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"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
russe
⁶
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 blasé 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.

"You
have
to taste this sauce, Etienne," Daisy said some few moments later after the servants had departed and after she'd tasted each of the marvels on the silver platter: the warm sweet succulent baba; the sugared grapes; the dainty delicate violets; the creme chantilly, and of course the Lunéville sauce
⁷
.

She was currently licking her finger, dipped for the third time into the luscious sauce.

"I'd love to; are you finished?" He had in fact, checked the tall case clock in the corner several times during Daisy's discourse with the chefs who'd delivered the baba. His peach was discarded, his wineglass set aside. Even a man of his patience had definable limits.

"Yes." She softly breathed, stretching. "Finally. Now try this." And rising from her chair, she leaned across the small table, offering the Duc her finger glazed with the baba sauce.

He held her hand for a moment before taking her finger into his mouth and Daisy felt for a brief rushing second as she had the first time she'd met the Duc de Vec—mesmerized by an urgency to touch him.

"You indulge me." Her quiet declaration ended on a hushed indrawn breath for his mouth had closed on her finger and his tongue slowly glided down its length.

"With enormous pleasure," he said in hushed reply, kissing the tip of her finger, "and occasionally with a certain degree of impatience," he added, releasing her hand.

"I did make you wait," she declared, pleased he wanted her enough for impatience.

"Oh yes." He leisurely rose and she saw stark evidence of his arousal, till then hidden. The scarlet brocade, tied at his waist with tasseled silk, stood prominently forward. "If you're finished," he said in a husky low tone, "now it's my turn for dessert."

The lazy contentment, the sybaritic pleasure of leisurely eating and drinking the exquisite food and wines, the proximity of Etienne's fascinated interest, the ambiance of Bernini's genius in architectural design, the boat whistles on the Seine outside, all contributed to a sensation of enchantment, enhanced now by a scorching blaze of sensual heat. As if she were the recipient of another thousand degrees of pleasure—as if she were being offered sensation beyond the refinements of human language to describe.