Susan Johnson - Forbidden 2432u

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FORBIDDEN By

Susan Johnson "SUSAN JOHNSON'S LOVE SCENES SPARKLE, SIZZLE AND BURN!" —Affaire de Coeur

From the majestic plains of Montana to the glittering ballrooms and bedchambers of 1890s Paris comes a sensual story of smoldering ion, and a love destined to break every rule…

FORBIDDEN

He was raised in the gilded lap of luxury. Etienne Martel. the magnificently virile Duc de Vec, notorious rake, expert sportsman—and the most celebrated lover in all of Paris. But from the moment he saw the incomparable Daisy Black, he knew he would never desire another.

FORBIDDEN

She was born half a world away: Daisy Black, a proud Montana beauty, exotic and untamed—and determined to fight for the rights of women in a land ruled by men. Yet the instant she felt the heat of de Vec's jungle-green gaze, she knew she was lost. Like some haunting promise of paradise he drew her in, fanning the names of her desire until all she could think of was lying in his arms.

FORBIDDEN

Now, caught up in a dance as old as time, Etienne and Daisy have eyes only for each other. But soon, they'll find their happiness threatened… by a society rocked by their scandalous love… by the woman Etienne calls wife.

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LOVE STORM PURE SIN SEIZED BY LOVE OUTLAW SILVER FLAME SINFUL BLAZE FORBIDDEN

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"I don't want you to touch me, Etienne," Daisy said in a small, breathless voice. "I want to forget you and last night, I want to go back to Montana and continue forgetting you, I want to find someone else," she went on with new heat in her voice, "who doesn't have a wife, someone who lives where I live and cares about my people. Someone—" He'd moved with predatory speed when she mentioned finding someone else, convulsed with unspeakable jealousy, and his mouth stopped her flood of words, covering hers with a punishing kiss of possession and fury. He pulled her tightly into his body. "You're lying," he murmured, his mouth lifting from hers for a brief moment. "Tell me other men can make you tremble, tell me other men can make you breathless, tell me damn you, because I haven't slept a peaceful night in weeks and I want to hear the truth." Daisy wasn't cold anymore, her clothes were beginning to warm from the heat of her skin, from the heat of Etienne's body pressed hard against hers. And what was truth was coiling in the pit of her stomach, flame hot and spreading with every pulse beat. "You know already," she quietly exploded, "but here's the truth if you want me to say it. I want to make love to you. I want you to make love to me. I want us to make love to each other. Is that clear enough?"

Forbidden Books by Susan Johnson

Love Storm Pure Sin Seized by Love Blaze Silver Flame Forbidden

Sinful Outlaw

SUSAN

JOHNSON

Forbidden

BANTAM BOOKS NEW YORK • TORONTO • LONDON • SYDNEY • AUCKLAND FORBIDDEN A Bantam Book / September 1991 All rights reserved.

Copyright © 1991 by Susan Johnson. Cover art copyright © 1991 by Marc Wit:. Insert art copyright © 1991 by Ken Otsuka.

ISBN 0-553-29125-4

Published simultaneously in the United States and Canada

Bantam Books are published by Bantam Books, a division of Bantam Doubleday Dell Publishing Group. Inc. Its trademark, consisting of the words "Bantam Books" and the portrayal of a rooster, is ed in U.S. Patent and Trademark Office and in other countries. Marco Registrada. Bantam Books. 1540 Broadway. New York. New York 10036.

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To Hazard And his children, Who walked in both worlds With One Spirit…

Forbidden

Paris, May 1891

The knock on the door was insistent and sharp. Violating the hushed heated quiet of the room… Disturbing the placid ambiance of golden morning sunlight flooding through the open balcony doors… Breaking the Duc de Vec's concentration. His long dark hair swung in a silken ripple as his head turned momentarily toward the sound. A pulsebeat ed before his mind was sufficiently distracted from the carnal urgency on which it was currently focused. With full awareness came decision. He ignored the knock, the driving motion of his lower body and the whimpering cries of the flame-hot woman beneath him more compelling. "I'm dying, Etienne…" The female voice was a whisper of sound trailing away at the end into a low moan of pleasure, her small hands at the base of his spine exerting a fierce imioned pressure, encouraging each downthrust, restraining the extent of his withdrawal. He broke her grip with a small movement of his powerful thighs. "I'll make it better," he murmured, Isme's selfishness too shortsighted for her to realize with more leverage he could add enchanting dimension to her "dying." Withdrawing until he almost left her sleek hot age, he waited a tantalizing millisecond before filling her again. Just short of the extreme, pleasurable limit Isme was waiting for with trembling need, the second urgent rapping on the door resounded in a familiar, prearranged rhythm and Etienne groaned.

"You're… not… leaving." The aroused woman in his arms voiced her objection in breathless throaty remonstrance, her hands gripping him again, the fire between her thighs voracious, her hips rising, reaching for the ravishing delight he offered… so… agonizingly close. His blatantly rigid manhood swelled further, as though quickened by the second knock on the door and the need for haste, or by the pressing need of the importuning female sweetness rising to take him in more completely, more deeply… He shifted a little to allow better purchase for his legs, experienced a provocative stirring friction against the honeyed silkiness holding him tight, and with his own urgent hunger overwhelming prudent consideration of other commitments, murmured in a husky rasp, "It's all yours, darling…" Holding her naked scented shoulders lightly so she couldn't move, he slid forward that small critical distance she wished and he wished and made the world disappear for a delirious, pulsing moment. Since the Duc de Vec hadn't tripled the thousand-year-old de Vec fortune on imprudence and degage disregard for practicalities, when the first drenching rush of sensation diminished marginally, he found himself swiftly glancing at the small jeweled bedside clock. Damn, his valet Louis's timing could have been better. And his business manager Legere's nerve could stand some bolstering. The action on the Bourse wouldn't peak for perhaps another ten or fifteen minutes, experience and a gambler's instinct affirmed, allowing him a few moments more to indulge his heated libido. Luckily so, for his attention was riveted by the imioned woman clinging to him with such feverish strength. Isme's silken thighs were slick with sweat, favoring a vel-vety ease of penetration, and he felt the small silver rin-no-tama bell in her vagina again as his downstroke sank in deeply, her small suffocated scream one of pleasure, her arousal so intense, her pale flesh was suffused rosy pink. She'd taken instantly to the Japanese equivalent of "Burmese bells" when he'd introduced her to the uniquely erotic sensation some months ago and he smiled as she breathed in sighing ecstasy, "Oh God…" Not exactly, he facetiously thought, but he too was nearing a carnal state of deliverance and this time—the clock and Louis's rapping signal reminding him of responsibilities—better be his final climax of the morning. Feeling Isme's first tiny convulsions along the sensitive pulsing of his engorged veins, he met the orgasmic Comtesse Guimond with his own carnal paroxysm, pouring into the hot moist interior of the voluptuous woman, arching his back against the explosive delirium of pleasure. The dark bronze of his muscular body was sheened in perspiration, his hair damp on his temples and neck, his powerful chest rising and falling, trying to restore air to his lungs. Isme's breathing echoed his own and they lay in warm proximity, overcome and quenched and breathless. When she lifted her pink lips to him some moments later, normalcy having returned to their pulsebeats, he kissed her in obliging gratitude. "Thank you for riding with me this morning," he murmured, his breath warm against the softness of her mouth. Raising his head, he smiled down at her, the stark beauty of his face framed in the dark silk of his hair, his grin as provocatively scandalous as his reputation. "I wouldn't rise that early for anyone else…" Isme breathed, sated and purring, her heavily lashed lavender eyes half lidded in languorous contentment. "… or go to the trouble of dressing at dawn."

"And then undressing," the Duc softly declared, his smile wolfish. "I'm indebted then to your… exceptional interest." His voice was a teasing murmur, and while he genuinely appreciated her unusual effort, unfortunately, he concluded with an inward pragmatic sigh, the Bourse wouldn't wait any longer. Much as he enjoyed the Comtesse's hot-blooded ion, with his railroad stocks in imminent jeopardy, he had to be out of bed, dressed, and tending to business in under five minutes. Propping his weight on one elbow, he swept his hair behind his ears in a swift practiced gesture while his gaze shifted to the bedside clock once more. Would Bouchart call? His dark winged brows formed into a mild frown. "Am I keeping you?" Isme's lovely eyes narrowed slightly. Paris's current reigning beauty was only familiar with adoration. "I'm afraid I'm late for the office. Legere is about to have an apoplexy over the trading frenzy on the Bourse." The Duc de Vec smiled again, the flash of his teeth startling white in the dark tan of his face. Withdrawing from the warmth of her body, he kissed her on the rosy sheen of her cheek. "I'm sorry, darling… Louis is going to be knocking again in just a moment." Half sitting up, he leaned back on his elbows, his firm, toned torso muscles rigidly defined in his casual reclining posture, a sense of restlessness minutely evident, his vivid green eyes shuttered against the legitimate haste impelling him. "Tell him to go away. I want you to make love to me again… in the way I like best… the Phoenix sporting in the… Sin…" "Cinnabar Cleft," he helpfully added. "That way." Etienne had become an expert of sorts on the Taoist classics dealing with the art of the bedchamber while on an anthropological expedition in Asia years ago, and Isme had been enchanted with his repertoire—as had a good number of other women in his past. "I dreamt of you last night," she went on, "and of our outing on your sailboat last week. I couldn't sleep thinking of the enormous size of your…" Looking down at his erection, still remarkably roused despite the past hours they'd played at love, her gaze came up to meet his. She smiled, an anticipatory smile, tempting as Eve, undaunted by his commitments. "You must stay," she softly insisted with pampered self-indulgent purpose. "Louis will wait, Legere certainly can wait." A business manager was substantially less important in the hierarchy of staff. One's comfort depended on one's personal servant, after all. But they all could wait. Isme was very lush, Etienne thought, a magnificent golden blonde bounty of female seduction. Unfortunately, she was also spoiled in that arrested adolescent way of most aristocratic females he knew who thought only of themselves… raised in a society that expected them to be merely ornaments and pleasure objects. And she was, indeed. Very lush. Very ornamental. Extremely pleasurable. "I wish I could," he quietly replied. And if Germain Frères hadn't started buying up stock yesterday, artificially raising the price of new issues of southern railway bonds, he would have gladly indulged her and himself in the bargain. But Germain Frères would be disposing of their purchases very soon. He intended to sell at that precise peak moment before… realizing enough profit, if all went well, to buy controlling interest in the new railway line to Caen.

"Stay with me, Etienne. Entertain me." Her breathy tone was an invitation—practiced and potent and rarely ineffective. "I'd love to, Isme… some other time." When it won't cost me fifty million francs, he politely refrained from adding. Kicking aside a tangle of white linen sheet, he slid his legs over the side of his bed, and rose in swift muscular grace. "I shall pout if you go," she declared, lying in curvaceous splendor in the shambles of his bed, her pale skin glowing from her exertions and arousal, the nipples on her heavy breasts peaked in seeming expectancy. "And make you pay…" she petulantly declared, watching him walk away from her across the dark green silk of his carpet. "And you should cut your hair, Etienne," she pettishly went on in the tone of an aggrieved wife. "You look like an Arab brigand." Glancing back at her from the threshold of his dressing room, her wifely tone struck a chill down his spine. At age thirty-nine, if he'd wanted his hair cut shorter, he wouldn't be wearing it long. Taking in the flushed pink and white loveliness of a woman known for her beauty and prowess in bed, he gently said, "Don't pout, darling. I detest pouting women." "And I detest talk of business." Isme's voice was acerbic as she pushed herself up on one elbow, her beauty marred by the scowl on her face. "How incredibly boring you sound, Etienne. The Bourse will still be there in an hour or two." "I'm sorry I bore you." The Duc de Vec didn't take personal offense at Isme's remark. He only found it typical of her style of female. Too typical, too predictable also, and perhaps at base, like her estimation of his interest in the Bourse… boring. With one hand on the polished gold handle of his dressing room door, he urbanely offered what conventionally mitigated unhappy scowls on the faces of women acquaintances. "Let me buy you a trinket at Chaumet's. Pick out something for yourself on your way home. In payment, as you put it," he added with a lazy smile, "for my boorish leaving of you." "I shall be terribly expensive, darling." Her small moue hinted at a tantrum. "And I shan't come over for a week, to teach you a lesson." "I'm devastated." His grin was less than devastated. It was, instead, wicked and sinfully attractive. "Damn you, Etienne!" The Comtesse was sitting up in bed now, glowering at the tall powerfully built nude man about to exit the room. "Are you really leaving?" The Duc inhaled marginally as the mantle clock chimed the hour and on a soft exhalation, said, "Really." Reacting with the volatile temperament for which she was famous, Isme leaned over, snatched up a small porphyry bust of Cleopatra Etienne kept on his bedside table, and, raising it high above her tousled blonde head, gave every indication of using him as a target. At the moment the missile left her hand, he slipped into his dressing room, slamming the door a fractional second before impact. With explosive violence, the small porphyry sculpture smashed into the cherry wood ing, disaster evident in the brittle sound of fragments skidding down the door. The Duc winced inwardly at his loss. "The Comtesse is unhappy?" Louis's calm, restrained voice suggested a familiarity with female theatrics in his master's apartment.

"Apparently," Etienne said dryly, wondering if Roussel could find him a replacement for his favorite Cleopatra. He'd had the elegant sculpture since adolescence, charmed by the Egyptian Queen's exotic beauty as well as the poignancy of her losing struggle against Rome. Shaking away sentimental reverie a second later, in light of the brutal reality facing him at the Bourse, he briskly asked, "How high has the stock gone?" Isme was dismissed for more important matters having to do with fifty million francs of his money. "At Legere's last call a minute ago, the price had risen to 220 francs," Louis answered. "I was about to interrupt you, regardless of the state of your er… activities. Legere is wild." "Tell him to wait another forty points, then sell. Tell him, also, I'll be dressed and down to the trading floor in fifteen minutes." In regard to his last statement, the Duc locked the door behind him to avoid any temperamental interruptions in his very tight schedule. Turning back around, he continued, "Have Guillaume ready out front. He is?" The Duc's grin was warm and gracious. "What would I do without you. The Comtesse will need a carriage brought round too." At Louis's faint smile, Etienne said with amusement, "I suppose her mount has been seen to as well." Another answering nod. "Need I ask that a lady's maid be sent up to her?" "I think she prefers Augustine, Your Grace, which might for the current state of calm in your bedroom." "In your efficiency, Louis," the Duc said in teasing response, "why couldn't you take care of my Bourse trading as well and I wouldn't have had to lose my Cleopatra." "I was tempted to, but you know Legere… a martinet for protocol. And your orders were specific, sir. I was to see you were up again and dressed by ten. But forgive me for interfering in the Countess's morning—er—visit," he apologized. Etienne shrugged and smiled, conscious of the overriding urgency of a railway acquisition over Isme's lush body. Well, at least intellectually conscious. Isme did have considerable ingenuity in the art of inflaming a man's senses, although he was becoming impatient with her pouting demands. Today was simply another instance of her intruding into his private life without invitation. She'd surprised him by appearing in the Bois de Boulogne that morning as he rode with his son and friends in their customary fashion. Although not adverse to Isme's exquisite brand of sensuality, he preferred taking the initiative with women; he disliked being pressed. He particularly disliked intimations of permanence in a relationship—those initial small demands on his time, the possessive tones of censure, the inevitable claims of exclusivity. As heiress to estates in the Département du Nord, which happened to incorporate the largest coal reserves in , Isme was familiar with having her wishes fulfilled. He didn't relish becoming the object of those wishes beyond a certain casual dalliance. And if she desired more than their unrestrained relationship of the past months, he did not. "When the Comtesse calls again, Louis," the Duc said in swift decision based on notorious experience, "I'm not at home." "For how long, sir?" "For the foreseeable future, Louis. Have the Chigi Cassétta she ired at Roussel's—the one painted by Raphael—sent to her with my compliments."

"Yes, sir." "Put a necklace of those pink diamonds Chaumet delivered last week in the Cassétta with one of my cards." "Very good, sir." Louis's response was without a shade of expression. The Duc meant, of course, the cards signed for anonymous recipients in advance: Affectionately, Etienne. Since Roussel had proudly pointed out at a private snowing for the Duc last week that the Renaissance cassétta was one of a kind, Raphael had designed for his patron, the Sienese financier, Agostina Chigi, the lavishness of the Duc de Vec's gift indicated a definite conclusion to his affair with the Comtesse. The Duc's green gaze contemplated the sunshine-bright morning visible beyond the bank of windows illuminating his dressing room. "The sun came out," he mildly said, as if disposing of a mistress in a significantly expensive fashion was as prosaic an occurrence as his comment on the weather. "Yes, sir, about an hour ago." He hadn't noticed, preoccupied as he was with profligate sensation. "The ground should be drying out then." Walking the few steps over to the gold-footed tub ensconced on a museum-quality Shiraz carpet in the center of the room, he turned the taps wide open. Straightening, he asked, "Has Valentin called?" "Twice, sir. I told him you were still… busy." The Duc smiled. "Don't forget the pink diamonds now." Over the past weeks, Isme had given him considerable pleasure. Louis showed the smallest affront at the reminder. "Sorry." Etienne softly apologized for his gaffe. Louis was and always had been the epitome of efficiency. "Has Mr. Bouchart called yet?" "No, sir." Etienne frowned slightly. Bouchart was to have called at half-past nine with news of Germain Frères's selling price. Another brief look at the clock—five after ten—a deepening of the Duc's frown, then a shrug. The man Bouchart had been a curiosity from his first mysterious —perhaps some chicanery instituted by Germain, a ringer meant to delude or deceive, an unknown in any event, untrustworthy at best. He'd have Legere sell at 260, as previously indicated. About to send Louis off to see to Legere, the words half formed in his mind, he was about to speak when the phone rang. A feeling of exhilaration similar to that he experienced when winning extravagantly at Monte Carlo immediately seized him. He knew who it was, just as he knew before the dealer dealt him a card in baccarat he had a winning number. "I'll take it," the Duc crisply said. Reaching the phone set on a small table near the windows in three rapid strides, he answered, "de Vec here." His deep voice was softly muted, as if he knew Bouchart calling late was nervous and high-strung, needing to be steadied. Standing with the light from the window limning his broad-shouldered frame, his dark hair touched with iridescence, he spoke softly into the receiver. "Yes. Yes. No, that won't be necessary. Tomorrow? Yes.

Thank you." He didn't move; even his breathing seemed in abeyance as he briefly acknowledged the information being given him. "They're selling at 275," he said, setting the receiver back into the cradle delicately, his fine nostrils flaring in a deep, satisfying inhalation of air. Experience and instinct were essential in dealing with the market, but it never hurt to have a disgruntled employee in your camp. He hadn't known if he could trust Bouchart; he still didn't completely. But… The Duc's mouth curved into a grin. "Tell Legere to wait until 273 before selling," he instructed, moving over to the tub and stepping into the rising water. Sitting down, he stretched out his long legs and lay back against the cool marble. "Mr. Bouchart will be round to the apartment here tomorrow for his fee." Submerging briefly, he came up out of the warm water, sleekly wet and smiling. "Set poor Legere's mind at ease now, Louis," he suggested, reaching for the unscented soap he preferred. "I'll dress myself." Within the hour, the Duc de Vec had gained control of his newest railroad line. He'd also divested himself—with a suitably memorable gift—from his latest paramour—a not unfamiliar circumstance in the life and times of Etienne Martel. After lunch at his club, he was being driven now at a leisurely pace to one of the nearer Parisian suburbs to play his daily polo match. The dulcet spring air drifting in through the open windows of his carriage matched the tranquility of his disposition. He was in extremely fine spirits.

Half a world away a scant day later, Daisy Black, ayoung Absarokee woman and one of only fifty female lawyers in America,1 stood in a courtroom in Helena, Montana, her expression composed, thinking for the countless thousandth time since trying this case before Judge Nott how the world would be a better place if he could be put out of his miserable ignorance and shot. It was not a facetious thought.

Although two years ago Montana law had permitted women attorneys to practice in the state, Judge Ryan Nott, personally opposed to the new statute, had convened this trial by looking Daisy over with disapproval and saying, "Miss, what are you doing in my courtroom?"2 When Daisy had attempted to answer, Nott had sharply cut her off: "Miss Black, if you dare speak, I shall hold you in contempt." Webster Drake, the opposing counsel, had had the grace to swiftly rise and intervene, pointing out the substance of the law as well as Daisy's substantial experience in court. Even then, overlooking Daisy's formidable record of successes in the courtroom, Judge Nott had discourteously suggested Braddock-Black Ltd. would be better served by a "capable" lawyer. Red-faced and frustrated he couldn't legally eject her from his court, he'd insisted on presenting his views on women in an inflammatory, avowedly antifeminist, tirade. "We cannot but think," he'd expostulated, ignoring the intent of the state law as incidental to his personal attitude, "the common law wise in excluding women from the profession of law. The law of nature destines and qualifies the female sex for the bearing and nurture of the children of our race" (at which point, his disapproval of Daisy's race was openly evident in his bitter, piercing gaze) "and for the custody of the homes of the world, and their maintenance in love and honor. And all lifelong calling of women…" His voice was beginning to thunder, his jowls quivering in sympathy. "… inconsistent with these social duties of their sex, as-is-the-profession-of-law…" A hint of purple tinged his cheeks, so rabid were his emotions. "… are departures from the order of nature, and when voluntary, treason against it!"3 From that unpropitious beginning, his obstructive motives had never wavered. Throughout the course of the trial, Daisy had been reprimanded unnecessarily, spoken to with indifference or discourtesy, ignored and overruled countless times—an effort in futility, since the presentation of her witnesses and cross examination were brilliantly effective in citing the illegalities of Hanna Mining's incursions into Braddock-Black copper deposits. Regardless of Judge Nott's prejudices, the jury was being offered her evidence with skillful adept coolness. Daisy Black rarely showed her temper in court or otherwise. She'd accomplished the rare feat of sisterhood in a select minority of women lawyers in America by hard work and willful control of her emotions. Unlike whitemen, who were often viewed as emotional, loud, and rude, her Absarokee heritage nurtured restraint and courtesy. And she conducted herself with a composure and self-possession that had earned her the sobriquet "Iron-pants." Furiously provoked by the judge's last comment, her brother Trey was on his feet, leaning forward belligerently across the table reserved for Braddock-Black personnel, looking as though he were about to leap over the littered tabletop. His silver eyes were hot with anger, the set of his spine rigid, and only their father's hand on his sleeve restrained him. "Whether I'm married or not, Judge Nott," Daisy was reply-ing with equanimity to the judge's rude allusion she was single because she lacked the gentler graces of her sex, "has nothing to do with the intelligent presentation of this case or the fact that my speciality in mining law will make it difficult for Hanna Mining to profit by taking ore from Braddock-Black Limited. And as far as the gentler graces of my sex, I've seen too many married women of Montana ploughing and planting and driving wagon teams to consider languid femininity and delicate tea ceremonies a requisite for marriage." The jury guffawed, Trey sat back down with a smile on his face, and Hazard Black, father to the outspoken woman putting Judge Nott in his place, murmured to his son and the two other Braddock-Black lawyers seated at their table, "Nott just lost his appointment to the federal court." Hazard Black's enormous wealth made him a potent political force in Montana despite his Indian

heritage. Judge Nott had seriously erred in insulting his daughter. Although born into a warrior culture and trained in warfare as a young man, in the decades since the whiteman had moved into Montana, Hazard Black had learned to deal with his enemies in a manner commensurate with the law. Fortunately, frontier justice was often not only moot, but informal and swiftly dispensed in a sparsely settled state where the nearest authorities were hours or days away. But-regardless of the whiteman's idiosyncrasies and restrictions imposed on the traditional modes of Absarokee justice, Hazard Black always paid his debts. Which point Daisy took issue with on the way back to the office later that afternoon, after court had been recessed for the day. "Just a friendly warning, Father. I don't need any vengeful retaliation for the judge's allusion to my being single. It was uncalled-for and more personal than his other forms of rudeness, but he's a simpleminded bigot I can handle myself." Daisy spoke in a moderate tone, as though she weren't warning off her father from some resolute masculine sense of affront. She understood the Absarokee operating rules on vengeance as well as he. The spring sun was no more warmly benevolent than Hazard's smile as he walked beside his daughter. "You did extremely well, dear. You don't need me to protect you from Nott's stupidity," her father replied, not inclined to argue his masculine code of ethics. Pleased her father seemed so amenable, Daisy politely reminded him she was no novice in dealing with male prejudice. "He's not the first," she went on, "to oppose women practicing law or advocate that a 'woman's place is in the home.'" "Or in a plush bordello like Ruby's," Trey sardonically added, his mouth curving into a grin. Keeping leisurely pace beside Daisy, he glanced down at his sister with amusement in his eyes. "Nott spends a lot of time there, insuring," he mockingly went on, "the double standard is alive and well." He'll have more time to spend there in the future, Hazard coolly thought—if he can afford it when he loses his appointment. Regardless of his affable reply to his daughter, Hazard intended to see Nott suffer for his rudeness. Hazard had spent a lifetime fighting for his clan's existence and a degree of equality in an unequal society. Luckily wealth proved effective in the fluid nature of American culture and the degree of that fluidity was markedly more unhindered in the West. Men who were penniless one day could be millionaires the next in the mineral-rich West and an individual's past was never scrutinized too closely. It wasn't healthy in a state that still settled a great deal of controversy with gunshot justice. "Actually, I was surprised he was stupid enough to take you on," Trey said to his father. "Perhaps he feels confident with Wainwright's ." The white ribbons trailing down the back of Daisy's straw boater fluttered from left to right as her head swiveled from her father to her brother—both tall, powerful men of action. "I don't want anyone taking on anyone over Nott's rudeness." Her classic chin came up in rebellious defiance. "I don't have to be defended. In a way, your interference is as gender-prejudicial as Nott's allusions to 'women's role.' I don't need male protection." His protection wasn't gender-based. Hazard protected any in his clan regardless of sex, but itting that might give notice of his intentions, so he said instead, "I was speaking in general . You know Nott's expecting a federal appointment with from Wainwright's money."

"While you and Wainwright are mortal enemies over grazing land." Daisy's voice was without inflection. "Nothing so melodramatic. I just don't like him taking down our fences and killing our horses." Hazard's voice, like his daughter's, was mild.4 More mild, Trey thought, than it had been a month ago when he and his father had stood toe-to-toe with Wainwright and his men up near Cottonwood Creek, Hazard's rifle barrel pressed into Wainwright's paunchy stomach. "Take another step on my land." Hazard had said then, his voice cold as the grave, his dark eyes ablaze with fury, "and you've solved my problem." Both Hazard and Trey could outshoot any man in the territory—a well-known fact—which allowed them the leverage they needed, along with Wainwright's quaking, ashen-faced fear, to see Wainwright's score of hired hands ride away. They'd taken Wainwright with them for a mile or so before releasing him, the Absarokee rules of warfare and taking coup precluding them from killing him in cold blood. "A damn impediment at times," Hazard had muttered afterward with a grin, "having been raised with honor." "Wainwright seems to have reconsidered lately," Trey declared, soft-spoken as a choirboy, his pale eyes gazing down at Daisy, as innocent. "He hasn't touched any of our fences in a month." "The injunction worked, then," said Daisy, an advocate of legal remedies for settling disputes. "At least as a first step." "It looks as though it may have," Hazard politely replied. Along with a lethal threat to his life, Trey refrained from adding. "Hanna Mining is going to lose too," Daisy said, her thoroughness in presenting proof of each incursion into Braddock-Black mining territory impossible to defend against. "The judgment against them should be considerable. I'm guessing well get our full five million." Daisy was in good spirits regardless of Judge Nott's resentment of her presence in his courtroom. She'd met with enmity before. It only served to toughen her up and improve her edge. Preparation of a case and competence in court were the only two qualities needed to win. Well… advocacy too, and she believed in their litigation. The jury was well-selected and fair, their claims were legitimate, and Hanna Mining had been bluffing from day one. Tomorrow, she'd begin her summation. "I don't expect the jury to deliberate more than a few hours. Where do you want the check mailed?" Her cheerful smile was as confident as her voice.

When Daisy Black walked into her office overlooking the Montana Club facade a few minutes later, she came to a sudden stop just inside the threshold, mild surprise evident in the partial lift of her brows. Lounging on her black leather couch was Martin Soderberg, his long legs sprawled out before him, one arm loosely disposed on the tufted curve of the sofa back, his sandy hair tousled as though he'd ridden through a windstorm, his range-clothes in contrast, newly pressed. "What do you want?" she asked of the man she'd once considered marrying, before he'd precipitously married someone else two weeks ago. "I want to be friends." She paused for a moment, considering the complexities. "Fine," she said, civil and collected. '"We're

friends." "You shafted Ryan nicely today in court." "Thank you. I didn't see you there." "I came in late, just prior," he said with a boyish grin she'd always considered his best feature, "to your pointed remarks on marriage in Montana." "Give my regards to Sally, by the way," Daisy said. "She must be pleased." "I will and yes, she is," he replied with honesty. They both knew Sally Newcomb was plain enough she would have married anyone. Instead her father had captured Helena's handsome young sheriff for her for the price of the Treasurer's office. "I'm assuming this isn't purely a social call," Daisy said, removing her straw hat, advancing into the large sunny room. Martin must be looking for political , mending fences prior to the fall campaign, she thought, placing her ribbon-bedecked hat on a polished tabletop. While Sally's father could promise him the Treasurer's office, nothing was entirely guaranteed in the rough-and-tumble world of Montana politics. Moving for the first time since she'd entered the office, Martin slid upward off the base of his spine, straightened his long lean frame into a sitting position, and looked down at his worn boots for a moment in what may or may not have been awkward ingenuousness. Martin was a political animal, however, which fact, Daisy thought, generally precluded ingenuousness. Raising his gaze to Daisy's, he quietly said, "No, not purely social. You're looking as beautiful as ever, Daisy," he added with straightforward simplicity. "Even in those clothes." His smile was lazy and warm. Daisy's clothes—tailored black silk suit and white high-necked blouse—were devoid of ornament or color save for the brilliant sparkle of an elaborate topaz brooch pinned at her throat. "I thought about wearing something more suitable for my 'gentler sex,'" she answered with a smile. "Red satin, perhaps, like the young girl Nott patronizes at Ruby's. But I didn't know how that would play to the jury." "Extremely well, I'd say." Martin's low voice held suggestive memory beneath the light teasing. She didn't want to be reminded of their common memories now that he was married; she preferred finding out what he wanted without lengthy preamble or any allusions to intimacies they'd shared in the past. "It's a thought," she casually said, her smile polite. Sitting down across from him in a comfortable Morris chair, she gestured to the liquor table under the window. "Help yourself. Or I could have coffee brought in." The courtesies attended to, she softly declared, "And tell me what you need." "I'll take a bourbon if you don't mind," Martin replied, rising from the soft-cushioned couch to pour himself a generous portion. "Is it too early for you?" He knew she didn't drink at the office. His nervousness showed. Perhaps she could have made it easier for him. If she wasn't beginning to feel the fatigue that always struck her after the adrenalin-induced energy necessary for court had begun to fade, she might have felt impelled to utter the polite preliminary phrases. Instead she spoke into the small silence after Martin sat down again, direct and to the point. "I don't bear you any grudge, Martin. My father and brothers will endorse your nomination. They might have reconsidered had I indicated I wished it, but I don't. You have my best wishes and my family's ."

Relief literally washed over the tanned, blue-eyed face opposite her. The rigidity of Martin's posture relaxed, the tenseness evident in his grip on the bourbon glass loosened, diminishing the whiteness around his knuckles. "You never seemed really interested," he softly said, his gaze holding hers, familiar, intimate, replete with memory, "or I would have waited." The clarity of his remark struck her as uncomfortably true for a moment before she reminded herself of the pragmatic nature of Martin's marriage. "You're probably right," she diplomatically said, shaking away the shiver of remembrance, aware of the futility of arguing a lost cause. "And it certainly won't hurt to have a friend in the Treasurer's office." His smile was genuine and cordial, his long-fingered hands stroking the heavy tumbler in comfortable rhythm as he leaned back against the black leather, at ease once again. "Come over for dinner soon. No other woman understands politics as well as you. My campaign could use you, Daisy. If you'd take the job, although I know what your commitments are, I'd ask you to be my campaign chair. Think about it. Don't say no immediately. We could arrange a schedule you could live with." Daisy smiled at his enthusiasm. Political discussions had always been their closest bond. She wasn't unkind enough to mention his wife had warned her off in picturesque language that left no room for ambiguous interpretation. "He's wearing my brand now and off-limits," she'd bluntly said. Sally Newcomb knew she was having a bridegroom purchased for her and she was just enough of a spoiled bitch to think she could assure his fidelity as well. Although Daisy wasn't so certain Martin had sold his fidelity when he signed over his name to Sally. Certainly he hadn't wasted any time repairing his friendship with her, and if his political future required amicable gestures to other women less principled, she suspected Sally would have competition. "As you know," Daisy replied, glad she had a legitimate, known excuse for refusing, "we're opening a new mine so I'm neck-deep in work. But thanks for the offer." She and Martin had been good friends, more than friends at times, and despite Sally's vivid characterization of her territorial prerogatives, they'd continue to be friends. Martin had an earnest boyishness she'd always found refreshing. "And tell Sally I'd love to come for dinner," she added, her smile innocent. "Excuse me. I didn't know you had company." The deliberate invasive tone didn't suit the courtesy of the sentence. Two glances swiveled to see Trey standing in the doorway, his pale silvery eyes trained on Martin. Still formally suited for business in navy worsted, yet he conveyed menace and aggression as though he wore beaded leather and held a warlance in his hand. "Sorry," Trey quietly added in a consciously much-delayed afterthought, his voice neither polite nor apologetic. Was Martin a welcome or unwelcome guest in Daisy's office? "Martin was just leaving," Daisy said, which didn't answer his question but effectively removed the object of his query in any event. "I told him he could count on our in his election campaign." Taking his cue from hers, Trey smiled. Any need for chivalrous protection was apparently uncalled for. Daisy and Martin were reconciled and friends from the look of things. "Whatever we can do, Martin, just let us know," Trey offered, acknowledging Daisy's promise of aid. "Although Daisy's better at strategy than anyone else in our organization."

Having been politely dismissed, Martin drained his glass and set it down. "I was just trying to talk Daisy into taking on the position of campaign manager for me," he said, rising to his feet, his worn boots in stark contrast to the sumptuous carpet. Relaxing against the soft cushion of her chairback, Daisy smiled up at the two tall men. "And I told Martin I'm scheduled for the next five years… or is it ten?" One dark brow lifted ironically. "Maybe Judge Nott's right. Pouring tea and playing the pianoforte would be considerably more relaxing." "Since you fortunately don't have to consider ploughing the north-forty," Trey waggishly reminded her. Walking the small distance to her desk, he dropped into her chair and comfortably propped his booted feet on her immaculate desktop. For the right man perhaps she would, Daisy realized in a rebellious inward reply. The revelation was startling. Which might explain why Martin's sudden marriage hadn't wounded her very deeply. Her smile was automatic, concealing the intemperate direction of her thoughts—Absarokee culture abjured farming. "Give my regards to Sally," she heard herself saying, her words instinctive and mechanical. Martin's hand gripping hers was warm, as she ed. They both smiled. Waving from across the room, Trey said something, too, but Daisy wasn't listening. She was thinking: I should be sad and I'm not. It wasn't introspection but an observation only; Daisy wasn't introspective by nature. Like her father and brothers, she was motivated by action. "You don't seem distrait," Trey quietly said after the door closed on Martin, pleased, considering the circumstances, that she wasn't. Daisy shrugged with the smallest movement of her shoulder. "I know. I find it odd." Having had considerably more experience than his sister in the wildly ionate world of amour—more experience, many said, than any man since his father's fascinating Absarokee looks and charm had seduced legions of females a generation ago—Trey didn't find it odd at all. Until he'd met Empress, no love affair had ever left him distrait. "Maybe you knew Martin too long," Trey reflected in masculine bias. Love affairs—in his memory—generally were not long. The excitement invariably faded. And Lord, Daisy had been seeing Martin in casual friendship for what? over two years? "Perhaps." Her single word was speculative. She really didn't understand her feeling of detachment. "Sally warned me off, you know," Daisy softly went on, contemplating the tips of her fingers for a moment before steepling her hands under her chin and gazing at her brother. "You were surprised?" His pale eyes were amused under his half-lowered lashes, his indolent pose echoed in his voice. "Is that normal then?" Her own voice was as soft as his, the quiet of the room enveloping them in a companionable rapport.

"You're beautiful, darling; Sally isn't." Trey's statement reflected fact rather than vanity; they were a family of attractive people. "Also," he added with barely facetious emphasis, "she's never been known for her sweet disposition." "So adept, baby brother, in understanding women…" Her dark eyes over the tips of her fingers were teasing. He grinned. "Practice." "So tell me… will the marriage last?" "Do you care?" "Out of curiosity only." "Then I'll answer honestly. Yes. Martin made a sound decision based on long-range goals. You don't think he'll be content forever with the Treasurer's office. He bought into Newcomb's wealth and political network when it was apparent to him you weren't going to opt for marriage with any dispatch. He intends to stay the course." "Without love?" "I expect he'll find that somewhere too," Trey cynically replied. After his appearance at her office today, Daisy expected as much herself. He hadn't acted like a new bridegroom. "So…" Trey softly went on, "since you're not pining away over your loss…" He grinned broadly. "And I came in fortuitously to send Martin on his way…" "He was leaving." "It sure looked that way to me." Trey's tone was ironic, smug. Daisy bristled the minutest degree at his smugness. "You and father are too protective. I'm very capable of managing my own affairs." He grinned again. "I know." "I don't mean that." A spark of heated affront flashed in her eyes. "Of course not." Trey struggled to keep the teasing out of his voice. "But rather than argue about interference in your affairs…" His smile broke out against all efforts at restraint. "… business or otherwise, let's argue about something more productive—from my purely selfish point of view." "Meaning?" Suspicion infused the single word, soft as afternoon languor. "I'd like you to go to Paris to see Solange's name is entered into Empress's estates." Daisy's hands fell away from under her chin and she groaned. She should have known. Empress had politely inquired into the possibility of her going to Paris at dinner last week. Daisy had just as politely

changed the subject. "You know how I dislike cities as enormous as Paris," she began, evasive and diplomatic. "Send someone else to process the name transfers on Empress's family property. Hire a French lawyer. He'd be more adept anyway at bribing the necessary officials. You know how the French bureaucracy works. You also know better than anyone how busy company matters are with the new mine opening. Not to mention the current case in court. Get someone else." "Empress wants you to go. I'll take over your duties on the new mine and you know damn well the court case will be over in less than three days. Your turn," her brother said with a playful grin, lacing his hands behind his head in a comfortable pose suggestive of someone settling in for the duration. "Estate transfers are routine legal work. Henry can do it. Send Henry." She was using her dismissive, exacting tone, qualifying her refusal within the boundaries of practicality. "He speaks French." "Not like you do." In contrast, her brother's voice was tranquil, serene, unconcerned with practicality. "Flattery won't work, sweet brother, so don't bother; Henry's French is more than adequate for the work. And I feel stifled in Paris. You know how the sheer size of the city unnerves me." "The process won't take more than two or three weeks," Trey gently noted, intent on having his way, well aware that a woman capable of holding her own on a hunting trip for grizzly bear wasn't easily unnerved. "Be realistic. We're talking French bureaucracy." "All right," he conceded. "Four or five weeks." "If I'm lucky and I make record time on the crossing." "You're Solange's godmother. Consider it your duty." "Since when have any of us been dutiful?" Trey's grin crinkled his eyes half-shut, curtailing their vivid humor. "As a fucking personal favor then," he cheerfully said, "so Empress is happy." "That's not fair." "I probably wasn't trying to be fair. I probably just want you to go because no one is as clever and capable as you and Solange is my baby." Daisy paused to gather the tumult of her emotions into a reasonable acceptance. In all practicality, she'd known from the start she had to go, but at least some evasive tactics were called for in an attempt to avoid Parisian society, which was what she actually disliked about Paris. "I suppose I can stay in that small pension near Notre Dame," she yielded, thinking it sufficiently removed from "society" to make her feel comfortable. She liked the potty old concierge, the medieval low-ceilinged rooms, the spectacular view of the Seine. "Adelaide already asked for you; she's close to Notre Dame too."

"You told her I was coming?" Daisy glowered a little. "I told her you might come," Trey lied. Avoiding Adelaide's kindness was impossible now. The Princess de Chantel, lifelong friend to Empress, considered it her duty to entertain Empress's family. "You're going to owe me, baby brother." Although the man lounging, across from her was the complete antithesis of baby-like: dark as sin; spectacular in size and build; masculine virility incarnate. "Name it," he simply said. Trey's love for his wife Empress was unconditional; he was quite willing to move heaven and earth for her if need be. And at base Daisy ired the intensity of his feelings. "I'll think of something suitably pricey to compensate me for a month of my time… in Paris." The last two words were expelled with soft aversion. "Perfect." He didn't ask for further clarification, amenable to any of her demands. Trey swung his feet down from the desktop, his task accomplished. "Could you see Empress this afternoon?" He turned on the full extent of his engaging charm. . Daisy sighed, visions of Adelaide's guest list already upsetting her digestion. "After my ride," she reluctantly agreed. Trey stood up, his smile beneficent, ignoring her reluctance as brothers do. "Great."

"You have to be back by half-past four."

Daisy scowled at the leathery-faced, diminutive groom holding her paint mare. A light breeze tossed wisps of dark hair about her face as if to playfully erase her displeasure. "You told me to remind you." Unintimidated by her frown, the wiry man ran a soothing hand down the gleaming brushed coat of the brown and white animal. Since she had issued such orders when she'd come home to change from her courtroom clothes, Daisy smiled ruefully. "By half-past four then," she said with a small sigh and stepping into the groom's clasped hands, swung up onto her mount. "Although I might be late if—" "Better not be." Abrupt and onishing, looking up at her with one cocked brow, Reggie gave warning. A member of their household since she was a child, he knew everything going on and had already been warned by Trey to see that Daisy kept her appointment with Empress. "Are you my warden?" Her voice held a teasing mockery although her silky brows were still drawn together in mutinous disaffection. "Yup, sure am," he replied with an impudent smile. "Won't hurt you to go to Paris anyways. Hear tell Paris is right nice this time of year… it being spring and all." "Then you should go, Reggie, and save me the trouble." "If'n I could have stood it being out East all those years goin ta school, I surely would go ta help Miss Empress out." Empress was the darling of all the staff. Not only was she kind to everyone, but she was regarded with awe as the only woman who'd been able to domesticate the most scandalous bachelor in Montana. "It's damn tedious work, Reggie; I'd rather stay here." "Well, it's damn tedious work carryin' a baby for nine long months too and Miss Empress ain't been getting too much sleep with the new baby and all, so I reckon you ain't got much choice. Now don't ride Golden Girl here too hard with your temper up and I'll be here waitin' for you at half-past. Don't be late." "You're impertinent, Reggie. I should have you sacked." "Don't know exactly what impertinent mean, Miss Daisy, but you still better be back here at half-past. And if your Pa didn't need me to run this here stable so perfect, maybe you could sack me. But he do." His grin was friendly and wide. Since Daisy had been in short skirts he'd been lecturing her and listening to her, too, whenever she needed a sympathetic ear. "I may not come back," Daisy declared, turning her pony's head down the drive, her pouty smile reminiscent of a young girl's. "Half-past, Miss Daisy." Reggie's voice followed her down the immaculately raked roadway. "Sharp."

