Forbidden

by Susan Johnson

  And now the fickle adventuress preferred being friends.

  As if in repudiation, his sprained fingers throbbed in pulsing dissent. Lightly splintered together by one of Nadine's servants to ease the discomfort movement caused, he lifted them briefly above his head to relieve the flow of blood and the sudden pain. Damn her and damn her father and brother, too, he moodily maligned in blanket affront, considering himself fortunate to have no more than sprained fingers. He wanted some answers to the chaos in his mind. He wanted an explanation that made sense. He wanted to know why she'd left him.

  He wanted more too. Regardless of her answers, he wanted more. He wanted her.

  With the pretense of adjusting her garters, Daisy had found refuge behind an ornate dressing-screen in the powder room and after waving away a maid's offer of assistance, she'd collapsed on the small damask chaise, indifferent to the fragile jeweled butterflies embroidered on her gown.

  How would she last the entire evening, she despaired, with Etienne constantly before her eyes—with Nadine possessively at his side. She shut her eyes for a moment as if to blot out the wretched image, only to find it etched permanently in her memory. Abruptly sitting upright, she trained her gaze on the decorative fabric of the screen, visually tracing the depiction of Greek fretwork and acanthus leaves, forcing her thoughts away from the unhappy vision of Etienne and Nadine. Damn him and damn his memory and most of all damn his limitless charm. While she'd been suffering heartache in Montana, he'd been conducting his life in his familiar licentious pattern.

  He'd practically looked right through her this afternoon on the polo field, and when Nadine had called, he'd gone to her without a backward glance. She felt suddenly utterly naive, like an artless young maid who actually believes cavalier protestations of love.

  Straightening her shoulders, then her spine, she consciously braced herself, hardening her defenses against her own awkward longing and the continuing ordeal of the evening ahead.

  How early could she graciously leave?

  She came out some time later in the wake of an elderly lady, perhaps ten steps behind her, moving back down the torchière-lit hallway toward the gilded ballroom.

  Pushing away from the wall, Etienne followed her. She walked the way he remembered, with a light fluid grace, the motion of her hips fleetingly suggested beneath the shimmering gold of her skirt, her bare shoulders and slender neck erect as if the heavy silken coils of her dark hair were weighty, requiring a dancer's balance. He smelled her rose fragrance first as he neared, and then moving closer, distinguished the precise arrangement of jeweled pins holding her hair, the subtle shadow beneath her ear, the clasp of her diamond earrings, the sleek dip of her spine as it flowed downward to the low-cut back of her dress.

  She may have smelled his familiar cologne, too, or perhaps heard his tread, for she turned her head slightly as he reached out to grasp her wrist.

  "You!" she said in surprise, her breath caught halfway up her throat so the word was hushed and trembling. No matter how she'd prepared for the possibility of their meeting again, she was unprepared.

  "Hello," he said simply, as he might have a lifetime ago when he was young and gauche, long before Ursalina, in the days when women were mothers and madonnas and convent-bred cousins. "How are you?"

  "I'm… fine. Fine." Daisy repeated in what she hoped was a normal voice. His fingers on her wrist were scorching her skin, he was too close, his hair longer, she thought apropos nothing, his shoulders wide like she remembered, his green eyes gazing down at her like a hundred hoped-for springtimes, alluring and enchant-ing. "I saw you earlier," she said, her comment both spontaneous and prosaic, as if the tumble and turmoil of her thoughts could be concealed by her insipid statement.

  "I saw you too." No insipidness distinguished the Duc's declaration. His voice took on a sharp, crisp enunciation suddenly, underscored with umbrage. "Is Rutherford your new lover?"

  His grip on her wrist turned steely.

  He had no right was her first thought. Not after all these months. Not after the undeniable intimacy between himself and Nadine. "Is Nadine yours?" she coolly inquired, attempting to wrench her hand free.

  "No."

  "Liar."

  "Answer my question."

  "I don't have to." She spoke as a chieftain's daughter would.

  Jealousy impelled their sharp pointed repartee… and insidious desire and accusing tempests of faithlessness aimed at each other.

  "Let me go."

