Forbidden

by Susan Johnson

  "Don't say that," Daisy protested. Even more than his words, she'd instinctively responded to the essential need in his voice and she was terrified that weeks of cautionary judgment might be undone so easily.

  "It's God's truth."

  "In your own way, you mean," she replied, bolstering her informed opinions with prickly temper, "between the Nadines." She'd never forget Isabelle's visit to Etienne's apartment. She'd experienced that same sinking feeling tonight seeing Etienne and Nadine on the dance floor.

  "I don't want to argue." He continued without pause down the carpeted hall, intent on his destination.

  "You never do."

  "How many times have I apologized for my past?" he wearily said, counting the fifth door from the statue of Minerva in the alcove, which was the only way he could keep track of his room in this strange house. His was the eighth.

  "Nadine looked rather current," Daisy said with asperity, motivated by jealous memory. "She looked so current on the dance floor tonight melting into your body, I was wondering if her husband was going to call you out."

  "Well she isn't."

  With the heat of his body too close for comfort,, the fine wool of his jacket drifting against the bare skin of her arm—jarring her senses despite the delicate friction—Daisy paradoxically felt relief and anger at his brief disclaimer. "I wonder if Nadine knows that," she said, disparagingly.

  "Tell me about Beau Rutherford," the Duc said, "as long as we're making accusations."

  "There's nothing to tell."

  "I wonder if he knows that," he said, mimicking her response to him. Then, swallowing his contemplated sarcasm, abruptly said instead in barely a whisper, "My life hasn't been the same since you left me."

  "Should I say I'm sorry?" Daisy defensively responded, fighting against tumultuous feeling.

  Glancing at her again as they traversed the upper hallway, he hesitated briefly before responding. She looked smaller than he remembered. Maybe it was the twenty-foot ceilings. "I don't know," he said, as if gauging the degree of politeness required. There was a measure of anger beneath his need for her he hadn't been able to completely extinguish.

  "Are you blaming me?" She'd recognized the small sullen-ness.

  "Maybe," he said, unsure himself whether part of his impelling need tonight was prompted by vengeance. Did he want to punish her for causing him so much misery, for leaving him? He couldn't honestly say, not quite suite he was benevolent enough to genuinely wish her happiness without him.

  Seven… and eight.

  "Welcome," he said, reaching out to open the door to his room. "I hope you're not put off by fifteenth-century Flanders. Actually the Circassian walnut woodwork is rather nice."

  "Etienne, please don't," Daisy said, tugging against the pressure of his grip.

  "You don't like Flemish decor?"

  "Damn you, be serious." His grin was as unnerving as the warmth of his hand enfolding hers.

  "Trust me, I am serious. Come." And he pulled her into the room, leaving her standing just inside the threshold while he shut the door. Wall sconces lent a soft golden glow to the masculine bedchamber, picked up the gilt ornament on the enormous baroque columns of walnut twisting upward to the plaster molded ceiling, highlighted the frenzied serpentine carving of the massive tester bed.

  "Do you like the tapestries?" He could have been conducting a house tour, so complacent was his voice and smile. "Nobles at play."

  The walls were hung with scenes of leisure in which richly dressed ladies and lords postured in mannered indolence. They dined al fresco in a wooded glen, walked idly in a rose garden of great beauty, sat their richly caparisoned horses while two huntsmen stuck killing lances into a wild boar.

  Her clan's summer lodges were painted with scenes from Absarokee life; her father's lodge more splendid than most. But the deeds depicted on the painted lodges were those of action and courage serving as pictorial history and lessons from the past, not ones of self-indulgent pleasure. "You must feel comfortable here," Daisy said, thin-skinned and touchy. "Everyone's in pursuit of pleasure."

  "You fit in better than you think, darling, in that cloth of gold gown and your diamonds." He had the key to the locked door in his hand.

  "I don't know how you think you can get by with this," Daisy said, ignoring his jibe, more aware than he how much persuasion had been required to convince her to travel East. "The house is literally filled with guests, and even before my family might miss me, Nadine is sure to come looking for you. She's not the dulcet feminine chatelaine she impersonates. So why don't you unlock that door and we can both return downstairs. My family will be happy, Nadine will be happy, I'll be happy—"

  "But I won't."

