Forbidden (26 page)

The measured intensity of his single word brought Daisy's eyes to his face and following the direction of his gaze, she saw the focus of his attention. "I don't mind waiting outside," she said. "It's a lovely spring evening."

"I don't care to give Isabelle the satisfaction… if you don't mind," he added, cognizant his feelings might not be in harmony with his companions'. He detested Isabelle's maliciousness, but pride more than anger impelled him, overruling any more sensible impulse of avoidance.

"Her carriage may be called first," Adelaide said.

"She has a feral gleam in her eyes," Valentin casually noted, his grin engaging. "I may have to save you from assault… or she may set her man of God on you to condemn you to the fires of hell."

"The Monseigneur would do better to shrive his own conscience first. Word has it two more parlor maids in the Archbishop's residence are bearing his children."

"God will provide?" Valentin lazily drawled.

"I certainly hope so, since the Archbishop's so niggardly with
his
money. But then all the Montignys are. They find it difficult to part with wealth so painstakingly accumulated over centuries of methodically arranged marriages."

The de Chantel carriage was announced then and they moved as a group to the doors.

Would she actually make a scene? Adelaide wondered.

The bitch was sure to force Etienne's hand, Valentin thought, secure in his opinion of Isabelle, and he unconsciously moved closer to Etienne as though to protect him.

She wouldn't dare go beyond a scathing look in the full public glare of the crowded lobby, Daisy decided.

Before they reached the door, the Duc knew, he'd hear the soft venom of his wife's voice.

"She's so very…
dark
, Etienne. Not in your usual style." Isabelle's tone was carefully modulated to carry. "But then you always had a taste for the barbaric…"

An audible gasp from the surrounding throng vibrated under the glittering chandeliers, all eyes within a dozen yards focusing on the converging groups. Daisy felt Etienne's body go rigid for a brief moment, but his progress didn't slow nor did he indicate he'd heard his wife's remark until they came abreast of the Montigny group.

Etienne's arm around Daisy's shoulder tightened, the gentle pressure of his hand both protective and arresting. Taller than any other of the men, he looked down on them all with a hauteur not only of height but of disposition. Silently surveying the entourage of influential men surrounding Isabelle with a bland gaze, unrushed and deliberate, his eyes rested at last on his wife. "You're absolutely right, Madame le Duchesse, Miss Black is not in my usual style. And for that I consider myself blessed." He deliberately used the spiritual word in defiance of the Montigny religiosity. Then turning to Daisy, who stood with the reserve of her people, silent and composed at his side, he said, "Accept my apologies,
mon chou
, for my wife's boorish behavior. You must ignore such uncultivated rudeness."

The whispers, the hissing titillated cadence of spellbound excitement broke out instantly. Wide-eyed, fascinated, with lorgnettes raised, kid-gloved hands to mouth, and a goodly number of surreptitious male smiles, the well-dressed throng took in the delectable scene: Did you hear that? Did you hear him? I can't believe it with the Archbishop at her side. De Vec wouldn't care if God himself stood beside her. De Vec's little amorata is beautiful isn't she? And young, her skin's like satin. She
is
exotically dark. Look at Isabelle's eyes—that's fire. Will Charles call him out? The Archbishop's sputtering, first time I've seen him at a loss for words…

"Valentin."

The Duc's tone was extremely soft, but the single word was a directive. Taking his arm from Daisy's shoulder, he bent his head in solicitous intimacy, as if they stood alone, rather than in the eye of the storm. "I'll be out in a moment," he murmured. "Go with Valentin."

Without waiting for an answer, knowing Valentin would see the ladies outside, he turned back to his wife and her entourage. With exquisite control, he softly said, "Don't take me on in public, Isabelle. Just a friendly warning. Charles, shut your mouth. You look like a hungry frog." His half-lidded glance idly swept the assembled magistrates. "I hope we all understand each other. It would save me the trouble of calling each of you out." The ensuing silence indicated every challenged man was fully aware of the Duc's skill with a dueling pistol. He'd killed two men over a lesser insult one morning in his youth—cool, composed, and not entirely sober. Directly afterward he'd returned to the lady's bed he'd left a brief hour before. With maturity he'd become less impulsive—blooding was enough now in a duel… but one never knew with de Vec's temper.

His chill green eyes scanned the men briefly—waiting.

After a small silence, he inclined his head in the merest suggestion of a bow. "Good evening then," he murmured and walked away.

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."