The whispers exploded in a small hissing resonance as the Duc exited the brilliantly lit Opera House, the excited comment literally vibrating through the air. Did you hear him… so hard and cold—like steel. A duel, he'd challenged them all. He could kill every one of them. You know de Vec, he can shoot out a pigeon's eye at a hundred yards. Look, the Archbishop's going to faint. Not Isabelle, though. If she were a man she'd shoot him herself. Did you see the American? How could you miss her. I can see why de Vec is willing to kill for her…
She was very small, Daisy found herself inexplicably thinking while she stood on the pavement outside waiting for their carriage to be brought up, her fixation on Isabelle's size incomprehensible when she should be concerned instead with the whispers and gossip and Etienne's reason for staying behind. But in her mind's eye forever etched was the image of Isabelle's blonde perfection and diminutive form. As if their rivalry were a metaphorical process of physical selection and she was fortunate to be taller. As if Isabelle's smaller size accounted for her malevolence, she reflected in the next flashing association. As if the yellow-eyes-god had compensated for the Duchesse de Vec's size by giving her Etienne as a husband—the next disastrous correlation suggested. No! Daisy silently protested, disavowing the morbidity of her thoughts, the rushing panic of her apprehension. She did not want to consider Isabelle's possession of Etienne or the legality of his wife's position—or worse—the jeopardy of her own. Stop! she chastised in the next pulsebeat, refusing to allow her emotions to continue in such gloomy contemplation.
Aïda's final dungeon scene of doomed lovers flashed into her mind. She shivered at the terrifying image, as if one of the spirits of evil had touched her.
"Are you cold, darling?" the Duc inquired, coming up behind her suddenly, pulling her close so she felt his warmth. He spoke calmly as though the riveting attention and Isabelle, all the judges and the Archbishop didn't exist. "You are cold," he added, touching her fingers.
"Yes, no… a little, maybe… the last scene… bothered me for a moment."
"I'm truly sorry about Isabelle."
"No… I mean from Aïda."
His eyes met hers and he saw her fear. "Would you mind walking… it isn't far… would you be too cold?" His voice was gentle, filled with apology. Their carriage had come up, a liveried servant holding the door open, while Valentin and Adelaide politely waited a small distance away.
Daisy nodded, feeling a need for solitude, as if the Paris night could dispel the memory of Isabelle and her powerful cohorts.
"Go on without us," he said to Adelaide and Valentin.
And they understood.
* * *
"You needn't divorce her," Daisy said, her hand in the Duc's as they walked along the lamplit boulevard, the warm evening air like velvet, her thoughts less unsettled now with Isabelle distanced. Marriage in the white man's culture wasn't a necessity in her world. "I don't care if the divorce isn't possible. The Absarokee ways are different. If you love me, that's enough. To be with you is… enough." Her embroidered evening mantle flared in soft undulating waves as she walked. "I don't want your title; I don't need your wealth or your estates. I have all that."
As a chieftain's daughter in her own world, she was as powerful and influential as any de Vec. She had wealth too, although she could live as simply in a lodge on the prairie. And as far as land… she, together with her clan and family, owned vast acres, a territorial legacy Etienne couldn't match.
"I'm divorcing her," the Duc answered, "for myself. I don't want endless repetitions of what happened tonight. I want you for my wife in my world too." His diamond studs glimmered with the same intensity as his eyes in the flickering shadows of the gas lamps. And I want you to have my child, he thought, walking down the Paris boulevards with a woman he'd only met two weeks ago. Without reason or logic, the need assailed him.
For that he would be married.
"I'll talk to Charles. He can perhaps control her."
Daisy glanced up at him, her disbelief vivid in her eyes.
He smiled. "I should know better, you mean."
"You should know better after twenty years," she said with a small smile.
They talked of more pleasant things then, walking hand in hand down the Avenue de l'Opéra, letting the beauty of the spring night restore their spirits, distancing themselves from the incident at the Opera both in range and mood. And some time later they found themselves on the Quai du Louvre where the Duc's flat faced the river.