  "Answer me," he growled, undeterred by either her demand or her attempt to withdraw.

  A trio of women emerged suddenly from the powder room, chatting, adjusting the bracelets on their wrists, taking that last look at each other's décolletage, agreeing with smiling accord that each was suitably provocative without being vulgar.

  "You have to let me go now," Daisy whispered angrily.

  "Is Beau waiting for you?" His sarcasm was a soft whisper.

  He didn't release his crushing grasp until the very last moment, and did only then out of necessity when the ladies stopped to visit. With flirtatious banter, fluttering eyelashes, and suggestive smiles, congratulations were offered the Duc for his expertise on the polo field. They preened like harem candidates for the Sultan's nightly favors, and Daisy watched, her heated temper escalating at each giddy laugh as Etienne accepted their compliments with an effortless charm.

  "Will you be visiting more often now that your daughter is living here?" one of the ladies inquired, her keen interest in his answer apparent in her breath-held stance.

  "I'm hoping to. American hospitality is an added enticement." Etienne's deep voice held an exceptional sincerity as though he were speaking to each of them individually, and Daisy could literally see their adulation blossom. By tomorrow after-noon, she thought, Etienne would have three more invitations to dinner… and more.

  "Do you find the Viennese musicians enjoyable?" Lily Winthrop was plainly angling for a dance partner.

  "Nadine outdid herself. Perhaps later when this throbbing hand improves," he said, raising his splintered fingers, "I could take advantage of the music again."

  "Please do," Bea Kissam breathed, offering in both tone and expression, the Duc take advantage in any way he chose.

  "Would you like our doctor to look at your hand?" Bea's cousin Clara inquired, hope expectant in her sultry eyes. Since her husband's business was keeping him in New York, she was alone in Newport. Plainly her invitation included breakfast.

  "Perhaps later," Etienne politely said, bowing slightly to Clara, his smile pleasant.

  "You won't be playing tomorrow, will you?" Lily asked. "With your injured hand? Come for lunch," she went on in a breathless rush, "or tea or dinner. I could show you the Cliff Walk if—"

  "Thank you, but I'm committed to the French team with Centrelle gone," he graciously refused. "I've only a small sprain anyway. A few hours on Bradley's electrical-force machine should help." He did in fact have to find time for the therapy or he wouldn't be able to hold his stick. His discomfort level was damn high.

  "Don't you know some herbal cures, Daisy?" Lily's bright blue eyes turned on Daisy.

  "No. Not for sprains," she quickly added when she saw Lily was about to contradict her.

  "A shame," Etienne mildly said, his amused gaze on Daisy's flustered expression. "For a moment, I thought you might be able to help me."

  "You must have something for pain at least, Daisy," little Bea Kissam implored, her small frown delicately creasing her milk-white brow. "Holding a mallet is going to be agonizing."

  You'd think Bea was personally feeling the torment from the sound of her voice, Daisy thought, annoyed and irritated that every woman Etienne met wanted to pet and coddle him. A constant, no doubt in his life, from his skilled parrying of their avid interest. Confused, jealous, and angry in the presence of the fawning ladies, Daisy was reminded of similar sensations experienced in Paris. Etienne had always been too much a disruptive force in her life, blowing apart the sere
nity of her existence, muddying the clarity of her future goals.

  "I'm sorry," Daisy replied in a tone that didn't sound sorry at all, but vexed instead, for she wanted desperately to flee her chaotic thoughts and the adoring women. "There's nothing I can do for the pain. I don't have anything. Now if you'll excuse me."

  The Duc's sound hand rose swiftly, stopping Daisy. With an appearance of indolence, his hand lay intimate and splayed across her ribcage, palm out. But he was restraining her with such force, to check her movement, the beaded butterflies on her bodice were leaving marks on his hand. "We should finish our conversation before you go."

  His voice was low, a hint of threat in his green eyes.

  Would he dare make a scene? He would, she decided a heartbeat later as their eyes held in a look of frank disclosure. "If you wish," she tersely said, as frustrated as he, although their views differed on who had done what to whom.

  "I do."