Riding bareback with the minimum lip rein she'd learned to handle before she was four, Daisy kicked her sleek mare into a gallop before the end of the driveway. Their town home was on one of the outlying streets, allowing some pasture for their horses and some privacy, allowing also escape from the city in record time. Daisy galloped full-out to the low surrounding foothills, relishing the fresh spring breeze, the warm sun, the smell of blooming flowers and new young leaves. She crooned to Golden Girl, bending low over her neck, seeking the comfort of her silky warm coat and scent, security sensations from her earliest years, solace and pleasure combined. Dressed in leather leggings and moccasins, with a warm wool shirt to shield her from the coolness of the mountain air, she broke away from the confining dress and constrictions of her workday life, from the pressures of court and the spiteful, narrow ignorance of judges

like Ryan Nott. She rode each day for spiritual rejuvenation and therapy. She rode into the mountains to talk to her spirits, to assure herself of her Absarokee heritage, to affirm her identity. Golden Girl dug in as she began the gradual ascent, tossing her head, snorting at the freshening scent of the mountains. Knowing she was on familiar trails, free herself from the confinement of the stable, she danced a few steps in excitement. Some time later, a few hundred yards short of the limits of the timberline, coming out of a shimmering aspen grove colored the lemon-green of early spring, Golden Girl slowed to a trot, then to a walk. Recognizing the small pasture, she moved toward the rushing stream tumbling down from the snowcapped mountaintop and, lowering her head, drank from the ice-cold water. Daisy sat immobile, her eyes unfocused on the beauties of nature, brooding on her dragooned excursion to Paris, until the mare's head came around in inquiry and she snuffled softly as if to say, "Why haven't you dismounted?" Smiling at the equine prodding, Daisy slid off. "I may not go back today," she muttered as though her Indian pony could understand. Letting the leather bridle-rope trail on the grass, she patted the muscular hindquarters of her pony. "Go eat your fill, girl." A spiritual bond existed between them very near at times to a communicative one. Golden Girl responded to her moods with understanding… like Reggie, Daisy thought with a smile. The small Tennessee miner had taken charge of her father's stable years ago when the first stages of pleurisy had driven him above-ground. He'd helped her care for her pony she'd brought with her from her mother's clan and had allowed her license to say what she pleased. He'd treated her like an adult even then in his unpretentious open manner, and their friendship had grown over the years into a reciprocal closeness. He would have tolerated her marrying Martin, Reggie had told her once, although the man wasn't good enough for her; she in turn overlooked his penchant for the young chambermaid they'd just hired who was young enough to be his granddaughter. Short moments later, lying under the summer lean-to of pine boughs she'd constructed against the sun and rain, Daisy threw her arms over her head, sighing in discontent. Paris. Ugh. For weeks. Ugh. She took pleasure in pouting dramatically now that no one could see. And sighed again, a great heaving exhalation of breath. Lord, it would be suffocating with Adelaide wanting her to dine and dance and visit with her society friends. She'd be obliged to smile for days on end—for interminable nights as well—at soft-spoken women who took care to be ornamental and men whose only strenuous .exercise was in amateur sports. She wouldn't be able to ride either unless one considered the manicured paths in the Bois de Boulogne suitable for horsemanship—which she didn't. Then of course, she would have to deal with the officious, recalcitrant French bureaucracy in which protocol counted for more than efficiency. There was no mistaking the term "a man's world" had been coined particularly to describe its functioning mechanism. Trey and Empress had too much faith in her abilities. She grimaced in disconsolate ill-humor. She could do what was required, of course, she confidently noted—the process would just be forbiddingly miserable. Pricey was too mild a term to describe the nature of her reward for this assignment. A king's ransom would better suit her current mood. Her darling baby brother was taking a large, already committed slice out of her life. Damn him to hell. Another great sigh drifted into the clean mountain air. Her theatrics continued for some time, cleansing her begrudging temper, mitigating the worst of her moroseness. She and Trey both understood their obligation to duty, despite her facetious remonstrance to the contrary. He helped her, she helped him, they both worked for the betterment of their family and

clan. As rooted as the mountains of her tribal homeland, as inherent as the pure scent of pine and sweet sage, as wide as the limitless horizons that had once meant freedom for her tribe, the constancy of duty prevailed. So she would go of course to Paris. But first, another ten minutes of freedom. Sitting up, she gazed about her, wanting to memorize the beauty of the land around her against the long weeks of her exile in Paris. Inhaling deeply, she drew in the vital spirit of the mountains through her nostrils and through her eyes and skin and soul. Everything in life was intimately connected to the land, inside each thing a spirit existed, whether it was a leaf or a blade of grass or the awesome splendor of the soaring mountains. Ah-badt-dadt-deah, The-one-who-made-all-things, lived in her and around her and at times her visions raised her above the human experience. But there wasn't time for fasting and purifying her soul now… when Empress and Reggie and Paris were waiting. She shut her eyes for a wilful moment to preserve the fragile measurement of beauty in her mind. And when she opened her eyes once again, Golden Girl stood before her, as if she knew the time of visions was past.

Daisy looked very different at teatime, dressed in cafe-au-lait-colored lace adorned simply with two long strands of pearls, her heavy black hair no longer loose but swept up with pearl combs, a Wedgwood cup gracefully raised to her lips. The elegant couturier gown of Valenciennes lace was a dramatic departure from her leather leggings and red wool shirt of the past hour. Only a faint fragrance of pine lingered in her hair as reminder of her afternoon escape into the mountains. "You don't mind?" Empress was saying, seated across from her in a fauteuil of gently mellowed pastel needlepoint.

"No," Daisy lied, setting her cup down. "Paris is at its best this time of year." It was an obliging statement of good manners to bolster her lie. "With luck the legal changes shouldn't take more than a few weeks." "I'm so pleased. Trey said you'd go, but I knew you weren't overly fond of—well… the fashionable world." Empress spoke with a delicate touch of her native French underscoring the rhythm of her phrasing. The antithesis of her sister-in-law in coloring, she was all golden tones and peach skin, her beauty one of sunrises or springtime redolent of apple-blossom-laden branches—sweetly pure and lush. "If I can keep Adelaide in check, I'll survive." Daisy smiled as she spoke, confident of her own abilities to restrain their friend Adelaide's sense of mission as a hostess. A second later her smile broadened as she caught sight of the nursemaid entering the room bringing in her goddaughter Solange. Fair like her mother, the baby puckered her tiny face into the fretful rosy-pink preliminary to a lusty howl. Reaching up to take her daughter from the young nursemaid, Empress greeted Solange with a smile and a cooing flow of words, calming her long enough to swiftly undo the crystal buttons of her gown. Settling her daughter at her breast immediately quieted the baby's flailing arms and legs, contented little grunts of satisfaction instantly replacing her agitation. "She nurses all the time," Empress said with motherly pride, gazing at her daughter for a moment to assure herself she was comfortable, "which s for her size. Trey says if she sustains this appetite she's going to be as tall as he when she's grown." A tall woman herself, Daisy thought her brother was probably right, considering the aspects his daughter had inherited. "She can compete with her brother Max then in the outdoor games." "Did you like that?" While Empress had lived her adolescent years in the mountains, she'd not had the advantage of the Absarokee dedication to riding and outdoor sports. "Competition is exhilarating; winning more so," Daisy itted with a grin. "Being raised with three brothers sharpened my athletic abilities and fighting skills. I don't make a very demure wallflower." But that same competitive spirit had made her less vulnerable to those feminine romantic infatuations her friends gossiped and giggled about. Perhaps if she'd been more susceptible to those giddy girlish emotions, the men in her life would have played a more substantive role—and she too would have a baby nestled at her breast. The sight of Empress and her daughter occasioned a small twinge of envy. Would she ever find someone she loved enough to marry? Would Martin have filled the void she suddenly felt gazing at the poignant scene of mother and child? "Speaking of wallflowers…" Empress casually declared, "brings Sally Newcombe to mind. Martin stopped by your office, I hear. Would you ever have married him?" Empress asked as if reading Daisy's mind. "I kept thinking… I would," Daisy slowly replied, aware, even as she uttered the words, of the improbability of that action. Somehow she couldn't picture Martin as the necessary complement to her wishful image of mother and child. And with the exception of a mild irritation at the abruptness of his marriage, she felt no stabbing jealousy or loss. Even the swiftness of his marriage was recognizable in practical . Raised in a politically conscious home, Daisy was sensibly aware of pragmatic, expedient behavior. "But…" Empress prompted with Daisy's sentence left incomplete, curious about the state of her emotions.

Daisy's gaze drifted momentarily to the flower garden visible through the terrace door, as though the answer to her flawed love life lay in the bucolic arrangement of flora. If her life had been more conventional… she mused—immediately recognizing the impossibility considering her circumstances. Conventionally Indian? Conventionally white? Conventionally female? What constancy was the proper choice? She didn't conveniently fit any of the categories—an asset at times and at others, a distinct conundrum. "I never wished to relinquish my freedom for a permanent relationship with Martin," Daisy explained. "I suppose that reluctance must have had something to do with the degree of my feelings for Martin. He's handsome certainly… and a pleasure to discuss political concerns with…" "Not exactly mad, ionate love though," Empress quietly interjected, aware herself how that overwhelming emotion could forever change the fabric of one's life. "Maybe everyone doesn't experience the stunning sting of Cupid's arrow." Daisy spoke reflectively, seriously beginning to question the possibility of ever being struck by love in those fanciful . "I'm not sure of the universal nature of love but when it strikes you, you'll know." "It surely brought Trey to a shockingly swift and blissful state of arrest in his life of excess," Daisy declared, her smile touched with mischief. "So I'm told," Empress modestly replied, although she was fully aware of her husband's previous reputation as standing stud for scandalous numbers of women. "He never even looks at another woman… and in that fact alone, I confess… if I had been somewhat skeptical in the past of the possibility of LOVE in capital letters, that larger-than-life scream from the mountaintops, turn-your-life-around sensation, I'm thoroughly convinced of its existence." Daisy was only half teasing. Trey's startling conversion had been on the order of a religious experience. "Now you just have to find someone who electrifies your senses." "I haven't exactly been secluded from the world since I left adolescence," Daisy said with a grin. "But no one's—" "Resplendently desirable." Daisy shrugged. "Since I'm uninitiated in that miraculous state of rapture, I don't know what I'm looking for—only that I obviously haven't found him. Not that I'd notice, considering my work schedule." "You do work long hours." "And unless the perfect man walks into my office…"

"At least in Paris, Adelaide will see that you meet everyone—and dance a little too." "Adelaide's concept of 'a little' is considerably more than mine, unfortunately." "Some socializing will do you good." "Not in Paris. No offense, Empress. Flitting between ballrooms, afternoon musicals, and tedious dinners isn't my idea of pleasant diversion. But what I'm going to miss most," Daisy said with a small sigh, reminded of her last journey upmountain for sometime, "is riding. My daily pilgrimage with Golden Girl maintains my sanity." "I'll have Adelaide introduce you to Etienne. He'll lend you a horse you'll like as well as Golden Girl. His stable is the best in Paris." "De Vec, you mean." There was disparagement in Daisy's voice. "The man who's slept with every woman of beauty in Paris?" "His reputation aside," Empress replied, not disclaiming the gossip, "Etienne's a good man… and kind. He was a friend when I desperately needed one." "I don't understand men like de Vec," Daisy bluntly declared. She didn't. More austere than Empress—not less sophisticated, because she understood all the intricacies of society and its penchant for pleasurable transgressions—only at base, she'd never understood the brittle dilettante world Empress took for granted. Where people played at love with discretion and grace and very little feeling. Where work was a betrayal of one's class and the seamy concerns of ordinary humanity were beneath one's notice. She didn't feel inclined to strike up an acquaintance—even for the purpose of obtaining prime horseflesh—with a man who most epitomized the modish world she disdained. "I can go without riding for a few weeks," Daisy demurred. "Or ride some of the horses in Adelaide's stables." "I'll write you a letter of introduction in case you change your mind. Etienne would be happy to lend you any of his horses for riding. You'd appreciate the quality of his polo ponies too since your family's involved in their breeding. Etienne's ponies' have origins in bloodstock from somewhere in northern India. And you needn't talk to him at all." Empress smiled. Daisy was strangely independent, even prickly at times with men if they didn't meet her elusive standards. "His man Louis handles most everything for Etienne." "Thank you for the offer, Empress, but don't bother with a letter of introduction." Daisy's voice was moderate, detached. "I won't have much time to ride."

The ocean crossing was unseasonably tempestuous, beset with gale winds that made even a daily walk on deck dangerous. Daisy's arrival time was delayed a full day by the storms. When she landed at Le Havre, Adelaide was waiting for her with an infectiously cheerful smile, her usual retinue of servants sufficient to ease a monarch's progress through a coronation, and a calendar of social events drawn up for Daisy that would exhaust an eighteen-year-old debutante. With utmost diplomacy Daisy pared away as many events as possible on the train ride to Paris, using her legal mission as excuse. Which pretext turned out to be not only a feigned defense but an actuality, the procedures required to ultimately incorporate Solange into the Jordan estates taking hours of her time each day. French jurisprudence, not yet reconciled to female attorneys, offered obstinacy and delay at each step of the process. After having ed two underproductive weeks, Daisy had visions of either leaving without accomplishing her tasks or seeing Paris in the autumn. Only today, she'd been denied entrance to the office of the deputy clerk with a rudeness only the French could convey. The vestiges of a headache that had plagued her all day still throbbed at her temples. The combs in her hair hurt, as did her heavy earrings, a rackety din of conversation overwhelming Adelaide's ballroom and Daisy's sensitive ears like a rushing tidal wave of fashionable inanity. Dammit, she hotly reflected, Henry should have come to Paris on this assignment. At least then his delays wouldn't have been predicated on gender bias—only nationality prejudice. And dammit, she'd almost managed to escape from the heated crush of Adelaide's ballroom, a moment ago. Almost. Except for the Comtesse Guimond's dulcet greeting and firm detaining grasp on her arm. So now she stood facing the notorious Duc de Vec, waiting to be introduced, her disinterest barely concealed.

The Duc was patently restless, only held in check, as was Daisy, by the Countess's restraining hand. It was obvious neither wished to be there. When the hall clock struck the hour, Daisy and the Duc both took note of it like schoolchildren counting the minutes till dismissal. With Daisy's inherent dislike of glittering society, were she not Adelaide's houseguest, she would have spent the evening upstairs reading. The Duc de Vec had come at the last minute, as a favor to Adelaide's husband Valentin, when the seating arrangements for dinner required a hasty replacement for Baron Arras, who'd been injured on the polo field that afternoon. His friendship only extended to dinner, he'd warned Valentin; he intended leaving immediately after. And were it not for Isme's deliberate spite, eagle eye, and clutching hand on his arm, he would have been on his way to the Jockey Club. Instead, he was waylaid, impatient, his eyes shuttered against his annoyance. "Etienne, darling, have you met Mademoiselle Daisy Black? She's sister-in-law to your dear friend Empress from Montana."

Introductions were made in an airy offhand manner underlaid with a sweet malevolence by Isme, the latest casualty of the Duc's amorous boredom. Since the Duc had recently ended their affair, with a woman-scorned resentment the Comtesse Guimond was hoping to embarrass the Duc de Vec with a member of Empress Jordan's family. His unsuccessful pursuit of the beautiful Mademoiselle Jordan the previous year had set tongues wagging; Empress had been the Duc's only known failure in matters of the heart. "Daisy, may I present the Duc de Vec. I'm sure Empress has spoken highly of him. They were very close last year." Isme watched like a peevish kitten, all blonde prettiness and malicious speculation to see how both would respond. Would Etienne feel awkward or gauche in Daisy's presence? Talk had it the Duc and Empress's husband met one evening in Empress's boudoir. Had this woman heard the details? How would Daisy Black regard the disreputable Duc de Vec? By reputation, from her family's vantage point, with her own reservations perhaps? She looked extremely cool. But then her splendid dark coloring and the heavy creme satin gown from Worth gave her a regal air. Unconsciously Isme straightened her petite, voluptuous form in emulation. "Charmed, Mademoiselle," the Duc said with an effortless smile, bowing over Daisy's hand, immune to Isme's pointed innuendo. The Comtesse Guimond's famed lavender eyes took on a sullen cast as she disgruntledly gazed at her ex-lover. She should have known better. It was impossible to embarrass de Vec. "Good evening, Monsieur le Duc," Daisy calmly replied to a man she knew only by notorious reputation. Whatever calculated reason Isme had for forcing this introduction—the Duc was obviously in her clutches—Daisy refused to rise to the bait. In fact, had Isme known Empress's sister-in-law, she would have realized Daisy rarely showed her feelings. The heat of the spring evening was palpable despite the high ceilings in the ballroom and the opened

terrace-doors, the choking density of guests intensifying its effect. When Isme turned away, distracted by a young officer whispering in her ear, the Duc and Daisy seemed the only silent people in the ballroom awash with music, dancers, and animated guests. "Is it this warm in Montana?" the Duc inquired, the weather always a polite way of avoiding conversation. He was already half-looking away over the heads of the milling crowd, gauging the distance to the door. "Do you really care?" Daisy said as Isme drifted off on the officer's arm, like a spoiled child, uninterested in Daisy and the Duc now that her vengeful stratagem had failed. His gaze came back instantly, green-eyed and mildly inquisitive. In the utter boredom of Adelaide's party, a small spark of interest flared. His voice when he answered was as neutral as hers, but his glance took in the tall slender dark-haired woman for the first time with more than his normal polite disregard. "Of course not," he said with a smile. "Do you care whether I care?" Daisy refused to respond to his enticing lazy smile. The man was obviously familiar with the potency of his charm. He would have to find some other woman to fawn over him. "Should I?" She was intensely direct, he decided, looking at her now with genuine interest. "I don't see why," he replied, smiling that celebrated smile he'd learned to use so successfully. He'd been sixteen when he'd first employed it to advantage and the intervening years had proved its perfection. Women responded to it, and adored him. She didn't smile back. She was the half-blood's sister, he immediately thought, with some of the same inherent arrogance Empress Jordan's husband conveyed. "You're Trey Braddock-Black's sister," he said, as though methodically taking note of her aloud. "Half sister," she abruptly replied, the distinction seemingly relevant to her. She hadn't moved, her stance one of infinite repose, her hands lightly clasped around her ivory-handled fan. "Ah… you're Adelaide's houseguest." His tone was one of gratified revelation: the name with the face with the circumstances all suddenly coming together. Valentin had spoken of Daisy; she was in Paris as legal advisor for Empress. "Apparently," Daisy bluntly said, her headache adding asperity to her voice, "you didn't listen to Isme's introduction." My, she was bristly, he thought, and unbidden, a second more speculative thought surfaced, habitual in a man favored in boudoirs across the Continent. Would she be bristly in bed?—an interesting concept. "Forgive me," he blandly apologized, enchanted with the small touches of fire in her black eyes. "Isme tends to chatter on." He was perhaps baiting her slightly with the taint of chauvinism in his last phrase, but a certain amount of truth existed in his declaration. Isme's conversation was generally forgettable. "As do all women?" she retorted, her tone adversarial. "Are we in court?" His voice dropped a husky octave or so and turned silken. He never rose to the petulance in a woman's tone. She intrigued him curiously, despite her contentious manner. She was also strikingly beautiful, like the romantic heroine in Chateaubriand's Atala.

"We aren't anywhere, Monsieur le Duc," Daisy said, responding to the practiced suaveness of his reply with a distinctly icy inflection. "Now if you'll excuse me…" He watched her thread her way through the crush of people and exit into the hallway, continuing his silent contemplation as she ascended the curved stairway to the living quarters on the floor above. Mademoiselle Black, it seemed, was deserting the party. A good idea actually, he decided the next moment as the final swish of her creme satin gown disappeared around the corner. He'd outstayed his original intentions.

He found in the course of his evening gambling at the Jockey Club that while he may have consciously dismissed the coolly acerbic Mademoiselle Black when she disappeared from sight up the stairs, her aloof dark eyes were reappearing frequently in his memory, as did recurring images of her standing before him with her extraordinary poise and arrogance, so unusual in a woman. Maybe it was the aqua vitae from Scotland he was drinking, but he was strangely affected by his vivid memories despite his conscious dislike of her. He disliked her rudeness and her unfeminine ways. She spoke too directly, like a man. He regarded that as unpleasant in a woman. And she hadn't smiled once. He disliked that as well. Women normally exerted a certain genial charm, an intrinsic quality of their gender and social training. She was too mannish, he decided, as though some choices were being offered him and he was declining. Tossing down his winning hand, he silently reiterated, definitely too mannish. But the classic perfection of her face insistently reappeared in his thoughts only a moment later as he scooped the gold markers into a pile. Brusque mannerisms aside, he thought, one couldn't deny her beauty. She was darkly exotic like some lush bird of paradise set amidst the frivolous female vanity displayed at Adelaide's tonight. The kind of woman who drew eyes. She'd worn egret feathers in the heavy black coils of her hair, enormous sapphires in her ears, the famed Braddock-Black sapphires no doubt, and a Worth gown suitable for a queen. On a lesser woman the resplendent adornment would have been overwhelming, but Daisy Black's beauty was splendid with an untamed quality that gleamed like shimmering flame. And she was also obviously intelligent. He'd never met a female attorney. She piqued his interest, he itted, a logical man at base. Or perhaps more accurately, what piqued him was her immunity to his charm. Anyone with less assurance would have sensibly forsworn any further with Daisy Black and her immunity. Anyone having had less to drink might not even have contemplated her coolness as a challenge. Most men regarded Hazard Black's daughter as a female version of him and wisely withdrew from the field. Etienne Mattel, Duc de Vec and bearer of a dozen lesser titles, was not most men, had from the cradle been disabused of that notion, and over the years had come to view himself, without conceit, as capable of accomplishing most anything he wished. He wished, he suddenly decided, to bring the cool Mademoiselle Black to bed. It would be like taming a wild creature or perhaps leashing a small storm, he thought, a faint wolfish smile appearing on his aquiline face. A fascinating challenge. "Are you ready, de Vec?" The voice of one of his fellow players interrupted his thoughts. His smile widened. "I'm ready," he said and picked up his new hand.

Daisy had watched Isme's eyes as she'd introduced the Duc, heard the malice in her voice, and wondered what her motives were. It was apparent the minute Isme spoke that the Duc and she had been lovers. That special kind of intimacy between people is forever evident in gesture and mien, although surely with de Vec's reputation that nuance of friendship beyond friendship must be very common. He was reportedly the most sought-after man in Paris. Definitely of no interest to her. The absolute antithesis of what she sought in a man, the Duc de Vec was too handsome, too charming, too facilely competent—too idle. Men of his rank did nothing but pursue pleasure and sport. She found the aristocratic ideal disgraceful and reprehensible, a frittering waste of one's life. Which made her unusual reaction to the Duc so disconcerting. The thought brought her motionless, her hand suspended over the antique silver hairbrush on the bureautop. Her initial impulse to reach out and touch him when they'd been introduced had been overwhelming. Whether consciously or unconsciously, the Duc de Vec exuded an intemperate virility, as though he were offering luxurious pleasure with his lazy smile and tall lean body and starkly handsome looks. It was his eyes perhaps which most enhanced that seductive magnetism. They were heavy-lidded, sensationally lashed, intense somehow despite his insouciance—a deep glittering jungle-green, she ed with a tiny shiver, like some great stalking cat's. And when he'd bowed over her hand, his gaze automatically holding hers for a long moment with a whisper of invitation habitual and unconscious, only steely willpower had restrained her from touching the dark silk of his bowed head. She'd also wondered in the next flashing moment before he stood upright once more how the powerful muscles of his shoulders, visible beneath his impeccable black evening jacket when he moved—how they would feel. Or how he would look with his jacket off. With anyone else, perhaps, she might have given into those singular sensations. She wasn't prudish, she thought, grasping the brush with a steady hand and sweeping it through her hair as though she could as easily sweep the Duc from her thoughts. She understood emotion and feeling. Anyone raised an Absarokee on the windswept, open-skied northern plains understood profound emotion. But the Duc de Vec was too familiar with the power of his charm, too confident of his attraction, a casual predator of female affection. She hadn't cared to be another casual conquest. Her dark hair gleamed in the lamp-lit room as she counted the ritual one hundred strokes before replacing the brush on the mirror-topped bureau. There. Finished. Like her brief meeting with the Duc. She'd been right to deal with him curtly, she told herself, tying the peach-colored ribbon at the neck of her lawn nightgown into a neat bow. There was no point in any degree of friendship with a man who viewed women as transient entertainments, she reflected, slipping between the silk sheets. Sleep eluded her, however, with the music from Adelaide's ball drifting up the stairs and through the open bedroom windows. How would it feel, she inexplicably mused—a Viennese waltz silvery sweet in her ears, the scent of lilac from the gardens fragrant on the night air—to be held in his arms as they danced? Not only the fantastic thought, but the sudden vivid image of the Duc de Vec holding her close, shocked her for a moment like a numbing blow. The music and the scented air must be affecting her, she decided with swift relentless logic. With reality restored once again, she drew in a small calming breath—a strange necessity if she'd allowed herself leave to notice. Priding herself on her sensible-ness, aware of both her personal assets and liabilities, she'd always credited herself most for her practical

assessment of a situation. Overlooking her need for a forced calmness, she reminded herself that both her instinct and logic had judged the Duc and found him unsuitable. For her particular interest, she quickly qualified. The Duc de Vec, of course, was highly suitable in his aristocratic world. Closely related to the royal family, his pedigree perhaps purer in some respects, his wealth princely by all s, his personal attributes—looks and charm, his expertise on the playing field and hunting field, his manner of success with women—were all the inimitable standard for his class. How could she be even remotely attracted to him? Why was he even in her thoughts? He was the archetypal bored aristocrat interested only in his pleasure; her roots were in the boundless freedom and simplicity of her ancestors' way of life, where pleasure was a part of life, not its purpose, and common interests ed the clan existence. Even her training as a lawyer was predicated on the ultimate goal of helping her tribe. She'd learned well from her father about reality and her anchors to the past. Being tied to two cultures wasn't new, but a dilemma that had existed from the moment of first with the white man centuries ago. She understood assimilation. You used what you needed, you learned to compromise and negotiate, but beneath the incorporation and discipline, intransmutable and renegade was a deep and abiding knowledge of who she truly was. She was the daughter of a chief who was himself the descendent of chiefs going back to a time beyond remembrance. Despite the veneer of couturier gowns, continental languages, and college instruction, she was her father's daughter. And the seductively magnetic Duc de Vec was anathema.

The following morning with his own plans of an opposite nature, the Duc arranged to have himself

invited to an intimate dinner party at Adelaide's. "You surprise me, Etienne," Adelaide said, intent on the reason de Vec and Valentin were at breakfast with her. "I didn't know you rose so early." She obviously wasn't aware her husband rose early either, Etienne thought, since he and Valentin made a practice of riding most mornings at dawn when the day was fresh and cool. "A habit from childhood," he pleasantly replied. "I blame it on my nanny. She liked sunrises." "How sentimental." Adelaide wasn't being condescending or coy. She was in fact genuinely astonished, her opinion of the Duc quite altered. "I loved old Rennie most as a child," Etienne honestly declared. "She was my family, my friend, my playmate." Essentially without subterfuge, he was secure in his own self-esteem. That too he attributed to his Scottish nanny. Certainly neither of his parents were competent models of maturity. His father had had two obsessions: gambling and mountain climbing. Luckily, he was successful at both, so the family wealth wasn't diminished nor was his presence often felt at home. Regrettably, his luck ran out one day on the rockface of Dag Namur at sixteen thousand feet, and Etienne became the next Duc de Vec at the young age of twelve. His mother found the role of widow as uninteresting as she'd found marriage and motherhood. Fascinated primarily by society's pleasures, after having done her wifely duty of providing an heir for her husband, she'd entertained herself discreetly with a variety of lovers while her husband was away. At his death, the freedom and independence she'd always craved became a reality and a way of life. From his mother, no doubt, he'd inherited his propensity for sexual adventuring. They'd become friends in his adolescence, when he'd begun to better understand the nature of her interests; she was his confidante now and favorite lunch companion. "And forgive us for waking you," he added with a smile, aware of Adelaide's struggle to suppress a yawn. "I will if you tell me what weighty issue brings you to breakfast," Adelaide declared, more curious than tired. Since Valentin never woke her before eleven, this was obviously of some import. "Etienne would like to be included in our dinner party tonight," her husband casually replied, stirring another spoonful of sugar into his coffee. "I said you'd be delighted." "You won't be bored?" Adelaide said to the Duc. "We're only having a few people in to dine." "If Mademoiselle Black is seated beside me I won't be bored," the Duc quietly said. One couldn't accuse him of subterfuge. He was being exceedingly plain as was the reason now for her early morning call to breakfast. "She's not your type, Etienne." Adelaide gazed at him as a mother might a child asking for some curiosity. "Let me be the judge of that, Adelaide." The Duc's voice was soft, his expression unreadable. Her brows rose and she shrugged slightly, a Parisian withdrawal. "Don't say I didn't warn you," she said, her tone cheerful as she considered the interesting possibilities in the Duc's endeavor. "Daisy's even more opinionated than Empress, and stubbornly independent. It must be the air in Montana. She won't be tractable."

"So I discovered when I met her last night," the Duc said with a faint smile. "Despite that, I find her fascinating." Maybe the fascination had to do with the piquant challenge of a woman walking away from him. He couldn't that having happened before. Familiar with the Duc's expression, Valentin gave warning of his own. "Daisy's our guest, Etienne. I won't have her hurt." The Duc was comfortably lounging in a chair by the window as if he shared breakfast with the Prince and Princess de Chantel often. "Rest easy, Valentin," he reassured his friend, with whom he did breakfast frequently—normally at his home. "I don't intend to force the lady." His voice had the easy confidence of a man more often the recipient of seductive advances than supplicant. Adelaide laughed, a bright trilling sound, light as the sun streaming through the windows. "You men are…" She smiled knowingly over the rim of her teacup, her gaze surveying both men looking very boyish in their shirt sleeves and riding pants. "… very naive about Daisy."

Daisy almost turned around and left the drawing room that evening when she saw the Duc de Vec sprawled in one of the embroidered chairs flanking the fireplace, cradling a small tumbler of liquor between his large hands. But his eyes caught hers when she entered the room as if he'd been watching for her arrival and she begrudged giving him the satisfaction of knowing his presence affected her. Although he didn't approach her in the half hour before dinner was announced, she caught his gaze on her several times… and he'd smiled then, his promise-of-pleasure smile that managed somehow to be amiable and sweet in addition to its obvious sensual allure. Tiny flutters of heat stirred her senses when he smiled. While pretending not to notice, she consciously tamped down her strange flutters, not sure if they were anger or anticipation, not wishing to acknowledge she was experiencing any sensations related to the darkly handsome man seated with the animated group of men discussing polo. He appeared not to participate in the conversation except when asked a direct question, she noted, then chastised herself a moment later for monitoring his activities so closely. The impossibility of any relationship with the infamous Duc de Vec had been thoroughly dealt with last night before she fell asleep, she reminded herself, turning back to the women seated near Adelaide. Forcefully turning her full attention on the merits of pink diamonds as the newest fashion statement in accessories, she concentrated on the discussion of jewelers and styles. She was relieved to hear dinner announced just as the Duchesse Montaine asked her opinion on combining yellow and pink diamonds in a parure. Her relief was short-lived, however, since the Duc de Vec presented himself as her dinner partner, bowing slightly, offering his arm to escort her into the dining room. He seemed, perhaps because of her surprise, to loom extremely large above her, his closeness penetrating, vividly distracting to her sense of aloof-ness. She wanted to say: Why are you doing this? But too many people were near and expressing those sentiments would suggest he was doing something perhaps he wasn't, and would also indicate the extent of her flustered agitation. So she bit back the words when the Duc pleasantly said, "Good evening, Mademoiselle Black. Are you as hungry as I?" Rising from her chair, she gave him a sharp look, wondering whether he intended the double entendre or

she was simply misinterpreting his meaning. Her response brought a faint smile to the Duc's mouth, for his comment had been perfectly innocuous. How pleasant her agitation, he mused. "I missed lunch," he went on in an amiable tone as though he calmed sexually awakened young ladies every day of the week, which in truth, wasn't too wide of the mark. "I was playing polo." Taking a small relaxing breath before placing her fingers lightly on his forearm, Daisy decided she was simply overreacting to a man who was probably incapable of double entendre. And his comment about missing lunch was actually off hand. She'd envisioned a subtlety that didn't exist in the man. He played polo. That was essentially what he did. And when he wasn't playing polo, he was hunting or gambling or amusing himself with other men's wives. The quintessential blueblood. Useless and idle through countless generations. Looking up at him as they strolled into the dining room, she said with a keen glance and an edge to her voice, "You don't ever work, do you?" "Playing polo was hard work this afternoon," he amiably replied, deflecting the asperity in her question. He smiled down at her. "I think I lost five pounds." "Imagine how hard your polo ponies labored, since they were carrying your weight as well." They were circling a small table set for ten, looking for their place cards. "I find it charming you have a profession, Mademoiselle Black." Since he didn't take issue with her unusual choice of occupation, he saw no reason she should take exception to his apparent lack of occupation. "And my polo ponies are treated royally." "By minions who hardly earn enough to their families." Her voice was the carefully neutral one she'd used last night. He detected a slight smugness, as though she'd scored a point for her debate team or perhaps for her client in court. He stopped. She thought at first because her critical statement had struck home, but he had instead found their seats. "Are you a socialist, Mademoiselle?" he mildly asked, motioning the footman away so he could seat her himself. "I understand radical politics is the newest intellectual pursuit." "You don't have to be a socialist," she contradicted, lifting her skirt aside so he could slide her chair forward, "to be concerned with people's livelihoods." . Her bare shoulders were within inches of his hands, enticing, smooth as silk, and he was inclined to say: If I were to become a socialist would you stay with me tonight? He was a man of great flexibility. Instead, he said, "How true," and offering her her napkin, took his place beside Daisy. To further enlighten the lady and perhaps ingratiate himself as well, he added, "Would it relieve you to know my estates have been cited as models by Le Figaro! Apparently over the centuries we've managed to evolve some form of communal government and profit sharing for the farms and workers. I believe the Utopian principles of my great-greatgrandfather are to blame." "And you disagree." Her tone was very much the advocate, although like his it was one of practiced politesse. "On the contrary—" he smiled, wishing he could kiss away her small frown. "I commend his foresight. My estates are extremely profitable. You no doubt are instrumental in the welfare of your—" He paused, not wanting to offend her with the wrong word.

"Tribe is the word, Monsieur le Duc." A new touchiness infused her tone as though she'd spent a lifetime explaining herself to the world outside her race. "Yes, of course," he said, cautious of ruffling any cultural icons. "I understand from Empress your band is well situated. Your country is enviable." She almost smiled, he noted, immediately recognizing the direction most conducive to conversation with the beautiful Mademoiselle Black from America. Her heart was very much back in Montana. "I was raised in the mountains," she said, almost defiantly. He wondered how many times she'd endured the slurs and slanders; enough apparently to take a militant stance when questioned about her Absarokee background. "I had the good fortune to travel with a hunting party in the territory years ago and found the experience extraordinary." Daisy knew what the Duc's kind of hunting party entailed; she'd seen them on many occasions: a dozen guides; three dozen horses; at least six wagons to carry all the provisions necessary to approximate a country manor out in the wild; and of course, the arsenal required for the requisite enormous slaughter of animals needed to bring pleasure to the wealthy hunters. "I grew up in one of those small villages hunting parties like yours ed by. I lived in a lodge." Most of the rich hunters preferred keeping their distance from the villages, seeing the Indians as accoutrements to the landscape, picturesque noble savages or simply savages, but essentially nothing more than scenic details. She was surprised the disparaging indifference still annoyed her, having considered herself long ago immune to those senseless irritations. "We were granted the pleasure of sleeping in a lodge, Mademoiselle," the Duc calmly said, ignoring her jibe, sincerely fond of his experiences out West. "There's nothing more beautiful than starlight above you when you sleep or the softness of fur bedding—" His words brought pleasant memories pouring back. "Or the translucence of the sun through the lodge walls in the morning," she said. Hearing the animation in her voice for the first time, he found himself curiously elated at his accomplishment. How trivial it was and yet how moving to bring a small sparkle to her eyes. Almost immediately he chastised himself, as she had earlier, to be less touched by her spirit and nearness. While Daisy wished not to be affected by a charming seducer like the Duc, he too preferred the pattern of events follow a predictable course. He was interested only in amusement. He had no intention of involving his emotions. They were both certain; faithful logic would prevail as it always had in their past. So that night, two people conversed over a sumptuous dinner and through several of Valentin's best vintages, feeling very much in control of their lives. The Duc was slowly mitigating the Mademoiselle's most blatant prejudices toward himself and his class. Daisy felt more assured as the time ed. The Duc was simply an ordinary man—granted, more dazzling in looks than most men, and undeniably charming. But she'd mastered her earlier inexplicable urges and sensual attraction. She was feeling very smug.

The Duc was feeling equally smug. He hadn't concealed all semblance of sexuality since adolescence. The masquerade was itself a curiously erotic experience, playing the celibate monk, the androgynous companion, offering only benign friendship. He felt at times very much like the Big Bad Wolf dressed like Grand-mama in Little Red Riding Hood. They discussed the current unrest over seating Monsieur Lescalles in the Chamber of Deputies and agreed to disagree on the unusual work of Rousseau at the Society of Independent Artists Exhibition last week. He wasn't completely without intellect, Daisy discovered, readjusting a portion of her assessment concerning the idle Duc de Vec. The Duc for his part, found the Mademoiselle as erudite as he'd anticipated and yet—astonishingly pleasant. Over sorbet before the game course, the Duc asked Daisy whether she'd seen Professor Mattel's private collection of nomadic anthropology housed nearby at the Hotel Soubise. She looked up, the pale iced fruit about to touch her lips. He would have to feed her raspberry sorbet someday, he decided. The sight of her mouth slightly parted, only inches from the cool ice, taxed his efforts to remain uninvolved. She let the sorbet melt in her mouth before answering, and he wondered for a moment whether she was toying with him or was in reality that innocent. "No. I haven't," she said a short time later, "nor have I heard of Professor Martel." With her dark brows raised becomingly, he questioned again whether she was acting the coquette or indeed refreshingly naive. "His research proves the migrations across an original land-bridge into Alaska by numerous tribes. Your ancestors, no doubt." He kept his voice neutral, as he had all evening. She was intrigued, he could see, so he quickly went on. "Your ancestors and mine may have been related. My father's family has been traced linguistically back to the central plains of Asia. Although the tribes separated geographically several thousand years ago." "We are not related, Monsieur," Daisy said, emphatic but polite, "no matter how many thousands of years have ed." Thank God for that, Etienne thought, his gaze straying to her splendid bare shoulders and enticing cleavage. "In an anthropological sense only, Mademoiselle," he replied with a pleasant smile. "I realize our interests and backgrounds are very different. If you'd care to hear a definitive explanation though, I'd be happy to arrange a visit with Georges. The museum is private but he's my cousin." So that explained it. Nomadic tribes and prehistoric anthropology hardly seemed parallel interests to the Duc's busy schedule of polo, hunting, and women. "Perhaps at some later date, Monsieur le Duc," Daisy replied, reserve once again in her voice. Although the subject interested her, she preferred as little with the Duc as possible. "At the moment my days are busy with Jordan business for Empress. Her daughter must be entered into the estate trusts, in addition to all the ordinary legal affairs that require handling for Empress and her family." "Could I be of help?" She looked at him with frank astonishment. How could he possibly be of help? "The Minister of Justice is my brother-in-law," Etienne declared with a quiet assurance, knowing as well as Daisy the wheels of justice had nothing to do with justice. The smooth turning of the wheels of justice depended rather heavily on the unctuous lubricant of influence, power, and money.

"Are you related to everyone of consequence, Monsieur?" Daisy asked, the coolness in her voice like sparkling crystals of snow. His kinship with the royal pretender was well known as were his ties with the Archbishop of Paris. Now the Minister too… And her own dealings with the Minister had been nothing but obstructed. It galled her that the Duc's cavalier attitude and casual influence would probably be more effective than any of her legal expertise. How satisfying it would be to thaw the restrained young lady, Etienne decided. "As a matter of fact, I am," he replied with his lush and dazzling smile. "And I'd be honored to put my family quarterings at your disposal, Mademoiselle." Along with a few other things, he cheerfully thought. "If I can be of any service, please allow me the pleasure of assisting you." "Thank you, but I'm managing adequately." Daisy was familiar with the resistance to women lawyers, the invisible or outright bar to entrance into male territory. So Parisian prejudices were a familiar hurdle. She'd eventually accomplish her tasks. Adelaide had offered Valentin's patronage, so the Duc wasn't the only offer to help she'd refused. "I wouldn't want you to neglect the polo fields," she added. Shrugging her small sarcasm aside, he smiled. "Perhaps my overworked ponies would appreciate the respite." Knowing his brother-in-law Charles's strong antifemale views and his reactionary opinions on women's suffrage, he casually added, "If you change your mind, the offer's open." And then, as if women's rights in general and Daisy's probable struggles with Charles's ministry were incidental to his gustatory pleasure, he said, "Don't you care for the pheasant?" The Duc had been eating with tangible appetite and obvious relish as they'd conversed. Daisy was beginning to wonder how he stayed so fit and lean. "I've eaten too much already." "You've hardly eaten." She was surprised he'd noticed. "You've eaten enough for three men." His brows rose momentarily. "Do you think so? I must burn it off." His faint smile was either suggestive or completely artless. Daisy wasn't sure, although in her more benign attitude toward the Duc, she decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. Etienne motioned with a slight movement of his knife. "Do you mind if I eat yours? It seems a shame to waste Armand's talented interpretation of Hunters' Pheasant. I think he may have prepared it for me. He knows this particular dish is my favorite." "Help yourself," Daisy offered, glancing surreptitiously at the Duc's perfectly fitting white brocade waistcoat. Patently aware not an extra ounce of fat adhered to his lean muscled frame, she made another small adjustment in her previous judgment of the Duc as an idle aristocrat. "You must have learned to cook as a child," he incidently noted between mouthfuls. "Do the Absarokee have a variation on Hunters' Pheasant? It's equally good cooked out of doors." Daisy was resting against her chairback, ten-course meals normally eight courses too lengthy for her appetite. "We prepare a pheasant dish with native vegetables, although the flavor is quite different and… yes, I once did cook, although my skills are all but forgotten now, I'm afraid." His hands were extremely large and tanned. He must not use gloves riding. "The summer camps used to offer me some opportunities to refresh my memory," she went on, unconsciously iring the strong line of his jaw, "but I find myself with less and less time to spend long weeks up in the mountains."

"A shame," he said, turning to her,"… about the mountains, I mean. Cooking, of course—" he shrugged, "isn't a requirement in a beautiful woman's repertoire." She felt curiously for a moment as though she'd heard a touch of regret in his voice. She couldn't have, she decided in the next instant—surely in his class, women hadn't been within calling distance of a kitchen for centuries. And as she digested the substance of his statement concerning repertoires, she was certain she'd grossly misinterpreted. His remark was pure lordly arrogance. "Do you feel there are actually requirements!" she very softly inquired. The notion that women had repertoires and for what purpose seemed the height of chauvinist crassness. Hearing the prickly asperity in her soft voice, he knew he'd touched a nerve. As an American woman, she was automatically in the vanguard of independent women; as an Indian woman who'd accomplished the remarkable feat of becoming a lawyer, she rose distinctly above the norm. She was rare. And since he wanted that rarity, he decided to challenge her, since he suspected heated controversy and debate might intrigue her more than the conventional protocol of seduction. His was an intuitive assessment based more on personal experience with women in general than experience with specific Absarokee female lawyers, but he surmised what fascinated her most, as it did him, was a challenge. She, of course, would enjoy winning. As would he. But at that point in the contest all pretense at equality ended. He intended to win. Both the lady and her ion. "There are basic requirements of course," he pleasantly said, pushing his empty plate aside so he could concentrate on the lovely flush of anger suffusing her face. "Such as?" she coolly inquired, her golden skin pinked by her annoyance. "We're assuming beauty, I presume," he casually replied, not waiting for her affirmation—he took the snapping heat in her eyes as acknowledgment. "Geniality, I think, is important. And if a woman rides and dances well, it never hurts." "From your description, Monsieur le Duc," Daisy said with a crispness indicating enormous self-control over her temper, "I'd venture to say the only quality you neglected to mention in this brief catalogue is availability." "I didn't think it necessary to mention. All women are available." Daisy clenched her hands together to keep from striking him for his smugness. "You're married, of course." "Yes." "Does your wife practice this 'availability' as well?" She hoped to wound his pride. "I'm afraid I've never noticed," he mildly replied. His pride had never been related in any way to his wife. Their marriage was a dynastic one, arranged when he and Isabelle were still very young. The practice of aligning powerful families through marriage was age-old and practical. Theirs was not a love match, and his friends knew it. He had at one time, long ago, been less blasé about his marriage, envying those of his friends who'd found love in their marriages of convenience. His youthful feelings of regret had ed, as had his youth, some time ago, and he and Isabelle existed in the acceptable fashion of most aristocratic unions. He saw to the estates, she to their homes, they spoke occasionally on a rare evening together at home. He would have liked to say she'd raised the children but in reality the nannies and governesses and tutors had. And while he'd always felt their marriage had never been cause for joy, he was grateful to Isabelle for having

given him two children he adored. The twins had been born exactly nine months after their marriage day, at which point Isabelle had made it plain her conjugal duties as wife were over. So his answer to Daisy's question, while appearing ungallant, was essentially true. There was no reason, after Isabelle's position was made clear, why he should concern himself with futile speculation of who was available to whom. "Look," he said, his mood abruptly altered as it often was at mention of his wife, "I'm sorry I angered you. My attempt at teasing was juvenile. I apologize." His tone as well as his expression was so suddenly changed, so unusual and out of character, Daisy scrutinized his handsome face to discern further evidence of ridicule. His eyes seemed darker beneath his heavy brows as though shadowed by some elusive pain. "Friends?" he softly inquired, his bronzed hand before her suddenly in peace. "You're a beautiful, intelligent, supremely confident young woman and I'm sure your family is very proud of you." Hesitating briefly, Daisy absorbed the odd compliment, at-tempting to gauge the sincerity of his tone. Then, shyly smiling, she took his hand. She looked momentarily like a very young girl with the tentative innocence of her smile until she subtly modulated the upturning of her lush pink lips, adding a hint of sensuousness. And Etienne Martel, 27th Duc de Vec, felt a startling, unprecedented, intense emotion. Immediately aware of the profound impact of Daisy's smile and too long a product of his class and gender, the Duc immediately began rationalizing his sensations. She was of flawless beauty. Naturally he was attracted. He was already aware of his attraction, had, in fact, maneuvered himself into her company tonight for that exact reason. Additionally, she was an uncommon woman—a rare combination of beauty and intelligence. Naturally she'd induce more than his normal response to a lovely female. Maybe the exotic qualities of Red Indian and far-flung wilderness beneath her sophistication bewitched him. Maybe he expected to be eaten alive once he took her to bed and his body was responding in anticipation. Maybe he was simply feeling his age—he would be forty on his next birthday—and her glorious youth was turning his head. Then, with an expertise honed to perfection by years of practice, he brushed aside the inexplicables and immediately took advantage of his advantage. She was smiling, genuinely, her small warm hand clasped in his, her heady scent filling his senses. How very convenient, the hunter in him reflected. "Would you care to dance?" he said, his smile amiable, his manner nonthreatening, gracious. "I think I've done sufficient justice to Armand's meal not to offend and I hear Adelaide's musicians tuning up." Ignoring the reasons she shouldn't—the ones having to do with his scandalous reputation; the ones warning her away from the most popular ladies' man in Paris; the ones labeling him incorrigibly unfaithful; those feelings that had always until now found her unsympathetic to men so handsome they could live off their looks alone; the practical considerations that had kept her immune from dazzling smiles and cultivated charm—she only felt the warmth and strength of his hand enveloping hers. "I usually don't dance," he quietly said. She understood what he was revealing. His quiet sincerity humbled her. "I'd like to dance," she declared, nodding slightly. The diamonds in her ears sparkled with her movement and he wanted at that moment, with feelings too unfathomable to even begin to decipher—he wanted to give her his grandmother's

diamonds and say, "Here… you'll glorify them." Her dark hair and coloring would be a perfect foil for their brilliance, like stars set against a lush midnight sky. Adelaide and Valentin exchanged glances when the Duc excused himself and Daisy from the table. "Before dessert?" one plump young matron remarked, her glance assessing the frothy strawberry meringue being carried in by a footman. "We'll have dessert later," the Duc politely replied, Daisy's hand in his as they stood to leave. "It might be gone by then," the lady persisted, genuinely concerned anyone would miss the pastry chef's fantasia. The Duc only smiled, unable to utter the indelicate response ready on his tongue. Daisy said, "Do you mind, Adelaide, if we abandon the strawberry meringue?" "Of course not. We'll you shortly," she said, waving them away with a smile. They were a magnificent couple, Adelaide noted as Daisy and the Duc left the room, both tall and dark-haired with skin very close in hue. Maybe Etienne wasn't sun-bronzed; maybe he did have origins in the Asian plains as he'd mentioned during dinner. That explanation would for his unusual eyes with their suggestion of Eastern antecedents. She should ask Caroline, who'd entertained Etienne two summers ago when they'd been yachting off the Sardinian coast. She'd know whether his complexion was due to the sun or whether he was naturally dark.