"My present home," he said, indicating the expanse of Renaissance architecture a few feet from the Seine. A long-ago de Vec had taken advantage of Bernini's talent when he came north from Italy to redesign the Louvre for Louis XIV. The de Vec palace was small in relation to Bernini's monumental works for Kings and Popes, and more graceful, the baroque exuberance touched with a refined elegance, the large window-wall facing the Seine a delicate structure light as air. "I was going to act the gentleman and take you back to Adelaide's tonight," the Duc said, "but stay with me instead."
"This is bigger than my lodge on the prairie," Daisy said in subliminal reserve, struck by the size and beauty of Etienne's home, another symbol of their disparate lives. The Braddock-Black wealth had not the monuments of history like these, she thought, taking in the block-long structure, the solid bulwark of ancient generations as reminder of one's duty. Her past incorporated more freedom of spirit, as did her future, the Absarokee traditions nurturing an individualism of opportunity and ability. In her tribe, a chieftainship was won and maintained by courage and competence while the landed families of France were expected to simply duplicate and affirm the patterns of the past generations.
"I only use a few rooms," Etienne said, as if sensing the disposition of her thoughts. "Would you rather go back to Adelaide's? I can call for my carriage," he offered, indicating the vehicle that had been slowly following them as they walked. He didn't blame her if she was disturbed; he'd like to obliterate the awful events at the Opéra and take back the last twenty years if he could to make her happy.
"I'm hungry," Daisy said in answer to none of his questions. The gentle illumination of the street lamps bathed her form in velvety shadow and shimmering radiance, the silk poppies framing her décolletage, ethereal, translucent, floating petals in shades of crimson and gold.
"And I'm sure I have some food," the Duc replied with a smile, responding to the noncontroversial content of her statement. Later they could once again face the diverse dilemmas. "I know I have several chefs."
"You have no sense of proportion." Quiet disapproving words underscored with teasing.
He knew the discrepancies in their lives and he couldn't alter his background to please her, although had it been possible, he would. "I can feed you, though," he answered, his smile so warm she could feel the heat in the shadowed night. "Deal?"
"Deal," she said, without deliberation or thought. In the harsh and practical reality of life they were so diametrically opposed, the half world separating their lives was apt. But in love, where practicality met defeat and reality dissolved, they were in accord.
"Do you suppose your kitchen might have Baba au Rhum?" Daisy asked as they entered Etienne's home. "I've an urge for some."
"We can find out soon enough," Etienne said, removing Daisy's mantle himself before handing it to a footman. "I'll send for the chef."
She touched him lightly on the arm in restraint. "It's so late. Can't we just go down and see?" Babas were generally made in a large-enough size to act as a grosse piece and remained on the sideboard for several days.
Although Etienne had never entered his kitchen, he readily rose to the occasion. "Of course. Let me see…" He paused for a swift survey of the directions available.
"You don't know where your kitchen is," Daisy cheerfully accused, watching his critical assessment of the options.
"Ah—well—" Etienne grinned. "Don't look so smug. Louis takes care of all that, but I'd made a guess and say—" he nodded in the direction of a
functional-looking corridor, "that way."
His young footman concurred when asked, and a short time later, after traversing several additional corridors in the wake of the helpful young man, Daisy and the Duc found themselves belowstairs in the kitchen.
Their appearance in the doorway of an enormous room patterned quaintly after the Regent's kitchen at Brighton caused as much of a stir as their attendance at the Opéra. Although in contrast, after the first startled, awed reaction, their reception was supremely cordial. The chefs, of whom Etienne discovered he had four, weren't asleep but still up in the event they were needed after the opera.
"How prophetic," the Duc murmured with a smile for the lady at his side.
Prophecy had less to do with it than Louis's understanding of his master's proclivities. An adequate portion of the staff was gathered round a cozy table drinking tea while waiting for the Duc's return from the Opéra—Louis and Burns among them.
A baba would be happily supplied for the Duc's lady, the pastry chef promised, beaming to be so notably singled out. The baba would be brought up in record time. It had only to be heated and a fresh sauce prepared. Did the lady prefer eau de Tanaisie in her sauce as King Leczinski did when prepared by the master Careme, or Malaga wine alone? The baba itself, he assured her, was made the authentic way with Hungarian wine.