  The three young matrons, recognizing authority in a man's voice, looked swiftly from Daisy to the Duc, then back again, before dropping their scrutiny to his hand.

  "I'm trying to talk Daisy into selling me one of the Braddock-Black polo ponies," the Duc said with a smile, his hand unmoving on Daisy's ribs.

  The three women seemed to simultaneously arrest their breathing for a moment. "Shouldn't you talk to Hazard?" Lily said at last because she was the bravest of the trio or perhaps the most curious.

  "Why didn't I think of that?" The Duc's smile was charming.

  A short, awkward pause ensued, the air dense with tension between the Duc and the woman he was detaining. Lily opened her mouth to speak, changed her mind after another glance at the Duc's set jaw, and gently shut it. The music from the ballroom suddenly became conspicuous in the heavy silence.

  "We should go… I mean, I think I owe this dance… that is we're keeping our dance partners waiting… so please excuse us," Clara finally stammered.

  The Duc bowed without removing his hand from Daisy's ribcage.

  The ladies each took shocked note of that demonstration of power and rather wide-eyed took their leave.

  "We're going to be the general topic of ballroom conversation in under thirty seconds. I hope you're satisfied," Daisy heatedly said.

  Satisfied wasn't exactly the pertinent word to describe the Duc's deep-seated frustration. Unsatisfied was more appropriate. Ruffled, resentful, and gauging the distance to his bedroom upstairs was closer to the mark.

  "Will Beau be upset?" He snapped, letting his hand fall away, but watching Daisy closely, like a hunter his quarry.

  "Don't be obsessed, Etienne," Daisy snapped back. "Or condemnatory. Not with your record."

  "Obsessed? How many more are there?" Barely leashed violence grated in his words. He was not currently in a reasonable frame of mind.

  "You're being disagreeable." Standing stiffly beside him, she tried to keep from trembling in anger.

  "In what way?"

  Daisy clenched her fists against the indolent arrogance of his mild query. "In thinking you can question my—social life."

  He sighed very softly, almost theatrically, like an indulgent father or guardian might in reviewing an erring child. "An interesting turn of phrase, darling," he murmured, recalling with heated resentment the liberated sexual mores of Absarokee culture. "It's been a long time," he added, the subtle altering of subject obvious in his hushed voice, the direction of his thoughts crystal clear. "Your dress is new."

  She could deal with his anger better. She could be outraged and offended, not disastrously reminded of the summer gowns Etienne had purchased for her at Worth and Doucet. Or of the moments when those gowns had been discarded on the bedroom or balcony or pavilion floor. "It's only been two months… not so long." She replied, trying to modulate the emotion from her voice and distant herself from the memories.

  "Nine weeks."

  "Nine weeks, then."

  "Tell me why, Daisy?" he softly said, his eyes holding hers in query. "Was it the divorce?"

  She shook her head, understanding what he was asking although his questions were laconic and abridged. "I tried to explain in my letter," Daisy said, trying to master her feelings into a semblance of calm she was far from feeling. "I don't care about the divorce, though I know you do. My culture countenances another manner of divorce. But we live two entirely different lives in terms of interests, commitments, and goals. Forgive me," she added with a rueful grimace, "for sounding doctrinaire, but we don't even live on the same continent."

  He listened to all the reasonable words, attentive and polite. "You didn't love me enough, you mean." His harsh declaration matched the flare of resentment in his eyes.

  "It's not a question of degree, Etienne," Daisy quietly replied, "but of possibilities. How could we have managed? My work is my life."

  "With some women, their husbands are their lives."

  "Like Isabelle," she sardonically said.

  He almost outwardly winced for she'd struck a raw nerve. How many times in the early years of his marriage, before he'd adopted the casual male approach to fidelity of his class, had he wondered what he'd done wrong or what he'd lacked for Isabelle to show such indifference. "No," he said in a voice suddenly devoid of emotion. "Like Adelaide and Empress… and others I know."