"Any request?" Etienne asked, looking down at Daisy as they stood just inside the small parquet-floored room serving tonight as ballroom for Adelaide's dinner party. "Nothing strenuous," she said, smiling up at him. "I think all the food has put me to sleep." Although the tempting line offered myriad suggestive replies, he cautioned himself to prudence. He was in no hurry. At his recommendation, the musicians played a gentle waltz and when Etienne drew Daisy into his arms they both felt an unusual sensation. Unusual for the Duc, who had spent most of his adult life seeking various forms of excess, but equally unusual for Daisy, who had as an adult always experienced an elusive sense of seeking. They both felt—comfort. Her face was lifted to his as they glided across the floor with a familiar, restful ease. "You must ride," the Duc said, Daisy's steps matching his effortlessly, her slender body elegant, at ease in his arms. He grinned as he added teasingly, "although it's not a requirement. I only mean you're an extremely graceful dancer." "I spent a great deal of my first twelve years on horseback. We followed the buffalo." Her smile reflected her pleasure in those memories as well as her current sense of well-being. "We'll have to ride together." He found himself constantly having to redefine as other interpretive possibilities struck both their senses. "I mean, we could ride in the Bois. Do you rise early?"

She smiled. He grinned. "Forgive me. I'm not being intentionally suggestive. For once in my life," he added with a rueful quirk of his mouth. "Thank you," Daisy simply said, curiously aware of the full import of his brief addendum. "And for once in my life I'm not weighing the next ten possibilities in chronological sequence." "Is this a religious experience?" Etienne asked with a lush smile recalling secular pleasures. Her answering smile reminded him of the sunny skies of his childhood. "If it were, the churches would be jammed." "How can you so readily read my mind, Mademoiselle Black?" His voice had turned husky. "Perhaps because our minds are in perfect accord, Monsieur le Duc." She was looking directly into his jungle-green eyes, and opulent was the only word to describe the dark beauty of her gaze. "Will this perfect harmony take on a more corporeal reality, Mademoiselle Black?" He came to a stop, disconcerting the musicians who missed two beats before continuing to play, but he didn't relinquish his hold on Daisy's waist. In fact, placing his other hand low on her back, he gently tugged her closer. Daisy's gown of beaded silver tulle matched the glimmer of her diamonds. Set against the tall powerful Duc, black as the devil in his severely cut evening clothes, she appeared ethereal as moonbeams. "Alas, Monsieur," she softly said, the smallest touch of regret in her voice, her palms resting on the black satin of his lapels, "your reputation precedes you. How can I become another casualty of your seductive charm?" "A rather harsh word for pleasure, Mademoiselle." His voice was very low. "It's not the pleasure I question, Etienne," she said, using his Christian name for the first time, "but rather its longevity." "You want commitment?" He'd never been so bluntly asked. Women usually insinuated themselves into the subject by circuitous routes. "I don't think that's what I want." Her dark eyes held his steadily. "Although certainly it's not yours to freely give." "What do you want?" If they were being blunt, was he allowed a direct question as well? "Something," she very quietly said, "I don't think you can give me." "You don't know me," he said equally softly. "You don't know what I can give." "I know your style of man. This is a game." "It can be a game for women too." "I don't want that."

He was silent for a time as they stood alone in the center of the floor, savoring the rare beauty of their closeness, as though the feeling of witchery were apart from the complexities they were discussing. "This is all very new to me," he said at last. Daisy smiled. "I think not. In fact," she went on in a voice he suspected she used to clarify points to a client, "this is much too familiar to you. And with that I take issue." "So your scruples aren't with the act but with me." She sighed and in that at least he took satisfaction. "Yes," she said finally. He was more skilled than she, infinitely more skilled. "Very well," he said with deceitful rue, as though he reluctantly gave up the chase. "I understand. A pity though, I can't alter my past. But you dance superbly, you're the most beautiful woman in Paris, and with that I'll be content." Why, Daisy thought, did she feel as though she'd lost?

A note arrived the next morning on Daisy's breakfast tray along with a small nosegay of violets.

Georges would be pleased to explain to you why we can't possibly be related. If you wish… the museum is open for you at one. I'll send my driver. The heavy crested paper was signed with a wide slashing E and somehow she was pleased she might see him although his note was unclear. Was the appointment for her alone?

Apparently, yes, she realized when the carriage came for her. The Duc was absent. As he should have been, she reflected, seating herself in the center of the padded velvet bench, smoothing the skirt of her gown in an uncharacteristically punctilious gesture. Daisy wasn't one for taking notice of wrinkles; she rarely concerned herself with fashion. Only her family would have considered it odd she left seven discarded dresses behind in her room. If asked, Daisy would have muttered something about the warm day and the inappropriate materials in the dresses she'd tried on and rejected. Of course she hadn't expected the Duc. Last night she'd very properly refused his advances. This morning he'd very properly extended the invitation to her since he knew of her interest, but had also very properly avoided any further . Everything was very proper. There was satisfaction in knowing she'd refused him. There was satisfaction, was there not! She turned to the cityscape beyond the carriage windows when the requisite answer failed to immediately surface, unwilling to it her emotions weren't precisely falling in line with propriety.

Georges Martel, the second son of a second son, was a fainter version of the magnetic Duc, the dust of academia having softened the harsh masculinity so obvious in his cousin. But his manners were as superb when he greeted Daisy and his voice as attractive as he launched into a description of his original research begun ten years before. "Etienne and I crossed Russia in the early eighties, following the migration routes across the Aleutians into North America. We were away two years." "The Duc on a scientific expedition?" the skepticism in Daisy's voice was obvious. Georges looked at the young woman seated across from him, her summer frock like a colorful splash of scented femininity in his book-lined study, and wondered why Etienne had requested this tour for her. Did he feel that, as a Red Indian, she'd be interested in his research? Somehow, he thought, Etienne's reason was probably less simple. His cousin's voice had been oddly constrained when he spoke of the woman. Unusual. As was this request for a tour. So he answered the lady's skepticism with some detail. "Etienne financed the expedition," he began. "Without him my research wouldn't have been authenticated. And he was the one who always urged me on when problems arose. If not for him, I'd have turned back the first time our guides bolted." "Bolted?" Daisy understood whitemen traveling through strange lands. She continually had to reassess her image of the idle, leisured Duc. "Our Tashkent guides were horse thieves first. Luckily they had no interest in any of the scientific materials. Etienne found us new guides and horses." "And you went on… for two years? Your family didn't mind?" "I'm not married and my parents my choice. As for my brothers…" He smiled. "They're too busy racing horses to notice when I'm gone."

"And the Duc's family?" Georges hesitated, debating whether the lady was being coy. Etienne didn't actually have a family. He thought that fact was common knowledge. He and Isabelle had never gotten along. And while the Duc loved his children, once they were away at school, his daily life no longer revolved around their schedules. "Justin and Jolie were at school," Georges briefly said, reluctant to disclose details of Etienne's private life. "Would you like to see the artifacts we brought back?" For the next hour, Daisy was absorbed in the rich history of the Asian tribes, fascinated by the slow march of man across the continents. Familiar deities emerged from cultures long preceding hers, deities transmuted by time into benevolent gods protecting the Absarokee nation. Georges described the provenance of each of the sculptured pieces, estimated their dates, detailed the artists' techniques, and brought the ancient cultures alive. Within her own traditions, Daisy discovered astonishing similarities apparently surviving intact through thousands of years. Moved and delighted, she was deeply interested in the papers Georges had published. Later, seated with Georges over tea in his study, poring over charts and photographs of their journey, she wished Etienne were with them to add his to his cousin's. He had been the expedition cartographer, Georges told her, another facet of the Duc exposed to further alter her image. Picturing him crossing the landmass of Russia and the Arctic in extremity and danger as Georges traced their journey on the map spread between them, she realized Etienne was considerably more complex than the facile courtier she'd envisioned. "Come back whenever you wish," Georges invited when she rose to leave. "Any friend of Etienne's is always welcome." After spending time with Daisy, Georges better understood his cousin's response. She was interesting, interested, and very beautiful. As Daisy walked through the imposing double doors of the Hôtel Soubise and crossed the medieval cobbled courtyard to the carriage waiting for her, she wondered where the Duc was playing polo this afternoon. In the next instant, she questioned why she was impractical enough to be curious. She'd made her position clear last night. Even if the Duc weren't married, even if he weren't notorious for the brevity of his affairs, they had absolutely nothing in common. At her approach, the crested carriage-door swung open, and from the shadowed interior a familiar deep voice drawled, "He must have liked you. The tour usually takes twenty minutes." Inexplicably, the spring sun seemed to shine with added radiance. His strong hand came out to help her in. Seating her opposite him on the green velvet seat, he tapped twice on the forward ing. "Do you need a sherry after the dryness of Georges's lecture?" he asked as the carriage moved off across the courtyard. "Georges's lecture wasn't dry, as you very well know. Why didn't you us?" "I was being sensible."

She understood immediately his quiet brief declaration, uttered entirely without inflection yet Byzantine in substance. "You didn't play polo today." She wanted the words to authenticate their feelings. "I had other things on my mind," he tersely said, not forthcoming with the desired words, not inclined to bare the quixotic nature of his impulses. "Would you like a drink?" "Do you want to talk?" "No." His answer was softly abrupt. "Where would you like to have a drink?" she quietly asked, her own inclinations as utterly deviant from ordinary behavior as the Duc's. Lounging in the seat opposite her, casually dressed in a lightweight tweed jacket, and riding pants, his boots slightly dusty, he only looked at her from under his dark brows. His black hair was disheveled as though he'd restlessly run his hands through it, its silky darkness lying in curls against his tanned neck and the creamy silk of his shirt collar. And she was reminded again how very beautiful he was. "I don't know about Adelaide's," she began when he didn't answer. "I have a small house on the Seine." "I don't want to go there," she brusquely said. "I've never taken a woman there," he said, almost equally brusquely. Did that include his wife, she found herself jealously thinking, marveling at the same time at the degree of possessiveness she was already feeling. How could he affect her so? Like a prize she wanted, or a beautiful object close enough to reach out and take if she wished. "Not Isabelle either," he tersely said. "Satisfied?" He was making concessions to her—openly. "I don't want to be demanding." "But you just are," he said with a small smile. "I'm sorry." He shrugged as if to say it didn't matter or perhaps it mattered but he didn't care—right now—this moment. Would he care tomorrow? Would the whole world change, Daisy wondered, or more aptly, how much would her world change? For the first time in her life she was relinquishing control of her emotions. Her father would be happy. He'd always thought her too grave and pragmatic. Intense feelings of family washed over her momentarily. "We are different," she said, as if some explanation was required for this tremendous step she was about to take. "Why would you want to be the same?"

He could have been more courteous. He normally practiced an amiable cordiality without effort. Contrary emotions, however, were buffeting long-established principles of living for him as well. He'd never taken a woman to his house near Colsec because it was his refuge from the excesses of his life. Colsec was his private haven, with only a cook and one manservant. No one knew of it—not his family nor his friends. He was intruding into his sanctuary today. Out of necessity, he told himself. He couldn't bring Daisy home, although the Hôtel de Vec was large enough that he'd entertained ladies frequently in his apartments without offending anyone in his family. Somehow he knew Daisy wouldn't approve of meeting at his family home. His bachelor apartment near the Place de la Concorde would be even more awkward. He found he couldn't treat her like all the other women. So his private retreat would be sacrificed today for the singular Mademoiselle from America. The thought pinched for a moment like a tight boot. "I don't know if I like you when you're sullen," Daisy said, his whole lounging posture, creased brows, and silence the picture of discontent. "I don't know if I like you at all," he murmured, his eyes traveling with impolite regard down the flowered organza of her spring gown, returning with deliberate scrutiny to her lavish bosom before moving upward to her face. "Although don't be alarmed," he ambiguously added. "I'm not alarmed." Her voice was clear and sure. "I'm old enough to know what I'm doing." "How old is that?" Not that it mattered. He was curious only. "Thirty." His brows rose in swift surprise. She looked much younger. With the pale green ribbons in her hair and the delicate flowered gown, she looked sixteen. "Why is it you're never married?" "I've never been in love." He smiled thinly. "A romantic woman. Need I remind you," he said, glancing out the window briefly at the ing scenery, "it's not a prerequisite for marriage." "And you should know," she replied with quiet emphasis. His eyes held hers for one cool moment. "And I should know," he softly breathed. On that cheerful note they rolled to a stop at the end of a small private lane before a pretty thatched-roof cottage less precious than Marie Antoinette's playtoys at Versailles, but nearly of a size. It was wretched, Etienne thought, helping Daisy down, to want a woman this badly. If he was less miserable, Daisy thought, she wouldn't be feeling this overwhelming need to comfort him. They were an odd and mismatched pair on the brink of a seduction. It was moot at the moment who was the seducer and who the seducee. It was additionally moot whether one enormous gigantic mistake was about to occur.

And to add to the general disarray of circumstances, apparently both his servants were gone—it must be market day, he never could . The house was stoutly locked. A riot of flowers surrounded the cottage in gardens, on trellises, in pots and window boxes. While Etienne stood cursing on the front stoop, unable to open the door, Daisy plucked a double white rose from the trellis near the door and slipped it into his lapel buttonhole. "Cheer up. Everything will be fine. I don't intend to eat you alive." Looking down at Daisy standing beside him, her small hand still resting on his lapel, her smile open and warm, her dark eyes winsome with gaiety, he suddenly grinned. "I was hoping you would." "In that case, then, I might make an exception. I'm glad the servants are gone." He paused for a moment considering. "I suppose you're right." His grin widened. Although he'd never thought of servants as intruding. One never noticed. Somehow the idea of a secluded hermitage with Daisy was appealing. "When do you think they'll be back"—she moved a step closer—"from the market?" Her voice had changed. With the trellis behind her, the pale roses framing her dark beauty, she seemed suddenly as though she belonged at Colsec. "Tonight." "That late." She smiled suggestively, a siren in flowered organza and pale green hair ribbons. "Have I told you I adore you?" he said, gently, placing his hands on her bare arms. "How reassuring," she replied, smiling up at him. "I was afraid you made love with a scowl." Her directness was delightful. "Are you propositioning me?" "Did we drive all the way out here to really have a drink?" she mildly inquired. Which reminded him tardily of the coachman. "You're welcome to wait in the village, Guillaume," he shouted to the driver. "Come back at dusk." Since Guillaume had been raised in Colsec, he didn't require a more detailed invitation. A moment later, the Duc and Daisy were utterly alone, standing before Etienne's locked cottage. "Well?" Daisy said with an age-old female inflection requiring some masculine action. "Stand back," the Duc immediately said. Picking up a garden spade leaning against the brick wall, he broke the window adjacent to the door, reached in and unlatched the lock. Pushing the door open, he smiled warmly at Daisy. "Welcome, Mademoiselle Black, to my humble home."

The cottage was a jewel box of a home, several million francs removed from humble, filled with Etienne's favorite paintings and furniture and a great many Indian artifacts collected during his expedition with Georges. The tile floors were covered with thick woven rugs in the deep tones of natural dyes, patterned in severe geometric styles. The furniture was leather and pillow-strewn with a primitive simplicity that reminded Daisy intensely of her own Absarokee heritage. Masks, totems, and sculptures brought vividly to mind the painted shields, parfleches, and special decorated lodges of her culture. She stood arrested in the entrance to the small timber-ceilinged parlor taking in the staggering sense of déjà vu. Even the flowers in vases and those visible through the large mullioned windows in the extravagant garden behind the house were natural to her prairie home. "Do you like it?" The Duc's voice was deep and soft and very near. Without turning she knew he was no more than a foot behind her. "The flowers—where did they come from?" She moved then so she faced him. "We had a botanist with the expedition. Everything was documented and carefully saved. My gardeners have been working ten years to transform those few seeds into this display." "I feel like I'm home." "I thought you might. It was my rationale for bringing you here." "This was deliberate? You wouldn't have had to go to so much trouble." Her voice had taken on that edge they'd both been struggling with. "No," he said evenly, "it wasn't deliberate. Had I been deliberate," he went on, his tone carefully modulated, "I wouldn't have brought you here." He took a cautious breath, unfamiliar with revealing his

inner feelings, and added, "My friends don't even know of this house. My servants know me by one of my minor titles. I'm private here. So, no… my intention wasn't deliberate bringing you to Colsec. It was a completely senseless decision without a taint of the Duc de Vec you find so offensive." "I'm sorry," Daisy quietly said, "For my obvious bad manners." "I could apologize as well, I suppose… but why don't I show you my small domain instead? I don't know," he said with a moodiness he'd been fighting all afternoon, "if I want to apologize." "What do you find so resentful?" "The unprecedented upheavals in my life," he simply said. "I had over the years fashioned an orderly life of reasonable content." He looked around the small parlor that until today had been an exclusive male reserve. "I find your presence," he quietly added, "threatening to that reasonable content." She was surprised at his choice of words. "Reasonable content hardly approximates your public persona. You're a man of excess." "A term," he dryly said, "as superficial as the concept." "If I offer you excess too," Daisy declared, trying to be as open as possible in this minefield of possibilities, "will that threaten you?" The Duc smile. "We're talking about different things." "You it you're no monk." He shrugged and held out his hand instead of answering. "Come. I don't like the direction of this conversation. The past doesn't interest me." He smiled down at her like an indulgent father. "Unless of course, you're interested in telling me of your childhood." He wanted to know the young girl who'd become the unusual woman he wanted with such novel and mixed emotions. As though he might be able to solve the puzzle of her allure and his uncommon desire if she began at the very beginning. He asked her small details as they toured his cottage and when they came into his bedroom under the eaves painted white like a milkmaid's dairy, sparsely furnished with only a large bed and one chair, she moved toward the bed. He checked her movement, pulling her through the open glass doors to the small balcony built over the river, seating her in a chaise—much worn and collapsible—like one an officer might take on a campaign. "Sit by me," Daisy said, when he released her hand and moved away. "Later," he answered, as though he had some timetable she didn't know, and Daisy felt a small heat race through her body. He dropped onto a small hassock of woven willow near her. "Tell me about your mother," he said, not sure himself why he was adverse to haste in this afternoon rendezvous. "Did she find happiness in her marriage?" Daisy nodded, wondering if perhaps her mother's content with Seven Arrows had forever spoiled Daisy for society marriages. Her father Hazard's marriage as well was a love match. Both her parents had found lasting happiness with companions that made the Martin Soderbergs of the world pale in comparison.

"My mother died," Daisy quietly began, "because she and Seven Arrows were never apart. When he hunted, she always went with him, although a woman on a hunt was unusual. When a grizzly attacked Seven Arrows, she tried to save him. He was armed only with a knife, and her rifle jammed with five rounds still in the chamber." Daisy's voice dropped to a whisper as the vivid memories returned. "They were both badly mauled." "I'm sorry… I shouldn't have asked." He touched her hand lightly. "Are you all right?" She nodded. "So many years have ed, the memories are much less painful, but…" She sighed. "I miss the days of my childhood. That entire way of life has vanished. Disappeared as though it never existed." She lifted her eyes so they regarded him. "Father's right, of course, to have salvaged what he could for his people." "And you've become an advocate for them." "It was expected of me." "A novel idea," Etienne said with a small rueful smile. "Nothing was expected of me. It was enough to be born de Vec." "Do you regret that?" Her question was tentative since his mood was so elusive and pensive. "I don't regret my children." They were the only positive in his life that he was certain of. "And my grandchild." Their pictures were on the bedroom walls. She'd noticed immediately, aware the cottage was indeed his private sanctuary. One didn't bring one's potential lovers to sparsely furnished, stark bedrooms with photos of one's family the only decor. It warmed her enormously to know she'd been invited to such a private retreat. "Tell me about them." He answered with a rare warmth in his tone, briefly detailing their dispositions, their residences within the blocklong Hôtel de Vec, their current interests. Justin had recently left St. Cyr and was restless. Like you, Daisy thought. Jolie had made a very grand love match and was happy. Unlike you, Daisy reflected, the deep hushed tones of his voice serene somehow like the warm spring day and the lazy flowing river below and his daughter's happiness. When he described his grandson Hector, his laughter was a revealing glimpse beyond the powerful figure of the man. His adoration was plain to see. They talked then in easy conversation about children and nieces and nephews, exchanging pleasantries about the joys of youth. And much later, when he made no move to touch her nor gave indication of the amorous gallant, she said, "Do you mind if I take off my shoes?" He almost said no, because he was weighing the risks of desire against the inevitable disillusion and he was much too happy or content or whatever word best described the sensations of pleasure he was feeling. The river moved slowly below them. An occasional dragonfly swooped upward from the pale green water, through the dappled shadows of the willows. The sun was tempered by the shading trees and Daisy Black, the most tantalizing woman he'd ever seen, was three feet away, lounging cool and elegant before him. He could have her; she'd made it quite clear.

What he was debating was how long he wanted to savor this pleasant absolute against the possible unknown. If one's emotions weren't involved—and until today he'd never realized they were a factor in making love—the facile pursuit of pleasure was predictable. He knew how he would feel be-fore, during, and after. Only the variations and subtleties changed. Now suddenly he didn't know. But he'd never been a coward so he said, smiling, "Please do." As she untied the green silk ribbons on her small-heeled shoes, then slipped her white silk stockings from her legs, he watched, feeling perilously close to losing control. But years of pleasing women had tempered his urges, had taught him the rituals of self-restraint, and he called all his expertise into play. He would not embarrass himself—he grinned a small faint smile—and attack her, although the impulse was powerful. "Your smile is intriguing. May I share the feeling?" Daisy softly said, not wanting to wait much longer to see if the Duc's reputation was genuine. "Actually," he replied, his green eyes amused, "I was debating the merits of attacking you." "A man of your finesse?" "You see my dilemma." His grin widened. "I have a reputation to consider." "It was that exact reputation I was considering exploring." "Is this a research exercise?" He lifted one brow in ironic inquiry. "Heavens no," Daisy said, untying one of the ribbons in her hair. "I thought I'd teach you what I know as well." He looked momentarily surprised and she laughed like a child might in discovering a new treat. "Didn't you know the Absarokee are an egalitarian society?" Her smile was teasing. "I may have forgotten," the Duc carefully said, digesting her smile, her languorous tone, the deliberate statement of her past history. Sliding the ribbon free, she dropped it with a graceful gesture next to her discarded shoes and stockings. Her dark-lashed eyes lifted to his. "Are you intimidated?" "I don't think so," he quietly said, shrugging off his jacket with comfortable ease. "Should I be?" he added, smiling at her as he reached down to pull off his riding boots. He didn't suppose it would be polite to mention he held the record at Madame Beloy's bordello where the exhibitions tended toward the unusual in virtuosity and endurance. Daisy began unbuttoning her dress as casually as he was discarding his clothes, his creme silk shirt having followed his jacket to the balcony floor. When he stepped out of his twill riding pants, Daisy remarked, "Those are different." She was referring to his underclothing made of white cotton and briefer than the usual male style. He'd had them designed for comfort—particularly for playing polo.

"How would you know?" he retorted, his curt reply not based on any sound reasoning, but a response instead to her insolent self-possession. "Because I've lived on this earth for thirty years and had my eyes open for a good deal of that time." "Sarcastic women annoy me," he murmured, his gaze faintly glowering. "As do arrogant men, me. Am I not allowed an innocuous remark?" "Concerning your repertoire of men's underclothes, no. I've always considered it impolite to discuss previous lovers." "My, we're touchy. Did I say anything about lovers?" Her smile was the kind he very much wanted to wipe away with an equally innocuous remark. "Surely," she added, "you don't want a woman who agrees with you completely." "We don't agree on much, actually," he quietly replied, wondering perhaps if he'd made a mistake today. He was leaning against the carved balcony railing, very much at his ease, clad only in his crisp white briefs, his bronzed body in stark contrast to the brilliant white cotton, his muscles clearly defined from his powerful pectorals down the length of his lean form to the hard contours of his thighs and calves used so habitually in playing polo. Being nude before a woman—a woman he hardly knew—was apparently not uncomfortable. Daisy smiled. Her father Hazard would have recognized the smile. It was her mother's. "Actually," she mimicked very softly, "on one or two things," and her smile heated the depths of her beautiful dark eyes, "I think we might agree." He grinned suddenly, reminded succinctly that pleasure wasn't a cerebral exercise. "What would you say," he murmured, his smile in place, his strong hand extended to pull her up from the chaise, "if we didn't make it to the bed?" Her answering smile was the most provocative evocation of sensuality he'd seen in a lifetime of investigating provocative sensuality. "I'd say," she replied, her voice scented with promise, "next time we could try the bed." His hand closed over hers. "Fair enough," he said. He finished undressing her as she stood before him, removing her clothing smoothly, without haste or awkwardness. Obviously he understood the intricacies of hooks and lacing and eyelets. When he discovered eventually she was wearing no drawers, he murmured with a mocking smile, "Now that's different." . Her smile was beguiling and lush. "I won't ask how you know," she whispered back, teasing frolic in her voice. He ignored her mockery, mildly intrigued. "Is it your Absarokee background?" "I could say yes, because we don't wear underclothing on the plains, but that's not relevant here in Paris. The truth is," she said very, very softly, "I was hoping you'd come to fetch me at one today and I thought I might entertain you on the carriage ride to your cousin Georges's museum."

His smile sharply creased his tanned face, lit up his eyes. "I'm sorry now I was being so sensible." "It just goes to show you the folly in prudence." Reaching up, she brushed his chin lightly with a kiss. "You prefer imprudence then," he murmured, running his hands over her shoulders. "Yes," she said, taking a small breath to steady her nerves, trembling slightly at his touch. His large hands were practiced; he knew exactly how to slide his warm palms and splayed fingers along the verge of her collarbone, brushing the swelling slope of her breasts only teasingly, then travel upward until his fingers slipped into the silk of her hair. "And venturesomeness," he quietly pursued. "Yes." Daisy softly breathed, feeling him pull the first pin from her coiled upswept hair. "Something wild would interest you." His voice was cool, as though he were not saying "wild." And she responded to the restrained paradox as much as the word. "Yes," she said very low, knowing a man with eyes like a jungle cat could be wild. Her hair fell loose over her shoulders as he slid the pins free, heavy black silk he lifted forward, wrapped his hands around and tugged until she was pressed to his tall strong body, until she could feel his arousal pulsing fiercely against her stomach. "So you want something reckless and rash." His deep voice was asking and promising at the same time. And maybe he was pushing her, only slightly, because she'd been pushing him since the first moment they'd met at Adelaide's. "Yes," she answered, this woman who prided herself on constraint. "Yes," she softly added, thinking surely in these brief moments she must be losing all reason. Lifting her suddenly as though she were no more than a small weightless object, he placed her on his iron-framed chaise that had traveled the world with him. The linen cushion was bleached white from the sun and well-worn, as were so many of the furnishings in this home. Display wasn't a natural bent for the magnificent, elegant Duc de Vec. His hermitage was modest, plain. Discarding his underwear quickly, he followed her down and she momentarily wondered as he lay above her if the chaise would hold both their weights. Was he telepathic or was the inquiry so evident in her eyes… or did he recall previous experiences on his campaign chair? How many had preceded her on this chaise in what outland corners of the world, she wondered. "Don't ask," he said before she did. "And kiss me now." He kissed her first but she was more than willing; she had, since her abrupt leave-taking of the Duc at Adelaide's ball been consumed with curiosity and desire. And after much internal debate she was here and he was here and the sun was deliciously warm on her skin. She came up for breath after that first fierce, staggering, intense, immoderate, artistically imaginative kiss that seeped downward like a luscious dream and, half-breathless still, said, "You're very good."

"I should be. But then," he added, smoothly suave and vaguely discontent, "so are you." "Up against your experience," she breathed, her heavy lashes half lowered against the brilliant sun, "I shouldn't be. But then," she went on, her smile faintly challenging, "perhaps it's not a question of quantity." "Why do I have this constant and overwhelming urge to beat you?" he growled, resting on his elbows, gazing down at her with his re-occurring scowl. "Because you've been spoiled by too many simpering females who agree with your masculine view of women. What I offer you is mine to give—not yours to take. And yet, whenever I tres on your prerogatives, you scowl. Now I hope what I'm about to say won't bring on a beating"—she was tempting him with a relentlessly provocative tilt of her chin and lifted brow—"but if you don't make love to me very soon, I'm going to beat you." He reacted as she knew he would because he was degage by nature and practiced by circumstance, but she also saw the tiniest hesitation, that minute pause when he considered leaving her. "Offered such a charming choice," he softly said instead, "I accept." "Which?" she asked coquettishly and heatedly. "Both," he pleasantly said. He made love to her gently at first, kissing and caressing her, stroking each warm sun-washed portion of her anatomy until she wondered if all the extravagant stories recently revealed to her at Adelaide's were really true and he could indeed make unremitting love for days. But she didn't want to wait to find out just this moment so she stopped the path of his hands with hers and said, "Please, Etienne…" "And all the rest… darling?" Her eyes were heated with desire, her small hands hot on his, the slow rhythm of her hips beneath him imploring. "It's been so long… could we postpone all… the rest for later?" she murmured, the exquisite need inside her flame-hot. He only smiled, thinking she wasn't perhaps as venturesome as she'd implied. Since his youth he'd never experienced a long period of sexual abstinence. He chastised himself a moment later for being so unworldly that it pleased him she was not promiscuous. He obliged her then, entering her slowly until he rested deep inside her, and the sigh drifting up to his ear was one of bliss. He began moving cautiously, not sure any longer of the degree of her proficiency—her words and actions so opposite—carefully monitoring the extent of her need and involvement. Her hands almost immediately closed on his shoulders and seconds later slid down his back to draw him nearer. She felt like heated velvet and he too emitted a deep low sound of pleasure, their bodies fitting together as perfectly as he'd envisioned in the ardent fantasies enlivening his thoughts since their meeting. She was slender but not fragile, tall but not too tall, voluptuous in a healthy fresh way, distinct from the florid showy abundance of his usual lovers. "You're too perfect," he whispered, sliding in again as if to test perfection, pleasure pouring through his

senses like a cavalry charge over-running a retreat. The rebuff was plain in his voice, however soft, and it charmed her to hear his artless protest. It charmed her more to know her own intense feelings were reciprocated. Although no unenlightened virgin, her experience was not vast, perhaps because until this moment she'd never felt this glowing tempestuous ion. Had she, she would have been inclined to seek it out again and again. He dwarfed her although she wasn't a small woman; he was, under the stroking palms of her hands, strong and muscled and he felt in the heated interior of her body as though he were giving her ravishment and delight and fragrant palatable glimpses into unalloyed sensation. When he began to glide in each time, she found herself holding her breath so the concentration of dizzying feeling wouldn't be diminished, and each time when peaking splendor seemed milliseconds away, he withdrew and kissed her while she rubbed against him and ate at his mouth and pleaded with him to give her more. He always did but with a discretion he understood to perfection until the intensity of her desire was wild and unbridled and profligate. And when her resplendent climax overcame her at last, she collapsed in his arms, melted around him, whispered unintelligible pleasure sounds which brought a satisfied smile to his lips. Her lashes lifted after a time and he whispered, "Hello." "Hmmm," she murmured, stretching and content, her gaze taking in the smiling perfection of his face. "Hello back, and thank you." "You're entirely welcome, although I should be thanking you. You're delightful company on a warm spring day." "I think I owe you…" Her eyes were still heavy-lidded with sensuousness. "Not for long," he softly said, moving away from her, then, lifting her into his arms, slid upward on the chaise. Half reclining against the cushioned back, he turned her so she faced him and very slowly slid her down his rigid arousal. Her eyes shut. For a rapturous moment it seemed as though only two people existed in the world, as though they had together found the enchanted land and if she breathed in only tiny little breaths, she wouldn't shatter to bits. This can't be happening, he thought, this ripe, perfumed, impossible ecstasy. He categorically abhorred the word as an incongruous feeling in an imperfect world. Yet he was experiencing ecstasy because an outspoken, lush woman whom he scarcely knew was impaled on his erection, clinging to him with a strength he found surprising. He deliberately moved in her, thinking sensibly that the novel, disturbing sensation would disappear to be replaced by more familiar feelings of pleasure. But when he moved, she moved also, he up and she down and he felt his brain lift away from his head. His hands automatically clamped hard on her hips and pressed downward because any experienced devotee of gratification such as he had automatic reflexes to sustain sensation. And his eyes shut too and he felt exactly as she did. As though they were floating alone in the world. She moved a few moments later and then he did and shortly her languorous eyes opened and much later his and they smiled at each other as though they were the last two people on earth.

When he climaxed at last, she ed him and he felt as though he were fifteen again and joyously alive. She caught herself just in time; she almost said, "I love you," but stifled the words before she uttered the ultimate incivility to the man all of Paris understood did not believe, in love. They made love next with her seated on the balcony rail, tightly held so she didn't fall into the river below. But when he lifted her down from the railing some time later and pressed her back against the cool stone cottage wall, his hands beginning their practiced arousal for the third time, she said "Are you avoiding the bed?" His gaze lifted to look at her and uncertain how to respond, he hesitated. He probably was, he thought. No woman had ever slept in his bed. "Just asking," Daisy casually said, reading his nonresponse, not impelled by any great need to infringe on his territory. The pleasure he was giving her was quite generous enough. "It's only a bed," he said resolutely, his solitude repudiated more easily than he anticipated. Taking her hand, he moved toward the door. "Are you sure? It's not necessary." "I'm rarely sure of anything except my polo ponies' competence. That's about the only certainty I rely on." "So cynical, Monsieur le Duc," Daisy teased, laughter in her eyes, her lush body moving beside his as though they were irrevocably mated, companions from some time long past. "Consider yourself fortunate, Mademoiselle," he lazily drawled, "to have eluded the sensation." "Replaced today though—am I right?—with more joyous feeling. And I like your bed." It was very large, austere, plainly constructed in pale birch. She had a frankness he found refreshing, more—renewing, as though she could disarm the black demons impoverishing his soul. And unlike most women, she knew when to discontinue her occasional tendency toward introspection. "Yes," he said, "I like my bed. Could I interest you in a closer look?" His grin was deliberately wolfish, making Daisy laugh out loud in pleasure. "You're much too handsome for your own good," she chastised, pulling her hand from his in mock disapproval. He was physical perfection of an unparalleled degree. The kind that made other men resigned and women believe God had truly answered their prayers. "You, Mademoiselle, are hardly in a position to remonstrate. The entire world no doubt has been at your feet from the cradle." "Would you care to them?" She was teasing but testing her powers too in a feminine display of vanity. She was too perfect, he thought, as she stood provocatively nude before him, too exotic, too tempting, too assured of her extravagant beauty. "Perhaps some other time," he politely declined, his gaze having

shuttered slightly, the familiar sardonic half-lidded gaze of the Duc de Vec once again regarding her. "I see there have been too many importuning women," Daisy perceptively said. "Forgive me. I said it only in fun." His relief was not immediately apparent. He'd been asked for much, she decided. Predictable but a shame—and perhaps been given too little. "Would you like me to genuflect to you? I'm completely without pride." A startling statement from Hazard Black's daughter, a woman the world regarded without exception as prideful. "No." He was uncomfortable, she could see, as if too many dissatisfying memories were recalled. "If you don't smile, I'll never fuck you again." Her astonishing declaration brought a smile. "Never say I'm a fool," he pleasantly replied. "I've three brothers," she said as though in explanation of her crudity. "How nice," he casually responded. He required no explanation; he hadn't been shocked by anything in years. "And now since I've smiled, I think we're ready for your gracious offer." Playfully tumbling her onto his bed with a small nudge, he followed her down onto the quilted cotton bedcover, his body lightly pinning hers beneath his, his hands gently framing her face. The sun had moved across the sky, the lengthening shadows of late afternoon casting the room in a soft golden glow. Daisy lay against the white coverlet, her dark hair spread in silky disarray, the enchantment she was feeling evident in her large eyes, her soft mouth delicious with temptation. Her golden skin was so silken and fine he thought of sentimentally romantic phrases like "smooth as monumental alabaster, beauty unadorned" and the warmth of her body beneath his was lushly hot like the evening air at the Pyramids. Another seriously romantic analogy, he thought with mild amazement—he was treading on unfamiliar ground. Uncomfortable with the feeling, he bent to kiss her because he knew the sensations of physical lust so much better. His mouth touching hers was all the dreams young girls dream, possessive and gently demanding, moving across the softness of her lips with enough pressure so she felt an answering heat spread like molten gold deep inside her. Daisy kissed him back like a young girl might, offering everything to him, reaching up and clinging to him, wanting him never to leave her. But she wasn't a young girl, and he was the least available man in the world, so in the next pulsebeat she consciously pushed aside the adolescent dream, opened her eyes, took in the diaphanous golden light suffusing the small white room, took in the beauty of the man she held in her arms and said, like an adult would, her lips brushing his, her breath warm against his mouth, "I think I'll keep you for a day or so." His smile was easy, his answer so smoothly compatible she was unable to decide if he was only scrupulously polite or equally moved. "My thought exactly," he said very low so as not to disturb the magic in the room. "You'll have to let cook know what you want for supper." "I didn't necessarily mean it literally," she explained, her words more a feeling of content. "Don't you have plans?" "None more interesting than spending a day or so in bed with you." "Now that I've finally inveigled my way into your bed." Her emphasis on the last word implied her knowledge of the accomplishment.

"Yes," he said, "now that you have…" He replied more softly than he intended, more slowly, as though perhaps he was unconsciously aware of the prophecy in those simple words.

They made love in the sanctified bed and he thought afterward that the altar of his isolation couldn't have been violated with more perfect pleasure. Daisy reminded him of laughter and youth and the refreshing candor of feelings he'd forgotten existed. Much later when she fell asleep in his arms, exhausted by her singular foray into a world of sensation she'd never experi-enced, he lay awake. Etienne's days and nights were often physically demanding; he was immune to Daisy's type of exhaustion. But he was pleasantly content—more—filled with a rare and satisfying serenity. As though there were no need to fill his social schedule to allay the boredom, as though it didn't matter if he'd summarily canceled two days of commitments without concern, as though he didn't have an obligation to attend the King's pre-birthday celebration tonight. The one set aside for family alone. When his manservant came up later, knocked lightly and opened the door to see what Etienne wished for dinner and stood stock-still in the threshold, his gaze on the lady in bed, the Duc motioned him away. He'd have to speak to François and Cook when Daisy woke. Since he'd never had a woman at Colsec, he didn't want her embarrassed by their obvious stares or goggling inspection. Unlike Parisian servants, who wouldn't turn a hair in a similar situation, those with country mores were slightly less blind. When Daisy woke, he offered her facilities for washing, put several of his robes out for her choice and convenience and went downstairs to inform François and Cook he had a guest for the night. He also politely warned them the lady was special, she was to be treated with extreme courtesy (both of which the servants had already concluded the previous hour below-stairs in the kitchen), and left after arranging a menu he thought might appeal to Daisy. Dinner was the stuff dreams were made of—like the Queen playing milkmaid. The small cottage dining room was candle-lit, the servants unobtrusive, Cook had outdone herself for Mademoiselle, pleased their employer had company and wasn't his usual brooding self. Both servants peeked through the door occasionally and smiled at each other. The lord and his lady, dressed only in their robes, were obviously in love; they were holding hands across the small table, smiling and laughing. He would feed her and then she him. And then they'd kiss and smile again. The Duc and Daisy fell asleep in each other's arms and when they woke to the freshness of morning, Etienne showed her the pleasure of swimming in the river. Diving off the balcony railing first, he cut the water in a clean smooth entry, surfacing some distance away, smiling, motioning her in. She hesitated only a moment before following him into the green-blue water, her own slicing dive the product of a childhood spent camped near the Yellowstone and mountain lakes. They swam and splashed and kissed, frolicking like youngsters let out of school. Then much later, breathless and light-hearted from their waterplay, they made love on the soft green riverbank beneath the lacy canopy of weeping willows. He was beyond contentment now and disturbed. Infatuated and obsessed as well. He couldn't get enough of her. Daisy was telling herself it was obvious why women adored him. He was incomparable.

When the time came to leave, too soon—as though happiness conspired to speed the hands on the

clock, Daisy found her clothes all washed and pressed, neatly hung in the wardrobe beside Etienne's collection of country clothes. They dressed—she in her flowered frock that would forever remind him of these ion-filled hours and he in a sand-colored linen suit she wondered if his wife had selected. A new silence lay between them as they saw to their toilettes, although they both contributed as politeness required to a desultory conversation. Their ride back to Paris was even more silent, both absorbed in their thoughts, both aware they were reentering the former routine of their lives. The Duc didn't leave the carriage at Adelaide's. He only said, "Thank you," in a hushed low voice and kissed Daisy briefly on the mouth. With good fortune Adelaide was still out for the afternoon and Daisy could enter her suite without explanation other than the note she'd sent yesterday saying she was staying with friends on the river. She intended pleading a headache for dinner, knowing she'd be unable to Adelaide's guests that evening. She felt beyond banal conversation; she felt melancholy, and dizzy with wanting something completely out of reach.

The Duc found a note from his wife when he arrived home. She wished to talk to him immediately. He sighed, ran his hands through his hair and stood absolutely still for a moment, holding his head. Then he rang for a servant to have his wife informed he would be available in the library in ten minutes. Isabelle was still in her tea gown when she came into the library. Without greeting him, only nodding in acknowledgment of his salutation, she sat before the Duc in the chair his grandfather had bought after Napoleon's furnishings had been dispersed. The Empire style suited Isabelle's cool beauty. Petite as a Meissen shepherdess, blonde, the same age as he, she was slim as the day the Duc had married her. Isabelle saw discipline as her greatest virtue. "She must have been exceptional to keep you from the King's family party," his wife pointedly said. "Your absence was remarked on." "I'm sorry," Etienne replied, simply, long past the time when Isabelle's barbs could draw blood. "I'll send my apologies." "You will be at the public function tomorrow, I trust? Justin and Jolie will be there of course with Henri and Hector." He knew Henri would be with his daughter Jolie. Unlike he and Isabelle, his daughter and her husband enjoyed each other's company. "Hector too?" he said. "How nice." Knowing Etienne's adoration of his grandson, Isabelle had made it a point to see Hector would be in attendance. Insurance, as it were, to guarantee that Etienne accompany the family to the public celebration of the King's birthday. Status and position were of prime importance to Isabelle; both her family and Etienne's were closely related to the Bourbons, and Orleans and court functions were a prestigious display of their prominence, an opportunity to remind others that her family and the de Vecs were some of the oldest and richest in . "The King's garden party begins at two; our small reception follows at, perhaps, seven?" She left the statement casually open. "We're having a reception?" He thought they'd agreed not to have one.

"Just a few close friends… for drinks and dinner." That translated fifty or more, involved a long night of essentially Isabelle's friends proving she'd done exactly as she pleased again—as usual. He wondered when he would learn her word meant nothing. "Are we driving together?" he asked instead of arguing about a reception that was at this late date a fait accompli. "Yes." "I'll be ready," he said, leaning back in his chair. "Is there more?" he asked when she didn't immediately rise. Their conversations were reduced to essentials. Isabelle never stayed simply to chat. "Justin," she said. "Yes?" He hated her habit of surrendering each bit of information slowly rather than simply stating the facts. And he disloyally thought of the frankness of the beautiful Mademoiselle Daisy Black. She always said exactly what she meant. "I can't convince him." "Of what, Isabelle?" "You know how insistent he is." "At times I suppose he is, as we all are. Is this pertinent?" "The trip." "The trip?" "To Egypt. He's still insisting on his trip to Egypt." There. At last. He couldn't restrain his small sigh of irritation. "I thought this had all been agreed on months ago." Justin wished to travel—nothing terribly remote—Egypt was practically at 's back door, a regular stop on all the tours. "What if he's hurt or catches some filthy disease or drowns in some murky dirty river?" Her perfectly made-up face reflected her distaste. "Isabelle," Etienne quietly said, with utmost patience, since he'd gone over this a dozen times already. Isabelle saw anything beyond the major cities of Europe as an outland peopled with brigands, foreigners, and barefoot peasants, all of whom she viewed as subhuman, none of whom she cared to view at close proximity. "Justin is twenty now. The Nile is not some dirty river but the cradle of an ancient civilization well worth seeing. He's old enough to travel where he pleases and has more than enough money to travel without either of our consents. He's only being polite to even discuss it with us. Now leave the poor boy alone." Her lips were pursed in an expression the servants often saw when she was displeased. "You always did take the children's side. That sort of laxity as a parent is related, I presume, to your socialist tendencies." Isabelle was a royalist, viewing any political stance left of the restoration of the monarchy as socialist.