Daisy graciously agreed to try the eau de Tanaisie; the pastry chef was beside himself with praise for her palate and was only kept from weeping with joy by the Duc's gentle reminder that the lady was also extremely hungry. The chef's emotions curtailed by the immediate necessity to create, he called for his sous-chefs and went to work.
The other three chefs were allowed to suggest some choice dishes for the lady's pleasure and Etienne watched with indulgent good humor as they tempted Daisy with the arts of their expertise. She decided on a simple macaroni à la napolitaine, partly because the young Italian chef was so proud of his native dish, and had not the other chefs been left despondent by her decision, the macaroni and baba would have been enough. She agreed instead to taste the maître d'hôtel's lobster a l'américaine in honor of her heritage as well as tomato and shrimp bisque suggested by the vice-chef.
"Some Montreuil peaches too," the Duc added at the last, supplementing the menu with his choice for an après-opera snack on a summer night. "And a Chateau Latour and a Chateau d'Yquem."
They were served à la russe6 at a small bronze and chalcedony table set beside the balcony door in Etienne's bedroom suite. Both had changed from their evening clothes into comfortable robes, a forest-green foulard silk of Etienne's oversized on Daisy's slender frame. Barefoot and relaxed, they sipped only champagne while waiting for the first dish to be brought up.
"Life is good," Etienne softly murmured, lifting his glass to Daisy.
"When you're this close," Daisy quietly replied, raising her stemmed goblet, her smiling face delicately bathed in candlelight from the single branch set on the table.
"It is better then, isn't it… ?" Etienne's eyes held hers over the rim of his glass, the sparkling champagne as effervescent as his spirits.
"We should just lock the door."
"And ignore the world."
"For a week at least," Daisy whispered.
The Duc smiled. "My dear practical minx. I was thinking more romantically in terms of forever."
Daisy smiled back. "Is it enough to say forever?"
"Of course," he lightly said, in the mood right then to actually believe his facile words.
"You're good for me." At ease, happy, content—even the events at the Opéra erased from her mind, Daisy understood at last the sea-deep, mountain-high splendor of love.
"And I intend to be even better for you… once the servants are dismissed."
Daisy grinned. "I may eat very slowly and make you wait."
"Fine," he said without concern.
"Fine? How blas� you are, de Vec." She held out her glass to be refilled.
He was extremely hard to bait—perhaps impossible. Alone most of his life, he'd developed the habits of a hermit. The scarlet brocade of his robe shimmered as he moved from his lounging pose to pick up the bottle. Reaching over to pour the pale liquid into her glass, he smiled at her. "Darling, another hour or so hardly matters," he murmured, leaning back in his chair.
She made a small moue, an intrinsically feminine response. "I deplore your damnable reserve."
"Should I pant after you?" His eyes were amused.
"Well, maybe sometime you might." A small testiness colored her tone, like a young country maid new to city ways.
It was a supreme act of affection when he benevolently replied, "If you wish, I certainly will."
"When?" She was testing her power.
"Sometime…" he said with a faint smile, "… when you least expect it."
His smile was so wolfish Daisy immediately took alarm. "Not in public," she quickly said.
"Oh, are there reservations now on this particular act of unrestrained regard?" An audacious man, he had no reservations at all.
"Perhaps," she slowly said, trying to decipher the lingering smile on his face.
"Are churches public?" he softly inquired, his face suddenly a mask of propriety, "—say one of the more out-of-the-way apse chapels?"
Her eyes widened in a delicate flutter of dark lacy lashes. "Definitely yes."
"What about the maze at Saint Cloud? Actually quite a lot of panting pursuit has gone on there over the centuries." His lazy drawl suggested a personal acquaintance with the garden.
"Etienne!" A hushed exclamation of remonstrance.
