don't want a woman who agrees with you completely."

"We don't agree on much, actually," he quietly replied, wondering perhaps if he'd made a mistake today. He was leaning against the carved balcony railing, very much at his ease, clad only in his crisp white briefs, his bronzed body in stark contrast to the brilliant white cotton, his muscles clearly defined from his powerful pectorals down the length of his lean form to the hard contours of his thighs and calves used so habitually in playing polo. Being nude before a woman—a woman he hardly knew—was apparently not uncomfortable.

Daisy smiled. Her father Hazard would have recognized the smile. It was her mother's. "Actually," she mimicked very softly, "on one or two things," and her smile heated the depths of her beautiful dark eyes, "I think we might agree."

He grinned suddenly, reminded succinctly that pleasure wasn't a cerebral exercise. "What would you say," he murmured, his smile in place, his strong hand extended to pull her up from the chaise, "if we didn't make it to the bed?"

Her answering smile was the most provocative evocation of sensuality he'd seen in a lifetime of investigating provocative sensuality. "I'd say," she replied, her voice scented with promise, "next time we could try the bed."