  "I'm sorry… if I can't meet their romantic standards. I've worked too long…" She sighed, thinking how little he knew of the tremendous obstacles she'd had to surmount as an Indian woman in a male, white world. And how much more she hoped to accomplish. Although maybe she was more romantic than she admitted. Maybe she was so totally romantic she wanted the man she loved an integral part of her world. Maybe she wanted the entire mythical fantasy of common interests, common goals, and total commitment. An alien concept to a dilettante like Etienne who considered women merely a pleasurable adjunct to his life. "I didn't want to say no," she added at the last, her voice low, her dark eyes anguished, a tiny shiver of regret spinning down her spine.

  He stood perfectly still, darkly handsome in full evening rig, surveying her for a moment as though deciphering the exactitude of her words. His jaw set for a transient second and a muscle high over his cheekbone twitched. "But you did," he brusquely said, "and you'll pardon my obtuseness but I find your work a tenuous excuse."

  "I didn't really expect you to understand. You're too familiar with ornamental, adoring women." Her anger showed then because beneath the issue of her vision for her people, incomprehensible to a man of his background, was the persistent issue of his faithlessness. He turned women's heads, fascinated them, was continually tempted by female admirers. Like moments ago when she'd seen three women vie like contestants for his attention. She understood his blatantly enticing sensuality as well as anyone for she'd succumbed like so many before her, but recognition didn't exonerate him of the flamboyant record of his past or offer the fidelity she required. Unlike Isabelle, she wouldn't be able to overlook stark faithlessness in her marriage.

  A silence lay between them for a moment as they both struggled with the peculiar friction of their feelings. The Duc glanced down the corridor toward the noise of the ballroom, followed by a survey of the length of hallway stretching toward the back of the residence, his gaze reconnoitering rather than contemplative. Without speaking he took her hand and began walking toward the ballroom.

  Following without protest, Daisy presumed Etienne was being reasonable and returning to the dance. Maybe they could put aside their singular resentments and even waltz together, she thought, like ordinary friends. But as they approached the large entrance hall from which separate wings of the villa radiated, Etienne veered away from the ballroom, turning instead toward the monumental spiral stairway that had been taken piece by piece from the Chateau d'Arnay-le-Duc.

  "No!" Daisy sharply cried as she realized his intentions. "Etienne!"

  Two footmen turned to look.

  "I'll show you the view from upstairs." The Duc's tone was sardonic, his stride unaltered, his grip crushing he
r fingers, the fog outside so dense the windows in the entrance hall were damp with moisture.

  "My family's here!" She had to lift her skirt with her free hand to keep from stumbling on the first step. Surely he'd consider the deterrent of her relatives once she reminded him.

  "Mine is too."

  Good God, she remembered… his daughter and son-in-law. He didn't care! And for the first time she fully understood the scope of Etienne's audacity. Equally conscious of the extent of male affront in her family, disastrous visions of violence filled her mind. Glacing quickly over her shoulder she nervously scanned the entrance to the ballroom. Someone had to deal with this situation rationally. "We have to talk, Etienne."

  He turned briefly to look back at her and smiled. "That barrister reason. I'd love to talk. Afterward."

  At the moment, as he pulled her along behind him, compelling lust far outweighed any other arguments, sensible or otherwise.

  He could feel the drumming of his pulse in the racing heat of his blood, in the sudden sensation of clothing on his skin, in the adrenalin coursing through his nerve endings. Curiously, his damaged fingers no longer hurt.

  Slowing his stride when they reached the second-floor hallway, he drew Daisy alongside. "They don't hurt anymore," he said, his smile a slow luxurious curving of his mouth.

  Unnerved at his reckless behavior, his words sounded equally strange, and the look she gave him indicated further explanation was required.

  "My fingers," he said, lifting his injured hand slightly to show her. "You're good medicine."

  "You're out of your mind tonight, Etienne," Daisy exclaimed, slightly breathless from her swift ascent to the second floor, "and too cavalier even for the play society of Newport. Someone is bound to wonder what happened to us." She thought him very skilled and courageous, though, for surviving her father's onslaught on the polo field. "But I'm glad they don't hurt."

  Her voice for the first time reminded him intimately of their days together in Paris. "Lord, I've missed you," he said, hushed and low, glancing down at her with a sudden intensity.