"You prefer more privacy then." Lounging in his chair, the scarlet silk of his robe heightening the ebony black of his hair and the swarthy hue of his skin, his eyes in the candlelight, shadowed with the Asiatic cast of some long-ago Tartar antecedent, he had the look of an Eastern potentate… a black prince of midnight at ease in his unconventional world.
"Apparently more than you," Daisy sardonically replied.
"That's probably true," he agreed with a wry smile. He didn't actually require privacy at all depending on the degree of his moodiness or sobriety.
At a courteous quiet knock, his gaze lifted to the door. "Ah, and here's your bisque." Which put an end to their discussion of the finite degrees of public display.
The food arrived in leisurely succession, beginning with the shrimp bisque, progressing through the macaroni à anapolitaine to the lobster, baba, and peaches. Daisy ate, and Duc primarily drank, although he tasted the macaroni when Daisy insisted. It was superb, he agreed, the prefect melding of Parmesan cheese, ham, and tomato sauce. He refrained from mentioning in all his visits to Italy he'd studiously avoided macaroni.
"Are you enjoying yourself?" he teased, picking one of the golden blush peaches from the bowl before him, taking delight in Daisy's appetite; the women he knew were generally more concerned with not eating.
At the moment, trying to decide how to best approach the succulent lobster shaped like a crown, topped with braised tomatoes and glazed with lobster butter, she only nodded and smiled. Her decision made, she pulled at a sauce-drenched piece of lobster and after putting it in her mouth, shut her eyes for a moment in pleasurable relish.
The Duc felt an answering rush of pleasure course through his senses. She was, he thought, a woman of captivatingly varied parts: more natural than a country lass; as sophisticated as a queen; immodestly capable of holding her own in a man's profession; as beautiful as the most treasured sunrise from his childhood—and seductive… as orchids drenched with jungle rain seduced the eye and lured one's sensibilities.
Like an epicurean voyeur he watched her demolish the lobster, capriciously selecting a piece here and a bite there; she'd eaten each dish with the same wanton discretion—choosing only the best and choicest portions. And she ate the lobster with her fingers.
"Do you mind?" she'd inquired once, aware of Etienne's attentive gaze—her query politeness only; she wasn't a martinet for protocol.
"Not at all. I'm enjoying the sight. Later," he said in a soft murmur, relaxed against the antique silk of his chair, his half-eaten peach held lazily in one propped hand, "I'll lick your fingers for you."
"Ah… how nice—a useful man." Her smile was delicately tinted with the pale pink lobster sauce. "Would you like to start now?" And she leaned forward a fraction, extending her robed arm across the polished tabletop.
"I thought," he said with a faint smile, "I'd wait until the baba was served. To avoid," he softly added, "any undue interruptions in my…" One dark brow rose in winged insinuation… "utilitarian functions."
"Umm…" Anticipation vibrated through her sultry tone. "I'm almost inclined to forgo the baba." Her grin was instant and then she licked her fingers herself. "Almost…" she murmured past her fingertips.
He laughed. "I've never taken second place to a baba." He had in fact never taken second place in any of his lovers' thoughts. Which made the mademoiselle from Montana fascinating to him.
"No doubt your character will be improved for the experience." Teasing lights shone in the darkness of Daisy's eyes.
"If not improved, certainly constrained… at least."
"A lesson there too," she cheerfully noted.
"Perhaps later I can educate you too."
Her smile was seductive as Eve. "Really."
"Really," he whispered.
The baba, a stupendous grosse piece, a veritable work of art, was carried in by the pastry chef himself on a silver platter adorned with sugared grapes, brilliant candied citron, and delicate sugar-dusted violets. Tendrils of steam rose from its golden glazed surface, the center of the ringed cake piled high with a fluffy mountain of scented chantilly creme. The special sauce, created for Louis Quinze's father-in-law, arrived in a magnificent silver sauceboat carried in splendid solitude by a privileged sous-chef.
Daisy was truly dazzled, the pastry chef was duly complimented, and Etienne decided dining, a deux in his bedchamber with Daisy Black was very close to heaven on earth. The vivid delight in Daisy's eyes outshone the lesser glories of several Wonders of the World he'd viewed in his wanderings around the globe.
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