  He closed the small distance between them, his smile sweet and redolent, as though she hadn't voiced her objections, as though they were young lovers alone at last in the harmony of their contentment. "I see the buttons are in the back," he said, his voice velvet. "Turn around so I can reach them."

  "You're not listening to me," Daisy remonstrated.

  "I heard every word. You're probably right about everything… almost everything," he gently modified. "Turn around."

  When she didn't, when she stood scowling at him, her nostrils flaring in anger, he took her by her arms and turned her himself.

  "What if I were to fight you?" she resentfully said, half swiveling around to stare at him. This was astonishing, she was thinking, being taken captive in a house with hundreds of guests present. He was mad.

  His sigh was one of consolation. "Be realistic, darling."

  He towered over her, powerful and fit, his large hands lightly. grasping her shoulders, the splinted bandage on his right hand rough on her skin, reminding her of his defensive combat on the polo field that afternoon. If he was a match for her father and brother… he was right about being realistic.

  "You'll pay later then, Etienne," she threatened. "I promise."

  "You pay for everything in this world, darling. Didn't you know that?" And he began opening the short range of covered buttons at her waist, with less finesse than usual because he was awkward left-handed.

  Daisy stood stiff-backed and silent as he loosened her gown, steeling herself with anger against the warm touch of his fingers. When he'd slipped all the buttons free of their small loops, he bent to kiss the satiny curve of her shoulder. She shut her eyes at the warm softness of his mouth, willing herself not to respond. She felt his hair against her neck, smelled the fragrance of his pine-scented cologne, repressed a sigh as the familiar touch of his fingertips traced a gentle path down her spine.

  "Please don't, Etienne. It's not fair. You're not fair. I don't want to be here. I don't want you to touch me. I don't want you to kiss me. I don't. I don't. I—"

  Swinging her around so she faced him, he covered her mouth with his, to stop her protest, stop the words, repress all the negatives crowding her mind, make her feel what he was feeling. He had confidence in his experience as well as the indefensible authority of his strength. He intended to woo her because gallantry was preferable to force, but he was determined to have her and the means were incidental to the end.

  Holding her close, his palms on the low curve of her spine, he forced her head back with the intensity of his kiss. In only partially contained violence, he ate at her mouth, bringing his splinted hand up swiftly to secure her more firmly under the pressure of his lips. Moving his leg into the gathered folds of her skirt, he forced her backward the few steps to the door and leaning into the softness of her body, pressed his pulsing erection forcibly against her.

  He felt her caught breath in his mouth and shut his eyes for a moment against the consuming fire in his brain. Frantically he beat down the ramming speed mentality screaming through his mind. Since Daisy had left nine weeks ago, he hadn't had a woman. Perhaps that, too, accounted for his reckless irresponsibility tonight. Perhaps he was indeed mad, for he could have had Nadine or any number of women downstairs, in leisurely and acceptable dalliance�
��not like this—not putting his life at risk with Daisy's father and brother downstairs, with the woman in his arms resisting.

  Not precisely resisting, he decided a moment later, as Daisy's spine relaxed under his hand.

  Her sensuous yielding had nothing to do with him; she would have responded the same way with any man after all this time, Daisy told herself, as heat spiraled upward from deep inside her, as the sensation of Etienne's arousal brought hurtlingly clear graphic recall of their passionate days together. Any man would do… after nine weeks. Any man. Any man… the litany keeping time with the racing beat of her heart and her kindling flame of desire. Overcome suddenly with exquisite sensation, Daisy felt the quivering fullness of her breasts with such finite sensitivity it seemed as though Etienne's bare chest touched her nipples, as though no clothing separated them.

  And a moment later when he lifted her arms one at a time onto his shoulders, instead of resisting, she allowed him to place her hands on the soft wool of his evening jacket because her nipples were stimulated jewel-hard and she wished to experience the abrasive pleasure of moving upward on his chest.