Etienne was a moderate in his politics, even having served two in the Senate years ago when the Republic was shakily trying to find its way after 's defeat in the Franco-Prussian War. He believed in individual rights, not divine right, and he also believed children deserved respect for their wishes. "I'm sorry," he neutrally said, "if you feel that way." This argument too was years old. Isabelle regarded anyone not agreeing with her as an enemy. Over the years he'd been obliged to stand up for the children often against her more rigid strictures of conduct. "Look, Isabelle," the Duc went on soothingly, weary of the age-old controversy, "the children are grown. Jolie's happily married with a child of her own. They both came into their trusts two years ago. We have to stop interfering in their decisions." "You want Justin to be just like you, traveling all over the world like a vagabond." "I don't want him to be like me," the Duc said, his voice as mild as possible. It was the last thing he wanted for his son, this empty world of his. "I want him to have some freedom." She sniffed then, and he always thought it made her look and sound like a cat. "Certainly you've had enough freedom," she scathingly replied. Within the solid bars of convention their families and traditions had forged, he reflected, but this also had been a topic of conversation a thousand times before. "I want a different freedom for him, Isabelle. You probably wouldn't understand. Now if we're finished, I think I'll go and see Hector." His daughter and family lived in their own apartment across the courtyard garden in another wing of the Hôtel de Vec. "They're gone," his wife spitefully said, pleased she could thwart her husband, who spent too much time with their grandson. He was spoiling the boy, just as he'd spoiled Justin and Jolie. "In that case, I'll be going out. Tomorrow at the King's then. You're looking beautiful as ever, Isabelle," he courteously added. Standing, he rested his fingertips lightly on the desktop, waiting for her to leave, feeling the vast melancholy overcome him, the familiar sense of emptiness. He'd go to the club. The hour was too late to ride.

The celebration of the King's birthday was the social event of the season in the aristocratic world of old pedigrees, new titles, and varying ages of money. Although exiled in England, Louis Philippe, Comte de Paris, Pretender to the throne, known in royalist circles as Philip VII, was the rallying point for conservatives of all persuasions: monarchists, clerics, the Army, discontented Republicans, Bonapartists. All hoped, for their own reasons, to overthrow the Republic. And Louis Philippe, still asserting his right to the throne twenty years after the proclamation of the Republic, served as catalyst for these factions. The Duc de Vec, while distant politically from the reactionary right, was not only obliged because of familial connections, but had consented to attend. Adelaide coaxed Daisy to go. "If you've never seen the Pretender's court, you'll enjoy the spectacle. The gowns if nothing else are breathtaking and," she added, "the strange assortment of political bedfellows makes for fascinating intrigue. After the Boulanger fiasco a year ago, new alliances are being sorted out. Some of the Ministers might be of help to you." Daisy considered not going despite the allure of pomp and circumstance, worth seeing at least once, Adelaide was insisting. Although she'd been a frequent visitor to Europe since she'd begun living with her father Hazard, their trips abroad were family affairs. Daisy had always been more loath than other of her family to participate in the glittering world of society, her disposition preferring less brittle fellowship. But today perhaps Adelaide's coaxing alone hadn't drawn her to agree to attend the birthday occasion. Perhaps she hoped to see the Duc. How infantile, she thought, even as she adjusted the baroque pearls in her ears, as if she would be able to see him in the crush of people Adelaide predicted would attend this event. As if, she speculated with a touch of censure, she should be behaving like an adolescent hoping for a glimpse of her lover. She was acting infatuated, thoroughly out of character for her, disastrous in any event with a man like the Duc, known for his insensitivity toward infatuated women. He had only said thank you when they parted—nothing more. But she went. Scanning the crowd with impatient disquietude… Not hoping as most, for a glimpse of the Pretender's fat son and heir. The man she was looking for was lean and muscled. And utter perfection in bed.

The weather couldn't have been more splendid, the temperature ideal, the sun gently warm, a light breeze wafting bonnet ribbons as though on cue. The gardens of the Palais Orleans were abloom with color and fragrance, the vivid display of blossoming trees, shrubs, and flowers dominating the setting, the air charged with attar of roses and jasmine's heady scent, with the sweet bouquet of lilac, muguet, and magnolia.

Pretty pastel tents had been set up with lavish presentations of food and cool refreshing drinks for the guests. An army of servants also moved through the crowd offering chilled champagne. Consciously denying her nervousness—it was merely warm and she enjoyed chilled champagne—Daisy had begun her third glass when a fanfare announced the royal family. She, along with Adelaide, Valentin, and several of their friends, turned toward the sound. Daisy watched the mass of guests part, making way for the royal procession moving toward a low flower-decked dais situated in the center of a formal rose garden. A murmur of comment followed the promenade of royal blood, glasses were raised in salute, impromptu cheers broke out as the regal court ed by. But all Daisy could see over the press of people was the gliding progress of the procession. She was holding a champagne glass to her lips when a large woman in front of her attempting to improve her own view moved away, leaving Daisy's prospect unimpeded. Suddenly the man for whom she'd attended this affair was before her eyes. The Duc was taller than anyone on the dais, taller than the pudgy, bourgeois-looking Duc d'Orléans by more than a head. Dressed in uniform with medals and orders draped across his broad chest, Etienne was flanked by a small blonde woman and a dark-haired girl. Beside the girl were two men, one unmistakably her twin, taller though, like his father. Jolie and Justin. Daisy knew immediately. Their photographs had been scattered across the walls of Etienne's bedroom at Colsec. The pale-haired man must be Jolie's husband. And in the Duc's arms was his grandson, as fair as the Duc was dark, the young boy's white page-suit in sharp contrast to Etienne's black uniform tunic. A more incongruous sight couldn't be imagined—not only in the distinction of their coloring, but . also in the contrast between the gold and pink innocence of the plump toddler and the Duc's saturnine disreputable elegance. She realized, too, Hector was the only child present in the royal tableau—a concession no doubt to Etienne's inclinations. The petite blond woman, Isabelle apparently, turned and, reaching up, placed her hand on her husband's shoulder while she whispered something in his ear. She smiled when she finished. The Duc only nodded slightly. At least he didn't smile back, Daisy thought, apropos of nothing that made sense in the world, as though she could make him smile and his wife couldn't, as though it were a contest. It wasn't, of course; she was a fugitive entertainment to the Duc, someone to idle away a warm spring day with. Suddenly she felt immensely sad. . But then the Duc smiled at something his grandson was saying to him, Hector's small hand tracing a path along the Duc's bronzed jaw as he spoke in a gesture so intimate and companion-able Daisy ached with envy. Etienne laughed aloud and kissed Hector's soft rosy cheek. The Duc d'Qrléans turned to look. The crowd was already looking because Etienne Martel was infinitely more fascinating to watch than the stolid fat heir to the throne. The situation seemed singularly peculiar, some thought; first, having the young child at the ceremony and second, kissing him and laughing so informally in public. Such thoughts reflected those who knew the Duc de Vec only by repute. Those who knew Etienne more intimately knew he did very much as he pleased and he adored his grandson more than anything in the world. Then the guests who knew him most intimately, those exclusively female in gender, understood that Etienne laughed easily and kissed even more easily. And many a small repining sigh reflected a wistful

desire to be once more the recipient of his warm affection.

Daisy was wiping spilled champagne from her dress bodice when Adelaide noticed. "Champagne won't stain, darling. Here, have another. The heat is rising." "Thank you, I will," Daisy replied, taking the offered glass and drinking it down immediately as though she needed it. "Isn't Hector precious?" Adelaide went on, not aware of Daisy's discomfort. "I didn't notice," Daisy lied. "The Duc d'Orléans is less majestic than I expected." "Poor dear is less everything than one expects," Adelaide philosophically noted, "but he is the Bourbon heir." She shrugged the young Pretender's inadequacies away as had the feuding factions in the National Assembly. While the majority of those in Parliament agreed on very little, they did agree on the fact that didn't need Louis Philippe on the throne. "Valentin," she added, turning to her husband, "are we going to de Vec's later?" "If you care to." Adelaide turned back to Daisy. "Do you?" "No, thank you," Daisy quickly retorted, for lack of a better excuse, relying on the weather for . "This heat is beginning to make me uncomfortable." "The Hôtel de Vec will be cool. It was built in medieval times; the walls are six feet thick. The heat won't be a problem." Daisy's mind was an absolute blank; not one gracious social excuse came to her aid. "I'd rather not," she heard herself bluntly say and cringed inwardly at her discourtesy. When Adelaide pursed her lips faintly, Daisy fearfully waited for an inquisitive question. But Adelaide only nodded her head once and said, "I've never liked Isabelle. Why don't we all go to the river instead? Valentin will sail us down to Colsec." She smiled at Daisy. "Wouldn't that be nice?" Daisy was feeling genuinely ill at this point, the champagne, warm sun, and longing for Etienne combining to adversely affect her nerves. But if she pleaded illness, her statement would either be regarded as an incredibly feeble lie, drawing attention she didn't want, or she would be overwhelmed with solicitous concern which she also wished to avoid. "Tomorrow morning I've that early appointment with the Minister of Justice," she said, finding honesty a benevolent adjunct to her real reason for refusing. "I'm going to beg off." "Are you sure?" Adelaide was a perfect hostess, conscious her guest's wishes were paramount. "Do you want company at home?" "No!" Then Daisy altered the intensity of her voice to something more politic. Her tone was mild when she continued. "Please go without me, Adelaide. I understand the river is lovely this time of year." And she knew from personal experience, it was absolute heaven.

Daisy spent a restless night, tossing and turning, her mind absorbed with repetitive, useless speculation and wishful thinking, both of which she logically dismissed numerous times, in the course of the sleepless hours, as ludicrous. Not only shouldn't she be dwelling on senseless thoughts of the Duc de Vec, she should be sleeping because she'd need all her diplomacy and wits in dealing with the Minister who had to date refused all her requests to hasten legal procedures. But then her mind would reloop against her will, her feelings more potent than logic. What was Etienne thinking? Was he thinking of her? Was it possible he was dreaming of her tonight? Those considerations composed the wishful thinking. Her speculation, more pragmatic, was wondering where he was right now and with whom. Which thought always brought a twinge of jealousy she'd try to suppress. Only to be followed moments later by new combinations of the previous images, variations on a theme: Had he enjoyed the days at Colsec as much as she? He seemed to. He'd never taken a woman there before. Surely that had to count for something. Would he call again, did he miss her, would he never call again, how many women had ed through his life in the last twenty years? He said he'd be forty this year. In the next pulsebeat she'd decry her obsession as an aberration she must put aside, a momentary unsoundness of mind she must control. She'd never been affected in this fashion by a man and it wasn't as though she hadn't had her share of suitors. Her family wealth alone, she realistically understood, had drawn as many men to court her as she cared to receive. She was also aware of her beauty, not immodestly, but with an objectivity directly related to the looks in men's eyes. So tired and irritable after a sleepless night, she hotly decided as the dawning sun colored the sky, her obsession was counter-productive to her emotions, to her professional duties, and to her future. More sensible in the bright light of the morning, many hours removed from the resplendent magic of the Duc, she decided to consider her rendezvous with the Duc at Colsec as simply a pleasant and enlightening experience. Nothing more. In any event, repining over love was unwise.

It was equally unwise even to use the word love in the romantic sense when speaking of the Duc de Vec. Every practical consideration in Daisy's life reminded her one didn't lose all reason because a man was gentle and ionate and compellingly beautiful. Such unreason was the height of absurdity, she decided, reaching out to ring for her morning chocolate, her thoughts once again on track. flow best to approach the Minister, Comte de Montigny, now that her long-sought interview had been granted. Even Adelaide had been surprised yesterday when message of her appointment arrived. She hadn't expected Daisy's request to be approved without influence of some kind being exerted. "Maybe the Comte finally recognized the futility of continuing to block me," Daisy reasonably said, her persistence generally successful. "My perseverance was effective." "Perhaps," Adelaide had murmured, her tone unconvinced. She'd known Charles since childhood. He was a martinet influenced by power and political brokering, but never simply by persistence unaccompanied by advantageous force. Her cynical thoughts, however, she'd kept to herself; in many ways Daisy was fresh and naive about the Byzantine machinations of French politics. She'd said instead, "Do wear your teal blue, Daisy. Charles is partial to blue."

Daisy wasn't kept waiting in the Minister's anteroom as she'd been warned might happen, but was shown directly in by a young man with impeccable manners who disappeared as she entered the Minister's office. The room was enormous, built by the Sun King with his usual eye for magnificence. Floor to ceiling windows framed in pale blue satin faced the Place Vendome, the coffered ceiling was gilded in gold leaf, the parquet floor cushioned by priceless Aubusson rugs, the upholstered furniture in shades of green and (Adelaide was right) teal blue was oversized to match the proportions of the space. The Minister walked across the expanse of garlanded and medallioned carpet to greet her at the door as she was shown in. "Good morning, Mademoiselle Black. What a pleasure to meet you at last. My apologies for not responding sooner to your inquiries. My secretary is new, I'm afraid." His brows rose quickly in reproach before he resumed his smile. "And not as efficient as I'd wish." Not a tall man, when he took her hand to bow over it briefly, they were of a height. "An honor, Mademoiselle Black, to meet a female attorney," he affably said. "Thank you, sir," Daisy responded with equal courtesy, concealing her surprise at the cordiality of the greeting. Not only had she been warned of the possibility of a long wait, she'd also heard that Monsieur le Comte was not an advocate of feminine rights. "I appreciate you taking the time to see me." "Now tell me," he went on, escorting her toward a seating area near the windows, "what I can do for you. I understand you're sister-in-law to the lovely Empress, Comtesse de Jordan." Four high-backed chairs, Renaissance in style, flanked a round table set for tea. The Minister's smile was still in place; he'd arranged for tea for her. How obliging, Daisy thought, dismissing all exasperation she'd previously felt toward him. "I'm here, as you may know, to see that Empress's new daughter is included in her estate trust. A matter of routine," she added with a small smile, "but anything you could do to expedite the process would be appreciated. The bureaucratic complexities are occasionally obstructive." She diplomatically neglected to

mention he had been one of the major obstructions. "No problem, Mademoiselle. Absolutely no problem," he assured her in a tone very near sycophantic. "Consider it done." His words astonished her, for the Minister had a reputation for procrastination and delay and he'd just promised her everything she'd been trying to accomplish for weeks. "Would you like tea?" he asked, indicating the table arranged with a silver tea service and assorted sweets. "Yes, thank you. How kind," Daisy graciously replied. "You've met my brother-in-law, I believe," Monsieur le Minister said in the next cordial breath as they moved toward their chairs. And the Duc de Vec rose from the green damask chair that had until that moment hidden him from view. "Good morning, Mademoiselle Black," he said very quietly. "You look enchanting." His eyes traveled slowly over her severely tailored blue silk gown before coming to rest on her startled face. Daisy barely managed to stifle her gasp, immediately realized why the Minister was so solicitous, and replied with what she hoped was a casualness equal to the Duc's. "Good morning, Monsieur le Duc. I enjoyed the King's birthday yesterday." "You were there then." "Briefly." "It's always a dreary crush." "But enlightening." Watching his two guests with the keen observant gaze of a career diplomat, the Comte de Montigny found the exchange fascinating. Etienne was actually heated beneath his blasé comments and the Mademoiselle was even less experienced at deception. They were angry at each other or perhaps at themselves—that subtlety escaped him—but he would surely help the lady in any way he could. Etienne was interested in her—apparently more than interested. An unusual posture for his world-weary brother-in-law. And since he owed Etienne numerous favors, how pleasant to be able to pay him back in this delightful manner. "Please sit down," he said, waving them to their chairs. He began pouring tea. "Now tell me, Mademoiselle," he pleasantly said, handing Daisy a translucent porcelain cup in lapis and gold, "exactly what you want me to do." She should have been pleased everything was going to be so easy, the entire procedure handed to her on a silver platter, like the pastries he was offering her now. All she had to do was casually say, I want this and this and this… all the cumbersome legalities brushed aside in one easy stroke by the Duc's command. They discussed them in a businesslike manner, the Minister's secretary brought in to see to the exact sequence and particu-lars: who would have to be seen, what seals were required, what judges' decisions

were necessary, and in less than an hour the Minister was bowing them out with a cheerful smile and hearty assurance all would be taken care of immediately. "Thank you, Charles," the Duc mildly declared in parting, his participation in the discussion, infrequent, restricted to suggestions of amenable judges. "We'll have to go fishing soon. My gamekeeper tells me the salmon are in good form." "I'd be delighted," his brother-in-law replied, the Duc's hospitality at his hunting lodge in Scotland legendary. Turning to Daisy, the Minister said, "It was a pleasure to have met you, Mademoiselle. If I can be of further assistance, don't hesitate to ask." He was too polished to say, any lover Etienne champions deserves my special consideration, but clearly, that was what he meant. "I should thank you, I suppose," Daisy stiffly said some moments later as she and the Duc walked down the gilded corridors to the main entrance. "It's not necessary," the Duc said. "Of course it is," Daisy snapped. "What's consumed over two weeks of my time in bureaucratic drudgery, you've accomplished in less than an hour." "Charles simply owed me some favors. No need to take it personally." "I think I should take it personally," she heatedly replied. "Charles doesn't do this for just anyone, does he?" The undercurrent of male bonding, that masculine clubism of exchanged favors permeated the entire interview, as did her position as the Duc de Vec's current favorite. "Don't read anything pejorative in this, Daisy," the Duc calmly said, trying to deflect her anger. "He's done favors for me before and he will again." "For others of your legion of lovers, you mean. He looked at me exactly that way." "No he didn't." "Please, Etienne, give me some credit." Her voice was waspish as she jerked the ribbons of her bonnet loose and pulled the flowery confection from her head. Lord, she hated bonnets, just as she hated the confining strictures of society that required a man's influence, a man's power, a man's word of command before justice prevailed. "I wanted to help. I'm sorry if I offended you." "Your entire life offends me," Daisy snapped. He didn't rise to her anger. "There are times I agree with you," he simply said, looking very young this morning in riding breeches and a suede jacket. In typical royal fashion, she thought, he hadn't felt it necessary to dress appropriately for a meeting with one of 's ministers. They were approaching the entrance to the building. "Come driving with me," he said. "No."

"I had your carriage sent away." "I'll hire a hackney," she retorted, angry with another instance of his arrogance. "You had no right to do that and I'd appreciate you not doing me any further favors either. I don't need your favors, I don't want your favors, I do not wish to go driving with you, I would actually prefer never seeing you again." Her voice had risen as they ed through the doors. Resentful of his immense power, annoyed with the knowing look in Charles's eyes, she chafed most at her own overwhelming attraction to the most flagrant womanizer in Paris. She refused to fall helplessly into his arms like every other woman in his life. And he had no right to look so handsome and desirable, like a country farmer in from his morning ride, like goddamn dew fresh on the roses. "Don't," he quietly said, taking her arm and stopping her. "Don't what?" she asked, fighting the impulse to throw her. arms around him on the steps of the Ministry of Justice. "Don't do this to me," he said very low. "I don't know what you're talking about," she charged, her voice curt and pettish. "I didn't sleep last night," he said. "Good." And now you know how it feels, she wanted to add. "It wasn't good." His hand was still holding her arm, his gaze looking down on her was fervent. "I drove by Adelaide's." "I was sleeping," she said quickly. "Were you?" His voice was barely audible. "Yes—no… sometimes… never. Not at all. Not one minute. Are you satisfied now?" Her voice was sulky, her dark eyes glistening with angry tears. He lifted her into his arms then, without regard for her reputation or his or his brother-in-law Charles's. In full view of gaping onlookers, he carried her down the busy steps of the Ministry in swift loping strides, set her into his waiting carriage, said, "Colsec" in a curt sharp order to Guillaume, jumped in, slammed the door, and snapped down the window shades. "I don't care if you scream," he said, his voice a low growl as he pushed her silk skirt and petticoats aside with brusque, rough motions. "I don't care and Guillaume won't stop and when I get you to Colsec I'm seriously considering locking you up for me alone." "You can't have every woman you want," she hotly retorted, fighting off his hands and the weight of his body as he forced her back onto the velvet seat cushions. "I don't want every woman," he gruffly murmured, his fingers on the buttons of her bodice. "I want you." "For how long, damn you!" Daisy screamed, pushing at his chest with all her strength, wondering briefly in a moment of sanity what Guillaume was thinking as the carriage swayed beneath their tumbling weight

and their angry words penetrated the sunny morning air. "Forever, damn you!" the Duc shouted back, grasping her flailing hands before they raked his face. And she lay instantly quiet beneath him. "I don't believe you," she whispered. Releasing her wrists, he took her face in his hands, not gently but roughly so she felt the strength in his hands, the rigid tenseness in his body. "I don't believe myself either," he harshly said, "but it's true and I don't know what the hell I'm going to do about it."

"Tomorrow or next week… I don't know what I'm going to do about it," he said a moment later in a low hushed growl, his green eyes heated and intense. He smiled an uncompromising smile of certainty. "Right now… I know." "You can't… I won't let you…" Daisy's voice was sharp, her palms pressed hard against his chest, her exertions evident in the tendons of her wrists, the flush of her cheeks. One dark brow rose. "Can't? Won't?" The Duc's words were the merest breath of sound. And his smile this time was cool. "In a different mood, Mademoiselle… one"—his eyes shut for a moment while he took a deep calming breath—"one less disted than my present state of mind… perhaps your words might in some gentlemanly area of politesse…" "However…" Daisy's single word was full of contempt. "However." The Duc's response in contrast was mild, although his hands still holding her face were not. They were bruising hard, imprisoning her… the antithesis of his soft voice.

"Damn you!" She struggled anew against his weight and grip… against her own overwhelming feelings. How could she despise his arrogance, his force majeur, his entire way of life—and want him still? "You can't have everything you want!" she protested in a rush of heated words. "Seignorial rights are e!" They weren't precisely, he thought, recalling the numerous incidents on his outlying estates when peasant fathers came to him with their young daughters as offerings. But he didn't suppose this was a pertinent time to discuss the discrepancies between Daisy Black's and his experience apropos seignorial rights. "Does it help if I love you beyond distraction… Dammit!" He was angry too but in a different way than Daisy. In a sadder way, perhaps, because she was free and he was not. "You don't know what love is," Daisy said, reaching up to push his hands from her face, vehement and resentful. Maybe he didn't, but whatever he was feeling now was susceptible to the harsh truth of her caustic remark. His hands fell away in a swift release and looking down at her for a silent moment, he cursed her allure and his damnable need. "Forgive me," he said, clipped and cool, and lifting the weight of his body from hers, moved to the seat opposite her. They were both breathing hard, their hearts racing like the speeding carriage, the only sound in the shuttered interior the rasping exhalation of their breath. "I'm not one of your tarts." She spoke as women do in anger, defining the differences in pedigrees. Her hair was disheveled, heavy black tresses streaming down her shoulders, a curving fall of midnight silk over one temple; her dress too, pushed in crushed folds of teal blue fabric up over her thighs, offered a tempting vision of golden flesh and the Duc considered for a moment pointing out the subtle nuances sometimes distinguishing a lady from a tart. But he said instead with a gruff uncordialness, "More's the pity," and, crossing his legs, slouched, sullen and black of mood, farther into the corner of his seat. "Take me back." Her voice held that same haughty blend of coolness and noblesse oblige he'd remarked on when meeting her half brother. In cultivating haughtiness however, the Duc had a thousand-year advantage—at least in of structured society—and he lifted his brows that infinitesimal fraction developed over fifty generations and said, "No." He managed to give the impression of comfortably lounging in the swaying carriage and, across the filtered light of the shade-drawn interior, their eyes met in a confrontation as old as time… will against will with the deciding factor—sheer physical strength. "My father could kill you… or my brothers." Daisy spoke with a remarkable softness. "Your brother said that to me once." "Over Empress." With her hands braced on the seat to hold herself balanced, the shrug of her shoulder was diminished in drama. "There'll be someone else after me, Etienne. You know it and I know it, so I'd appreciate a little less emotion and a bit more sense. Tell Guillaume to turn around and take me back to Adelaide's." Daisy attempted to tug the blue silk of her skirt down over her legs without losing her balance in the swaying carriage. "And you might tell Guillaume to slow down," she added, like a governess would reprimand a pupil. "He's going to run someone over."

The Duc didn't answer. He only leaned slightly forward and reaching over, undid the covering up of her legs. "No need to get prudish, Daisy. Your legs are—" he paused for a moment, his green eyes drifting up her thighs, "very beautiful…" He caught himself before mentioning "and for my eyes only" because she didn't believe in seignorial rights and he realized even himself how anachronistic his feelings were. "Etienne…" Her dark eyes were narrowed. "I'm not like the others." But she didn't refasten what he'd undone, secure in herself, knowing whether she sat opposite him clothed or unclothed her point was made. "You're overplaying your hand." "I'm not playing." "This is eighteen ninety-one, Etienne. I'm independent, wealthy, educated, and ed by a very powerful family. Don't be foolish." He hadn't moved in his lounging posture and it piqued her briefly—both his insouciance and his ability somehow to be immune to the rough motion of the speeding carriage. "Your wife might be waiting for you," she added with testy sarcasm, wanting to remind him with a female bitchiness of his obligations… and elicit some reaction from his damnable composure. He smiled then, not exactly the reaction she expected, and said with a smile in his voice as well, "She left for Deauville this morning." "I hate you." She hated his smugness, his male freedom, his unconcern. "No, you don't." She hated his arrogance most, his knowing women could never hate him. And he'd talked to his wife this morning… for all his easy denial of their closeness—hell, knowing him, he probably slept with her last night after their reception. "She left a note with my valet. I was out, you see, like some damn wet-behind-the-ears adolescent in love driving by Adelaide's. Does that answer all your unasked questions?" How did he know, she wondered, gazing at his lounging strength, that she'd jealously thought him in bed with his wife. His riding clothes were fawn-colored, the suede of his jacket soft as velvet, his long powerful legs covered in sleek gabardine, his booted feet so close in the narrow aisle between them, she could have reached out and touched the gleaming leather. And his stark handsomeness, his brooding, moody eyes drew her like some haunting promise of paradise. "I don't have any questions," she lied, "save one." Struggling to ignore the heated feelings warming her body, she reminded herself he was a very sensual man… but not with her alone—with any female. "When are you taking me back to Adelaide's?" He shrugged. A small placid movement, barely perceptible in the stillness of his pose. "We'll see," he said, using the royal pronoun, not meaning it would be a cooperative decision. "We'll see?" Brushing her skirts down in a sharp decisive smoothing of silk and petticoats, she leaned forward, her fine chin firmed pugnaciously. "Do you have a death wish?" "Not since I met you."

His response was so calm, so soft, so damnably unruffled, Daisy immediately altered the tenor of her arguments. She was not currently in a position of strength—in Etienne's carriage with his driver taking them to Colsec. "Look," she said, attorney-like and reasonable, "let's negotiate some common ground here." "Such as?" His voice held a hint of amusement, annoying and provoking, but Daisy had experience in mediated settlements and ignored the provocation. "Such as agreeing on some period of time amenable to us both." The Duc laughed then, but smiled his winning smile in appeasement. "Period of time?" he said. "Really?" Gazing at her for a thoughtful moment, he decided he must have her forever or die in the attempt—an irrational and totally out-of-character decision for the man known throughout the civilized world as a ionate but impermanent lover. "I don't negotiate," he quietly said, "but if I did, I'd say something like the second millennium beyond forever." "Be serious, Etienne. I'm not in the mood to be amused." "And I really don't negotiate, darling. I'm not joking." "Is this an abduction?" "I don't think so, but it could be. I'm flexible." "I'm not going to fall into your arms like… all the rest." "You are, darling, so far removed from… all the rest… it's beyond comprehension… believe me." His words were so quiet they barely reached her across the small distance separating them. And straightening in an abrupt, restless movement, he reached out to unlatch the window curtain nearest him. The fine leather shade rolled up with a sharp springing snap, the silk tassel vibrating in a flash of black brilliance. "Etienne…" He didn't answer. Maybe he didn't hear her, for her voice was very low, or maybe he was actually engrossed in the view out the window. "I don't know what to do…" He must have heard her because he turned his head very slowly toward her, as if reluctant to leave the vision of Garches coming into sight. He sighed softly. "Then that makes two of us," he said. "I want more than your undivided attention for a few hours, or were you deeply committed, perhaps a few days… or what?"—Her dark eyes were solemn—"a few weeks? You see, I've heard everything." "I won't apologize for my life, and even if I were so inclined, it wouldn't change anything. I'd like to be able to give you guarantees. With anyone else, I'd lie and give those promises. You can see how addled I've become because I can't, and worse yet, am honest about it. I can say this though, if it helps—you are a breath of freshness and beauty in my life, you're a joy I hadn't known existed. I am for the first time in my life unconditionally happy when I'm with you. I want this feeling to last forever, I want you forever. But the world's made me cynical or perhaps I've made myself cynical… In any event, I can only say… I'd be pleased to do whatever I have to do to keep you."

He sounded like a young boy asking his first dance partner for her hand in a waltz, so full of deference and politeness was his tone, and Daisy was nonplussed for a moment at his stark and abject sincerity. An instant later she found herself scrutinizing his face. Was he only more adept than she at the mendacities of se-duction, more familiar with the right tone for the right occasion and woman? Was he simply living up to his reputation for finesse? "I'm not normally callow or naive." He smiled at her words because she was the most intelligent woman he knew. "Yet I find myself wanting to believe whatever you say." Any number of smooth and charming responses came immediately to his mind for he recognized a degree of capitulation, however understated, but he said instead a simple, "Good," because she was too important to his existence to stoop to facile charm. And he was too uncertain of his composure to risk a seductive reply. "Good? Nothing more from Paris's most fluent ladies' man?" Her gaze was critically assessing, touched slightly too with pique. His simple response struck her as too assured. "Don't I at least deserve—" "Daisy, please." Soft remonstrance touched his voice with unmistakable need. Her anger drained away and Daisy's eyes met his in a staggering moment of revelation. "This isn't a game for you this time, is it?" she whispered, filled with an inexplicable joy and fear. Already he meant too much to her. How much of her heart did she dare lose to a man of his repute, a man whose name alone was a byword for profligacy? "No." "I'm afraid then." "I can change that." His eyes were sorceror-green seduction. "It's too easy for you. I know you can, but I'm more practical, Etienne. I want a future beyond your bedroom." He didn't know what to say. He did too. But he'd only very recently recognized that fact and his thoughts hadn't fallen into any practical rationale capable of dealing with his marriage. "I'll talk to Charles." "About what, Etienne? Good God, as if he doesn't know more than I'd like already." "About a divorce." Her shock showed, but an instant later reality interposed. "Do I look that green?" Equally shocked himself, he took a moment to absorb the full impact of his words. And a moment more to realize he meant them. And a further moment to understand he owed Isabelle the courtesy of being spoken to first. "No, darling, no one would mistake you for a green child." Smiling now, he felt strangely elated at a decision he should have made years ago.

"Are you sober, Etienne?" Suddenly she questioned whether liquor might for his startling behavior. She barely knew him, outside their ionate two days together. His family was as old as itself, Isabelle's too; their marriage of long standing. The Duc de Vec was the least likely aristocrat to disregard a thousand-year heredity. "Not precisely." "I knew it." There, a reasonable explanation for his madness. "I'm too giddy in love to be precise." "You're mad." "Probably." "Thank you," Daisy tartly said, surprised herself at the discontent his word evoked. "Make up your mind, darling," the Duc softly said. He was every woman's dream, and she was forced to it he featured prominently in hers as well. She was also honest enough to recognize the pleasure he brought her had not previously entered her life. "Maybe we should go back to the beginning. I it you fascinate me." His smile was beatific. She tried to ignore it, struggling to maintain some semblance of her normal capacity for reason. "So I don't see why we can't remain friends while I'm in Paris." "Friends?" His deep voice was the merest whisper. Taking a shallow breath, Daisy exhaled, then met his heavy-lidded gaze with hers. "Lovers, then. Is that better?" "Very much," he said. Daisy sighed. "Why is this so hard?" "I can only speak for myself, but it has to do with loving you. I find myself in strange new territory… and I'm improvising as I go." "I don't want to fall in love. Especially with you." He shrugged, understanding her dilemma. Until he'd met Daisy, he'd never believed in love. "Let's keep this purely physical," she said, as if setting perimeters would insure her safety. "Whatever you wish." He was a practical man too and the novelty of his feelings about loving Daisy offered him no reference points in his past. "How long will you be in Paris?" "Another month at most." A rush of pleasure heated her at the thought of a month of "purely physical" with the Duc. "Perhaps only two weeks," she added, her unsuitable reaction alarming her.

"There's not much time then," he said, reaching up to pull the shade down again. "What are you doing?" Her terse question elicited the most innocent of looks from the Duc. "Offering you some privacy," he said, his expression affable, "for our purely physical relationship." His grin was a lazy upturning of his mouth. "It's another half hour to Colsec." "I thought you less rustic." The pejorative inflection in her voice had in the past always served her well. "Darling, you forget, I traveled across the Empire… across half the world on horseback. I'm quite comfortable with rusticity." Amusement colored his tone. "Do you need help with your corset?" "I don't wear a corset," she snapped, annoyed at his casualness, annoyed at her own overwhelming sense of attraction to the dark, powerful man lounging across from her. Most annoyed he hadn't ed their days together well enough to recall she didn't wear a corset. There had been too many corsets, no doubt, in his past. "Forgive me. It was a facetious remark only. I very well." "I'm surprised," Daisy replied, still testy, "you'd be able to sort out individuals from the blur of women ing through your life. Or distinguish the styles of lace and furbelows in your memory." "Since adolescence, seduction has been my avocation," he replied, baiting her for the pleasure of her ionate vehemence. "I pride myself on a certain competence." "That's it," she retorted, huffy and indignant. "I changed my mind. Don't bloody touch me, damn you." But her resentment only further fueled the heated blood racing through her senses, the images evoked in her brain of the Duc de Vec's competence bringing her temperature several degrees higher. "I mean it," she said, as a petulant child might say, "you can't come in and play." Since the Duc had every intention of going in to play, he ignored the petulance and her words, noting instead the flushed color on her cheeks, the accelerated rate of her breathing. And when she said, "Don't bother," as he began taking his jacket off, he only smiled and said, "It's no bother. I'll take you swimming after to cool off." She watched him discard his suede jacket. Watched him un-button his white linen shirt with a leisureliness juxtaposed to her own tumultuous agitation and found herself moving back the scant distance the carriage seat allowed her when he divested himself of his shirt. The breadth of his shoulders was alarming in the close confines of the small interior—or tantalizing perhaps—as her eyes traveled over the hard muscles toned by polo and other sports. "Would you like me to ask Guillaume to slow down?" he asked. And when she refused to answer, he said with a smile, "I forgot. You were raised on horseback." He bent then to pull off his riding boots, placing them in a storage compartment under his seat. "So they don't get in the way," he explained, as if she'd asked. His casual words belied the savage need he was feeling, his unhurried undressing possible only because of his enormous self-control. He had, before greeting Daisy at Charles's office, been obsessed with the thought of making love to her again, and he was maintaining his composure with difficulty. Last night had

been horrendous in of sheer restraint. A dozen times he'd kept himself from pounding down Adelaide's front door. "I should probably apologize in advance," he said, reaching for the buttons on his tros. "I said no." "After you said yes." "And doesn't that count?" "Kiss me and I'll answer you then." "I don't want to kiss you." "I'm going out of my mind for want of kissing you. Humor me. Or if not that, show me you're unmoved by my kiss and I'll take you back to Adelaide's." "Is this a contest?" "A small wager, mon chou." Reaching out, he lifted her onto his lap while she rapidly debated the usefulness of resisting. He had taken her from her seat without effort. Struggling for dominance over his strength would be senseless. She could repudiate him instead by remaining immune to his kiss. Intentionally, she offered her lips to him with a haughty coolness. Undeterred by her feigned reserve, for the heat of her body was warning his own, the Duc took her small hands in his and gently placed them on his shoulders. Only with effort she resisted the impulse to snatch her hands away from the steel-hard muscles beneath her palms. When he shifted slightly to turn his own body more fully toward hers, she took a small steadying breath as his muscles coiled and rippled under her hands. She ed with graphic recall how his hard body felt under her and over her, how he moved with supple sureness and skill, how no other man had brought her to climax with such exquisite sensation. And she hated him for his consummate sureness… for his mocking challenge. Seduction might be his avocation, but she'd trained with the medicine woman of her clan and resist she would. For she'd learned a pattern of visual mind-control she could call on now. Snow-covered mountain ranges majestic against the horizon of her father's summer camp appeared in her mind as the Duc's lips first touched hers. She saw the horse herds racing across the highland pastures as his mouth softly parted hers. Closing her eyes tightly against the lazy penetration of his tongue into her mouth, she struggled to maintain the interior landscape of her mind, consciously drawing on her memories of mountain summers. He held her tightly in his arms, only the silk of her gown and chemise barrier to the heated warmth of their bodies while his tongue slid slowly to the back of her mouth, in seductive suggestion. She could feel the hardness of his arousal beneath her, found herself imagining that same slow penetration, just as his tongue ravished her mouth. Against her will, a tremor of desire shook her. Recognizing her response, he moved gently upward at the same time he exerted a mild pressure on Daisy's shoulders. Her small gasp wanned his mouth and he smiled. Daisy desperately forced her mind away from the pleasure flooding her senses, but summer camps and mountain landscapes diminished in vividness against the heady need innundating her pleasure centers.

"No," she murmured, pushing against the solid weight of his body. "No." But his arms held her firmly, his kiss only deepening, and Etienne Martel, Duc de Vec and practiced lover of beautiful women, brought all his skill into play. Short moments later her palms slid a small distance across his shoulders as if of their own volition—her first small capitulation to sensation. It was mere inches but they both felt it with such a shuddering intensity the world quivered on its axis for a moment. A second later, because she was Hazard Black's daughter to her very core, strong-willed as her father, too fiercely independent to be treated as the next entry in the Duc de Vec's amorous adventures, she snatched her hands back as if burned. "Don't," she protested, twisting her mouth away. "I won't." Forcing her face around, he said very, very softly, "I love you, Daisy Black…" His fingers were leaving marks on her face. "And for what it's worth," he added in a quiet voice, "I've never said that to a woman before." His simple words fell into the heated atmosphere of her mistrust and resentment with staggering impact. "Never?" she said. His hand fell away from her face and he shook his head, then shivered as a premonition of disaster overwhelmed him. He'd ordered his world to his perfection too long not to recognize total chaos. Daisy smiled for the first time that day, understanding how striking an ission he'd made. "Neither have I," she said, as simply. Her dark lashes dipped a small fraction, then she reached up to touch his lips gently with her finger and added in lush invitation, "I must have been waiting for you." No further invitation was required for a man who had for the first time in his life seriously considered making love to a woman against her will. And brushing aside the destruction of his very comfortable world for need of this woman as if the aristocratic traditions of centuries were suddenly irrelevant, he kissed her with a pent-up, uncontrolled ion. In seconds he was frantically undressing her and in seconds more when she said, "Hurry," he stopped the undressing, tumbled her to the floor, shoved her skirts and petticoats out of the way and cursing the buttons on his tros, entered her short moments later as if they had only minutes left on earth. She was as frantic as he, as overwhelmed with need, as tumultuous and greedy and insatiable. With flame-hot intemperance, they loved each other, touched and felt and held each other as if feverish possession and blinding ion would affirm their love. They were wild and unrestrained, given license at last with their ission of love to indulge their desire. Tossed and buffeted by the racing speed of the carriage, pitched and flung from side to side, their own frenzied race toward fulfillment was as rushed. Neither could wait or breathe, it seemed, or give a care for the discomfort of their cramped quarters. Overpowered and overwhelmed, they found haste was imperative. "Last night was too long…" Etienne whispered, bracing his feet and strong arms, steadying them for a moment, ungovernable possession igniting his mind. "I almost pulled you into my arms a dozen times in front of Charles. You're mine," he murmured, his voice a low deep growl, the brilliant green of his eyes hot with lust. "Mine," he harshly repeated. His broad shoulders swayed with the racing speed, but he held her firm prisoner of his ion and need, filling her entirely, the undulating motion of the speeding carriage creating a dizzyingly pleasurable friction. "Yours," Daisy whispered on a small caught breath, giving up the very core of her independent soul without thought or regret, welcoming the man who had overwhelmed her thoughts and tantalized her senses in the hours of their separation.

He drove into her with impatience and covetousness prompted by craving and want, resistance and longing, as if the fierce rhythm of his need would obliterate the difficulties. Clinging to him, she met his savage, unconstrained power, as intoxicated as he with the irrepressible, tempestuous ion burning through her senses. And when her first small orgasmic convulsions began deep inside her, he seemed to know precisely, his rhythm matching hers so perfectly, so intensely, she cried aloud, pleasure washing over her in heated waves. As their climax ed in throbbing, peaking splendor, he shut his eyes against the wild delirium. Nothing mattered but galvanic sensation. The world fell away, disappeared, the focus of every nerve and cell selfish, white-hot with explosive feeling. Daisy understood in the languorous, glowing aftermath before she opened her eyes that her definition of pleasure had been forever altered. There were degrees now, she realized, and a range and scope calibrated light years beyond her previous experience. How exquisite, was her first thought. And how vulnerable those sensations made one, she thought next. But the Duc had bent his head to kiss her gently on the mouth and when her lashes lifted at his touch, she saw only the beauty of his eyes and a moment after when his head lifted, his disarming smile. Her half-formed feelings of defenselessness evaporated under the warmth of his smile, the golden luxurious bliss of satiation drenchingly renewed. He possessed her still, or perhaps at last and finally. "I'm too old for this," he said lightly, grinning. He'd been fifteen the last time he'd made love in a carriage. "You're too large for this," Daisy whispered, her own grin replete with contentment. Maybe that was it, he thought. He'd not quite grown to his present height at fifteen. But more than that, he'd hardly ever since then felt the need to disregard the comforts of a bed. His shoulders were cramped as were his legs, he noticed now that reality had once again intruded. He'd been resting his weight on his elbows, trying at the same time to protect Daisy from the roll of the carriage, and his legs didn't have adequate room. "If you continue to seduce me," he said, his eyes alight with mischief, "I'll have to have a larger carriage designed. I don't know if I can move." His carriage had not been built with lovemaking in mind. "You at least have the option to move," Daisy pointedly murmured. She was still very much pinned beneath his large body. An ironic smile lit up his eyes with sunny amusement. "Pardon me, Mademoiselle… for my… regrettable rusticity." He looked so boyishly charming with his hair in disarray and his green eyes brilliant with jest, Daisy was struck suddenly with a stabbing sense of loss so intense she felt her heart constrict. When she left him, as leave him she must, her world was going to fall into dismal shade. And perhaps because today had already been too ionately charged, or perhaps because she had truly found love for the first time, she found her eyes beginning to brim over with tears. Too close not to notice, Etienne reacted instantly. "Darling," he said, hushed and bewildered, "what's wrong?" And he moved with a great deal of agility for a man with cramped, numbed legs. A moment later, they were both seated on the crushed velvet seat, his head bent toward hers in concern. "Tell me, sweetheart, and I'll fix it." Unequivocal and determined, he'd see mountains moved for her. "There's nothing to fix," Daisy whispered, thinking how unfair the gods had been to have placed Etienne in a structured world with a wife and family. "Forgive me. I'm not usually emotional." Her added

disclaimer, spoken in a more normal tone, was manifestly true. She was, in fact, never emotional. A disturbing thought, further and disastrously reinforced by tears beginning to spill over and slide down her cheeks. Lifting Daisy onto his lap in one flashing moment, Etienne straightened the collar of her dress in a small protective gesture that overlooked the disarray of her clothing. Touching her chin gently with his finger, he tipped her face up. "If you don't tell me, I can't help." His voice was the same one he used to soothe Hector. "I don't know what it is," she lied. "I don't want to make you unhappy. It's the last thing in the world I want to do." "I'm not unhappy," she whispered, fresh tears falling. "You could have fooled me." Daisy tried to smile. With pink flushed cheeks, her silky hair tumbled, her lashes wet and spiked, she looked young, childlike. "I can see I'm going to have to change my repertoire," he said, brushing a spill of hair from her brow. "No." It was the very smallest sound. "To something less emotional at least." His voice was husky and low, touched with his customary teasing. "No, don't." Despite her tears, he'd opened the vistas of a promised golden land. "Will I have to become proficient at kissing away tears then?" Bending lower, he licked a light path up her cheek. Her smile was less shaken now; she'd had time to compose herself, to reaffirm the distinctions between wishful fantasy and reality. "If you don't mind." "Kissing you for any reason is distinct delight, Miss Black." Having been adept at giving pleasure to women too long to doubt his abilities, he meant his words to calm Daisy's mood and bring a smile. "Anywhere," he added with a grin. "You shock me." Her grin matched his now, her sudden rush of vulnerability overcome with her customary, inherent logic. "I haven't even begun to shock you, darling." "Is that a promise?" She was self-assured once again, and coquettish. She had today and some weeks more—and with that she'd be content. "Bona fide," he whispered. The rest of the journey to Colsec ed in teasing silliness and soft kisses, a lush prelude of anticipation and enchantment. They were both touched by sensations unique to their experience as though they'd

entered a private walled estate where joy was suddenly handed over with the key to the gate. And happiness was no longer a tame and inexact word.

He carried her into his cottage when they arrived in her half undress, wearing only riding breeches himself. Padding barefoot up to the door while Guillaume watched with a smile on his face, the Duc answered Daisy's whispered concern for appearances with a smile, a kiss, and a cavalier, "They won't notice." And when of course his two servants did, with as little shock showing as they could muster, he only said while Daisy hid her face in his shoulder, "I'd like bathwater brought up and luncheon served in the garden at three." Then he murmured near Daisy's ear, "Is that all right?" It was the simplest of queries, a courtesy from a courteous man, but his intentions were quite different from the inquiry he would have made with anyone else because her answer mattered. He wished to please her in the most trivial ways; he wanted to give her the sun and the moon, his wealth, his estates, and all his happiness and joy. He was terrified. But she smiled up, her cheek warm against his shoulder, and offered him everything in her own simple answer. "I don't care." She meant she didn't care about the entire world spinning away into the blackness of the galaxy as long as he was holding her. "I mean it," she added. He smiled. "I know," he cryptically said as though they were speaking in a secret language. François carried up the bathwater in shiny copper buckets while they sat on the balcony in the sun. "Can you stay the night?" Etienne asked after they'd ed judgment on the serenity of the river landscape, the warmth of the spring sun, the extent of their mutual insanity.

When Daisy nodded, he suggested she write a short note to Adelaide making her excuses. As on her previous visit, Guillaume would deliver the message. He rose then to bring her paper and pen, laying a small writing table across her knees on his return. He didn't ask what she wrote, unconcerned in his habitual way with the strictures of society; he only took the envelope from her when she was finished, went downstairs, and handed it to François with directions for Guillaume. He was gone for only a short time, but the heat of the sun was soothing. Daisy had slept poorly the previous night, and with a postcoital languor seeping through her senses, she fell asleep. The Duc let her sleep while he bathed because his bachelor tub was only designed to accommodate one. He found himself whistling like a young boy while he washed. How long had it been since he'd been so unconditionally happy? He began planning some required renovations for his country cottage based on a concept that until recently he would have found anathema to his solitary hermitage. He would need plumbing put in—a larger bathroom and tub so Daisy would be comfortable. The original eighteenth-century cottage design had been adequate for his unsocial occupancy but his requirements had drastically altered. Would she want a telephone? He grimaced slightly at the thought, for Colsec's isolation was its greatest attraction. A moment later he shrugged away his reservations. If she wanted a telephone—he would have one installed. Pleasing her was his fondest wish and pleasure. He began mentally composing a list in his head—a lover's list meant to delight. Did she like diamonds, he wondered. Dressed a few moments later in a simple shirt and tros, he supervised the laying out of Daisy's bath, concerned with the exact temperature of the water, dismayed to hear he had no scented soap in his bachelor abode, fussing, François told Cook later, like a concerned mother hen. Shutting the door behind his servant, he glanced at the bed-side clock, gauging the time until lunch and then went to wake the woman who'd renewed his faith in the possibilities for happiness in life. Through a lazy contentment she felt his hands untying the ribbons at the waist of her chemise and only murmured a low purring sound. The Duc kissed the last remnant of her purr while he slid her arms from the bodice sleeves of the teal blue silk, opened to her waist, but never taken off in their haste toward consummation. "I'll buy you a new dress," he murmured, noting with mild astonishment the ripped silk near several of the buttonholes. "I've plenty more," Daisy casually replied, open-eyed and awake, stretching now she was free of her confining bodice. The styles were snug in the shoulder and sleeves, especially tailored day-gowns like hers, and she felt for a brief moment, basking under the sun, barefoot and bare-armed with her chemise unlaced, as though she were back under a prairie sun. "You'd like our summer camp," she said out of the blue, feeling an affinity very near to magic. "Show it to me," the Duc said, as if it were not an ocean and half a continent away. "Yes," she replied because today, this moment, she wouldn't think about his wife or what her family might say should she bring him home for summer camp. He kissed the tip of her nose then and her mouth and all the warm and scented contours of her body as he slipped her chemise and skirt and petticoats from her. "I need a bath," she apologized, for he was

clean and freshly dressed while the odor of their love-making clung to her body. He could have disagreed, for there was a provocative sense of fertility goddess in the scent of her, like female incitement on the most primordial level. But he agreed instead, to appease her sensibilities, saying, "You'll feel better after a bath." And so saying, he repressed his more fundamental urges, picked her up, carried her to the tub, and slid her into the warm water. He sat like a circumspect suitor in a drawing room might while she bathed, although his lounging posture was typically de Vec—assured, gently patrician. And he spoke of trivalities, wishing her to be comfortable. "Have I known you a thousand years?" Daisy asked, sliding down into the water to rise the soap from her shoulders, thinking how familiar Etienne seemed. "I don't know," he replied, "but certainly you will for the next thousand." "You're unprincipled." "Perhaps, but I'm happy." The sting of society's slurs had been bred out of the de Vecs a thousand years before, their motto, "Stand Aside," indicating the precise degree of their unconcern. "As long as you're happy?" While Daisy's tone was teasing, beneath her casual jest rested her own fundamental resistance to such complacent hedonism. "Do you mind?" A perceptive man, he'd caught that very small taint of disapproval. "I contribute generously to charity. Does that help?" His grin was beguiling. Daisy laughed. "This is not precisely the position in which to any moral judgments, lying as I am in your bathtub, lusting after your body." His smile could have brought the dead to life. "I was too polite to mention that. Maman has always cautioned me to avoid conversations having to do with virtue at times like this." "You like your Mama." His tone had been one of delight. "Yes. She'll adore you." A stabbing jealousy struck her. "Do you bring all your lovers to meet your Mama?" "Never." She was suspicious of his glib reply, for he'd already answered her similarly on several occasions and for a man of de Vec's expertise, she found it unlikely so many "nevers" were appropriate to their relationship. "You needn't patronize me; I'm quite realistic about life." "Sometimes, Daisy, mon chou, you're entirely too realistic. When I say never, I mean it. There's no point in lying." "Don't tell me you're always truthful in your…" Resenting the breadth of his experience with women, she stumbled over the words defining his profligacy.

"… friendships with women?" She was sunk down in the water still, her dark hair floating on the water's surface, her eyes accusing. "Yes," he said to her silent accusation, "I am. Not impolite, and omission, I'll it, becomes a developed skill, but always honest, darling." A great deal of his charm, beside the obvious beauty of his face and person, was the result of his engaging frankness. She wanted him beyond the dictates of her resentment and conscience, her lustful need stark and strong. He was too hand-some lounging in the simple wooden spindle chair, dressed in an open-throated plain white shirt and buff-colored tros rolled up above his strong, bronzed ankles, his heavy-lidded eyes seductive, the muscular definition of his tall lean frame on display—stretched out and lightly clothed, his skin very dark in contrast to the pale hues he wore. He was too tantalizing, making himself available as it were, not pressing himself on her. She'd thought he might help her bathe or at least come over to kiss her, and she found herself wanting to feel him inside her more powerfully for his reserve. If keeping his distance were deliberate, how often had he played the game, how many times had he sat and waited for a woman to come to him? Was she any different after all from the others, with the state of her arousal so pronounced? "Come here," she said, testing her power and his casual disregard. "Are you finished?" he softly inquired, ignoring her remark. "Yes, finished," she said, thinking instead of the unfinished state of her desire. "Come here and kiss me." "I'll get a towel." He had his own plans and they didn't include getting wet. She suddenly rose like Aphrodite born, in sleek lush invitation, water streaming in glistening iridescence down her body, her black hair cascading in a river of silk down the supple curve of her back, the dark triangle of hair between her smooth, gleaming thighs, shiny, damp, and tempting. She touched herself briefly there with a graceful gesture as if in invitation and waited for him. But drawing near, he only offered her his hand to step from the tub and wrapped her in the large white towel he'd taken from the bed. "Can we eat later?" she said very low, her throaty persuasion asking for more. "I mean luncheon," she softly added, letting the towel slide to the floor, watching his eyes drift down her slender form, thinking there were mysteries beyond the explanation of the intellect when she wanted to make love to this man anytime she saw him, anytime she thought of him… anytime at all. "Come outside with me," he coaxed. "Don't you want me?" She was more direct than coquettish. And she felt strangely breathless standing nude before him like a slave on the block. Taking a very deep breath, he slowly exhaled. "Oh, yes." With Eve-like assurance she reached for the buttons of his shirt. She had the ission she wanted, a response comparable to her own hot-blooded yearning. When he stayed her hand with a gentle pressure before her fingers unfastened the first ivory button, the inquiry in her eyes was mild. "I hope this won't ruin my libertine image," he said with a grin, "but I promised Gabriella—my cook," he added in the event she didn't recognize the name, "we'd take luncheon at three." Bringing her captured hand to his lips he gently kissed her fingertips before placing her hand carefully within the curve of his palms. "François reminded me when he brought up your water that she was preparing a salmon aspic. The temperature's warm today and well… she and François have taken care of me here at Colsec for a

long time." "Let me get this straight. Gabriella's salmon aspic takes precedence over making love to me?" If she hadn't been grinning, he would have answered her differently. "Let's just say I've more confidence in your ability to wait than Gabriella's aspic… and," he added, his smile wide, his hands holding hers warmly engulfing, "if you get angry with me, I know one or two ways to curtail your resentment." They stood very close, their spirits in tremulous rapport—held in check… only barely. "In other words, Gabriella doesn't succumb to your seductions." "That's about it." "So if I were to agree without argument to postpone my libidinous urges, you would no doubt…" Her voice took on a husky contralto resonance, and the light of mischief shone in her eyes. "… reward me later." "My word on it, counselor," he said, grinning. "After the aspic's been served, I'm completely at your disposal." "Completely?" The single word held suggestion rich in imagery. He smiled. "Absolutely."

After selecting one of his shirts to wear when he told her she might as well be comfortable in the isolation of his estate, they walked hand in hand down his curved low-ceilinged stairway. Etienne's overlarge shirt reminded Daisy of the Absarokee dresses she wore when she was with the clans at the

summer camp. Her bare feet, too, recalled the freedom of those summer days. He led her out the front entrance to a winding grassy path leading through cool ferns and weeping willows down to the river where a sylvan clearing opened before them, all exquisite shades of green and dappled sunshine. Artistically placed on the verge of the tall willows, a rustic summer pavilion complemented the fairylike glade. A folly built of slender willow saplings with bark and branches still intact, roofed in green, verdant thatch offered cool haven against the summer-day's heat. "How wonderful," Daisy exclaimed on seeing it. Like an illustration from a fairy tale, the pavilion on the river-bank immediately evoked another reality, a fantasia. "You didn't show me this last time." "I've five miles on the river," Etienne said in polite evasion. He hadn't intended on seeing her again—last time. "This is one of my toys." "There are others?" She hadn't thought him a fanciful man, so much of his life was patterned in the predictable aristocratic mold. "A few," he modestly said, thinking how her eyes would sparkle when he showed her his Mongolian yurt constructed on a rise overlooking a great banking curve of the Seine. But just then François appeared almost noiselessly from the woodland path, carrying a large covered silver tray. Escorting Daisy into the open-air pavilion, the Duc seated her on a wicker settee, elaborate in woven detail, cushioned in pillows of a lush deep-purple woven fabric. He offered her champagne from a bottle on ice in a silver bucket, seated himself on the railing beside Daisy's settee, and oversaw François's arrangement of the luncheon table. Several trips later the last item of food was deposited on the natural linen table cover. With a gracious thank you, the Duc acknowledged François's elegant display. "We won't require your assistance any longer," he added, his voice quietly dismissive. "Very good, sire. The towels you asked for are on the small jetty near the boathouse." "And the champagne?" "In the boathouse." "Tell Gabriella I'm having some more playthings sent out for your grandchildren. Au Nain Bleu's manager promised me tomorrow." François bowed with a peasant gesture, his hand over his heart. "Thank you, sire," he said to the man he knew as Baron Fermond. "Gabriella will be pleased." "How long have you employed them?" Daisy asked after François had disappeared into the dense willow grove. "They came with the estate. Their family was young then… it must be twenty-some years ago." His answer was more casual than his memory. He ed precisely to the day, for he'd bought Colsec directly after Isabelle had informed him shortly after the twins' birth that he would no longer be welcome in her bed. That same day, he'd had his steward look into a retreat for himself near Paris. A week later he'd bought Colsec. He'd come here often over the years when society became intolerable and his moodiness needed surcease. "They were afraid they'd be turned out," he went on, "and I'd bring in my own servants. But I was looking for anonymity, no ties to my Paris staff. Their children work for me now, too, either in the village or here. Their youngest boy heads my library in the village."

Daisy raised her brow in silent query. French peasants were rarely librarians, and a small village with a library was exceptional. "Your clan isn't the only beneficent unit of humanity in the world, darling." His soft irony was teasing. "You surprise me," Daisy said in genuine iration. "I thought your charity was confined to gifts of jewelry to fashionable ladies." "In time, no doubt, I'll astonish you with my… charity." Her voice when she answered was husky with seductive suggestion. "I certainly hope so." "You'll have to meet my nuns," the Duc went on, amusement coloring his tone. "I endow a nunnery too." "A nunnery?" Daisy's eyes had narrowed slightly in licentious suspicion. "I've never felt the urge," Etienne said with a faint smile, reading her expression correctly. "The Bishop had cut their funds and they were starving, that's all." "You a great number of people." She said it almost grudgingly, reluctant to it she had been almost entirely wrong in her assessment of Etienne. "Many of them contribute to my wealth. I'd be a fool not to." His simple answer, unique to his class, was delivered with his usual casual logic. Daisy had been raised in a culture where the individual contributed to the welfare of the tribe and, while she hardly needed another reason to find the Duc de Vec appealing, enamoured as she was already, the fact that he had a social consciousness in a society known for its selfishness was gratifying. No, more—she found it another temptation to love him. Which thought immediately struck her with alarm. Lifting her champagne glass for refilling, she said by way of suppressing disastrous thoughts of love—hopeless and impossible in relation to the Duc de Vec, "Should we sample the extraordinary salmon aspic? And I warn you, considering what I relinquished for Gabriella's serenity, I expect the ambrosia of the gods." Five minutes later, glancing up from her comfortable half-reclining position on the settee, her portion of aspic devoured, she said to Etienne's knowing look, "Don't look so smug and cut me another serving." "I think this is where I'm allowed to say something superior." "Not if you value your life." He only grinned and served her another sizable portion. In silence, he watched her eat, watched her lick the fork clean, watched her small considering pause before she said, "It's an aphrodisiac, isn't it?" "I don't think it has to be. Gabriella tells me it's a family recipe ceremoniously cooked for weddings. The ice required for it makes it of course a luxury for peasant households." "What's in it?" Despite his mild denial, she was already feeling a slow seeping desire drift through her senses. He shrugged like any nobleman would when confronted with a question related to the kitchen. "Don't

ask me. Would you like me to call Gabriella?" "No," Daisy instantly retorted, not currently in the mood for additional company. "Could I interest you in some wild strawberries or some génoise? Would you like a cup of tea?" "Don't you feel it?" she asked, incredulous he could so casually converse about food when she was beginning to feel the Egyptian cotton of his shirt as though it were heated silk. "Of course." He'd eaten too.5 "And this was why you delayed me… it wasn't concern for a servant's feelings." "It was both," he said. "Gabriella terrifies me." His smile negated his latter statement and in truth, Gabriella coddled him. For which he, as a grateful man, reciprocated. "More champagne?" "No, thank you." Leaning over, she placed her plate on the floor. Settling back against the cushions, she unbuttoned the small closures at her wrists, then slid the crested silver buttons of the shirt-front open. Smiling up at the Duc, who had set his champagne glass down, she let the shirt slowly slide down her shoulders and arms until it lay in puddled white ripples on the deep purple of the cushions. Lifting her hands free, she raised herself enough to slip the shirttail away before lying back against the grape-colored cushions. "I'm waiting for my promised reward," she said, her smile lighting up her eyes. She was, he thought as he gazed at her, the most perfectly formed woman he'd ever seen. Slender, toned, her long legs lazily crossed, her arms resting against the settee back and curve of pillows, she was every man's erotic dream. Her full splendid breasts were suspended by the position of her raised arms so their weighted volume appeared almost perfectly round, soft and luscious, and waiting to be touched… her nipples peaked, tautly subject to Gabriella's aspic. He could already imagine her whimper of excitement when he finally sucked on them. And when his glance drifted downward to the heating juncture of her thighs, she shifted in a small restless movement as though he had touched her there. Putting out his hand, he said, "Come," knowing she would obey. When she rose to walk to him, he watched each step, counted them with the rhythm of his pulsebeat, wondered in a small corner of his brain- not yet inundated with desire whether anyone in history had lost his reason so willingly. A blithe, ingenuous thought, it brought a smile to his lips. The warmth of her hand slid into his curved fingers. He pulled her close and for that millisecond before their lips touched, the air between them seemed liquid and scented. That first of their lips, delicate and subtle, her small mouth shaping itself against the champagne coolness of his, instantly scorched their -senses, burned through their bodies, ignited an appetite for sensation already roused by Gabriella's festive delicacy. And they clung to each other for a moment—breathless… stunned by the violence of their need. "The settee's too small," Daisy said first, her voice still touched with a suffocated quiet. "I'll show you my boat." Etienne's voice in contrast was terse. He was already pulling her toward the pavilion entrance facing the river. They walked together under the dense willow boughs, the path moss-covered and spongy beneath their feet, the coolness exquisite contrast to their heated bodies. "Wait," Daisy said once, frantic to touch him, and reaching up, pulled his face down so she could kiss him. And had Etienne not known the comforts

waiting on his river barge, he would have tumbled her to the ground right there. As it was, he said, "no," softly once to her importuning mouth and body and the second time held her arms to her side while he said in a hushed low breath of command, "Soon." Lifting her into his arms he quickly carried her the remaining distance to his boathouse, shoved the door open with his foot and stood for a moment in the cool dimness of the interior while his eyes became accustomed to the diminished light. Daisy was nibbling at his ear, whispering intriguing suggestions, so he moved swiftly to the small causeway leading to the barge. The vessel had been built a century before, in the decade before the Revolution, for parties on the river, for frolic and merriment, and while the deck had been designed in large enough dimensions for an orchestra and dancing, the salons on the lower deck were fitted for activities of a more amorous nature. The main stateroom was opulent, gilded in all the exuberance of the classic years of the rococo, mirrored and garlanded, decorated with painted murals of shepherds and shepherdesses engaged in pastel-hued play, dominated by an enormous chase gold bed. "Where did that come from?" Daisy asked with a mixture of curiosity and awe. The oval bed shaped like a sculptured shell was detailed in hammered bas-relief with scenes of seduction and love, a magnificent work of goldsmithing, exotic, arresting, distinctly Eastern, imbued, it seemed, with a former life. "From a harem." "I shouldn't be so naive, should I? I imagine you need a harem bed quite often." She'd gone rigid in his arms, her eyes in contrast were alight with fomenting resentment. "The bed came with the barge," he said, placing her on the peach silk coverlet, careful to keep his response scrupulously serious. "A Russian prince was the former owner, I'm told. A Russian prince with a jealous wife. He sold the bed." "I don't doubt she preferred less potent memories in her bedroom. Is this the usual second course then, after the aspic?" Her jealousy painted each word with sweet sarcasm. "The bed is virginal as my nuns here on my estate, so you can damp the fire in your eyes." "Your nuns?" "A nonliteral phrase. Good God, Daisy, be reasonable." He would have liked to say he had all the women he needed for entertainment without encroaching on a nunnery, but an ission in those would have been imprudent. Daisy must have reconsidered the absurdity of her jealousy for her expression became suddenly contrite. "I'm sorry," she said with a small smile, sitting splendidly nude in the center of his golden bed. "And had I answered differently?" he asked, pulling his shirt over his head, gazing down at her with a teasing smile, his developed skill at omission having averted an argument. "I would have left." "You wouldn't have gotten far." His gaze swept her form, lingering on her opulent breasts and firm taut stomach and lower where the dark silk of her hair touched the pastel peach coverlet. "Because I'm extremely focused at the moment." "I can outrun you." She spoke with a quiet confidence.

"Perhaps," he noncommittally said, not wishing to argue. He doubted she could, but if she could initially, he would have overtaken her eventually. After all, she was naked with nowhere to run except within the twenty-five square miles of his fenced estate. Which thought further provoked his libido. "I always won—even against my brothers when we were young." "Do you think I should lock the door then?" he asked with a grin, reaching for the buttons on his tros. A woman's high-pitched giggle—extremely close—suddenly interrupted their privacy along with a splash of oars and the gruffer voice of a man shouting, "No, pull the rope to starboard, to your left, left, oh hell!" And with noisy impact, some kind of craft crashed into the boathouse. "Oh hell!" Etienne's exclamation echoed that of the unseen man. He debated for a moment whether they could ignore the situation entirely, but the giggling female voice rose in another shriek of laughter, deciding the issue for him. "Goddammit, no, not you. Lord you're touchy. Relax, don't move," he said briskly, redoing his tro buttons. "I'll be right back."

A full fifteen minutes ed before he returned, for he had to help the young man unsnarl the sail of his small dinghy, find another oar to replace the one the rather inebriated young lady had let slip into the river, and then wait patiently while the pretty shopgirl answered nature's call on shore. They were on holiday, the young man told him, and were sailing to Le Havre, but Angelique had had too much wine for lunch when they stopped at Argenteuil and decided she wanted to try her hand at sailing. The Duc was polite. He understood, he said. These things happen, he agreed. Yes, the Seine was especially beautiful on this part of the river. No, really, it was no trouble at all, keep the oar, he had several more, take care when you enter the locks near Bougival, the current tends to take you in too fast. And he stood on the jetty while the young man tacked back out into the main current, just to make sure they wouldn't be disturbed again. "All is resolved?" Daisy asked when he returned. She had overheard enough of the conversation to understand the situation. "The woman had too much to drink." "You look warm." She was lying back on an assortment of pillows looking cool, her voice teasing like a playful kitten. "Hmpf," he said, hot from the sun and his haste to expedite the intruders' departure, giggling women a special irritation to him. Walking over to a gilded washstand, he poured some water into a large porcelain washbasin, bent his head over it, and splashed water over his face. He came up dripping, cooler and aware suddenly one of the mechanized doors in the sweeping curve of headboard near Daisy's right shoulder was open. "You've been busy while I was gone," he murmured, his voice coming from deep in his throat. The hinged doors concealing the sportive apparatus on the gold harem bed were hidden in the intricacies of the embossed design, triggered by devices in the fretwork ornament bordering each . Daisy's dark, silky brows framed eyes full of innocence, but then she smiled, altering the innocence with play. "I was iring the goldsmithing technique."

"How many did you find?" "Eight." "Very good," he said in iration; they were well hidden. "How many are there?" "Eight." "For eight women?" He lifted his shoulder in a shrug. It wasn't a question he was going to answer. "Would you like to try the silk ties?" A flaring rush, heated and heady, streaked through Etienne's senses. Her hips moved in a subtle small rise. "Would you?" And she arched her back slowly, feeling the fire in her blood race downward. "I didn't know," he murmured, his smile, slow and lingering, "whether you'd like… being tied." Daisy's dark eyes opened in a deliberate measured speculation. "I was thinking, actually," she said very low, "of you being tied." He couldn't suppress the surging increase in his arousal and it showed in the swelling rise beneath the soft linen of his tros. "You like the idea," she murmured. "I don't know if I like the idea." Her eyes opened wide in contradiction. "Have you only dealt with complaisant women?" "I suppose," he said very slowly, considering briefly the scope of her question, "maybe I have." He wasn't immodest enough to point out that complaisance was a mild term for the extreme willingness of his lovers. On the other hand, Daisy's candid sensuality, her open and spontaneous freedom of spirit were fascinating to a man who had never met a woman who demanded equality. "Until now," she said, as if reading his mind. "The Circe," he whispered, "of my soul." "Would you mind then," she murmured, her lashes falling in languid suggestion, "taking those"—her finger pointed at his tros—"off and I'll try to live up to a reputation of that magnitude." He grinned at her confidence. "My pleasure," he said, unbuttoning with swift fingers. Daisy watched as his buff-linen tros slid down his hips and legs, marveling at the simultaneous

splendor and austerity of his body. He was lean yet powerfully muscled, an athlete's body honed by sport, patined with a dulcet grace. And when he moved toward her, she gazed, fascinated, as the muscles in his thighs, torso, shoulders shifted and rippled beneath the dark bronze of his skin. He knelt on the bed when he reached it and stretched past her and around her for the trigger mechanism on the compartment door nearest him. Opening it with deftness, he leaned farther to touch the release on a second door with a familiarity Daisy found annoying. She had no ownership on his past, she understood in a rational way, yet she found herself resentful and jealous of any hint of previous women. And despite what he'd chosen to deny, this bed, if not here, somewhere else, had been shared by some of his lovers. He was too well acquainted with its subtleties. "Did you look at everything?" he casually asked, when all the decorative doors were open in the high, fluted half-circle of the molded headboard and footboard. "The Sultan apparently liked amusement." Within the numerous small compartments were perfumes and oils, playtoys for sexual pleasure, silk cords in rainbow shades attached to metal rings, small containers of scented scarlet rouge. A delicate razor in engraved gold. Feathers with carved ivory grips, curved to accommodate the hand. "I didn't recognize some things. What are these for?" Daisy asked, leaning over to extract two little cloissoine' pots of rouge. "Harem houris accent their nipples and genitals with a rouge… a tradition apparently of Eastern seduction." "How do you know?" He shrugged as he lay lounging against the pillows. "I thought everyone knew." "Like multiplication tables." Daisy's sarcasm raised his brow fractionally. "Like adult games," he softly corrected. "And this?" She took out the diminutive gold razor. "For disposing of nonplayful houris?" He grinned. "You wouldn't have lasted a day in a harem." But his fingers were gentle when he stroked the dark hair of her pubic area. "For shaving that," he said, "so the rouge will show. The Eastern male finds red inflaming." "Do you?" "I don't know." "Liar." "Do the Absarokee have these?" he asked instead of arguing the finer points of his past love life. From velvet-lined containers he took out two dildos of modest size, both astonishingly of blown glass. "Not in glass." Daisy's casual reply ignited his temper with electrifying speed. And his formerly benign gaze instantly narrowed. "How do you know?" he snapped in ill-natured rebuke.

"I thought everyone did," she took great pleasure in replying. "If one's an adult," she coyly added. His nostrils flared for a moment before saner counsel reminded him Daisy's open sensuality was one of her heady charms. "Touché," he murmured with a smile. "Are you jealous?" Unequipped and unprepared for so novel a sensation, he was honest at least. "Unreasonably, I think." "This is an educational experience then for you." "Do you think so? Why?" He was curious of her answer when she spoke with such fastidious pedantry. "Any new experience is enlightening." She grinned. "And you'll appreciate me more." "In that case," he said with a matching grin, "I look forward to my education. I thought for a moment, you'd gone prim on me." "You don't know me." "No." He didn't. "You're never prim then?" "Never in bed." "Don't say things like that." His voice was very low. "Would you prefer I were a virgin?" He didn't like virgins, had never seen the advantage or appeal in the condition. Had always made a point of avoiding them. "Yes," he said, knowing his answer brought him beyond reason or rationale. "That would be nice." Her smile was chaste and virtuous as she sat beside him on the Sultan's bed, but her eyes were the same seductive eyes that had captivated him at Adelaide's. "I'd be happy then," she said, her voice melodic with heated promise, "to be your innocent virgin. I'm accommodating, you see… to your notions of propriety." Anyone knowing the Duc would have been surprised he was familiar with the word. "Or impropriety," he added with a smile. "Later…" she proposed, "we'll work on that. Now, do you have a preference in colors on these silk cords?" Some moments later, tied hand and foot with silk cords, he lay tranquil and fascinated, his arousal beautifully formed, his breathing calm, watching Daisy shave her pubic hair. Once she used some of the perfumed oil as lubricant, the razor glided over her skin smoothly. "This razor is remarkably sharp," she murmured, looking up at him, her eyes insinuating, "for something so old." "Damascus steel," the Duc softly countered.

Newly replaced, she warranted. But then he was tied and she was not… so some small retaliation for his dissimulation was entirely possible. Her newly shaved skin glistened with oil and as she reached for the small rouge pot, Etienne said, "You'll have to wipe that oil off before putting on the rouge." Her eyes held his for a moment in a brief flaring irritation, but she said, "Thank you for the information," sweetly as though it didn't matter that he knew the procedure in such detail. She applied the scarlet rouge to her nipples first, lingering in the application, making sure the aureoles were completely covered to their outer perimeters, carefully smoothing a perfect rounded border of crimson with her fingertip; taking care next to gently tug her crested nipples into high peaked hardness before painting them red like luscious glistening cherries. "Have I missed anything?" Her eyes held his for a moment, contemplating the extent of his interest. His gaze lazily undertook to survey her handiwork; he had more experience than she in this particular amorous game. "The perfection of a trained houri, darling… tempting as sin." The style of his insouciance: complimentary, courteous, eminently practiced, touched her momentarily with a small vexation before she considered how pleasant it would be to infringe on that nonchalance. Moving slightly into Etienne's line of vision, Daisy gracefully disposed herself into a provocative pose—like the Gupta sculptures from India, where the females seemed eternally accommodating… with their thighs spread open in a great curving arc and their ankles crossed. As though framing the object of male desire. Reaching for the towel he'd dried his face with earlier, she wiped the oil from her skin, then looked up to see whether Etienne was suitably attentive. She spread the crimson rouge over the soft pouting flesh of her labia with slow gliding strokes, daubing the pliant tissue of her velvety folds, massaging the rouge into every crevice, penetrating half a finger depth at times to make certain each swelling protuberance and silky volume was covered with glossy crimson. The Duc only shut his eyes once to compose himself. He was a man of experience. "Am I doing this right?" Daisy sweetly asked when she was finished, leaning over to touch the crest of his erection with the tip of her rouged fingertip. "As a virgin"—she smiled, sliding her fingers down his pulsing arousal—"I'm not absolutely sure." His breathing changed then. Her smile broadened faintly, satisfaction apparent in the subtle upcurving of her mouth. It pleased her his tranquility could be broached. It pleased her more to anticipate further ruffling his unruffled calm. Taking one of the glass dildos from its velvet-lined compartment, she murmured, "How strange," looking perplexed as an artless virgin might. "Whatever is this used for?" "Guess," the Duc dryly said, his eyes half closed in sardonic reply. "Oh." Daisy's moue of revelation was pure dramai guileless in its innocence, and had his erection been less intensely pulsing, less rigid, less demonstrably ready to mount the seductively rouged actress teasing him, he might have laughed at her artless deceit.

"You're larger," she declared, placing the blue glass cylindrical object beside the Duc's erection lying hard against his stomach. "I can use this to practice then… so you won't hurt me later." Her voice was low and sweetly gentle, ingenuous in its simple statements, like an innocent might approach a new adventure. "Is it cool on your skin?" She slid the smooth glass up the rigid throbbing length of his arousal. When he didn't answer, having shut his eyes briefly against the surging rush of sensation, she repeated in a coaxing whisper, "Is it?" "Yes," he answered finally on a controlled exhalation of breath. "You're not talkative." He gazed at her from under his lowered lashes, his heavy-lidded eyes intent for a moment. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?" "You aren't? It looks like you are," Daisy purred, sliding the glass dildo down again, exerting slight pressure so the pulsing turgid veins of his penis were smoothed flat for a moment. The subsequent release of blood was graphic in its intensity. Etienne sucked in his breath. "Tell me if you like this," Daisy went on in the same undramatic, even tone, moving the dildo to her genitalia, painted vividly like a harem girl's. The deep blue glass contrasted sumptuously with the scarlet rouge as did the glistening glass with the lesser oiled sheen of her satiny skin. "Are you watching?" she unnecessarily asked. He was, moving unconsciously against the silk cords binding him, anticipating the dildo's penetration. "Would a virgin like this?" she silkily inquired as she slid the tip of the smooth glass inside an inch of rouged flesh, looking up at him as he lay bound before her. "Don't ask me." A certain gruffness infused his voice. "I'll let you know…" And she applied a slow even pressure, until the blue glass disappeared inside her, only the silk tassel, attached to the looped end lying brilliant indigo against the peach silk of the coverlet. "The answer is… unconditionally… unequivocally… yes," she whispered a breath-held moment later as the full length of the indispensable harem object filled her, sending shuddering flashes of fire through her senses. The Duc smiled faintly as her tone altered at the last. If she continued in that substitute exercise in pleasure, they would soon be less unevenly paced. "I'll keep it in mind if I'm ever with a virgin," he said, watching her face, her hand, the placement and movement of the dildo. "Do you like virgins?" His quiet unexpected question drew her attention for a moment from the internal heat igniting her body and mind. How many men would think to ask a woman that. "Yes," she answered, lying because he was contemplating her with a familiar detachment not there a moment ago and she felt defenseless suddenly, although she was free and he was not. A muscle briefly twitched in his lean cheek before his dark brows drew together in a faint scowl. But his voice was smoothly sardonic when he lazily said, "You like very young men then." "Sometimes." She could be as blasé as he.

"You'll have to tell me about it someday." "I can't imagine why?" Damn you, he silently exploded, and damn all the men in your past, whatever their ages. But he understood her tempting allure, better perhaps than any, because he'd taken her away today in full sight of anyone wishing to see, without scruple for his name or scandalous consequence. "You're right, of course," he softly said, forcing himself to maintain control of his emotions in this oddly heated, volatile seduction. "Do you think that surrogate you're currently enjoying would have satisfied you for a lifetime in a harem?" He knew the answer to his question. He could tell, she thought, what she was feeling, how transfixed and urgent was the pulsing center of her body and in defense, she abruptly pulled the dildo free. "It wouldn't have satisfied me for long," she declared, steeling herself against the frisson of urgent desire. "I suppose I would have had to find some way to gain the Sultan's attention," she added in a theatrically sultry purr intended to thwart Etienne's knowing smugness. "You know, something unusual…" "I'd be interested in that," the Duc drawled in the small contest of wills that had developed over the history of the Sultan's bed and their various backgrounds in amorous experience. "I thought you might." Daisy's smile was provocative. Her fingers curved around his erection, forcing it away from his body so it stood upright, hard and long and engorged. "If Eastern males find the color red enflaming, this might have been of interest to a Sultan," she quietly said, dipping her finger into one of the tiny pots of rouge. Summoning all his restraint, Taoist and otherwise, the Duc forced his breathing into a semblance of calm as Daisy delicately touched the sensitive pulsing crest of his arousal. Her fingers glided in widening circles of brilliant color down to the flaring flange. Then taking the newly painted crest between her thumb and fingers, she gently squeezed. He was dying, he thought. Bending low, she brushed her lips over his mouth. "Tell me," she softly urged, "do you like my version of war paint?" With enormous effort he focused on her amused dark eyes and nodded. "It looked that way to me," she whispered, her breasts warm on his chest. "Now let's see," she playfully mused, sitting upright again. "Will you need directions later?" she teased, painting a sleek red line up the length of his distended arousal, capping it with an arrowhead design. He looked down. "Not likely," he murmured with a small tight smile. "But feel free." "You're pleasantly amenable." "I'm trying," he said very quietly, not, in fact, comfortable being tied—some barbaric throwback, no doubt. But he was accommodating her and the sensual reality couldn't be faulted. Daisy repeated the painted arrows in tantalizing slow motion twice more on his penis while the Duc wondered whether the thunder of his heart could be heard in Paris.

"Do you think a Sultan would have liked my artistic talents?" "Considerably more," the Duc agreed in a suppressed whisper, "than the… Thousand and One Nights tale." "I rather think so too." She was smiling. "Painting can be aesthetically gratifying," she went on, following the direction of her painted arrows with a delicate brushing movement of her fingers. The Duc groaned, low and muted. No matter how experienced he was at restraining ejaculation, there were limits—very swiftly nearing. "Umm," Daisy murmured, immune to the Duc's internal, imminently explosive timetable, "you've grown another two inches." The lines of red paint were irregularly broken now, fractured into a discontinuous jagged rhythm with the added length of his arousal. "I'm afraid you're much too large for a virgin," Daisy softly teased. "You'd hurt me terribly; you're too enormous for my Virginal trepidation. Faced with the daunting prospect of being invaded by… this…" She gently squeezed the base of the shaft. "Would a true virgin decline or be… more tempted? You wouldn't know about virgins though, would you," she whispered, heated and jealous, "because you've had too many experienced women vying for your time." She couldn't repress her flaring pique, had no control over her jealousy. He was too beautiful, lying bronzed and powerful on the Sultan's bed, too perfect, too used to eager women wanting him. Too casual even in the extremity of his arousal. Controlled. Able to maintain his roused ion just short of orgasm. How long could he maintain that equilibrium? How much practice did it take to become that accomplished? "Answer," she murmured. "No." "No?" "No." His voice was extremely soft and had Daisy known him better she would have taken cautious note. Not familiar with the Duc's temper, impelled only by her own, she ignored the intense quiet of his tone and moved suddenly just beyond his reach. Was jealous pique the impetus behind her provocative pose, so close he could have touched her—if his arms weren't tied with braided silk cord to the gold rings behind the secret doors? Could her languorous stretching that raised her heavy red-tipped breasts and narrowed her waist and brought the scarlet detailed juncture of her thighs within inches of his face be more then sportive tantalizing? The Duc's reaction was unequivocal. His erection was stiff against his stomach and pulsing with his heartbeat, his eyes half closed, his outward composure maintained with effort. "You've teased enough," he said, his breathing visible in the rise and fall of his chest. But in reply, Daisy lay beside Etienne in a languid indolent pose, using one of the delicate ivory-handled feathers to trace a leisurely path up the length of his arousal, retracing a descent with equal slowness. Lightly brushing upward again over the distended pulsing veins, she circled the engorged head with feathery flickering rhythm.

The Duc's back arched against the overpowering sensations. "That's enough," he said very softly when he could catch his breath again. But she only bent her head as he spoke and, drawing his rigid length into her mouth, sucked and licked and nibbled on his painted flesh until his breathing had changed into an erratic rhythm. He tested the strength of the silk cords over the rise and fall of her head, his fists clenching, his biceps straining, but the ropes held—a tribute to their craftsmanship. Relaxing his fingers as Daisy languidly drew her tongue up the hard pulsing length of him, in a tight controlled tone those familiar with the Duc de Vec were heedful of, he said, "Untie me." It took her a moment to answer but when her head lifted and she gazed into his heated eyes, she said, "Later," as if he had only questioned her timetable for croquet. Testing his control, pushing him, she moved then, sleek and curved and voluptuous so she was straddling his thighs. Her smile was teasing flirtation when she murmured, "I like your harem bed… and your submission…" It was not precisely the word to describe Etienne's present disposition. His eyes shone with a green and glowing fire. "Let's see," she said glancing down at his distended erection and then back up to his face, "if I had decided after all, to say… experiment… as a virgin, titillated by the sight of you, how exactly would I place that very large…" Daisy smiled, swaying gently, so her warmth and dampness slid over his skin. "Could you help me," she added, coy and teasing, when she knew he couldn't, "… or at least give me directions?" He shut his eyes briefly against his throbbing ache of desire. "Untie me," he repeated very quietly. "The games are over." "Don't you like to be bound?" Daisy's voice was light. His was not. "No," he said. "Did the women you entertained in this bed like it?" She shouldn't have asked, but the words were there suddenly when she thought of all the newly filled containers of perfumes and oils and unguents in a bed a century old and she couldn't stop them, even while she thought: How could it matter in any event if there had been a thousand? "I don't want to fight," the Duc said, steeling himself against the intensity of his ion. "Now, please, untie me." "How many?" she asked, driven by feelings she couldn't control. And his temper showed at last. "A thousand," he said, as if he could read her mind. She slapped him. In a galvanic surge of power his right arm snapped free and then his left, tearing the welded gold rings from their moorings inside the chambers behind the hammered gold doors. Reaching down in a single

powerful lunge, tumbling Daisy aside, his hands closed over the silk ropes stretching between his ankles and the fluted decorative footboard and with a strength augmented by fury, he wrenched the fastenings from the metal of the bed. In a flashing second more, Daisy was flat on her back, covered with the weight of his body. "And now," the Duc said very quietly, "we'll begin on a thousand and one." She struggled against his weight and strength while he swiftly slid first one of his wrists and then the other through the detached silk cords, kicking his feet loose from the trailing ropes. Reaching out, his fingers closed on a silk cord and he yanked it from its spooled compartment, unreeling its length in a sweep of braided azure. Effortlessly brushing aside her fiery defense, he lifted Daisy the scant inches necessary to slide the blue tie under her, looped it swiftly around her waist, knotted it with a jerk of his wrist and pulled another rope spinning loose from its reel to repeat his procedure in lightning seconds with a second cord of persimmon silk. "There now," he said, lifting his weight completely free, moving back on his heels to survey her lying trussed where he had so recently lain. His smile was pleasant when he added, "I wouldn't move too much. Those slip knots tighten under pressure." "Untie me, damn… you!" Daisy vehemently protested. But her voice caught at the last as the rope cut sharply into her waist. "Relax, darling," Etienne softly suggested, slipping his finger under the knot to ease the restraining loop. "I wouldn't want to leave marks." "The voice of authority speaking?" Daisy's icy voice matched the chill in her eyes. "Only in of breaking polo ponies, darling, despite your insinuations." His smile was angelic. "I'm careful with their skin too. Although," he added, reaching out to touch her, "yours is—" He caught her raking fingers just short of his face, her second hand intercepted with equal ease, his voice unruffled as he finished, "more precious." With deft speed and a cheerfully facile apology, her wrists were tied together with one of the ropes the Duc had torn from the bed. Loosely attaching them to the silk cords binding her waist, he quietly said, his voice like velvet, "Now then, why don't we familiarize you more intimately with the Sultan's toys. For educational purposes only," he added in a whisper, taking a dildo of exquisite aquamarine glass imbedded with spun-gold threads from a leather case lined in blue velvet. "Or what was it you said? For… practice?" "I'm sorry I didn't untie you when you asked." He grinned. "Is that the attorney negotiating? Look at the color next to your skin," he went on, placing the sleek glittering glass on her stomach, ignoring her overture, smarting though he wouldn't it it, over her remark about Absarokee equivalents of the Sultan's aquamarine toy. "This one's larger too. You might enjoy it more." "I don't like this." Her dark brows were drawn into a scowl. "You will. This has the endorsement of a great number of harem beauties." "And your lovers too?"

"I wonder if this would be an appropriate time to discuss those young men you've introduced to pleasure. Although personally, I've always preferred leaving the instruction of virgin females to their husbands. Tell me, do you find a young man's eagerness enough to compensate for his lack of experience?" His words were uttered with a mildness contrary to the heat of his temper when he thought of Daisy with other men. "Eagerness has its charms." She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of knowing the truth. "How does it compare with this," he murmured, sliding the glass dildo down her stomach, over her painted labia with exquisite deliberation… so anticipation of its penetration was tantalizingly prolonged, "… in of charm." The smooth rounded glass invaded slightly, the pressure of the Duc's hand slight. Daisy inched backward but he followed relentlessly. The sea-green cylinder glided into her heated wet interior, sleekly, easily… deeply despite her small squirming protest. "I'd suggest restricting your movements to a minimum, darling. This hand-blown glass is fragile," he quietly advised. Daisy instantly calmed. "You see. Anyone can be tamed." His smile was smug as he pressed the dildo upward a fraction more, forcing her heated age wider. And she felt her muscles contract with shimmering sensation, felt the slick lubricant of desire flow, oozing profusely in cool minute drops down her thighs, felt the heat of desire flare higher—inundating her body with peaking pleasure. She shouldn't be responding to the Duc's insolent invasion and domination; she should ignore somehow the rapturous feeling engendered by the Sultan's Venetian toy. But she couldn't and he knew it, damn him. Because all the women before couldn't ignore it either. "Damn you," she whispered. But she didn't say stop, he noted, easing the green glass out slightly to test her interest, wanting too to command her body's response. As if it broadened his authority over her life. "No…" she moaned very low in her throat, closing her legs around his hand, raising her hips to follow the sensation of pleasure eluding her. "No, you don't want this or no… what? Tell me," he whispered, pressing for an answer with a perverse, ungovernable resentment for all the men in her past who had garnered this same tempestuous response. "I want…" she hesitated, weighing her nonexistent alternatives. She could deplore the women in his past or envy them or hate them but she hadn't Etienne's restraint. "… I want… you," she softly implored. "For someone who likes to play teasing games…" He slid the dildo back in, the green glass coated with the pearly essence of her need. "I'm sorry… Lord, Etienne, I'm dying… please let me feel you…" Her dark eyes lifted to his. "I'm begging." He was pouring oil into a small brazier. Her eyes opened wider. "What are you doing?"

Striking a match, he lit the oil. "Taking off your paint." Covering the shallow vessel, he put out the flame, then pouring a few drops into his palm, he rubbed his hands together. With glistening fingertips he massaged her nipples, smoothing the oil with sensuous pressure over their rouged tips. She squirmed against the bewitching enchantment, rapture. racing downward to the distended quivering flesh surrounding the Sultan's impaled toy. "Careful," he cautioned. "Lie still." And she quivered under his hands, so close to orgasm with the dildo pressed deep inside her, all she felt was fire racing through her blood. His hands moved downward to spread warmed oil over her rouged pouty labia, smoothing the soft tissue against the hard green glass. She shuddered as a hot inexpressible urgency built inside her. Wiping away the scarlet paint with a linen towel, he bent his head and ran his tongue over the taut flesh encircling the harem toy. And with a gasping incoherent cry, she climaxed. Lifting his head, he raised himself so his face was close to hers. "Are you satisfied?" Her lashes came up slowly, sensuality vivid in the darkness of her eyes. "No," she whispered, the pulsing between her legs strong, steady, urgent still. "No? You climaxed." "I want you," she whispered, her pulse pounding in her ears, wanton need still at fever pitch. "In here?" His fingers stroked her slick pouting lips, sliding over the stretched tender flesh, catching the pearly fluid discern able on the verdant glass. She nodded, a shiver of uncontrollable desire vibrating through her body as he touched his fingertip to his mouth, licking away a drop of her essence. He gazed at her for a moment over his raised hand, his expression shuttered. While he might deplore his need for her, he couldn't ignore the intensity of his feelings. He was as much in thrall to her as she was to the ion driving her impulses. The sensation was lust, pure and simple, he recognized with a sybarite's experience, but more as well for Daisy filled his mind and senses, overwhelming the ordinary rhythm of his life so completely he'd lost touch with the measured order of his existence. His hands moved toward her, closing over her shoulders as if she were his rightful possession, his frustration evident in the cool pressure of his fingers and palms as they drifted down her shoulders and breasts. He stopped his progress to test the weight of her full breasts for a moment against some personal vetting before continuing his journey downward, cupping her tied hands briefly before slipping his hands between her legs. For an infinitesimal moment he paused with his palms hard on her thighs, as if debating who was in fact most overcome. She saw the minute grimace, unveiled only briefly before he abruptly extracted the glass dildo, tossed it aside, and untied the knots at her wrists and waist without comment.