  The Duke felt the tautly roused crests because Daisy didn't wear a corset and only the silk of her gown and chemise were barriers to sensation. "Sweet Daisy," he breathed, lifting his mouth from hers, so he could look into her eyes. "I've missed you."

  Her smile was spontaneous, seductive. She no longer wished to reason or deliberate, as if the door on cognitive thought had decisively shut with a clang. She wished only to impetuously feel. "I can tell," she whispered, lifting herself on tiptoe to brush his lips with a kiss, moving her hips in a slow inducement of desire. Dropping her dark lashes in languorous approval when Etienne's erection surged in response, she breathed,

  "Mmmmm. I remember that."

  "I can improve on your memory," Etienne murmured with a smile, sure now they were both in delicious accord, mentally judging the distance to the gigantic bed, gratified to have his darling Daisy back. Bending swiftly, he swept Daisy into his arms and held her for a moment, relishing her closeness.

  They smiled at each other, their faces mere inches away, Daisy's cloth of gold skirt billowing over his arm onto the plum ground of the Flemish carpet. Reaching up, Daisy touched the black silk of Etienne's hair, trailing her fingers through the soft waves resting behind his ear, a familiar gesture from their days together. His hair curled more than hers and she used to tease him he was more beautiful. Tonight she was certain of it in the intensity of her desire; in white tie and evening dress, he always took her breath away. Running a fingertip over the heavy arc of his brow, she whispered as she had so many times before, "Are you mine?"

  He nodded, his eyes shining brilliant green and happy.

  "Etienne! Etienne! Are you in there?" Nadine's voice came through the Circassian walnut door, sharp, clear, and snappish, for she'd discovered from the footman the Duc had gone upstairs with a lady.

  "Fuck," the Duc softly swore. "Fuck."

  "Precisely what she wants," Daisy acidly muttered, stiffening in his arms. "Put me down," she quietly added, her voice chill as the grave.

  The door handle rocked. "I know you're in there, Etienne. Now open the door!" Since the key only locked from the inside, there was no question someone was in the room.

  For a brief moment the Duc hesitated, but his anger had dissipated in the sensual warmth of Daisy's response, and with it his rash unconcern for appearances. Resentment had driven him when he'd dragged her up the stairs, an inexplicable alienation and obsession—gone now as swiftly as it had surfaced.

  "In a moment!" he shouted, placing Daisy on her feet. "I'm sorry," he quietly murmured.

  "Naturally."

  "Hell and damnation," he muttered, adding a string of mildly pejorative curses having to do with timing. Daisy's tone meant a thousand more explanations, ten thousand apologies, and had she been a normal woman of normal greed, a king's ransom in jewelry. He smiled then, despite his daunting prospect of penance, because her uncommon femaleness was what most attracted him.

  "You find this amusing," she heatedly whispered, incensed at his casual drollery, more incensed she'd almost succumbed to his equally casual seduction.

  "Hell, no," he whispered back, grinning.

  "I hate you and your degage debauchery."

  "I love you, anyway, chou chou, and when I get rid of Nadine, I'm coming looking for you."

  "Don't you dare," Daisy whispered, furious she'd given in so readily to his seduction, furious he felt he could so facilely reenter her life.

  "You're talking to the wrong person, darling," the Duc murmured, cheerfully looking forward even to penance, "about daring. Now turn around and I'll try to button up your dress in a hurry, because Nadine is going to break the door down soon and there's no way you can reach these buttons yourself. Hold on, Nadine," he shouted, "I'm changing my shirt."

  He slipped out the door several moments later with a blown kiss and a broad grin for Daisy, and a conciliatory smile for his hostess.

  "Damned if I didn't spill some wine on my shirt front," Daisy heard him mendaciously declare before the door closed completely on his back. "You missed me? How nice. Of course I was alone. The footmen must have seen someone else," he declared, his voice friendly, his hand on his hostess's arm, guiding her away down the hall, his eyes innocent to her speculative gaze. "Tell me about Oliver's ginseng." His grin was mischievous. "Does it really work?"

  As they reached the staircase, he exhaled a slow breath of relief over his companion's unsuspecting head. Running raking fingers through his hair, he inhaled in satisfaction and contentment unknown to him for over two months. "Damn nice party, Nadine," he commended. "My compliments on your organizing skills."