The feel of his hands subtly altered, a new tenderness replacing the previous repressed violence. Etienne's fingers drifted over Daisy's face and throat and shoulders as though none of the explosive violence had occurred, as though he hadn't ruptured metal welding, or artfully exacted his revenge for her teasing games, as though the sweet and pastoral harmony of the shepherds and shepherdesses on the walls and ceiling were echoed in their hindered and difficult relationship. His mouth followed moments later where his hands had led, his lips and tongue tasting her as if in appreciation. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm sorry for everything; I'm sorry for the women too," he apologized, kissing her eyelids gently, "because it angers you." His tone was wrenching in its heartfelt sorrow, his need utterly exposed. When Daisy gazed up at him in sudden wonderment at the simple apology, he softly added, "You're the first I've ever loved." A captivating sudden joy shone from the darkness of her eyes, his words vindication to her unreasoning immoderate jealousies. "I'm deep in love myself," she softly whispered and reaching up, she kissed him on the finely drawn curve of his mouth. "And. I'll try," she went on in a small voice, her smile playful, happiness gloriously exultant, "not to hit you again." The Duc sighed, his nostrils flaring gently. "We could both develop some moderation." His smile was kind; he understood her jealousy with his own so new and alarming. "I'm mad for you, Daisy," he whispered, light-headed with desire, stroking the smoothness of her thigh. It was no excuse for his behavior, but an explanation perhaps. His hand was large, warm, and the gentle pressure he exerted traveled back on pathways of sensation to her brain and fingertips and toes and deep inside to the trembling center of her being. Daisy arched up against his hand and body, her arms sliding around his neck, her mouth reaching up for his. When he slid gently inside her, his eyes shut briefly as her sweetness closed around him. He no longer had control over his existence. This strange, beautiful woman from a culture as different from his as day was from night, held his life in her hands. My world is forever changed, Daisy thought, by my compelling need for this man who with a touch or a simple look upsets the placid reasonableness of my life. Desire infused her mind, blazing hot, overcoming sense and sensibility alike. It only mattered they were together and they held each other in blissful content, moving in a sensuous lazy rhythm of seductive arousal, the afternoon sun golden on the shepherds and shepherdesses, and on the Duc and his lady. They spoke in kisses and smiles, they touched with a heated magic, they loved each other with a completeness neither had understood existed. Their lips met, and their hearts—and in the end, with something that could only be called violence, they found a common melting point in paradise.

They swam in the river to cool off as he'd promised and then lay in the damaged golden bed, damp and refreshed, drinking the champagne François had left. They spoke of mundane things, the fishing at Poilly, the Duc's gardener, the village school he ed, Daisy's friendship with Adelaide, the style of horse best suited for hunting. And when the sun's shadows began lengthening, he carried her back to his cottage through the willow grove and flower gardens up the curved staircase to his austere bedroom so different from the sumptuous ornament of the river barge. "I've redone the cottage," Etienne said when Daisy mentioned the stark difference in decor. "Accumulating my own preferences for comfort. The original interior relied rather heavily on eyelet-lace and pink." He smiled at her seated Indian fashion in the middle of his bed, dressed only again in his white shirt, her hair hanging loose on her shoulders, the picture of natural beauty. "You wouldn't have liked it. Are you tired?" She shook her head no. "Happiness must be an antidote to fatigue." "You must stay," he said very simply. She didn't pretend not to understand. She only said, "Yes, I know," as simply. They lay in bed while the sun gave way to twilight, holding each other, kissing and smiling and agreeing the world was the best of all possible worlds. "Marry me," Etienne quietly said, tracing the silky curve of Daisy's brow with his fingertip. "I surely would if you didn't already have a wife." Daisy was so ecstatically happy no dark cloud, however real, intruded. He wanted her like this always—beside him and smiling, making him whole, giving him joyful reason to think of his future. "Don't joke, I'm serious. I'll see my lawyer tomorrow. For enough money, Isabelle will

be practical. Good God, our entire marriage has been practical." "Are you sure?" Daisy wasn't referring to Isabelle exclusively. Was he sure of permanence with her, this man known for fickleness? His answer wouldn't matter though. Regardless of his reply, magnanimous in her utter love, she would allow him anything. Etienne didn't want her to be blasé or even practical because, for the first time in his life, he wasn't. He wanted her to feel as totally committed as he. "Would you share me?" "If I had to." "I won't share you. I won't," he repeated, his voice a low growl. "Nor would I," she softly said. "If you must know." He smiled. "Good." She smiled back. "I was trying, I thought I could, I wanted to, I would take you for five fleeting minutes a week, I thought, if I must. If that was all I could have. But I would have made impossible demands ultimately, I suppose. I'm not the ive type." "I noticed," he said with a lavish grin. They made plans, joyful plans for their future. Etienne Mattel, Duc de Vec, had never been so happy in his life. And Daisy Black understood the nature of bliss.

"You must be joking." Isabelle said the next afternoon, seated behind a silver tea service in her private drawing room, cool as the ice blue of her gown. "Believe me, I've never been more serious in my life. I want a divorce." Full of his plans, happy, the Duc had gone to see her directly when she returned from Deauville. He was determined to present his case in an objective, open way. Determined also, to pay Isabelle handsomely for his freedom. She could initiate the divorce; he would take full blame; whatever grounds she chose to cite, he would not contest. She had simply to name her price. "There has never been a divorce in our families. I won't hear of it." "The world is changing, Isabelle. Even the Church lost its power to restrict divorce in . The law was ed seven years ago because the population demanded it." "Which is precisely what is wrong with politics in this country today. The rabble are allowed a voice. And you see what happens. No, Etienne, there has never been a divorce in the Montigny family and there never will. Milk or lemon?" The Duc took a calming breath, gazed for a moment at the pattern of the parquet floor beneath his feet and said, "Lemon." "Charles asked for you at Deauville." His wife handed him the cup of tea. "I told him he should you dislike salt air." She said it with a sense of propriety and her usual rudeness. "I don't dislike salt air. I was busy." "With this new paramour of yours?" "I intend to have this divorce, Isabelle," he said, ignoring her question. "If you won't institute it, I will." "She must be very special, this one." Her smile was gelid. "Tell her, though, I have no intention of divorcing you. Furthermore," she went on, her voice rising slightly in pitch when she considered the whispers and humiliation divorce proceedings would entail, "if you proceed with this madness of yours, I'll fight you in court... forever!" "Can't we be reasonable about this, Isabelle? Our marriage hasn't been"—he stumbled over the wording in his attempt to maintain a degree of courtesy—"friendly in years." "Two of the oldest families in were united in our marriage, Etienne. That was the basis of our marriage and it will remain the raison d'être of our union. I don't recall the nuptial vows requiring 'friendship.'" "Perhaps I require friendship." "And surely that hasn't been lacking in your life." Her pale brows rose quizzically. "Or do you call that

something else?" "I'm determined, Isabelle." He set his teacup down untouched. "No, you're just made for a young woman again," she spat out. "Do you know how many times I've seen that light in your eyes? Do you realize how many there have been?" Her voice was shrill on the inflections. "I've lost count, you've lost count, but they're invariably young and pretty and available." Her indignation mottled the whiteness of her skin, set the Montigny diamonds bobbing emphatically. "You're infatuated again! You don't need a divorce. This is business as usual for you, Etienne." "Daisy's different." There wasn't the remotest comparison with his past escapades. "Good God, Etienne, look at yourself. You're old. She doesn't want you. She wants your money." It wasn't true, of course. Etienne was still the most handsome man in Paris. In . She didn't know the rest of the world but she suspected he'd win out there too. Her voice was more reasonable now, like it always was when she felt an argument was settled. It was never won with Etienne. He simply let her have her way. And he would again. She felt it. He shrugged then, as he always did. "Maybe you're right," he said, his voice mild. All he wanted to do was get away. From her shrill voice and the gilded room that had housed de Vecs for four hundred years, from the modulation of Isabelle's anger into an artificial reasonableness that always grated. "I'm promised at Valentin's tonight so I'll stay at the flat. Tell Hector I'll send him a new toy tomorrow." He would have liked to go up to the nursery and hold his grandson and tell him to come and see him at the Quai du Louvre. But it wasn't fair to disturb the child with the chaos of his life. I won't be back to the Hôtel de Vec, he thought, whatever happens. Whether I win Daisy or not, I won't be back. He couldn't face another day of the chill, cool reasonableness. "Good-bye, Isabelle." He didn't say au revoir. It would have been hypocritical. But his polite courtesy was still functioning, his affection perhaps for all the years at least. "If you need anything, let me know." She didn't realize the finality of his leaving. Etienne had been gone sometimes more than he was home. "We're promised for a weekend at the Prince Chaubords the next fortnight," she said. "Alphonse expects you." "Don't forget to tell Hector," the Duc said and walked from the room feeling as old as Isabelle had said.

She couldn't help it, he resignedly thought, resting against the soft upholstery of his carriage seat on the drive along the river to his flat. She couldn't help the way she thought—that he was simply a title to have captured, the best her family could bargain for with her enormous dowry. Isabelle couldn't help that she'd been raised to become an empty-headed beauty who ignored her children and husband for her wardrobe and hairdresser and spiteful rounds of gossip with her friends. She'd been reared to that role as her mother had before her, and her childhood had been one of nannies and governesses and fawning retainers. She didn't know anything else. He could forgive her her ignorance, but he couldn't forgive her ungenerous spirit. They'd both been young and he'd understood the duties of his title as much as Isabelle understood her need to marry well.

The dynastic bonds were family decisions, business decisions, and he'd acceded as a dutiful heir, recognizing within the bonds of these arranged marriages a great deal of freedom was allowed. He'd accepted the patterns solidified by countless generations before him. Except for the children. He couldn't ignore them as many of his friends did. As Isabelle did. He'd adored them from the first sight of their pink newborn faces. And the most wrenching blow would be their possible misunderstanding. He had to talk to them soon.

He spoke to Daisy be-fore dinner at Adelaide's that evening, arriving early before the other guests. He'd discussed the divorce with Isabelle and while she hadn't immediately consented, he felt sure they could reach an agreement, he told her. Then he insisted on calling in Adelaide and Valentin to tell them their plans. When Daisy protested, the expression in Etienne's eyes, rather than his words, gave her an uneasy sense of foreboding. He said in a quiet level tone, "I love you, I intend to marry you, and I wish to make the announcement public." Adelaide and Valentin were shocked, not because Daisy and the Duc were in love—they understood the self-indulgence and license allowed in their sophisticated world. But the Duc? Declaring his love publicly? They were clearly surprised.

"You spoke of divorce to Isabelle?" Adelaide carefully inquired, persuaded she'd misunderstood his meaning. "This afternoon." He was serious. "I don't suppose she took it gracefully," Valentin bluntly said, his masculine opinion of Isabelle apparent in his tone. "We'll work something out." Adelaide's eyes were on Daisy, whose gaze was on Etienne. She was clearly besotted. Daisy and the Duc were seated together, his hand holding hers, and when he looked down after speaking, his smile was intimate, the smile of a man in love. Valentin saw it too and realized the litigation was going to be brutal. Isabelle would go to any obstructive length to preserve her position as the Duchesse de Vec, but she'd sell her soul to the devil to wipe that intimate, loving smile from her husband's lips. "If we can be of any help," Valentin said. "Have you spoken to Bourges?" Bourges was the barrister of choice for the wealthy. Etienne would need his expertise. "No." "I wouldn't wait. Isabelle may get to him first." "She wouldn't deal with him. She finds him parvenu." Valentin smiled, his mood lightened. Isabelle would wage a savage fight, but if Etienne had Bourges, he stood a chance. "He may be parvenu, but he's brilliant and if you won't call him now, I will. You can't afford to wait a minute." "What are we talking about here," Daisy softly interposed. "Why do you need Bourges?" No one retained a man of his reputation for pitched battle unless the situation were grave. "He's the best," Valentin replied. "She refused, didn't she?" Daisy's dark eyes were somber. "No," Etienne lied. "But Bourges is familiar with the process. He'd be useful." Valentin was right. Bourges had handled Taine's divorce skillfully. "Isabelle is a monarchist," Adelaide said in explanation, the single word indicative of a personality immune to the rapidly changing world and society. "She will, at least," Adelaide went on, her voice a calming influence on Daisy's alarm, "resist an easy settlement." "That's why you need Bourges?" Turning back to the Duc, Daisy's expression was less anxious. "Yes." He didn't say he could also use Bourges because the lawyer had political alliances with the judicial system that might be of help. He didn't say Bourges was perhaps the only man in the country who

could launch an offensive to Isabelle's irrevocable refusal. He didn't say he intended to win his divorce, with or without Bourges. "I think the occasion calls for a bottle of champagne." Valentin proposed, genuinely happy for his friend who had had too little love, who had, despite his amorous reputation, lived a very solitary life. Adelaide was already reaching for the bell-pull. The Duc squeezed Daisy's hand and kissed her gently on the cheek. She loved him with all her heart, she thought, smiling at him. At dinner that night, while no disclosure of his plans was made, for the Duc had yet to speak to his children and Bourges, the de Chantel guests cast knowing glances at each other. The Duc was obviously in love, and the sumptuous and wealthy Miss Black from America, while less open in her feelings, clearly returned his sentiments. They were cheerful and gay, although plainly distracted by their shared affection; the Duc said, "Pardon me?" numerous times in the course of the evening, requiring some comment be repeated before he heard it. And the beautiful Daisy Black's eyes glowed with an exuberant joy outshining her diamonds. When they danced later, after dinner and more champagne, after the men over port and cigars had roguishly teased Etienne about the schoolboy light in his eyes, everyone agreed the Duc was smitten.

Sending notes around, the Duc saw his children very early the next morning before any possible gossip might have reached them. He wasn't concerned that Isabelle might talk to them. Her relationship with the children was formal, a restrained dialogue over tea, occasionally. Even Hector was brought to her when she felt impelled to give some instructions on his upbringing. She rarely visited Jolie or Justin's apartments and never the nursery. He rode with his son in the Bois shortly after sunrise, the two men so similar in height and dark good-looks, although Justin's youth was apparent in his slim, rangy build. Justin, at barely twenty, hadn't yet developed the powerful physique of his father. They spoke first of Justin's trip, imminent and a source of much excitement to him. Etienne recommended his favorite haunts in Cairo, offered some fatherly words of caution, and ended with his usual question prior to Justin's jaunts. "Did Legere give you the letters of credit?" "Yes, Papa. Also the letters of introduction." "Don't forget, the French consul likes Havana cigars. I'll have some of mine sent round before you leave. You should at least present yourself out of courtesy." "Don't worry, Papa, I shall. His wife's very attractive." Quickly glancing at his son, Etienne met a sunny, light-hearted smile. He'd lived too long in the world to offer hypocritical advice. Instead he mildly said, "Perhaps Robert would like a case of my special brandy with the cigars. I'll see to it." Since the Duc rode often in the morning with his son, Justin saw no particular significance in the occasion, and as they cantered through the carefully kept acres of the Bois, meeting very few other riders in the postdawn hour, Justin kept up a running monologue on his preparations for Egypt. The Duc had to finally interrupt because their circuit of the grounds was almost complete.

"I've something of importance to say." "I know, Papa, I'll be careful. I always am." The Duc smiled at the vitality in his son's expression, feeling for a moment immense pleasure in Justin's happiness. At least .in the desolation of his marriage, his children hadn't suffered. "It's about your maman and myself," he said, his voice perhaps conveying the consequence of what he was about to say, because Justin slowed his mount and gave his father his full attention. "I've asked her for a divorce." "Finally," his son said. He'd not expected so succinct a response. Nor one so dégagé'. "You're not disturbed?" As a parent he felt responsibility for living up to his children's expectations. "What took so long?" his son quietly asked. At which point the Duc explained about Daisy at some length, saying at the end, "I'd like you to meet her before you leave…" "With pleasure," Justin said to his father's hesitancy, aware what profound changes were about to alter his father's life. "Jolie will you too, Papa." Justin's declaration was simply put, a child's offer to help. "But," he added with a grin, "I'm glad I'm on my way to Egypt before the fireworks start. You know Maman will go for the jugular." "It's going to be one damned mess." Etienne sighed. "She'll marshal all the conservative judges and ministers. The closed ranks of the monarchists will stand firm. I hate to think of my lecture from her cousin the Archbishop." "Don't forget Belle-mire Montigny," Justin said with a lift of his dark brow. "I'm sure she'll descend on you with her aging Jesuit advisors." His grin widened. "Maybe Egypt isn't far enough. There's always Indo-China. Would you like to consider an Eastern journey?" "Yes." The Duc's own smile was rueful. "Unfortunately… my absence wouldn't solve this dilemma. I'm dead serious about marrying Daisy and it's pleasant in a grim, yet hopeful way to be serious about something after so many years. Thank God, this is the last dynastic marriage in the de Vec family. Jolie is happy and you—" "—are happy, Papa. And I'm not going to marry for another ten years at least." The Duc smiled. "Unless Robert's pretty young wife turns your head." "Papa!" His reply was disclaimer and protest both. "She flirts with everyone." They were crossing into the Rue de Rivoli now, the traffic still light, only shopgirls and tradesmen going to work, along with an occasional freight wagon ing by. "I've, asked Jolie to come to see me when Hector finishes his breakfast. Would you like to us?" Justin hesitated for a moment, his day busy with details of his departure. But he thought then of all the times his father had comforted him in his childhood, or been available for advice or money or influence

when he'd gotten himself into a scrap, or simply listened to him from his nursery days on with genuine interest, and he said, "Of course."

When Jolie walked through the door of the breakfast room a scant half hour later, Hector in tow, Justin said, "He's done it at last. That's the remarkable news. Hi, Hector, tell Uncle Justin what you want me to bring you back from Egypt." "Camel," Hector said, causing Justin to look up at his sister in surprise. "You've been talking about Egypt for months now. Consequently he's been talking about Egypt for months and even two-year-olds know what a camel is when they hear about it daily." Her smile was serene. "I didn't know what a camel was when I was two." "Papa hadn't been to Egypt yet. Are you really, Papa?" she casually said, turning to her father who was holding Hector in his lap, showing him the moving astrological signs on his pocket watch. "At last?" She smiled. "Why is everyone saying 'at last' to me? Have I been ignoring some significant intimations all these years?" "Everyone knows you and Maman don't get along." "Which isn't particularly unusual." "Perhaps for your generation," Justin interposed. "You're going to need Bourges." "Why does everyone seem to think I need Bourges?" "Papa, sometimes you're so naive," his daughter said to the man generally considered the least naive in Paris. "Maman would sooner see you dead than divorced." "What 'vorce?" Hector asked, taking a moment from his attempt at dismantling Etienne's watch to gaze up at his mother. "Sometimes people don't get along and then they get a divorce," she explained. To her father's raised brows, she added, "He's certainly going to hear enough about it in the coming months. I believe in being honest. You always were, Papa." She pronounced the last sentence with an energetic affirmation to which Etienne couldn't help but smile. "Perhaps though," he said, coming from an older school of honesty, "we could continue the details of this discussion later. I simply wanted to tell you before someone else did. And," he added with a grin, "I was beginning to miss Hector already last night." "You're welcome, Papa, you know that… anytime." "Under the circumstances—"

"Hector can come over whenever you like. If I'm not home, I'll give instructions to Nurse to bring him over. If you have any sentimental attachment to that watch, Papa, perhaps we should lure Hector's attention away with some of those strawberries. Hector, darling," she coaxed without waiting for her father's response, "look at this strawberry like Madame Squirrel eats." With the consummate experience of a mother, she offered the strawberry with one hand and rescued Etienne's watch with the other. "Now tell me about Adelaide's pretty young friend," she said, sitting down, her smile like her father's, dazzling and amiable. "Of course I keep track of you," she said, in response to her father's surprised expression. "Someone has to."

The Duc de Vec's call on Bourges turned out to be less warmhearted and merciful. Felicien Bourges pointed out in a precise, swift commentary the limitations of 's negotiated divorce law. It was not a secular law of mutual consent, so should Isabelle choose not to petition for divorce or contest the Duc's petition, the proceedings could drag on in the courts through various cross-petitions and appeals at great length. Furthermore, if the Duchesse had to be petitioned for divorce, proving material injuries before a judge most likely in the debt of the Minister of Justice, Comte de Montigny, might not only be difficult but… "Are you telling me it's impossible?" The Duc's tone conveyed his opinion of that word. Bourges was extremely young. Perhaps his reputation while not necessarily undeserved, had been shaped by fortuitous circumstances. Did he have the experience? "No. I simply wished to define the obstacles." Felicien Bourges, the son of a peasant, who had risen by hard work and talent through the difficult route of a scholarship student in an educational system antagonistic to scholarship students, understood obstacles. It was his inspiration and his genius. Men of the Duc's privileged background were only familiar with compliance. Did this casually seated man so used to command realize the extent of his difficulties? Bourges wondered.

"Will the divorce take long?" Etienne asked. Since Bourges hadn't said the divorce was impossible, it was possible. And if he had said it was impossible, Etienne would simply have found another barrister. "The Duchesse's brother is Minister of Justice. Very unfortunate." The young lawyer leaned forward slightly as if emphasizing his point. "Surely only a hindrance." "A formidable one. But," Felicien added in the self-possessed tone at odds with his very youthful appearance, "not insuperable." "How long?" the Duc repeated. "That depends on the Duchesse. She is opposed, you say?" "So she said. Personally, I believe she has a price. I told her she had simply to name it." The woman he was so anxious to marry must be most unusual, Felicien thought, or perhaps enceinte. He knew the Duc by reputation and de Vec's priorities with the women in his past had never been matrimonial. "Is there some anxiety about… the time period?" The Duc smiled at his euphemistic query and at the familiar phrasing. "None other than my own selfish desire to marry again." "You realize of course, the lady you wish to marry cannot be named accomplice in the divorce decree or you'll be prohibited by law from marrying her." "Then you must see she's not." The Duc spoke with patrician assurance. How nice it would be, Bourges thought, if the law could be so easily istered. "I suggest we speak to the Duchesse's counsel first… as a preliminary procedure." "Old Letheve will be scandalized." "She hasn't secured other counsel then?" "When I spoke to her last, yesterday, she felt, I think, that all was resolved—between us. You may speak to Letheve first if you wish. I don't know how things are handled in… these situations, but perhaps if you spoke to her without involving her family's law firm, she could express her wishes privately. I'm amenable to any of her requests, save one." The Duc was reticent as most of his class was, Bourges noted about his privacy. He had the distinct feeling that had the Duc been able to avoid this meeting today he would have, and while he found that refinement well-bred and mannerly, in the coming negotiations for divorce with an unwilling wife, the Duc's commitment to good breeding would be tested. As an initial warning, Felicien said, "This could be very costly, in of property and amiability both. You're aware of that." "I'm hoping your expertise will preserve the latter—such as it is between Isabelle and myself. I don't care about the property."

"You're willing to accede to any of her demands? It isn't necessary, of course. The law is more protective of your property rights than your wife's. Provided we can overcome any judicial maneuvering her family may interpose. Her family, you realize, is her greatest asset." "My greatest obstruction, you mean." "With her brother as Minister of Justice and her cousin, Archbishop of Paris, her unfortunately is strategic. Now if Montigny was Minister of the Interior or Trade—" he shrugged, "the judges wouldn't be so apt to do his bidding." "But since they're appointed…" "An unfortunate situation." "I suggest you speak first to Isabelle." Etienne hesitated. "If she'll see you." His lashes lowered fractionally. "I'm sorry. Isabelle is a member of an ancien régime family that resists the reality of the Revolution." "And their wealth has insulated them from that necessity." Bourges's voice was touched lightly with sarcasm. "In any event, I'll attempt to make an appointment, Monsieur le Duc."

Felicien had dealt with nobles of Isabelle's reactionary persuasion before so his request for an appointment with the Duchesse de Vec was made with her secretary, his motive discreetly veiled with a charity function the Duchesse was known to lend her name to. She was standing at her desk when he was shown into her reception room two mornings later, an imperious figure despite her petite dimensions. "I didn't realize, Monsieur Bourges, the Convent of the Carmelites had retained you." Her inflection implied they'd better have a cogent reason for doing so, as must he for presuming to bother her. "I'm not here for the Dames Carmelites." While she was reaching for the bell-pull, he added, "Monsieur le Duc has authorized me to offer you your choice of his properties." Avarice stayed her hand. "I already have his properties." "Not precisely, Madame le Duchesse. Not in legal ." By law the Duc was sole of his property as well as the Duchesse's dotal property. Felicien moved a step closer to the desk; they were separated by a dozen feet now and each took the other's measure. His tailor was Kriegck. Apparently he was wealthy from defending the merchants of Paris. He wore his hair long like an actor, and then, with the presumption of her class, her eyes fell to his fingernails. "No dirt, Madame," Felicien said with a control developed after years of being scrutinized by wealthy people intellectually inferior to him. "It was all left behind at Loire-et-See. And my valet is meticulous." He had never been this close to her before, although they occasionally frequented the same social gatherings. She seemed smaller at close range, extremely well-kept, and with the eyes of a predator. "The dirt is never left behind, Monsieur Bourges." All his successes and hard work dismissed by her in one brief statement. "You may inform the Duc your visit was wasted. The Montignys do not divorce." This time she pulled on the bell-rope with vigor. The Duchesse de Vec was the paradigm for all he found most reprehensible in the aristocracy. Arrogant,

rude, with a disrespect for those born outside the rarefied enclaves of ancien regime families bred into them from the cradle; they truly believed in divine rights for themselves and their class. "I suggest you obtain counsel, Madame le Duchesse." His gaze swept the gilded room, decorated as her intimate reception salon, large enough in reality to house a dozen families. "In order," he added with a cool smile, "to insure you retain at least this property." He knew how to bow; he'd paid for the best instructors in all forms of social graces, but he didn't bow to the Duc's wife. In fact, for the first time in years he allowed his anger to show. "The Duc is most anxious to divorce," he said, a rage he'd thought long vanished prompting him, "so tell Letheve we will be proceeding with dispatch." Isabelle had seated herself at her desk, her interest focused on writing as though Bourges no longer existed. If she'd heard him she didn't respond; she seemed actually not to have heard him at all. How had the Duc tolerated the woman for so long, Felicien wondered, turning at a small sound, to see a footman holding the door open for his departure. She seemed without charitable qualities. His anger remained, an odd and residual survivor from his long-ago past, well beyond his morning call. Even late that night, after hours of diversion in the intricate legalities he found so satisfying, after dinner and the theater, the skeleton of memory remained. She had made him feel desperately poor again. Unequal. Beneath her notice. The Duchesse de Vec had made an ardent enemy.

Two days later the Duc received a visit from his brother-in-law Charles. It wasn't unexpected; Bourges had initiated the petition with both dispatch and zeal. The Duc welcomed Charles into his study at the Quai du Louvre apartment, offered him a cognac, and when they'd both been served and the footman departed, their casual conversation came to an end.

"Speak up, Charles," Etienne said, his smile pleasant. "We've know each other long enough to be frank." "You presented your petition to the President this morning." It was the first step in bringing the action before the court. Etienne had presented his petition in person, unaccompanied even by his lawyer. Presumably, the theory being the President of the Court in chambers would endeavor to bring about a reconciliation without the bias of counsel. "De Goux gave me a lecture. You knew that, of course." "You're not really serious about marrying the young lady," his brother-in-law said then, his statement declara-tive rather than inquisitory. The divorce, while surprising, was not without cause. Etienne and Isabelle had lived separate lives for years, but marriage to the exotic Miss Black? Surely he need not marry her. "I'm very serious," the Duc said, causing Charles's eyebrows to rise into his hairline. "And don't give me a lecture on duty. I heard all I care to on the subject from De Goux." The presage of a scowl appeared. "I've given Isabelle twenty years of my life; I won't give her the rest." "I envy you, Etienne." Charles meant it sincerely, his own wife's primary interest centered on bridge. And while the saying, "All heiresses are beautiful," had merit, Marie-Louise's only beauty had been her dowry. "But…" He shrugged, the gesture conveying his necessary obedience to family. "I don't expect anything, Charles. She's your sister. I understand." "If you insist on going through with a divorce," Charles warned, "Isabelle can keep the proceedings in the courts for years." He sighed. "She'll do her best to see that Miss Black is named in the divorce. She's vindictive. We both know that. I'm sorry." "Don't be," the Duc pleasantly replied. "I've never been so happy and Isabelle will come around eventually. Money's always interested her." Setting his glass down, Charles leaned forward slightly. "I don't wish to be discouraging Etienne," he carefully said, "but she won't come around. She'd kill you if she could." For the first time, the Duc's optimism was shaken. Charles understood Isabelle better than anyone.

The Duc was much too old, many in society said, to make a fool of himself by falling in love. And his wife would never agree to a divorce. Never. Their alliance had been a dynastic marriage from the start. Not unusual with two ancient families like the de Vecs and Montignys, and if Isabelle had chosen to overlook her husband's profligacies all these years, surely one more wouldn't matter. While civil law deemed adultery sufficient reason for divorce, criminal law still allowed a husband to be excused from killing his wife and her paramour. The wife conversely, was not. So the Duc's particular style of leisure activity was very much a man's prerogative. But the young woman he was enamored of was so dark, and also a foreigner without a title, and a lawyer. It was impossible with a family as old as de Vec's. So they may love each other (or think they do, or she may love him, the more cynical said… After watching Etienne for all these years many felt him unlikely to be "in love") but no one was foolish enough

to anticipate wedding bells. Daisy found herself crying at odd moments and was unnerved. The Duc told himself there was nothing worse than an old fool. But she made him feel as if life mattered again. Not again. As if life mattered for the first time. He dried her tears with kisses. Kisses tender and grateful, like a young man's first love kisses. "I can't ask this of you, Etienne." Daisy would whisper, tears streaming, not restrained as the world had always seen her—never with Etienne—but open and vulnerable, a young girl's heart being broken. "I'll get a divorce if I have to give her everything," he said. Damn Isabelle, he angrily thought. As if it mattered after twenty cold years. As if it mattered that she remain the Duchesse de Vec. She had as much money as he. The children were grown… Jolie married with a child of her own. He thought then of Hector, so special to him, sunny and warm and bubbling with laughter. He wanted Daisy to meet him. He wanted… and the thought was at once ludicrous, disastrous, and wonderful—he wanted Daisy to have a child—his child. Fool, he thought, for the thousandth time that week, that day. Damned old fool.

Daisy wanted to talk to Bourges, so the Duc arranged an appointment. Felicien had been warned to make no mention of Isabelle's unyielding posture. And in truth he had every intention of winning the Duc's divorce, if not for the Duc, for his own satisfaction. After the amenities were covered, Daisy spoke to him in detail concerning the specifics. How soon would the second comparution take place? Would De Goux hear Isabelle's interview as

well? Would the writ of summons be delayed by De Goux or Charles? Would Isabelle cross-petition? Bourges's answers were economical, to the point. Delays were expected; it wasn't certain yet whether Isabelle would simply contest or petition herself; De Goux was scheduled to hear Isabelle's interview in three weeks. "Three weeks? He gave her the full time to reply?" "As expected. De Goux owes the Minister numerous favors. We're hoping to get Delamaye for the assignation and grant of provisional measures." "What possibility is there of that?" Bourges shrugged. "A possibility." The Duc's expression conveyed a silent message. Bourges smiled. "A very good possibility, I might add. Delamaye usually sits for the provisional measures hearings." Each of Bourges's replies suggested a mild equivocation, not serious in themselves, but together causing Daisy small niggling doubts. He was hedging in subtle ways, telling her certain procedural steps were uncertain, Isabelle's stance was uncertain. That at least should have been clear after Bourges had spoken to Letheve. She felt oddly aggressive after a dozen more queries, as though she might have overstepped her position, for Bourges was answering her with restraint. "Forgive me," she said at last, "I don't mean to be presumptuous. Your Civil Code is considerably different from ours in the States." It was Felicien's turn to apologize. The lovely Miss Black from America was not only exotically beautiful, she was very astute. She'd noted the discrepancies in his answers. "The Montignys are extremely well connected—politically," he said. "Which makes the particular sequence of our methodology… well—" he smiled, "a little more sensitive. But you needn't feel presumptuous. You're very welcome to participate. We can use your expertise." Daisy smiled. "In the state of Montana where I live, the territorial government enacted divorce laws the first week of the territorial legislative session. With so few women in the territory, the men's motives were purely selfish. Our divorce laws are individualized by state. My expertise, I'm afraid, is relatively useless here. But thank you." "Are we finished quibbling over the details?" the Duc interposed. He'd patiently listened, indifferent to the particulars, the fine points. He had confidence in Bourges. He had more confidence in his own ability to defeat Isabelle's resistance—one way or another. He was realistic however about the length of time required. Bourges was right—the settlement could take some time to negotiate. "Have we been quibbling?" Daisy asked, her smile pleasant. "Very definitely." A thousand years of authority was incorporated in the de Vec drawl. "He doesn't work for a living," Daisy said, having been the rare recipient of the Duc's full attention the past many days. She was unaware of his myriad business commitments. "He only plays polo." Her tone was tolerant, amused. "Have we bored you with all the legal drudgery?" Bourges looked to the Duc for his reaction. The lady from America was not patronizing the Duc's heritage and power. "When I'm on horseback for hours, you call it play; when your father and brothers are on horseback for

hours training their young stock, it's work." Etienne's green eyes were sportive. "I fail to see the distinction." "They raise horses for a living." "Along with their gold, copper, and sapphire mines." That explained Mademoiselle's Worth gown and pigeon-egg sapphires, Felicien decided. He had thought them a gift from the Duc. "Thank you for your time, Bourges." The Duc rose from his chair. "His polo ponies are waiting," Daisy explained with a grin. "And they are sacrosanct." It was midway through the polo season, running from April 15 through July 13, and Etienne played each afternoon with Valentin and his friends, a practice of long standing. "Nothing is sacrosanct in my life, darling, save you. Would you like my company this afternoon?" "And watch you check your timepiece a dozen times, thank you, no." Daisy's smile was indulgent. She had experienced the Duc's company as escort one afternoon shopping; although polite, he'd been distinctly restless. And with good reason; his team had lost that day without him. The Duc was standing over her, his hand out to help her from her chair, his eyes bright with laughter. "I'm taking you to Aïda tonight and I deplore Verdi. You owe me my afternoon's play." Placing her hand in his, Daisy rose, linked her arm with a cozy familiarity in the Duc's, and, turning to Felicien, said, "Would you care to us tonight? Contrary to what Etienne says, Verdi is quite spectacular." Etienne was clearly surprised. Despite the Duc's more liberal stance in relation to many in the aristocracy, his circle of friends was small and exclusive. America's more fluid society based on parvenu wealth of varying degrees had not infiltrated the arrondissements of old money in Paris. But he rose to the occasion. "It would be our pleasure," he said to the man he'd retained as counsel. "Thank you, but I've other plans," Bourges replied, in agreement with the Duc's opinion of Verdi, not inclined to be genuinely comfortable at the opera. He preferred the Comédie Française or the more tantalizing plays at the Theatre des Capucines. Miss Black was most unusual, he thought, after the door had closed behind them. One rarely met a woman of her beauty and accomplishments. He could see why the Duc was attracted. His chin resting on his steepled fingers, he contemplated the view out his window, sorting and re-sorting his ideés fixes apropos men like the Duc and his very public relationship with Miss Black. If Aïda had interested him more, he would have accepted the invitation to the Opéra. He would have enjoyed watching the reaction of the opera fans. Wasn't the Duchesse de Vec one of the Opéra's, major patrons?

An electrifying silence greeted the entrance of the Duc de Vec and Miss Daisy Black into the de Chantel box. With news of de Vec's divorce petition yesterday having spread like wildfire, everyone was fascinated to see the reason for his action. They were a spectacular couple: he in full evening rig, she in magnificent china silk scarlet as a blood ruby. Both were tall, dark, elegant, and seemingly unaware of the attention they were drawing. Had his wife noticed too? Every head swiveled directly across the large gilded hall to gauge the reaction of the Duchesse occupying her usual position in the de Vec loge. The Duchesse appeared cool as ever, ed by her cousin the Archbishop, by her brother the Minister of Justice, and his wife. She was wearing white tonight as she was in the habit of doing, white tulle, tinseled and berib-boned. With the de Vec diamonds sparkling on her ears and décolletage. Immediately a buzz of excited, calculating comment rose. . Would she get to keep, the diamonds in the divorce set-dement? Would he win his divorce at all? Gossip already had it de Vec had exited de Goux's chambers in a rage. He wasn't the sort of man who took kindly to onishing lectures. The Duc appeared as calm as his wife—they had at least a certain self-possession in common… notwithstanding lectures from magistrates concerning the sanctity of family. And when the Duc turned to address a smiling comment to his darkly beautiful companion, then proceeded to brush a fallen tendril of her black hair from the nakedness of her shoulder, the entire audience sucked in a breathless titillated pant. For a man of his composure, the gesture had been tantamount to a public unveiling. American women of course were recognized for their frank independence. On which point the fascinated viewers weren't disappointed. De Vec's lover touched his mouth with her fingertip and laughed at something he'd said. Had the opera goers known her background more intimately—although some few did—no one would have been surprised at Daisy's sang-froid. She'd lived her entire life as the cynosure of a curious society. She was familiar with surveillance. Her wealth insulated her from the worst of the detractors as did her own well-developed sense of self. It also never hurt to be descended from generations of chieftains. There was a certain inherent arrogance stemming from those bloodlines.

Let them look, she thought, aware of the raised lorgnettes, the scrutiny, the whispered comment. She hadn't destroyed a loving marriage; there hadn't been a marriage with any intimacy from the very beginning. Aware of their prospective reception, the Duc had debated coming tonight. He knew Isabelle would be present. But he wasn't going to hide, he'd decided. He had no reason to. His concern had been primarily for Daisy. How perceptible would the rudeness be? How barefaced the curiosity? Would she mind the stares? "I hope your enjoyment of Verdi makes up for this burning interest we seem to be attracting. The houselights should be down soon." "You're speaking to the only female in my law-school class and needless to say, the only Absarokee. I'm immune to curiosity seekers. Do you want to leave, though? These are all your acquaintances." She touched his hand lightly. "I never meant to bring your life to this…" her gaze swept over the crowd whose interest was still centered on either Isabelle or them, "… ferocious extremity." For a moment his own glance took in the jeweled and glittering assemblage, pausing briefly on Isabelle and her party across the way. "We can't leave everywhere, darling. I intend to live my life in my usual way. Although Verdi," he said with a grin, "is a concession to you. I don't think I've been to an opera in years." He'd come tonight for her, knowing full well his wife would be here, and a thousand curious eyes. "No wonder Adelaide seemed surprised when I told her we'd be ing them." A rush of tenderness infused her spirit. "Thank you," she very simply said. "You make me happy. It's my pleasure." He was beyond questioning the joy she'd brought into his life, grateful only for the sheer luck of it. "Isabelle has de Goux," Valentin declared, leaning across his wife to speak to Etienne in a lowered tone. "Good God, look who else walked into her loge. It's Delamaye. Do you think she's making a point tonight?" "Charles is making a point tonight. I mentioned Aïda was on my schedule this week. I don't suppose, Rochette is any longer impartial," the Duc sardonically drawled. "Or Leblois." "And Grevy and Carolus believe in 'policy drawn from Scripture,'" Adelaide interjected. "What about Loubet?" The great majority of magistrates belonged to the aristocracy; the judges being discussed were in fact of the same small circle of families who had istered for centuries. "Loubet is up for Deputy Justice this year," Valentin said. "As are Bauberot and Descave. Could we leave this all to Bourges?" Etienne softly said. "I find the roster tedious. Charles has appointed so many conservative and militant adherents of papal infallibility, the Church is beginning to exercise a magistracy of influence once again. Bourges is being paid to find a magistrate who does not believe God is the master of the judiciary. Let him deal with it. In fact, he almost ed us tonight," the Duc added. "ed us?" Adelaide said, mild query in her voice. "Daisy invited him, but he had other commitments. Actually," Etienne said with a smile, "I think he has the

good taste to find Verdi wearisome too." "Well, he must be invited sometime when you approve of the composer, Etienne," Adelaide facetiously replied, courteous to Daisy's wishes. Daisy recognized some of the magistrates' names, the rest she didn't know, but the gist of the conversation was plain. Etienne was going to find it very difficult to arrange for a fair hearing. Isabelle was entrenched within a framework of conservative policy with her brother its guiding instrument. Would Etienne's wife win? Daisy wondered for the first time, Bourges's equivocations too recent in her memory. Would all the generations of monarchists come to Isabelle's aid in their illustrious descendents? Would they refuse to allow Etienne his freedom? She was struck suddenly by the magnitude of the faultlessly balanced alliances that gave rise to 's tradition of great families. Even the lavish spectacle of Verdi's score and Mariette Bey's Egyptian scenery and costumes failed to dislodge her premonitions of doom. The choice of Aïda tonight was perhaps unfortunate, for the opera, however beautiful, depicted the forces of impending, onrushing tragedy, the heartbreaking fate of Radames and Aïda's love too eloquently close to reality. "I dislike self-sacrificing heroics," the Duc said as the curtain fell on the last sorrowful scene. "It's not real, darling," he added, his voice hushed when he saw the tears in Daisy's eyes. "It's melodrama. Mon chou ..." He took her hands in his and touched them to his lips. "Don't cry." "Fate thwarted Aïda and Radames from the beginning," she said, her expression melancholy, her Absarokee background making her sensitive to the talismanic nature of the world. "You control your own fate," Etienne replied, his voice calm, soothing. Clearly Daisy was upset. The story of Aïda, together with the ill-mannered crowd and Isabelle's phalanx of magisterial power, had been disturbing. "You command your own destiny," he added encouragingly. "Within defined limits," Daisy quietly replied. She'd seen her tribal lands diminished piece by piece; she'd seen the buffalo decimated and her clan's nomadic plains existence destroyed. There were occasionally boundaries imposed on one's life; boundaries one must surmount, circumvent—or accept. And the choices weren't always benign. "I don't believe in limits." "You've been indulged, Etienne." She attempted a smile, conscious of both his kindness in disagreeing with her and his own inherent arrogance motivating his blunt declaration. "But I truly hope you're right." Turning to Valentin, the Duc said, "Tell her how magistrates can be bought and sold, will you? And how loyalty to Charles is always weighted against their own private expediency. How even God can be overlooked if the price is right. Tell her, Valentin, that I can buy every damn one of them if need be." His head swiveled back to Daisy, his glance heated. "Listen to him," he said in a hushed, vehement voice. "He knows." "Isabelle can delay and impede and postpone. But she can't ultimately win," Valentin concurred, glancing across at Isabelle's array of guests. "Etienne's right… every one of them has a price." "Perhaps Isabelle most of all," Adelaide added. "Emphatically, Isabelle, most of all," the Duc flatly said.

"I don't care how much it costs me, Charles," Isabelle was saying, her lorgnette raised to her eyes, Daisy centered in the dimond-framed lenses. "He'll never have her." Lowering her glass, she turned her gaze on her brother seated beside her and quietly, so her voice didn't carry beyond them, added, "Give me an ing tomorrow of each magistrate's debts. As a prudent measure, I'll buy their notes." "That's not necessary. We can be sure of most already." He smiled at de Goux over his sister's head. "With postponements, the proceedings will drag on indefinitely anyway. Etienne will tire of the lady… as he always does." Charles was less vindictive toward Etienne than his sister; he subscribed to the masculine privilege concerning mistresses. He felt certain his brother-in-law would ultimately discard the lovely Miss Black as he had all his previous lovers. "Most isn't good enough, Charles. I want them all obedient to your wishes. An ing, if you please; my money will be well spent." Etienne had never accompanied her to the 0péra and Isabelle's rage at his appearance tonight with the American woman was so consuming she was almost half serious when she said she didn't care how much it cost. She did, of course. Money was above all to be amassed and augmented with the capital never touched, while real property was expected to be similarly extended—the profit-motive tradition behind every noble alliance. Her marriage to Etienne had nicely maintained the integrity of her dowry settlement. By law she and Etienne shared a certain community property, yet despite his legal prerogative as , Etienne had never touched her funds. Unlike many husbands who ruinously went through their wives' fortunes, decimating them, Etienne had actually added sizably to her assets. His wealth had maintained their homes and their way of life. She'd always thought him unnecessarily generous, but of course she would have been foolish to insist on spending her own money. So she could afford to see the magistrates were compliant—although she would resist spending a penny more than required. Her brother sighed. Etienne's damned infatuation was going to cause him a great deal of tedious work. "If you insist, Isabelle, I'll have my secretary check into it tomorrow." "What about the children? They're still underage, for a few months more. Could I demand custody? Etienne has set up valuable trust funds for them." "Good God, Isabelle," Charles hissed. "They've been in control of their own funds for years. Not only would it annoy Etienne, it would annoy Jolie and Justin. Keep this in perspective for God's sake." "I have it very much in perspective, Charles, and you needn't raise your voice," she coolly said. "I will not allow this divorce. It's as simple as that and I'd appreciate a bit more familial ." "You have my , Isabelle, just kindly consider some of the legalities occasionally. No magistrate, however beholden to us, would take away your children's trust funds after they've both been istering them competently for two years. And no magistrate, however tied to our patronage, is going to appreciate having to deal with your ruthless sense of vengeance." "Vengeance?" Her hushed voice held a new degree of heat. "Shouldn't I be vengeful considering what he's doing to me?" "People divorce, Isabelle." Although Charles thought Etienne was over-reacting when he could have the American woman without a divorce. "People, perhaps," she said with a cool haughtiness, "but not a Montigny. She's a Red Indian, Charles.

Can you imagine how that makes me feel? And she's not even young. Thérèse Chassemont. tells me she's thirty. He's leaving me for a common woman not much younger than myself. He's a fool, Charles, and perhaps five or ten years in court will help him come to that conclusion himself." Charles began looking for some means of escape. He'd been listening to Isabelle's harangues for days now, and while he was willing to cooperate with the legalities of postponement in Etienne's divorce proceeding as a matter of family duty (his mother and cousin the Archbishop were also adamantly opposed to divorce), he was unable to sympathize with Isabelle's sense of affront. She had quite literally barred Etienne from her bed twenty years ago and as effectively withdrew from her duties of child-rearing. She had to expect some possible repercussions eventually from that detachment. As the curtain fell, he swiftly rose to his feet in applause. "I want the list tomorrow," Isabelle said, ing him, a smile on her face, her eyes on the stage. When he didn't immediately answer, she touched his arm in apparent casualness. "Tomorrow," she repeated, low, terse, emphatic, her nails pressing through the fabric of his jacket sleeve. He nodded, wary of a scene. Isabelle's temper was legend. Her fingers relaxed and she turned to her cousin the Archbishop, seated slightly behind her. "Wasn't Onegin superb as Aïda tonight?" Her smile was consummate graciousness. "She has the voice of an angel."

Daisy had been made to feel somewhat better after listening to Valentin and Adelaide's assessment. She was comforted to know they all felt the magistrates were not immutably aligned with Isabelle. Etienne was after all, she had to agree, as influential as his wife, as wealthy, and while she didn't know Isabelle personally, perhaps as stubbornly committed to his ends as she was to hers. The crowd exiting the Opéra bore a festive air, the resonance of conversation lightened with the frequent silvery tones of female laughter or punctuated with the deeper male voices of jovial bonhomie, the conspicuous rustle of silks and shimmering of jewels, adjuncts to the scented air of wealth. Charles Garnier's luxurious interior—all gilt and opulent crimson, glimmering crystal and polished marble—perfect foil to the colorful, splendid arbiters of Parisian fashion and taste. The Duc spoke briefly to several acquaintances as they made their way to the lobby. Adelaide and Valentin stopped occasionally to exchange pleasantries with their friends. They exchanged the normal trivial courtesies about the opera, the evening, the state of the polo teams matched for the next day's play, ordinary comments on an ordinary evening of aristocratic amusement. But glances slid past the Duc to his lovely companion as they moved through the throng. How seductive the Duc's young lady looked in the rich scarlet silk; she had the dark eyes of an enchantress, a classic beauty to inspire sonnets and a décolletage guaranteed to draw every male's interest. The Duc's arm was protectively around her shoulders, perhaps to guide her through the crush. More likely, most men decided, as an indication of possession. Isabelle had preceded them by a few moments, those who were standing in conversational groups noted, and the burning question in everyone's mind was: Would they acknowledge each other… should they meet? A member of the clergy stayed their progress for a moment as he and his companions blocked the entrance to the grand staircase. "Excuse us, Monseigneur Dunloup," the Duc politely said, beginning to ease around them. "Congratulations on your new appointment." The prelate had recently been raised to

Vatican envoy from Paris. For answer, Etienne received only a cold icy stare and for the space of a few seconds the churchman stood solidly in their way. He moved finally, letting them , but neither answered Etienne nor acknowledged his presence. Daisy glimpsed the transient surprise on Etienne's face; he was momentarily taken aback. But he recovered almost immediately, guiding them past the chill gaze of the Vatican's new envoy with his normal calm possession. How often would he be exposed to such rudeness? Daisy wondered; would he begin to mind eventually? She considered apologizing for being the cause of the envoy's public cut but Etienne's expression had taken on a sternness that deterred her. She sympathized though with the possible state of his emotions, for who better than she knew the feeling of exclusion. While she'd spent a lifetime learning to cope with such reactions, Etienne had never experienced society's censure. His family had been a power in for a millennium. Could she, she mused in a poignant moment of melancholy, do this to him? But he smiled at her, a warm adoring smile. And she forgot.

What was Isabelle up to? Etienne wondered, when he saw his wife with her entourage waiting at the main entrance for her carriage. Why hadn't she gone to the private porte cochère where she always exited the Opéra! Why was she in the lobby when she deplored the milling crowds? His queries were rhetorical only; he knew the answers. "Should we wait outside?" Adelaide suggested, as aware as the Duc of Isabelle's unusual presence. "No," he softly answered. 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 ed 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 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 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 sauce7. 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. And she knew what he could give her. She could see. She knew in only moments she'd forget that reason guided human behavior, she'd forget without a qualm. He took two steps to round the table spread with food and offered her his hand. "Bring the sauce," he said. "I thought I'd try some in bed." She felt the tremor in her fingertips as she reached for the small silver vessel. He turned to steady her hand, as if he could sense her arousal. "I'll carry it. So it doesn't spill… here." He set the sauceboat down on the bedside table amidst a hodgepodge of bibelots added to over the generations by other de Vecs: a framed miniature on a small gold easel of a young lady from the date of the palace—her midseventeenth-century fashionable pallor framed by delicate golden-red curls; a pre-Revolution diamond-studded snuffbox as glittering as the era of its provenance; two porcelain ocelots brought back from Napoleon's Egyptian campaign by the de Vec progressive enough to have ed Napoleon's faction and survived the Revolution; a silver-framed photo of a young boy at his mother's knee with a tentative smile and Etienne's eyes.

The bed complemented the eclectic decor of the room: a combination of original gilded furniture, exotic Russian pieces in inlay and bronze and stone, comfortable Biedermeier chairs and sofas fringed and tasseled and heavily brocaded. But no trace of a woman anywhere—it was essentially a man's room. The bed was pure Louis Quatorze—heavy, solid, ornately carved and gilded, curtained in a dark masculine chocolate cut-velvet, faded over the centuries to the dusty rose of its underweave. Daisy stood completely still for a moment, struck by the impersonal nature of the room. With the exception of his childhood photo, this room belonged more to past generations of de Vecs than to Etienne. Etienne seemed immune to the sensations of former lives, to the weight of history pervading the chamber. He slipped off his robe and dropped it on the floor. "Do you ever think of how many other people have slept in this bed?" Daisy softly breathed. His fingers stopped for a second in his untying of her sash. "The sheets are new." "Etienne, I'm serious." "You're almost always serious, darling," he said with a smile, sliding his robe from her shoulders, "but I adore you anyway." "Don't you feel it?" He lowered his head so their eyes were parallel and his mouth quirked in a faint smile. "At the risk of making a nonserious remark, I've been feeling it ever since you ate the lobster with such seductive languor." She grinned. "You've drunk too much." "Or not enough if you're feeling ghosts in the air." "Are you never serious?" "I try not to be. One of the few maxims I recall from my mostly absent father was his judgment on serious people. 'Serious people,' he would say, 'are dangerous. When you're climbing, they're forever jerking on the rope when you least expect it.' The correlation, however obtuse, has seemed to carry over into my life as well." Daisy pursed her mouth primly. "It killed him actually," Etienne bluntly stated. "Bunny Claridge, who everyone knew shouldn't have left the environs of his fishing pond in Kent, was climbing fourth man and he killed them all. Now," he continued with a grin, tumbling Daisy into the bed and following her down with a lithe grace, "all maxims aside except my own purely selfish carpe diem ones, let us on to more pleasant subjects. For instance, where would you like the Lunéville sauce first?" His face was inches from hers, his smile magical, his heavy-lidded eyes amused.

"Meaning?" Her own answering smile was provocative. "Meaning, if you have any particular areas of stimulation you most prefer—you see how accommodating I can be." "And if I don't?" "You do of course. I keep notes." And his memory for detail was superb. He trailed a drizzle of sweet wine sauce over the lush fullness of her bottom lip first and licked it away with slow deliberate care. "You taste…" he murmured against the warm resiliency of her mouth. "Good enough to eat?" Daisy suggested, her pulse accelerating, the touch of his lips on hers a prelude to paradise, the silk sheets warm against her skin, the faded curtains of a bygone age enclosing them in a shadowed hermitage. He nodded the smallest movement, his dark hair brushing her cheek, his smile not practiced now but touched with a prodigal impetuosity. "I save my appetite for you and I'm very hungry." She could feel the words caress her body as if his thoughts had taken corporeal form and a flush of arousal heated her flesh. The sauce was still luxuriously warm as it dropped in tingling dollops on her peaked nipples and ran in small diminishing rivulets over the mounded fullness of her breasts. He caught the running sweetness before it ed beyond the opulent curve of her breasts, the lazy gliding journey of his tongue terminating in soft suckling possession of each of her nipples. Her eyes shut against the surging flood of intemperate sensation racing through her body. "Don't stop," she whispered, voicing her voluptuous need. And he didn't, sucking and nibbling and softly biting for infinite moments until she expired in a breathless, trembling orgasm. He didn't wait, although she pushed him away when she felt the liquid warmth trickle into her still-throbbing cleft. He only brushed her hands aside, whispered, "trust me," and bent his head to taste the melding of her orgasmic fluid and the scented Lunéville sauce. Her pleasure sound started deep in her throat and rose from her parted lips to drift in a sighing moan across the candlelit room—a keening soft accompainment to the licking, nibbling age of Etienne's lips and tongue. With gratifying finesse and languor, he appeased his appetite, the flickering journey of his tongue bringing Daisy to a quivering, shuddering frenzy. He entered her as her climax began pulsing again, his hard length taking her breath away as he drove in so deeply she felt the resulting explosion melt her very limbs. "I can't move," she whispered when she had breath enough to speak. "You don't have to," he whispered back, gliding slowly in again, the velvety friction so exquisite even had she been able to move she wouldn't have risked losing the sensation. For a man who'd considered no sensation untried, the Duc found himself affected by a ionate need

so acute and ardent and glowing, he understood at last the true meaning of delirium. Had the hot fires of hell been waiting upon consummation, he would have had her, had Cupid's bow been aimed at his gullet, he would have had her, had his wife had a gun poised at his temple, he would have had her. And for a man of the Duc's jaded experience, he realized this was miles and leagues and oceans beyond delirium. It was love, a kind of love he hadn't known existed, a kind of love he'd always despised as emasculating and unnatural, a kind of love he knew now was providential. And he was lucky. Daisy felt his embrace abruptly tighten and as if sensing his mood, her palms drifted across the breadth of his shoulders. "Mine," she said with a smile in her voice. "And don't forget it." "Forever," he murmured. "Forever," she agreed, too blissfully happy to allow even a twinge of reality to intrude. They belonged to each other that night with carefree disregard for what tomorrow would bring. Only the two people sheltered in the velvet-curtained bower of a two-hundred-year-old bed mattered. Only holding each other mattered. Only love mattered. And very late that night with Daisy half dozing in his arms, Etienne lazily murmured into the shadowed enclosure of their curtained bed, "Remind me to give the pastry chef a bonus." After she fell asleep, he held her in his arms and watched the barge lights on the river. A strange melancholy overcame him in the aftermath of such unalloyed bliss, as though his previous life had ed by without notice like the barges at night. With unable speed, too, in an idle waste of precious days, weeks, and years—too often devoted to those pursuits of every generation before him… pleasure. His love for Daisy gave him pause to realize how much he'd missed. Time ed quickly, inexorably—his fortieth birthday was only months away. His father had died at forty-two. How transient and fleeting was life, he suddenly thought, another chugging barge sliding past his windows. Daisy's sleeping presence warmed him, body and soul, her breath a soft rhythm across his chest, her love essential to his happiness. He didn't want to be told he was selfish for wanting—after twenty years of duty—some happiness for himself. An intimacy with a woman he loved. His dynastic marriage seemed shabby and tarnished in comparison. As did his wife's superficial requirements for a husband. He was simply a convenience for her—someone to contribute to her lavish way of life, a consort with an appropriately prominent title and position. It was suddenly no longer enough to fill the void of his life with amusements. Not enough. Life was too short. And happiness too elusive. He had found at last the vital woman who touched his soul and spirit, and he would keep her. Against every Montigny and magistrate and social dictum in the world.

The Duc was startled to see his valet when he opened his eyes. He wondered how long Louis had been standing there, silent and respectful. "Visitors, Monsieur le Duc, in the antechamber." His voice was so hushed Etienne debated for a moment whether he had misunderstood. Louis knew better than he how to deal with visitors. "Why are they in the antechamber?" he asked then because obviously if they'd gotten past his butler Burns and Louis both, an explanation was required. "They insisted on seeing you, Monsieur le Duc." "They?" "The Archbishop, sir, and the Dowager Comtesse Montigny.'" His consternation must have showed because Louis went on in a swift, hushed recital of the events preceding their present occupancy of the antechamber, only two rooms removed from the Duc's bedroom. Louis's expression and tone even more than his staccato explosion of words conveyed the extent of the struggle to keep them contained in their present position. "They were determined to enter your bedroom, sir. I'm sorry, sir. Should I have them carried out?" Etienne appreciated Louis's loyalty and for a moment he relished the notion of having the hypocritical prig of an Archbishop ejected from his home. Isabelle's mother, however, could not be handled so cavalierly. Glancing down at Daisy, still asleep in his arms, he said in a murmur, "Give them tea and tell them I'll be out presently," then added in gratitude, "And thank you, Louis, for keeping them at bay." His valet's distress was still evident. "I wish, Your Grace, I could have checked them at the door, but

Burns said the Archbishop quite literally pushed him out of the way. An Archbishop, sir. One considers the possible repercussions of opposing an Archbishop." "There was nothing you could do, of course." "Burns and two footmen are guarding the door to the antechamber. It's locked, Sire." Etienne couldn't help but smile at the picture of his two guests locked into his waiting room. He hoped they didn't try to open the door. He was dressed five minutes later, Daisy still sleeping peacefully in his bed. They'd been up until very late and had not his internal clock reminded him of his normal waking time for his ride in the park, he too might not have wakened. How long would Louis have silently stood here? he wondered. By the time he had quickly thrown on his clothes, Louis had a steaming cup of coffee, pitch-black and heavily sweetened, waiting for him, and he stood at the window for a few brief moments to drink it. The river traffic was heavy this morning, the sun lush-golden, the new leaves the chartreuse-green of springtime. He was in love and loved; the day was shining new; his world was full of hope and expectation. "Show me in, Louis. After that coffee, I can even face the ass of an Archbishop, and… my pious mother-in-law."

Etienne brushed aside Burns's apologies when he arrived at the locked door, thanked him and the two footmen for guarding his privacy, and, after the key was quietly turned in the well-oiled lock, he was announced. "We woke you," his mother-in-law said, casting a disapproving glance over his casual dress of shirtsleeves, tros, and Moroccan slippers. Her words were a declarative statement, not an apology. "Yes, actually you did. Can I help you with something?" The Duc's voice was mild. Neither the Archbishop of Paris nor Isabelle's mother intimidated him. He wasn't pious, nor particularly religious; the Church in had overstepped its spiritual arena as far as he was concerned, both in government and society, and its strictures concerned him little. Before he'd moved beyond the threshold, the Archbishop said in stern, forbidding tones, as if he were addressing a subservient cleric or reciting a prepared text, "The Church does not condone divorce." His courage had been bolstered since last night, apparently by his sister's dour-faced , Etienne facetiously thought, ing the Archbishop's pale complexion of the previous night. "I'm aware of the Church's position," Etienne mildly replied, walking over to a chair near the two Montignys who were glaring like the wrath of God from his Empire sofa. "The laws of , however, establish the necessary procedures. I hope you didn't rise this early in the morning to debate secular versus clerical law with me. I'm not in the—" "There has never been a divorce in the Montigny family," Isabelle's mother interrupted, her slight form primly erect, her voice reminiscent of her daughter's; they both had the same cool precision of speech. Although widowed for almost a decade, she still sanctimoniously dressed in mourning—black bonnet modestly trimmed in braid, her black silk gown's only vanity a black diamond brooch; her black kid-gloved hands were clasped with symmetrical precision on her lap.

"Nor has there been in the de Vecs'," the Duc said, his glance bland. Seated across from them in a chair large enough to accommodate him comfortably, he held a second cup of coffee in his hand, his man Louis standing at attention behind him like a Swiss halberdier. "Until now," he quietly added. "We can't allow it." Unyielding Church dogma arrogantly ignoring individual rights under the laws of seemed anachronistic in the closing decade of the century. And irritating. More prosaically, the Archbishop was small like all the Montignys, and Etienne was tempted to say: Are you going to stop me? But he said instead, his voice mild, "Fortunately or unfortunately, depending on your point of view, you have no control over my life. I am de Vec." "We can stop you in court." The Archbishop's voice was astonishingly resolute, Etienne mused. Had Isabelle's mother threatened him or promised him a lavish donation? "You can try to stop me in court," Etienne replied, his eyes taking on a sudden remoteness. "Bourges can't help you," Isabelle's mother said with a familiar contempt, his wife's voice echoing in his ears. "He's a peasant." "Letheve will find the circumstances of Bourges's birth of little consequence before the bar." Etienne crossed his tegs, handed his cup to Louis, and leaned back in his chair. "Is there more… advice… or can Burns show you out?" There were limits to his courtesy, there were limits to the usefulness of conversation with the Montignys; there was also a beautiful woman waiting for him in his bed, and perhaps that most of all induced him to curtail his early morning call. "You won't be sensible?" The Archbishop spoke with baleful disdain. "I am being sensible, for the first time in my life. I've discharged my duty to family in the past twenty years a thousand times over." The Duc's voice dropped in volume and he said very slowly so there was no mistaking his intentions, "My future belongs to me." "The children are still underage." The Archbishop's voice could have been that of an inquisitor in a Spanish torture chamber, so secure was he in gaining his listeners' attention: No longer lounging, Etienne sat bolt upright, his eyes vivid with anger, his fingers clenched white on his chair arms. "If you touch them, Montigny," the Duc said in a low heated murmur taut with challenge, "I'll have your heart on a platter." "Are you threatening me?" The Archbishop's face had taken on the same whitish cast as the night before. "I am." The green of the Duc's eyes glittered like emerald fire. "You… can't threaten me," the Archbishop stammered, the nudge from his sister's gloved finger firming his shrinking courage. "The law requires custody… until children are twenty-one." "The law better damn well stay away from my children, Montigny, or I'll dine on your black heart. That's a promise and a threat and a lethal pledge. Is that perfectly clear? Beatrice, you're going to push your brother into an early grave," Etienne remarked, observing his mother-in-law's hand about to move again.

"Kindly consider how poorly he shoots. Now," he curtly went on, "No one touches my children. Not either of you. Not Isabelle, who relinquished her interest in them at birth. And least of all a court that can be bought and sold for the price of a good polo pony." The Duc stood abruptly, the interview over. "Burns will show you out. Don't," he murmured in a deceptively calm tone, "come back."

The pulse in his temple was beating violently as he strode through the enfilade of rooms between the antechamber and his bedroom. He could feel the flush of anger in his face and in his brain. Did they really think he gave a damn what the Church's position was on anything or care what the Montigny attitude was on divorce? Idiots! he fumed. The clergy had their place he supposed, but it wasn't in his home giving him ultimatums. How dare that worm threaten his children; how dare he think he had any right to impose his theological dogma on Justin's and Jolie's lives! He'd kill him without a qualm, the Duc raged, although the damnable coward would probably hide behind his cassock or his formidable sister if challenged to a duel. Louis was hot on the Duc's heels, running slightly to keep up with his master's rapid stride. When Etienne reached the door to his bedroom, he waited a moment before going in to allow Louis the opportunity to catch up. As Louis arrived, panting and out of breath, the Duc said, his voice still tense and irritated, "More coffee please, and breakfast in say… twenty minutes. I think I'll kill him and rid the world of a useless cleric," he added, as supplement to his menu. With his hand on the doorlatch, he turned a suddenly cheerful smile on his valet. "Wouldn't that be a good idea, Louis?" "Yes, sir, Monsieur le Duc. Should I see that your pistols are cleaned?" Having accompanied the Duc to several duels—still a popular method of settling male disputes in —Louis was ready to be of service again. "The children must be protected," he said as if they were his. Etienne grinned. "Killing the pompous ass would at least save any more ecclesiastical bastards… but his face was so waxen, Louis, I may not need my pistols. He may succumb to apoplexy. Damn

coward's probably still looking over his shoulder. Coffee, then, and breakfast. It's a beautiful day, isn't it, Louis?" Etienne said, his mood abruptly altered at the thought of Daisy warm and voluptuous in his bed. "Yes, Monsieur le Duc," his valet agreed, interpreting the Duc's comment properly. "She's very lovely." "Miss Black will soon be your new mistress." His smile was that of a young enthusiastic boy. "Very good, sir. I look forward to it." Having been with the Duc since before his marriage, Louis was pleased to see his master truly happy for the first time in years. "Do you think the lady would like that special hazelnut pastry with honey from your Colsec estate?" "Yes… yes." Etienne paused. "I should have thought of it myself. Thank you, Louis, she'll love it. Twenty minutes?" "Twenty minutes, precisely, Your Grace."

Breakfast was heated, lush, and leisurely from the fragrant, sticky pastry to the last sweet whipped-cream-and-hot-chocolate-flavored kiss. The sun had risen high in the sky before the Duc rolled over in bed to ring for Louis again. "You need some clothes," Etienne said in explanation to Daisy's questioning glance. "Louis will see to it. We're going to see Mama." "I don't want to. I'd rather stay here." Etienne had been particularly tender this morning, waking her with a gentle, lingering kiss, making love to her with a demonstrative sweetness—the raging zealous ion of last night replaced by an almost poignant susceptibility. Her body was aglow, her heart as well, with love of him and she wanted nothing to intrude. She wanted selfishly to keep him within touch, within sight… alone. "I'm taking you to Mama's to show you off." He looked darker against the white sheets, smiling and sensual and more perfect than any man deserved. "No," Daisy softly protested. "Later…" "Yes, and later we'll do that," Etienne replied, lighthearted and intuitive—or perhaps experienced. He recognized that sultry look in a woman's eyes. "Are you sure about your mother?" Daisy was hesitant. "After the scene at the Opéra . . ." "Mother is more unconventional than I. Trust me." "About your divorce too?" "About everything. She never did like the Montignys anyway so the divorce will come as no shock. The trustees of my father's estate, not my mother, arranged my marriage." He spoke in a lazy deprecating way, sated and content and immune for the moment from rancor. "You had no say?" Dubious query colored her tone, although Daisy understood a widow under French law inherited only a small portion of her husband's estate. "Since I was under twenty-one I wasn't legally in control of my inheritance yet, the war with Prussia loomed on the horizon jeopardizing much of our eastern land, and I planned on serving in a cavalry unit

against the violent wishes of the trustees. All these factors influenced the cautious natures of my father's conservators. If I was killed in the war some third cousin twice removed who was drinking himself to death in the Indies would inherit. Naturally the trustees were appalled. I wasn't unaware of my obligation either after being raised with the legacy of the de Vec title." Stretching like a great jungle cat, he went on in a moderate uninflected tone. "You know as well as I do, as a woman my mother had little control over the de Vec inheritance. We both understood the Montigny alliance they proposed would be useful." "Useful?" Somehow she disliked thinking Etienne could be so callous. He shrugged, looking at her for a moment from under his dark brows. "They threatened my mother's income if I didn't marry and provide an heir before I left. Before you say it," he added, putting his palm up, "there wasn't time for a protracted fight in court even if I hadn't agreed with the need for an heir. The de Vec bloodlines go back to Charles Martel," he said, aware of what kinship to the first kings of meant. "I felt a certain sense of duty. All my friends were contracting similar marriages—as had their parents before them. We are not on the north-ern plains… with the freedom you take for granted." His final words were poignant somehow for a wealthy man of influence and power. Daisy considered then how great their personal freedoms were within the Absarokee culture: marriage was by mutual consent; divorce equally so; women shared in property with the same prerogatives as their husbands; and courtship was a time of laughter and loving. Wealth was not the first priority, nor the tenth, and the thought of allowing a third party to autocratically select your spouse was repressive. "I'm sorry," she softly said, reaching up from her lazy sprawl to touch the dark silky arc of his brow. "I wish I had been there twenty years ago to carry you away with me to my lodge." He smiled a small grateful smile. "I'm available now… to be carried away." "Almost…" "Eventually," he corrected with a grin.

Louis was sent to Adelaide's with a list of clothing needed and an hour later the Duc and Daisy were seated in a flower-filled conservatory, the scent of hibiscus heavy in the air. Etienne's mother was saying how pleased she was to meet Daisy at last, while the Duc lounged comfortably, his arm around Daisy. Daisy was most struck at first meeting the Dowager Duchesse by the striking physical differences between mother and son. How unlike in looks they were. The Dowager Duchesse was as light as her son was dark, her hair a golden-honey color, her eyes a curious shade of translucent azure, and his height, Daisy decided, had not been inherited from Maman. She was dainty with gamine features; a contrast to the swarthy aquiline modeling of her son. She must have been very young when Etienne was born because she was still extremely youthful in appearance… dressed becomingly in a sprigged and beribboned muslin flower-print gown. "You've made Etienne very happy, my dear," Heloise pleasantly said, "and I thank you for it." "You're entirely welcome," Daisy replied, thinking .how very easy it was to love her son. "I hope only… well… all will be reconciled." "With the Montignys you mean. Thank God for the new divorce law. Didn't I tell you when it was first enacted to end it?" she said to her son. "He's too civil—he didn't."

"Mama's more impulsive." The Duc's smile was indulgent. "You didn't know what love was, you mean." His mother's smile was discerning. "And you do?" The Duchesse had for years amused herself in the same fashion as her son. "I don't tell you everything. Consider yourself fortunate," she added in a quiet reflective tone. "Everyone's love is not so easily fulfilled." "Secrets, Mama?" Etienne's query was at once teasing and sympathetic. "Long before your time, my dear," his mother said, recovering her former spirits with a well-grounded discipline. "Now tell me what the Archbishop and that poker-faced mother-in-law of yours had to say this morning." The Duc moved his head in an almost indistinguishable movement—cautioning his mother. "It was nothing… an empty gesture," he briefly replied. "I was hoping you might like to go to the races with us sometime. My black's been running well lately." "The Archbishop and your mother-in-law?" Daisy inquired. "Why didn't you tell me?" "There was nothing to tell." It was a masculine answer of avoidance. His mother recognized the restraint in his voice and knowing the Montigny gracelessness after twenty years, understood the extent of her son's warning. "I'd love to see your black race, darling," she interposed into the small silence that had fallen. The Duc's smile was swift. "Good. On Friday then. Would you like to dine with us tonight? Daisy has promised to me for dinner." "I'm committed to the Prince Cherevel this evening. I'm sorry. Would you care to his party? Although I warn you, it's diplomatic with several of the embassies invited." "And you're hostess for Philippe, charged with charming all the colonial attache's." Etienne's smile was affectionate. "Mama is Philippe's best ambassador," he said to Daisy. "Capable of convincing the most hotheaded foreign minister indignant with his treatment by the colonial office that at least Parisian women understand the dilemmas facing his country." "They're all strongly committed men with legitimate grievances. My sympathy is genuine, darling, you know that." "Mama has turned down more proposals of marriage to colonial ministers than one can count." "How can I keep an eye on you if I leave Paris?" she replied with a teasing smile. "Etienne needs a great deal of care," she added, amusement rich in her voice. "She first noticed me when I was sixteen," the Duc facetiously retorted, not immeasurably devastated apparently by his mother's lack of concern in his childhood. "You had Rennie, dear, who was the best darling in the world. You know you preferred her to me anyway."

"She was special." "Of course. She'd been my Rennie first. I was simply generous enough to share her with you." "Yes," he simply said, knowing in an odd convoluted way, his mother's generosity had been sincerely maternal. Rennie had loved him unconditionally and he her, and not a day went by he didn't think of his childhood nanny—although she'd been dead now almost twenty years. "I don't suppose your traditions include nannies," Heloise said to Daisy. And the remainder of their visit centered on a curious conversation about children and child-rearing, a subject generally outside the perimeters of Etienne's social conversation. His mother noticed his unusual interest, was aware as well that Etienne never brought his lovers over for tea. With all her heart, she wished him happiness; Isabelle had taken too many years away from her son. He deserved more.

"Don't scowl at me," the Duc said as they settled into the soft carriage seats. "I don't want to argue." "You don't have to protect me from the tumult." "There's no point in rehashing irrelevancies. It's over. They're gone; they won't be back." "I'd simply like to know what everyone else seems to know. I'm not a child or a simpering ingénue," Daisy quietly said. "You don't want to know, believe me. The Montignys are stupid," he tersely added, a trenchant bite to his tone. "About what?" He hesitated for a small space of time. "About my children," he softly said,"… among other things." "Can't I help?" He was clearly upset regardless of his gentle tone. "I've dealt with enough controversy in my life to have a well-developed ability to cope. Law school hardens one to discourtesy." She grinned. "I'm very tough." His smile, genuine and suddenly relaxed, altered the stormy green of his eyes to a warmer shade. "I love you, darling, for your intelligence and understanding"—His brows rose in jest—"along with one or two other things, but coping mechanisms, no matter how well-developed, won't find a rational basis for dealing with the Montignys. They're profoundly insensitive to anything short of lethal threats, which I dispensed with an appropriate degree of sincerity. Now, can we please discuss something more pleasant… like the ravishing color of your lips or a honeymoon itinerary or the name of our firstborn?" While teasing, he clearly didn't wish to discuss the Montignys and because she loved him, she said, "You win, Monsieur de Vec… this time." She smiled. "But only because humoring you has its advantages." He laughed out loud at her smiling insinuation. Leaning back into the upholstered seat, he gazed across at her in a speculative way, his green eyes amused. "Are you expecting some favor in return for your humoring me? A performing kind of quid pro quo?" he added, his voice a lazy drawl.

"The thought crossed my mind. Nothing you can't handle, I'm sure." Her dark eyes held a sleepy, seductive allure. Glancing at the carriage clock, the Duc made some mental calculations mat didn't work out, and thinking that with any other woman a stop at the jewelers would solve his problem, he said, "I don't suppose this is a good time to ask whether you'd mind if I play a game this afternoon." Dressed in a ribbon silk in shades of olive, her hair loosely tied at her neck with pearl-embroidered gold braid, Daisy had the look of an odalisque in the shaded interior of his carriage, her pose as relaxed as his. "We're not talking about the same kind of game… are we?" Her voice was sleepy like her eyes, husky, redolent; her smile almost made him change his mind. If she disapproved, he thought, he'd ignore his schedule; there would be other matches. But his teammates would sulk because they were currently in first place for the club championship. "It's not of great import, chou-chou. Valentin can find a substitute." "You play second position, don't you?" "Usually," the leading scorer in a decade modestly said. "And you'd be harder to replace than a third or back." "Theoretically… but an afternoon in bed with you prevails in fascination," he replied with an easy charm. She weighed his asking against her own idleness, understood his commitment to his team because she had a father and brothers who played polo with the same seriousness. "Go," she said, "I'll take a nap at Adelaide's." His satisfaction was apparent, like a young boy allowed out to play, she thought with pleasurable contentment, pleased she could make him happy. "You're sure now?" His solicitiousness was as charming as his seductive talents and she almost said, no, I changed my mind, because she wanted him suddenly for all his sweetness and beauty. It required a moment more for practical reason to beat down her sensations of wanting. She could after all, make love to him tonight. So she said politely, "I'm sure. I'm also very tired." In fact the idea of having to participate in a polo match would have been beyond her strength. They'd been up a great deal of the night playing at love. "You're an angel." Leaning over, he kissed her lightly on the cheek. "Where do you get your energy?" Thoughts of an afternoon nap insinuated themselves more prominently in her mind. The Duc didn't say he was familiar with sleepless nights for the inference would be displeasing, so he said instead, "My chef's idea of breakfast coffee can sustain one for days. You didn't drink any." His smile was benign. Daisy had, in fact, taken one sip, said, "this would bring a corpse to life," and opted for tea. "If you like, we could cancel tonight. You're going to be exhausted."

"No, I'll be fine. I'll come to fetch you at nine."

Adelaide had been watching the courtyard windows since she'd risen that morning, determined to lend comfort and to Daisy after Isabelle's despicable behavior at the Opéra. Her pacing set the mood for her household, already alerted by news of the Montignys' early morning visit to the Duc—common knowledge belowstairs hours before the story reached the aristocrats of Paris with their morning coffee. Which news had only increased Adelaide's agitation. When the Duc's carriage rolled into the courtyard, Adelaide raced with unladylike haste to the entrance hall, arriving breathless to greet Daisy when she came in. "Would you like tea?" she asked. "Or a late luncheon?" she added, reminded by the chiming hall clock of the hour. "Are you all right? I'm so sorry, did you sleep? You couldn't have, you must be exhausted." "I'm tired," Daisy said with a faint smile, answering one of Adelaide's rush of queries. "But not overly exhausted," she quickly went on at the sudden concern appearing on her hostess's face. "And tea would be wonderful," she added, politely postponing her nap. "I'm so sorry about the scene at the Opéra," Adelaide immediately reiterated after they were seated in a small drawing room with tea astonishingly ready for pouring. How difficult had it been to maintain the tea table at the ready against her unknown arrival, Daisy wondered. "You must be furious and distrait and wishing every Montigny to the devil." Daisy had taken a chair near the windows overlooking the garden, the sunlight behind her casting her face in shadow, concealing her transient grimace at Adelaide's frank assessment. "I would have preferred a less public battleground," she itted, shrugging in a lazy negligent gesture—a reflection of her experience with bigotry. "Since anger doesn't help, however, I've learned a long time ago to ignore scenes like that at the Opéra." "Despite your merciful indulgence, it still was dreadful of Isabelle," Adelaide murmured. "But typical of her malice. There's always a certain portion of society one must apologize for… endlessly. The faction to which the Montignys belong is the most rabid of Monarchists, the most conservative, and I'm afraid… the most reactionary." "It surprises me how Etienne could relate to the very disparate spirit of his wife. He seems the antithesis of a Monarchist." "They've always led separate lives—distinctly separate lives. Isabelle devoted herself to her dressmaker and milliner, to her afternoon teas, her daily drive through the Bois, social calls, dinners, followed by the theater or some soiree. With the customary minimum of four changes of gowns, her days were filled." "I can see how terribly busy Isabelle could be," Daisy sardonically replied, always astonished at the sheer idleness of the aristocratic way of life. "Etienne's interests have always been more diverse." "More than women, you mean," Daisy tranquilly noted.

"You haven't known him long enough," Adelaide pointed out, pouring Daisy a cup of tea. "While polo and his racing stable are significant in his life, he's also the major shareholder in three railways and active in management of the Bourse." "He seems not to attend to business—are you sure?" she softly queried, taking the delicate cup and saucer from Adelaide. How could he be "active," as Adelaide suggested, when he spent all his time with her? Adelaide smiled. "He's indulging you, to the frustration, Valentin says, of his business manager, who no longer has Etienne's full attention. Nor do any of his other activities, Valentin informs me. You know he's somewhat of an authority on Asian cartograph—his maps are considered a requisite for age across the vastness of Asia. His agricultural estates are models for efficient profitable farming, and he spends an enormous amount of time with his children. They've always been his first priority." Daisy knew of his devotion to his children, but with his altered schedule, she hadn't been fully aware of the magnitude of his other interests. "I hadn't realized… he apparently—" An added distress overcame her, hearing the full litany of Etienne's interests "has sufficiently filled his days as well as Isabelle." "And his nights. Although I think he's been a very lonely man for all his activities. He's very different with you." While Daisy was pleased in the jealous way of lovers to hear his life had been lived virtually apart from his wife, she was disconcerted to realize how fully his life was centered in Parisian society. How would their relationship be affected if she didn't wish to remain in ? And she didn't. She was committed to her tribe and family in much the same way Etienne was devoted to his businesses and children. He would very likely prefer not living in Montana. In all the joy and bliss of their love, they'd failed to come to with the physical distance separating their lives. Had he assumed she'd live with him? "Is the divorce likely?" she asked then, a sequential association to her musing. At the look on Adelaide's face, she added, "Please be frank." Sighing, Adelaide put her teacup down and straightened the embroidered napkin in her lap in unconscious delay. How honestly could she answer? "There are people who've known Etienne all his life," she said finally, her gaze lifting to meet Daisy's steadily, "who feel he's stepped over the line, and while they'll still consider themselves friends, they can't the move he's made for divorce. The Church is enormously powerful. Many will act against Etienne as a matter of public policy, regardless of how they feel about him personally." While the right had lost political power, it retained social influence through its wealth, its prestige in society, its place in the great state services, and its links with the world of business. The Church, too, while not a political force, was a powerful social one, ed by an annual government budget as well as its own private wealth. Daisy understood the political alliances, and Adelaide's candid comments only served to remind her a real world existed beyond the perimeters of love. "You're not optimistic then." "Etienne's determined. An unknown factor… and a powerful one. He's familiar with having his way." Adelaide smiled then. "I don't mean to be pessimistic. Etienne's resolve will very likely triumph over the opposition. Charles, of course, controls a great many of the magistrates required…" Her voice trailed off. And Isabelle would stop at nothing, she knew—an inexpressible thought. "The Absarokee culture is so different in of marriage and divorce, I find the restraints of law a stifling obstruction one should be able to simply ignore. I know better, of course, and I feel great

sympathy for Etienne. He shouldn't have to run the gauntlet of social disapproval." For me, she thought. A simple, damning observation. Because of her, he might be alienating himself completely from his former existence. An unpromising beginning for their own life together. It was too much to ask of him, she reflected with a piercing sadness that settled in the pit of her stomach. A great deal too much. "It's not as though Etienne's unfamiliar with condemnation by the prudish," Adelaide replied with a smile. "He must be immune after all these years. And what you must most is Etienne does what he pleases. He always has. Society's censure doesn't concern him." "I'm sure you're right," Daisy agreed, not wishing to prolong their discussion, understanding in this instance they weren't dealing with the accepted peccadillos of aristocratic males. They were dealing with a stubbornly recalcitrant wife, contesting a divorce with all the power of the judiciary and aristocratic tradition for . "Hopefully all will be resolved amicably," she added, taking a last sip of tea. "If you'll excuse me now," she went on, placing the crested cup on the table beside her chair, "I'm going to rest for a short time before dressing. Etienne's coming to fetch me for dinner." "Of course, my dear," Adelaide quickly replied. "Leave word when you wish to be wakened. And don't despair… the divorce settlement will be agreed to, I'm sure. Even if Etienne has to overturn the entire structure of society single-handed." Adelaide's parting remark was not what Daisy cared to hear. It was exactly what she suspected would be necessary for their relationship to triumph over Isabelle's contention. Would it only leave their love in ruins? she wondered, a great weariness and melancholy inundating her soul. Would the burden of bitterness from the struggle spill over to tarnish the beauty of their love?

Daisy slept restlessly, assailed by doubts, all the practicalities suddenly in the forefront of her mind.

How long would it realistically take for Etienne to be free? Even if his divorce went smoothly—which wasn't even remotely possible—would he return to Montana with her? Leaving behind the entirety of his former life? With the commitment she felt for her family and clan, how much time could she actually spend in were they to marry? And after the scene at the Opéra and her talk with Adelaide, was she willing to deal with the constant presence of Isabelle in the society they'd frequent? Her answers, or more aptly—nonanswers, failed to bring comfort. Not a single question had an unequivocal response, while Isabelle's malicious confrontation at the Opéra rose like an apparition of doom in Daisy's mind. Unable to sleep with the indecisive turmoil racking her brain, Daisy thrust aside the silk coverlet and rose from the resplendent rococo bed. Pacing the room as though her agitated thoughts might be driven away by activity, she moved from the balcony windows to the mirror. A grimace of dis-may directed at her image reflected the morbidity of her thoughts. What was she to do? Love didn't conquer all, despite the platitude. Love, in fact, in her case, had upset, muddled, deranged, and displaced her carefully disposed life. And dealing with the dizzying complexities bewildered her completely. Her long-standing belief that problems responded to rational order and intelligent thought was being overwhelmed by obstacles like Isabelle or Etienne's class affiliation, both paradoxically explosive and rock-solid. And immune also to exactitude. Unable to rest or sleep or gather her thoughts into any peaceful order, Daisy busied herself dressing early for dinner. She fussed in a thoroughly excessive way over her choice of gown and the jeweled pins for her hair, whether silk slippers in blue or lavender suited best, as though these inconsequential decisions held significance beyond distracting her from less soluble ones. Then dressed and bejeweled and perfectly coiffed, she stood at her balcony window very still for an indeterminate time, staring with unfocused eyes on the perfect beauty of Adelaide's garden. How much of one's life did one barter for love—for happiness? No answer came readily to mind. Only annihilating blankness. The sound of birdsong drew her from her uneasy reverie and she decided to wait for Etienne in the garden. Avoiding the main staircase, she descended to the ground floor by the servant's stairs, traversed the narrow back hallways, and entered the garden through a doorway used by the staff. The sun was low on the horizon, transforming the shrubbery into magical silhouettes, lacy and translucent on their borders. The birds were quieting, settling in for their evening repose, the frogs in Adelaide's lily pond beginning the first of their night songs. She strolled down the trellised arbor, vined in climbing roses, the fragrance of the early pinks, the Gloire de Dijon, and Sombreuil heady in the balmy air. The wild roses would be blooming at home in the sheltered valleys already, and soon the prairie yellows would be scenting the breeze on the great open vastness of the northern plains. She felt homesick suddenly with the sweet perfume of rose in her nostrils, homesick for the openness of her native land, homesick for the peace her family had established on their isolated ranches in the mountains. Her dress trailed over the manicured green of the grass, the pale creme dimity a ghostly lightness in the

shadows of the arbor. Her hair was simply arranged in a chignon at her neck, her only ornament sapphire earrings, large teardrop-shaped stones the color of storm clouds. A gift from her father on her eighteenth birthday, she'd selected them tonight for the happy memories they evoked. Hazard had called them spirit earrings because they glowed when the light struck them in a particular way. "Like night visions on the mountains," he'd said. She felt nearer her home when she wore them, nearer the security of her family, protected by the sky spirits, not so alone. The unpleasantness at the Opéra, the future possibility of recurrences, the entire superficiality of the glittering Parisian society burdened her as she strolled through the perfectly kept garden. Even Adelaide's landscaping reminded her of the discrepancies between her favored life and Etienne's. The parterres were too 'arranged,' the hedges too carefully clipped, the lawn so smooth one could dance on it unimpeded. Or play croquet—a vicious game masquerading as fun. Not a single fallen leaf marred the perfection of the grass; an assortment of gardeners swept the entire area each day as a precaution against disorder. Even the birds were selected with an eye to the colorful scheme and lured with suitable houses and birdbaths, with food sources carefully concealed behind the colorful array of flowers. Gazing up into the sky darkening into twilight, she thought how strangely out of place a hawk would look now, circling this jeweled perfection of a garden. She felt abruptly as though she were a prisoner in this walled and cultivated Eden, as though she too needed wings like a hawk to escape the confining sensibilities of Etienne's world. Back home in Montana, soaring hawks swept the skies, their territories miles of open country. The Absarokee had lived a life of equal freedom until recently, and her need to experience an existence without undue constraints was bred into her bones. Would her love for Etienne overlook those needs, would Etienne understand the compelling requirements of her upbringing in a culture so different from his? She was no longer sure. Yesterday she might have been. Last week she would have been confident of her answer. Tonight, no assurances came readily to her mind. Tonight she felt an alien… in this garden, in this city of lights. Despite the depths of her love, despite the fact she wasn't certain she could live without him… should she leave. Standing motionless under the darkening sky, she gazed up into the soft gray velvet of twilight, searching for the first stars of evening, wanting to raise the spirits if she could. Not certain they would hear her so far from the mountains she called home. She began chanting, her voice only a murmur in the warm night air and, shutting her eyes, she carried herself back across the ocean to the cool mountains of her home. When she opened her eyes a moment later, the stars seemed to have shifted, taking their rightful positions in the springtime sky. Even their brilliance seemed to have altered, a new crispness infused the air… the light haze of Paris skies displaced by lofty cloudless tranquility. Daisy smiled. There was pleasure in the ability to subtly change the world to suit her needs—however temporary. Her soft, "Ahoo" (thank you) drifted skyward. "Tell me what to do, One Above (Baakukkule). Show me the way." She dropped to her knees in a soft billow of fabric, her sapphires glittering like the stars with her movement, their weight on her earlobes, a presence… a link to the soil of home, to family. Her father had mined them near Ruby Bar; even the gold setting was their gold. She touched the faceted jewel with a light fingertip, felt its coolness. "Help me, Papa. I'm too far from home and so in love, I'm no longer the same." She listened then for a moment, her eyes shut, wanting a sign, willing her father to hear her across the ocean and continents. "Daisy!"

The sound was faint… far away. He had answered her, she thought for a dramatic moment. The spirits had carried her words through the darkened skies to her father. "Daisy!" The sound was closer now. And familiar. Etienne. She opened her eyes, turning toward the sound. The man she loved was striding toward her, the white of his evening shirt and collar and cuffs a flash of brilliance across the distance separating them. He began to run, the jeweled studs on his shirtfront shimmering in the shadowed light. "We won!" he said as he neared, elation in his voice. "We won the club trophy for the third year in a row!" He hadn't told her how important his game was this afternoon; he would have missed it had she wished him to. And a kind of small sadness was added to the aggregate of her uncertainty. Why did he feel he had to give up so much for her? She didn't want to be the cause of great sacrifice for him. He was already disrupting the entire tenor of his life with his divorce. Surely she shouldn't be the cause of him losing the simple mundane pleasures of his life as well. A stabbing melancholy suddenly overwhelmed her and their future seemed an impossibility. Just as a signpost at a crossroads stands significant and obvious, a flash of memory struck her with equal force. Her return steamship tickets—conservatively scheduled when she'd left Montana—were dated three weeks hence. Three weeks, said the signpost of her memory. Three weeks. It was the answer she'd asked the spirits to send her.