  Looking up at him as they descended the carved marble staircase, Nadine flirtatiously said, "I've other skills you may enjoy as well, Etienne."

  "So I've heard," Etienne blandly replied, evading her double entendre. "My daughter tells me you actually helped the architect design this building. I'm impressed."

  Nadine preened under the Duc's warm smile and decided he'd be equally impressed with some of her special talents in bed. "I'll give you a tour later," she said apropos both subjects.

  "Alva must be envious."

  "She will be."

  * * *

  Several groups of party guests, including the Braddock-Blacks, were standing near the entrance to the ballroom, and for a moment the Duc wondered if the footman had informed them of the identity of the lady accompanying him upstairs. But he wasn't challenged as he came into range, nor was he called out when Nadine approached the Braddock-Blacks. Like a hummingbird to nectar, Nadine gravitated naturally to handsome men, her seductress mentality intrinsically responsive to men like Hazard, Trey, and the Duc—prototypes for male beauty.

  "Hazard, darling, Trey my pet," she cooed, smiling her special smile reserved for stunning men. "You're looking wonderful," she purred, touching Hazard lightly on his chin with her fan. "And Blaze, sweetheart," she added with less ardent cordiality, "your Worth gown almost does justice to your diamonds. You have a generous husband. Why Empress, you lovely girl, how very Parisian you look tonight in that elegant cherry tulle. Do I detect Doucet's touch?"

  With Nadine's hand on his arm, they were greeted with not only civility but, surprisingly, Etienne thought, with a certain warmth. Empress of course was always friendly to him and Blaze was cordial as she'd been that afternoon. But the degree of geniality he received from the men was a staggering concept to absorb as he shook hands with Hazard and Trey. He looked at them closely, trying to understand the bewildering volte-face after the near lethal polo match that afternoon.

  Two years earlier, in Paris, he'd met Trey face-to-face, but never Hazard. Daisy's father was taller off his polo pony, his bronzed skin darker under the artificial lights, like Daisy's. And he wore his hair longer than his son's, in the fashion of his generation, giving him a regal air despite the uniformity of his evening dress.

 
"How's your hand?" Hazard asked, his expression unreadable, his voice contained but courteous.

  "I wouldn't mind if the play-off were postponed a day." Why was this man being pleasant to him?

  "Doesn't Daisy have something that would help the Duc's hand?" Blaze asked her husband.

  An almost infinitesimal glance passed from Hazard to his wife, briefly disconcerted and taut, but she smiled at him and he seemed to take a small breath before he said, "I'm sure she does. You should ask her," he suggested to Etienne, his dark eyes deliberate and watchful.

  So that was it, Etienne reflected. Daisy's father was operating under a degree of subtle coercion from his wife. "I will," the Duc said with a smile. "Next time I see her."

  Hazard's scowl was instant.

  "Tell me, Trey," Nadine interjected, uninterested in discussing Daisy, "can Oliver purchase that gorgeous paint pony you were riding the first period of the match this afternoon? He particularly asked me to inquire." Her gaze was unabashedly honeyed.

  Familiar with Nadine's coquetry, Trey replied with a pleasant smile, "Sorry, Jumma's a pet, but we've others Oliver can have. We brought thirty with us." Horse breeding was one of their profitable ventures, their polo ponies rivaling the best out of Argentina. In fact, in terms of stamina, a necessary asset in a polo mount, their plains ponies outperformed the Argentinian breeds.

  "You're at Rutherford's?" At his affirmative nod, Nadine said, "Tomorrow then… I'll be over. Say at one?" Nadine's father had been a trainer in the Kentucky horse country before his death, and her early years had been spent in the stables with him. She knew horseflesh as well as she knew male flesh. "Come with me, Etienne," she coaxed, her voice a husky intimate contralto.

  Empress and Blaze exchanged looks while Hazard searched the Duc's face for his reaction to Nadine's intimacy. Daisy might want him and Blaze could pressure him to a social courtesy, but if the man was casually accepting female favors, he'd find a way to change Daisy's mind.