"What are you doing out here in the dark?" the Duc asked, helping her to her feet. One of the unseen army of Chantel servants had seen Daisy enter the garden and given her direction to the Duc. "Enjoying the stars," Daisy said, the strength of his hand enfolding hers. He looked up briefly, glanced back down at her, and said with a smile, "How poetical." As if reading her mind, he added, "They're not the same, are they?" "No… but I've a good imagination. Why didn't you tell me you were playing for the club championship this afternoon?" she asked then because she had no wish to talk about her stargazing. "It wasn't that important." His smile was achingly beautiful. "You should have told me. I'm not a petulant child." "Darling, I'd gladly give up polo for you. The happiness you've brought me is beyond price." His voice was low, the pressure of his fingers added emphasis to his words. "Don't give things up for me. I don't want you to give up anything for me. It makes me feel—" she hesitated, searching for the proper word, "sad." "In that case, don't expect to see me in the afternoon until July thirteenth when the season ends," the Duc facetiously replied. "I won't have it said I made a woman sad." His grin shone in the dimness. "My reputation's at stake."

"Are we talking an unbroken string of cheerful women?" Daisy's tone was sportive; she was determined to be an adult in mastering her feelings. "Cheerful women are my specialty—were my specialty," he added with a new softness in his voice. "We're talking singular noun from now on." "I like the sound of that," Daisy said. His declaration was in fact enormously poignant for a man unfamiliar with devotion. "Now tell me about the match this afternoon. Did you score? How many ponies did you use?" She had to change the subject immediately or she'd embarrass herself and burst into tears. Her feelings were too close to the surface, too out of control, too intense. She loved him too much.

The Duc related the highlights of the match as they walked back through the garden to his carriage, their conversation over dinner lightheartedly centered on the events of the afternoon. His team's retention of the trophy for the third year was unprecedented, the excited glow of triumph coloring the mood of their evening. Much later that night, when Etienne slept, Daisy eased herself carefully from his arms and, leaving the bed, walked to the opened windows overlooking the Seine. Standing nude and unselfconscious in the moonlight, she reflected on the brevity of her time with Etienne. Three weeks, she thought, restless and unsettled. And then she must leave. It wasn't possible for her to remain in Paris for all the long duration of Etienne's contested divorce. In any event the circumstances would be too unpleasant even if the procedure were mercifully swift. She found herself fainthearted, dreading the intense bitter fight Isabelle would mount, knowing Etienne's wife would never prove amenable to compromise. Her spirits too had spoken when she'd asked for guidance. She believed in the sanctity of their presence. They had always shown her the way.

The following days were a time fashioned from a lover's dream. Daisy and the Duc lived in the apartment on the Seine, together for the first time, in love and loved and happy. They went to the races with Etienne's mother, avoiding the crowds, watching Etienne's black win from the privacy of the Duc's box. Adelaide and Valentin came over for dinner and accompanied them one day to Colsec for a picnic. On seeing Colsec for the first time, Valentin realized how private a man his friend was. Twenty years, he thought, and I never knew. Daisy and Etienne dined out at the Cafe de Madrid and the Maison Anglaise, smart restaurants filled with the grand monde, and at serious old places like the Tour d'Argent and Père La Thuille's in Montmartre, where the gilt and tinsel were missing but the cuisine was perfect and the wine very old. They appeared at some of the small theatres like the Theatre de la Robiniere and the Grand Guignol. They took in some of the frivolous romantic comedies at the Comédie Française, and the new showings at the galleries. They spent lazy mornings in bed testing the pleasurable limits of love and affection, touching and smiling and agreeing these moments were their own garden of delights. In the afternoons when the Duc played polo, Daisy would accompany him occasionally and watch the heated matches—the Duc's cavalier disregard for the club rule barring women from the practice field overlooked by his teammates as well. Love in such manifest rapture couldn't be obstructed. Several afternoons, Daisy took time to oversee the final depositions required for adding Solange's name to Empress's properties. Sometimes she stayed at home simply to rest. She lived each day for its pleasure, consciously storing away the happy memories against a sadder time to come. During the buffalo days of her first twelve years, she'd lived the nomadic life of her tribe, unparalleled training in the acceptance of natural cycles. She understood how the patterns of life ebbed and flowed, how the sunshine and plenty of summer gave way to the storms and deprivations of winter. And she understood the necessity of laying up reserves against the future. She wasn't without her moments of melancholy; on those afternoons when she was alone, or sometimes at night when she couldn't sleep, she'd wonder if she'd heard the spirits and seen the signs properly. But the rational, the pragmatic part of her nature—the portion of her personality more typical than the sybaritic, blissful woman in love or the reader of spirit signs, reminded her of the problems. A mild word for Isabelle's intentions, a mild word for the liabilities she represented in the continuity of Etienne's life. Too lenient a word for the impossibility of ing their totally disparate lives. And she counted the days.

"Get up," Etienne said one sunny morning, bending over to kiss Daisy awake, "I'm taking you shopping." "Don't want to…" Daisy mumbled, burrowing deeper into the covers. She hadn't his energy or the stamina to stay up late into the night and be up at dawn, cheerful. "Worth's is having a sale." Sitting on the edge of the bed, he smiled down at Daisy. He was dressed, having already met with Bourges that morning. "Not either…" Her eyes were shut again. Worth's never had sales.

"Some people are pretty grumpy this morning." His voice was full of cheer. "It can't be morning. Go away." "I've made an appointment with Jean-Philippe." "I've too many gowns already." She'd half buried her face in the pillow to shut out the light, so her words were muffled. They'd been to Worth's before. Etienne was a generous man. "He has a dress, I'm told by a reliable source, made from the ivory silk you ired at Guillet's Gallery last week." Daisy's eyes flashed open. "The ivory silk over-embroidered with tulips?" Delight infused her voice as she rolled over. "Exactly." She had a childlike enthusiasm he adored; it nurtured his humanity, mitigated his streak of cynicism, made him believe again in magical concepts like unlimited joy. "You had it made." "Come try it on." He didn't deny her assertion. "The fabric wasn't for sale at Guillet's. That special length was promised to the Musée Historique des Tissues at Lyon." "Guillet's a reasonable man." Actually he was an unreasonable man but they'd eventually agreed on a price for the exhibition-quality design. "You shouldn't have." Her smile made him very glad he did. "Come see if it fits."

They were greeted at Worth's by Gaston Worth himself, who had seen the Duc's carriage arrive and rushed downstairs to waylay them. None of the couture house subordinates could safely handle the potentially combustible situation with the Duchesse de Vec in their special dressing room accompanied by one of the young priests she customarily retained as escort. With his brother Jean-Philippe and several female shop assistants in attendance of course. But the Duchesse's young priests always took a curiously personal interest in her toilette… making decisions for her on style and detail… familiar, it seemed, with the Duchesse taste in gowns, at ease with the Duchesse in her lingerie. He'd prefer the two parties didn't meet. "Good morning, Monsieur le Duc," Gaston breathlessly declared, having run down two flights of stairs to stop the Duc from going up to the first-floor dressing rooms. "And Miss Black. What an honor so early in the morning." "Jean-Philippe was expecting us," Etienne quietly said, aware of Gaston's skittish nerves. Gaston rarely undertook to greet customers; he was the house business manager. "Papa will see you directly. Would you like tea?"

"You needn't bother your father." The Duc knew Charles-Frederick Worth took little part in the day-to-day activities of the house since his health had declined. "Jean-Philippe designed a gown for Miss Black. Would you like tea, dear?" "Yes," Daisy said, and Gaston exhaled an audible sigh of relief. "Let me have tea brought to you in our private salon. Denys," he ordered, actually snapping his fingers in his agitation, "show Miss Black and the Duc de Vec into the primrose salon." The young man standing at attention near the door reacted like a trained soldier, although his smile was gracious. "I'll have Jean-Philippe bring Miss Black her gown immediately," Gaston promised, briskly signaling for another subordinate to send off with the message. "There's no special rush," the Duc pleasantly replied, struck by Gaston's disquietude. What was alarming him so? If he didn't know better he'd consider Gaston's nervousness had to do with the irregularity of his and Daisy's union. But since the House of Worth made a considerable portion of their profits from men buying gowns for their paramours, that possibility was unlikely. "How kind, Your Grace." Gaston nodded toward the salon. "Denys. He's at your disposal, Your Grace. I'll order the tea myself. A few moments of your patience, Miss Black," Gaston murmured and with a flawless bow, he swiftly took his departure. Tea was elaborate, the primrose salon on the ground floor more so, the young man—left, the Duc suspected, to see that they stayed in the pale yellow salon—the soul of courtesy. And when Jean-Philippe rushed in a short time later, full of apologies and breathless, followed by two assistants bearing Daisy's gown, the Duc was bemused. "No need to apologize, Jean-Philippe. Denys has seen to our every comfort," he said, lounging in a down-cushioned fauteuil sturdy enough to hold even his weight. "Are we early?" "No, no… Monsieur le Duc. Half past eleven, you said, I know, but Papa… had a slight spell," Jean-Philippe improvised quickly. "Nothing serious," he swiftly added, seeing the expres-sion of concern on the Duc's face. "He's resting comfortably upstairs." Odd… Etienne thought, Gaston had suggested their Papa help them with the fitting no more than five minutes ago. Ever courteous, the Duc kept his reservations to himself. "Someone else can help Miss Black with her fitting if it's inconvenient for you." "No… No… Papa's fine now. I'm completely at your service," Jean-Philippe declared, his breathing almost restored to normal. "Papa insists on eating sausage in the morning when he knows it doesn't agree with his stomach. A small rest and he'll be recovered. Do you like it?" he inquired with a smile, gesturing to the magnificent ivory gown held by his two assistants. It was a botanical celebration, Daisy thought: fireworks of tulips in vibrant reds and golds with soft mossy green foliage on pale silk. There was no question why the textile had garnered a grand prix for Maison Gourd at the Exposition Universelle. Tulipes Hollandaise was resplendent. "It's unbelievably beautiful." Turning to Etienne, she softly said, "Thank you." For the winsome look of appreciation on her face, the Duc would have gladly bought out the looms of

Lyon—although Guillet had realized enough profit from his reluctant sale to capitalize a small textile factory of his own. "Let me see the tulips," the Duc quietly said, "next to your skin. And you can show off your gown tonight." "Are we going somewhere?" Her face was alight like a young girl's. "I thought you might like to be seen in that at the Opéra." "La Traviata! You're taking me to La Traviata!" "Was it worth getting up this early?" His voice was lightly teasing. "Oh, yes," she exuberantly breathed, sobering for a moment when she considered how few days she had left to hear his teasing voice. Or wake in his bed… or take pleasure in his pleasure at pleasing her. "Yes," she repeated in a reflective sigh. "Absolutely." Jean-Philippe's two assistants helped Daisy undress to the fragile laciness of her lingerie while the Duc watched with obvious enjoyment. While other women needed corsets, Daisy's slender waist needed no restraint nor did her high abundant breasts require added . The graceful curve of her hips offered perfect lyrical symmetry to the eye, her nipples, visible beneath the white sheer lace of her chemise, provocatively drew the Duc's fascinated gaze. He smiled faintly, his heavy-lidded eyes appreciative when he raised them to catch Daisy's glance over the heads of the women fitting her with petticoats, and Daisy felt a tingle of response in the very tips of her nipples, as though he'd reached out and touched them. Embarrassed at her ready susceptibility to the most casual display of his interest, she quickly dropped her lashes, her fluster of shyness as intoxicating, the Duc reflected, as her irrepressible sensuality. He was an extremely lucky man. Jean-Philippe fussed and hovered on the perimeters of the dressing women, giving small orders and murmuring comments as his assistants hooked Daisy into the splendid silk gown. When she stood at last in the rich beauty of the embroidered fabric designed by Jean-Philippe into a sumptuous work of art, he pronounced, "Perfection!" with neither modesty nor reserve. "Don't you agree?" he said, turning to survey the Duc. "Utter perfection," the Duc softly murmured, visibly moved by the dramatic contradiction of ritualized adornment and primordial beauty. The exquisite shade of golden ivory served as lyric foil to Daisy's dark skin, the crimson and gold tulips, accent for the fire of her ion. Even the restless rhythm of the wind-tossed tulip design echoed the intensity of her spirit. The feminine froth of ivory lace and tulle framing her shoulders and high-mounded breasts, pressed upward by tightly hooked stays, served to dramatize her sensuous appeal, the decorative silk tulips disposed in the waves of lace, lying against the satin of her flesh, ornament to her classic beauty. "Come here," he quietly commanded, needing to touch her in an anachronistic act of possession, as though he must put his mark of ownership on her. And she went to him because she wished in her own convoluted way to belong to him. When she knew she couldn't. When she knew that their time together was severely limited… when she knew her heart would break when she left him. He moved from his casual sprawl as she approached, sitting upright to take her hand in his. Pulling her between his legs, he released her hand, placing both his around her slender waist. His fingers, almost circling her waist, were warm on the silk of the gown, as firm in their grasp as the staunch boning constricting her waist, offering her breasts in ostentatious display. His grip tightened slightly and his gaze

lifted to hers. "I have this overwhelming need to own you," he murmured. "It unnerves me." "I know." "I don't even feel the necessary courtesy of asking your permission." His voice was very low, a half-whispered gruffness. "I know." His brows rose in mild inquiry. Daisy was rarely so docile. "I want to leave or ask them to leave and lock the door." Daisy moved the merest fraction under his hands, a small sensuous response. "Shall we test the limits of ownership at your house?" she murmured, her smile enchanting. "I'd prefer the privacy." The Duc's hands dropped away and he stood in a swift abrupt movement. "A cloak for the lady, Jean-Philippe. She'll wear the gown." There was no mistaking the brevity and command in the Duc's tone. A wrap was found in record time, orders surreptitiously given to the staff in the Duchesse's dressing room to keep her busy for at least another ten minutes while the Duc's carriage was brought up to the door. And the Duc and Miss Black were shown out of the House of Worth a short time later in a billow of costly embroidered silk. With a dramatic sense of having escaped disaster by only a hairsbreadth, Jean-Philippe stood on the curb as the Duc's carriage rolled away, wiping the sweat from his brow.

"No, Etienne… wait until we get home. This gown's worth a fortune." Daisy's murmured protest was accompanied by a playful slap at the Duc's hands. No one was more aware of the fact than he, but Etienne's casual disregard for half a million francs had much to do at the moment with his libido. "We'll send it back to Worth later for pressing." And he brushed aside the froth of lace lying on the warm curve of Daisy's breast. "You're irresponsible." She blocked the route of his fingers. "You're irresistible." He was of course stronger than she. "I enjoyed the sight of your peaked nipples while they were dressing you. Were you thinking of me?" His query was a low lazy murmur, his fingers sliding under her décolletage to touch the stiff tingling buds. "You were…" he added in a whisper, his smile very close and warm. "We shouldn't…" But her body was less prudent, Etienne's caresses bringing the focus of her world to the finite quickened object he held between his fingertips. An intoxicating pulsing raced downward to her impressionable sensual receptors, and she felt herself open as though he'd commanded her. "You've too many petticoats," he said, one hand moving down to push the impeding fabric aside. "I'm sorry…" she whispered, her dark eyes heated and teasing and seductive. "You won't be for long," he promised with a husky insinuating arrogance, his smile brushing her lips. "Kiss me."

The following Monday a note from Charles arrived for Daisy, brought over from Adelaide's by one of the servants. Daisy and the Duc were having breakfast on the balcony overlooking the river and even before Daisy finished reading it, the Duc could tell the message was unwelcome. "He says problems have arisen in the processing of the papers for Empress's estate." "What kind of problems?" The Duc's voice was extremely soft. "He doesn't say." Daisy folded the note, returned it to its envelope, and set it on the table with a precision masking the intensity of her feelings. She was familiar with elusive denials, those vague refusals without substance; the kind one couldn't counter. She was, after all, an Absarokee in a land which denied the majority of Indians the right to vote;8 she was a woman prohibited entrance to the more prestigious law schools.9 And without her father's wealth and influence, it was questionable whether she would have been itted to the bar in Montana. "Charles's retraction of help was really just a matter of time, wasn't it?" she quietly said. "Although I'd hoped he might have forgotten… with other more pressing issues on his mind," she added with a rueful smile. "The two matters are not related. I thought Charles had more sense." "He can't interdict those property transfers already accomplished and actually—" Daisy shrugged away a familiar resentment too old to dwell on at length, "there's very little left to do. The remainder of the transfer process can be done later." "That's not the point," Etienne crisply said, protective of the woman he loved. How dare Charles involve Daisy's legal affairs in the struggle over his divorce. "The point is, darling," Daisy replied, "you've fallen in love with the wrong woman." She smiled to

mitigate the stark truth. "And Charles is only acting defensively. You had to expect this." No, he hadn't expected it; he hadn't expected Charles to be so stupid; he hadn't expected Charles would risk tresing on the extremely dangerous ground of his personal attachments. "Well, I didn't," he mildly said, already adjusting his afternoon schedule to accommodate a visit to his brother-in-law. "Charles is generally more prudent." Daisy recognized that tone in a man's voice. Coming from a family of expeditious men who operated on the principle of never backing down, she understood masculine aggression. "Please don't do anything foolish. Empress's business is relatively complete. In fact, since Charles's note came so late in the legal process, it's probably a token gesture. A matter of form to please Isabelle." "Perhaps you're right." The Duc wasn't about to become embroiled in an argument with Daisy over Charles's note. He'd handle it in his own way. "Charles is dutiful," he added with a bland smile. "You're sure then… the rest of your depositions can wait?" Daisy smiled. "I'm sure. There's no point in antagonizing Charles further… over some rather trivial small bits of property." "Very well." His lie was accompanied by a sunny smile.

Etienne was, in fact, furious, the extent of his anger evident when he broke into Charles's meeting after lunch. "A moment of your time, Charles, now!" he said, repressed rage in the intense quiet of his voice. Charles's secretary, pressed against the doorjamb where Etienne had shoved him, together with the two men seated across the table from Charles stared wide-eyed at the Duc de Vec, standing perilously close to them all, his quirt swishing dangerously against his jodhpur-clad leg. With the good sense that had brought him to his present position of power, Charles politely said, "If you'll excuse me, gentlemen, for a few moments." Etienne remained scowling and silent while the two men were shown out by Charles's secretary, who had mastered his fear enough to pry himself away from the wall. Shutting the door on the Duc de Vec and his employer with trepidation and relief, the young secretary hoped the Minister survived unharmed. The Duc had brushed him aside with no more effort than that needed to sweep away a pesky fly. "Relax, Etienne," Charles said, turning back from seeing his guests were out… and out of earshot. "Let's talk about this." Charles was the consummate politician, deft at reconciling divergent viewpoints and warring personalities. And he was operating from the miscomprehension that Daisy was like all the previous women in Etienne's life. "Sit down," he said, offering the Duc a chair with practiced courtesy. "You surprise me, Charles," the Duc said, ignoring the invitation to sit, his scowl bordering glowering eyes. "I didn't think you so witless as to renege on your promises to Miss Black." "I had no choice, Etienne. You know that." Charles returned to his chair at the table where his coffee cup and custard tart remained unfinished. He was reaching for his coffee when the Duc's quirt intercepted, pushing the cup away. "You're not talking to a novice in the ways of the Montignys, Charles. You and I both know what you can and cannot do."

Charles sat back in his chair, his full attention on the lethal-looking whip, understanding he'd miscalculated the degree of affection Daisy Black engendered. He watched the delicate sweep of Etienne's braided quirt move his custard tart out of reach, wondering whether Etienne's control would survive their conversation. He'd seen him lose his temper only on rare occasions, but the effect had always been detrimental to his opponents. And from his present position, Etienne appeared a towering presence. "I'm willing to endure the lengthy persecution Isabelle envisions," Etienne said, his voice so soft Charles had to strain to hear it. "I'm also willing to tolerate uninvited visits from your damnable cousin the Archbishop, and your"—there was the minutest pause in place of his preferred adjective—"mother, giving me ultimatums about church doctrine. I'm even willing to suffer public spectacles like that at the Opéra, but I will not allow Isabelle to interfere with Daisy." Etienne's hands were planted palmdown on the table over his riding whip, his eyes so dark the green was muted, and his shoulders under his white jersey seemed the width of the table to Charles's speculative gaze. "So what you'll do, Charles, if you value your health, is honor your promise to complete the property transfers. Do we understand each other?" Charles hesitated, trying to gauge the level of negotiation possible under the circumstances. Miss Black was obviously considerably more important than he'd perceived; Etienne's anger just short of explosive. What Isabelle didn't know wouldn't hurt him, he decided, since he was being seriously threatened. And only a minimum of legal work remained on Miss Black's agenda anyway. This was not, he recognized from a vantage point only inches away from Etienne's quirt, a good time for negotiations. He had to swallow once to insure his voice didn't break when he said, "I understand." The Duc stood upright in a swift decisive movement. His scowl disappeared, his fingers on his quirt relaxed. "Thank you, Charles," he said sardonically, "for your good judgment." It took a full five minutes after the Duc left before Charles's heartbeat returned to normal, before the color returned to his face. And another five minutes before he felt sufficiently restored to call in his secretary. But visions of the men Etienne had shot in duels continued to haunt him throughout the day and he found himself starting at every footfall. No one was safe from Etienne's wrath when his temper was up and he congratulated himself on coming out of their confrontation unscathed. Damn Isabelle. He'd almost taken a beating for a few trifling legal procedures. That quirt had been way the hell too close for comfort.

"Charles changed his mind," the Duc said when he returned to the apartment much later that afternoon. "I thought he would." Daisy was in the garden, lounging on a chaise, reading, when Etienne entered the small walled enclosure. Her eyebrows rose in query as Etienne dropped onto the grass in a comfortable sprawl. "Why? You're asking me, I presume—with that look," he said with a grin, and crossing his arms beneath his head, he looked up at her with a benign expression of innocence. "Because he reconsidered, and after having reconsidered, decided it was damned silly to have sent the note in the first place. Everything is en train once again. Empress's daughter will not be deprived of a single meter of property. You're welcome." Had she not been so deeply attached to her own sense of independence, and had she not been so disturbed about the price the Duc was paying for her friendship and love, she would have been pleased he'd coerced his brother-in-law into changing his mind. Because forced he'd been, she was sure. Although the exact manner of extortion was unclear. "Thank you," she said, "although I wish you hadn't. I feel too guilty already for coming between you and your wife… and her family." Sitting up, Etienne stared at her for a moment as if his scrutiny would bring some revelation. "You don't mean it," he said then, his expression vaguely perplexed. "I do appreciate your efforts, really." "No, I mean about feeling guilty." "Well, of course I do. Look, I'd have to have the hide of an elephant to ignore the slurs and looks and avid curiosity. Regardless of how you feel, I'm viewed by many as the cause of your divorce. I feel guilty."

"No!" he said with almost a kind of violence, "don't ever say that. You're twenty years too late to shoulder the burden of guilt. And anyone who knows me, understands. Even those Isabelle considers friends, understand. If there's any assessment of blame, you're the last one touched by it." "You're not realistic, Etienne," Daisy softly said. "If I hadn't met you that night at Adelaide's, your life would have proceeded uninterrupted… your marriage would have continued." "I'm not looking for a martyr," the Duc said as softly as she. "You needn't be noble on my . I'm too cynical to embrace either of those concepts as relevant in this world. But if I believe in anything, I believe in the shaman gods who looked down on me with kindness that night." He grinned then, touching the toe of her white kid slipper. "Don't become serious, chou-chou, about the divorce or Charles or anything else Isabelle might orchestrate. I'll take care of you. I'll take care of everything." How often, she wondered, would he have to take care of things for her? How many times in the coming years would he have to threaten someone for what they might say about her as the femme fatale who destroyed his twenty-year marriage? At what price could he continue to live in the society of his birth? Would he eventually tire of the burden? Etienne was a man familiar with a life of ease, of adoration and favor. How long would it be before he wearied of championing both his marriage and his foreign wife? "I don't really want to be taken care of," Daisy said, her words only a whisper of sound. It stopped him for a moment—the very novel concept—before he ed she was an American woman. "I keep forgetting you're not—" "Isabelle?" "No. Any woman I've ever known. Forgive me." A smile brightened his face. "Since you're so independent, would you like to take care of me?" Daisy laughed at his expression and the notion she could shoulder responsibility for the very irresponsible Duc. "I don't have the energy to oversee an incorrigible, audacious man who's been raised to consider himself a golden child of the universe." "Would you have the energy to oversee… perhaps a small portion of my life?" he inquired with a wolfish smile. "I don't suppose I need inquire which portion?" she replied, her own smile luxurious. He made her feel always as though the sun were shining precisely for her. For them. "Probably not," he murmured, his fingertips moving up the pale silk of her stockings. "Aren't you warm with these stockings on?" "I wasn't until now…" "I can cool you off." Her eyebrows rose. "Really. That would be different." He grinned. "I mean I'll take these stockings off." "How nice of you."

"I've been told I'm very nice." "By?" Her voice was coquettish. "My mother, of course." "Of course. I should have known. My parents too have often complimented me on my—manners." "Just so long as no other man has ever touched you," he murmured, only half in jest. He had no control over his jealousy when it came to Daisy, begrudging with a lethal kind of resentment any man who'd courted her. "You can assure me, of course, of a similar monkish existence," she sardonically replied. "You're a demanding woman." There was a smile in his voice and in his eyes. "Yes," she said and meant it. She never would have allowed him the license Isabelle did within marriage. She would have rather not been married. And while she tried to understand Isabelle's need to maintain a marriage so bereft of love or affection, in her heart she found it incomprehensible. "I'm glad," the Duc said, understanding their mutual needs. Pleased perhaps with an innocence alien to his character of late, that after all these years he was truly loved. For how long, though, would he be glad, she wondered. She was too aware of his past: when he was back from his habitual polo, and back from his casual influencing of Charles, he would effortlessly seduce her with his charm and beauty. Following the patterns of a lifetime… this day no different from the thousands preceding it. So different from her own life. "I'm more jealous than Isabelle," she simply said, declaring an element of her feelings, if not the substance. "I could never share you." "Good." The single word was a promise. "And speaking of sharing, could I persuade you to me inside? So we don't run the risk of our making love becoming a shared experience with the servants." His smile was apologetic. "There's no privacy in town." When you love a woman, he thought. Under other circumstances in his past, he'd not been so circumspect. The Duc carried Daisy inside, through the ground floor hallways and up the grand staircase past a dozen smiling servants, whose whispers followed them like small tittering birdsong. "They know," Daisy whispered, a blush heating her cheeks as they ed an upstairs maid carrying a vase of fresh flowers. Her giggle trilled behind them in the still shadowed hallway. "People don't make love in America?" "Well… of course—I mean…" "Not in front of the servants?"

"Well—" Daisy thought of her brother Trey who subscribed to the same laissez-faire attitude as Etienne. "Well, I never have." A qualified response. "Someone else, then, is as insensitive as I," he teasingly said. "My brother—before his marriage," she hastily added. "Oh, dear, I don't mean to be puritanical or censorious…" Her voice trailed off weakly under the Duc's ironic gaze. "Since you harbor an unblemished record in of fornicating in front of the servants, I'll be sure to lock the door." His grin was outrageous. "Have you really?" She suddenly realized how exemplary her life had been. "Of course not," he said, perjuring himself with a smile. "Fraud." But her voice was affectionate. He kissed her then because he'd thought suddenly of Charles and Isabelle at the sound of the single pejorative word and wished to dismiss such images from his mind. The kiss was effective in canceling such images. It also spurred the Duc's progress toward his bedroom. He undressed Daisy on the daybed near the lace-curtained windows, slipping her white kid slippers and pale stockings and lemon-yellow dimity summer frock off with wordless languor. Charles was forgotten. The sun patterned them in lacy arabesques as the summer breeze stirred the curtains. She helped him then tug his shirt over his head and watched him with the iring eye of a lover as he leaned over to pull off his riding boots. His broad shoulders charmed her and the muscular grace of his torso; his strong biceps swelled with the effort needed to slide the tall leather boots free. And when he sprawled back across her in sportive play, she stroked the taut firm smoothness of his stomach. "You're perfect," she murmured, tracing the flowing curve of his powerful pectorals. "For what?" His brilliant green eyes gazed up at her in frolic. "For everything." She loved being with him, knowing he was close and content and enamored. Her own content was complete. "I can't cook—or play bridge with any competence. My manners are appalling, I've been told—actually some have said I have none. And I dance only under duress. Outside of that, I'm available… although we don't have time for everything—speaking in the biblical sense—" he grinned, "because we're promised at Boiselle's play at the Chatelet tonight." "Salacious man." "Carnal knowledge is actually high up on my list of 'everything.'" "How fortunate." "I adore an intelligent woman." Reaching up, he touched the tip of her nose with a brushing fingertip.

"You may kiss me," she said in her best instructive manner but ruined her haughty pose by giggling at the end. And he did… along with several other noteworthy additions from his sizable list of "everythings."

At midafternoon the following day, Daisy returned from Adelaide's. Familiar now with Etienne's polo schedule, she knew precisely when he'd walk in… how he'd look, how he'd be smiling from satisfaction over his game and from his pleasure in seeing her. And she wanted to be there first, waiting for him, welcoming him as though she'd always been there when he came home, as though she always would. She was humming in anticipation when she entered the foyer, her friendly smile for Burns prompted by her blissful daydreams. Burns didn't smile back or give his usual friendly greeting; he seemed instead strangely agitated, his brow knotted in a frown. "Is the Duc back early?" Daisy asked, thinking perhaps Etienne was waiting for her. "No, Mademoiselle, but I've sent for him." Clearly something was wrong. A flustered Burns was extraordinary; he was never disconcerted. A figure of cool British reserve and poise, Burns served as the paradigm for haughty stewardship. "Someone's hurt," she quickly said, "Is it Hector?" "No… no… Mademoiselle," he assured her, "no one's hurt… but it might be best if you… returned to the Princess de Chantel's until Monsieur le Duc—" "I've been waiting for you," a cool familiar voice interjected. Someone else apparently was conscious of Etienne's polo schedule. When Daisy swung around to the sound of the same disparaging voice she'd heard at the Opéra, Isabelle was standing in the doorway of the rosewood salon looking as though she owned the Bernini-designed residence. Dressed in Watteau pink chartreuse, silk apple blossoms at her sashed waist, she was a vision of femininity. Even her blonde hair seemed blonder in the half shadows of the gilded interior. And the de Vec diamonds sparkled in her ears. Above the dictates of fashion requiring lesser jewels for daytime, she wore her diamonds with regal assurance. "I'm sorry, Mademoiselle," Burns softly said. He'd been powerless to deny his master's wife entrance, Daisy understood, and she touched his arm in silent recognition of his apology. "I'm fine, Burns." She smiled, then turning to Isabelle said in a calm, level voice she frequently used when arguing the finer points of reservation borders to infringing cattlemen in court, "We can talk in the rosewood room. Would you like some refreshments?" "This isn't a social visit." Isabelle deliberately neglected addressing her by name. "I'll have tea, Burns," Daisy said. "And some of those madeleines, the chocolate ones." It was impossible to publicly intimidate Daisy; Absarokee training taught one self-possession. Walking across the green travertine entrance hall, she ed Isabelle to enter the salon. By the time Isabelle followed her in, she'd seated herself. "You may prefer to stand," Daisy said to the

woman she both en-vied and despised, "since this isn't a social visit." She wished she might have been the one to share the last twenty years with Etienne instead of this cool disdainful aristocrat. "Please state your business." Isabelle bristled noticeably. "Someone should teach you manners. You're speaking to a Duchesse." "Then I outrank you, for my father is a King among his people," Daisy quietly replied. "If you've come to see me, kindly state your business," Daisy repeated. "Etienne has been sent for," she added, feeling that information might prompt Isabelle to speak quickly. "You won't last, you know." Isabelle's eyes were cold like those of the yellow eyes contemplating the theft of Indian lands. Daisy recognized the hatred. "Perhaps," Daisy replied, more aware than Isabelle of the duration of her relationship with the Duc. In all likelihood, she would be on board a steamship this time next week. "You females never do." "Is there a point to this?" Daisy wasn't interested in being insulted by the Duchesse de Vec. If she had come merely to cast derision, further discussion was unnecessary. "This is the point." Drawing an envelope from the deep pocket of her skirt, she tossed it on the table beside Daisy's chair, her smile smugly malicious. Opening the envelope, Daisy took out the two sheets of scented paper and looked at them both. On each page were twin columns of names—women's names—written in lavender ink. She began mentally to count them, but found the list too long to quickly calculate. Gazing up at Isabelle, she said, "Obviously these mean something." "They're a partial list of the women Etienne's amused himself with. I thought you might be interested. Naturally… those in the brothels are unknown to me." Daisy was unable to repress the sinking feeling of revelation. She had known, of course, of the Duc's reputation, but—she'd never fully realized the extent. "Why did you… allow this?" she murmured, unable to speak in a normal tone with the suffocating weight filling her chest. "Etienne isn't a man noted for obedience. Surely, you're aware of this. I begged him," she lied, "especially when the children were young, to have more respect for his duty as husband and father. He was rarely home." Daisy was rational enough to recognize Isabelle's attempt at melodrama; aware of Etienne's devotion to his children and grandchild—in of duty, he couldn't be faulted. The women, of course, were entirely different. She found herself dreadfully tired suddenly, of Isabelle and the confrontational nature of Etienne's marriage, of the disastrous vicious divorce in which she'd be involved whether she wished to or not. She was tired too, of pale-faced, supercilious women who found in a succession of wardrobe changes each day their raison d'etre. "Thank you for the list," Daisy said, rising from her chair, leaving the papers on the table, no longer able to even pretend politesse. "I'm sure its compilation took some effort. If you'll excuse me now." Without waiting for a reply, Daisy began walking from the room. "He receives billets-doux everyday," Isabelle proclaimed, her voice cheerful, having driven her rival from the field, as it were. "Have you seen them?" she called after Daisy's retreating form. "Ask Burns, ask

Louis, ask Valentin!" Daisy had almost reached the doors to the entrance hall when they opened and Etienne stood in the threshold, his gloved hands grasping the twin door-handles. Streaked with dust, sweaty and disheveled, his white jersey clung damply to his body. His eyes met Daisy's briefly then moved past her to rest on his wife. "You're not welcome here, Isabelle. Do I need a court order?" "I'm leaving, Etienne," his wife pleasantly said. "I hope your game was exhilarating." All cool, pale placidity, the Duchesse de Vec ignored her husband's harsh tone. Her mission must have been successful, he decided, with her smugness so palpable. Daisy had come to a halt just short of him, for he was blocking her exit from the room. "Don't believe her," he said, seeing the wounded look in Daisy's dark eyes. Whatever Isabelle had said could be explained; whatever form of slander had brought his wife here when she knew he was on the polo fields, apparently wouldn't withstand his presence in the conversation. "It's all right, Etienne… really," Daisy softly replied. "She didn't tell me anything I didn't already know." Daisy tried to smile but found she couldn't. "I'd like to get… out of this room," she added in a hushed undertone, "… if you'd move." He moved swiftly. "I'm sorry you had to deal with—" "Your wife?" Daisy quietly offered, her voice touched with sarcasm. There was no excuse, no palatable answer. "I'm sorry," he repeated, the scent of her familiar and sweet, wild rose freshness he'd recognize blindfolded. She didn't answer but brushed by him and walked away, her fragrance lingering in his nostrils. "Was it something I said?" Isabelle sardonically inquired, picking up the wide-brimmed hat she'd discarded on a small settee, as though she had the right to make herself at home. "If there's any justice in this world, Isabelle," the Duc replied with a brusque kind of weariness, "you'll drown in your own poison someday." "If there's any justice in this world, Etienne, darling, you'll whom you're married to," she sharply replied. "And if you have trouble ing, several years in court might serve to remind you!" "I'm divorcing you, if it takes my entire lifetime. I hope that's clear." Since Charles had delivered into her hands yesterday the outstanding notes of each of the magistrates likely to be involved in the legal proceedings, Isabelle spoke from a position of strength. "It will, darling. I hope that's clear." "Look," Etienne said, beginning to strip his gloves from his hands, "regardless of the divorce proceedings… and I concede, it may be a protracted affair"—his voice took on an authority—"Daisy is to be preserved from your venom. Understood?" He would not compromise in his protection of her. An unnatural light appeared in Isabelle's eyes.

"As is Hector," he added, his hands arrested momentarily. "Neither point is negotiable. I hope that's perfectly plain. I'll come for you, Isabelle, if you harm either one of them." He didn't worry about Justin or Jolie; familiar with their mother, they could handle themselves. His gaze held his wife's for several taut moments. "We'll see," she murmured, her smile chilling. "No, we won't," he harshly retorted, stripping his fingers fully free of his gloves and tossing them aside. "There'll be goddamned war, Isabelle, if you come within fifty meters of either one of them again." He didn't trust her; she had a vicious streak he knew was dangerous. "My, my, we're defensive," she cooed. "Always a prudent position to assume in your presence." "Keep it in mind," she murmured. "Don't worry, Isabelle. After twenty years, it's automatic with me anytime you get within speaking distance." "Your droll sense of humor was always amusing." "I live to amuse you," he ironically replied. "But take my warning to heart. No closer than fifty meters… ever." "I tremble, darling," she said with a mocking smile. What made him wary was the very real knowledge her mockery was genuine. It was pointless, he decided in disgust, to listen—pointless and useless. He should know better after all this time. "You can find your way out, I'm sure." Turning abruptly, he left, angry and frustrated. And disheartened at the lengthy ordeal that lay ahead.

He found Daisy on the balcony outside his bedroom, seated on the willow couch where they watched the sunsets. Looking up at him when he stepped through the opened doorway she smiled, a rueful small quirk of her mouth. "What did she say?" he asked, his voice and expression resigned. The sooner he heard, the sooner he could deal with Isabelle's malice. "She brought over some lists." "Lists?" "Of women's names. Women you've been involved with," Daisy added in response to his enigmatic look. "She wrote them herself… in lavender ink," Daisy went on as if the additional explanation would clear the turmoil from her mind. "They're downstairs." The Duc left without speaking, returning short moments later without the scented pages.

"Did you recognize the names?" She couldn't help herself, although she'd told herself a dozen times since she'd escaped Isabelle's presence a discussion of the women in Etienne's past was fruitless. What could possibly be accomplished except to add to the bitterness? Sitting down at the small table, he gazed out on the river for a brief moment wondering how to respond to the misrepresentations on Isabelle's perfumed stationery. "Some of them," he carefully said. "Some of them?" A woman's affront colored her query despite the particular circumstances in which she should have been pleased the answer hadn't been more inclusive. "Is that a casual disclaimer or did Isabelle become overzealous with her lavender ink?" The Duc debated for a moment on how honest to be. "I don't some of the names, to be perfectly frank." "Because there have been so many?" Daisy couldn't keep the resentment from her voice. He didn't answer for some time. "I don't know," he said. "Maybe. Some are fabrications… others—" He shrugged. "I really don't know." His uncertainty was irrelevant to his love for Daisy, he thought, but he wouldn't be able to make her understand that. "I can't erase the last twenty years," he quietly added, "even if I wished to." "Maybe you don't wish to, you're saying." Her dark eyes were trained on him as though he were lunch for a hungry predator. "I don't want to make excuses," he very softly said, "but you didn't live my life. And whether you believe it or not, many of those women extended the—invitation." That she believed. "Also… Isabelle could have expanded the list for effect." He sighed. "But it doesn't really matter, does it, as far as your feelings are concerned, whether there are twenty names more or less?" "No." "I didn't think so." "I'm going back to Montana next week," Daisy quietly said. "Because of this?" His green eyes were half lidded and wary. Daisy shook her head in a small economical movement. "My tickets are scheduled for the Tuesday sailing." "You could change them." "Your divorce isn't going to be expeditious… not with Isabelle in her current frame of mind. And I've commitments for my family, some of which—court hearings and the like—I shouldn't miss." "Perhaps not staying's for the best," Etienne replied, worried for Daisy's safety after Isabelle's visit. His concern wasn't keenly acute, only a general unease predicated on Isabelle's mocking poise. Having Daisy out of harm's way might be prudent. "You have commitments… until this divorce is settled…" His voice

trailed off as he grimaced slightly. God only knew how long that would be. Daisy was surprised at Etienne's mild acceptance; she'd thought he'd be more distressed at her leaving. Was Isabelle right, after all, about her position in Etienne's life? Was she simply another transient relationship as easily discarded as all the others? "I suppose you're right," she said, a noticeable coolness in her voice. "Isabelle's a factor too," he added, feeling some acknowledgement of her menace necessary. "Lord knows, I don't want you to go, but Isabelle could be a threat to your safety." Daisy's brows shot up. "Seriously?" The notion was almost inconceivable. The Duc raised his hands in an open gesture of uncertainty, shook his head briefly, and sighed. "Maybe seriously… so your leaving might be prudent." After her recent discussion with Isabelle, Daisy's immediate reaction was a small uncomfortable doubt. Surely she was in no danger in Paris from a jealous wife; how would Isabelle hurt her? With her diamond-studded parasol handle? Or the business end of her ivory and feather fan? Perhaps this was convenient for the Duc, this idea of a threat. Since she'd already planned to leave, no argument was necessary. "If you think so, I'm sure you know better than I." Her unemotional response disconcerted the Duc. Daisy was rarely so docile; he corrected himself—she was never docile. Was she leaving because she no longer cared? he wondered, touched with a novel insecurity when it came to Daisy. Or was she simply being practical now that his divorce had been orchestrated into a major calamity. "Isabelle's temper over the divorce should moderate with time. And Bourges tells me he may be able to change the venue to the Colsec district since I've lived there for almost twenty years. I'll come for you when the preliminaries point to success." He smiled. "You can show me your mountain lodge." Isabelle's unexpected appearance and unnerving list served to hinder her unconditional acceptance of Etienne's statements. Where she may have taken his words to heart in the past, Daisy scrutinized them now with suspicion. How easy for him to make promises. Perhaps he ended all his relationships on those friendly . Such leave-takings certainly saved tears and recriminations. And if this was a timeworn custom, she could certainly be as blasé. "If Bourges proves successful, I'd be happy to." "You don't sound optimistic." Looking across the small balcony at the Duc from under half-lowered lashes, she answered frankly, her thoughts a melange of melancholy and suspicion underlaid with her perennial logic. "You're not just fighting Isabelle's defiance," she said with the smallest of sighs, "your petition for divorce is a threat to those of your class with values and norms antipathetic to yours.10 , they condemn not only the ease of divorce, but the act itself. And they're as utterly committed to their conceptions of normal behavior as we are to our individuality." She lifted her dark lashes fully, looking at him with open candor, wondering if he was being as frank with her. "No, I'm not optimistic," she honestly said, Isabelle's visit too recent and upsetting to overlook. "Our lives are fragile and society can be oppressive. I should know. My people are victims of that system." Isabelle's visit today was a reminder, in a way, of the sad capacity for exploitation and cruelty so casually directed at anyone considered weaker. The Duc understood how her own experience with prejudice could color her thoughts, but his own life had been one of such privilege, he couldn't agree with her more pessimistic view. He'd never had to fight for any of the prerogatives he took for granted. But he'd been in struggles for advantage in business, and

he understood if you gave up, you never won. "Bourges will find a way," he said. "Will you live in America then?" In the gloomy aftermath of Isabelle's visit, she might as well bring up another of the sizable obstacles to their future. "I hadn't considered the possibility. Could you not live here with me?" As she'd expected, he'd not envisioned changing his life, only hers. "Not permanently," Daisy replied. Swiftly recovering from the surprise of her reply, he said, "We can work out the logistics, Daisy, believe me." She didn't have the heart to tell him Parisian society was of little interest to her, apart from the few friends she had… and him of course. "So we'll work things out," she murmured with a smile that was teasing, weary suddenly of the extended misery in the contemplation of their future. She had five more days with him; five more days to love him and talk to him, to share his laughter and his life. And she intended to have pleasure in those few days, a last chapter, as it were, in her book of memories. The Duc's grin was instantaneous, receptive to her altered mood. "We've always been very good," he agreed, his voice suddenly husky, his green eyes insinuating, "at… working things out." "Does an afternoon bath interest you, for instance?" Daisy said, her voice suggestive. Raking a hand through his long black hair, dusty and still damp from his heated play and swift ride home, he murmured, "Very much." "I could help." It was a promise of pleasure. "Or me." The Duc's bath was royal in propoitions, the sunken tub a tribute to Bernini's taste for mythological Roman fountains. "If I can wash your hair." His brows rose a very small distance, a subtle promise of his own. "You have my permission to wash anything at all," he said very softly, rising then to reach out and take her hand. "I dislike the word permission." His darling Daisy was back in form. He grinned. "Invitation then, my spirited lady—does that suit your independent status better?" "If I had more time, I might rid you of your stereotyping of my sex." Her voice was teasing provocation, her dark eyes alive with mischief. "Make no mistake, darling, you are a rare, headstrong exception." He spoke with the conviction of much experience. "But then the women you're familiar with are no more than ornaments to some man's life. The world beyond the narrow confines of Paris nobility offers a wider array of female accomplishments." The Duc had no intention of arguing with his darling Daisy now that the specter of Isabelle's visit had

been obliterated. And while Daisy was right in relegating the society women of his class to ornaments, in his journeys around the globe, he'd found women of Daisy's accomplishments were highly uncommon. "You're absolutely right," he said with a smile, "as always." "I dislike patronizing men." Her smile matched his. "In that case, I shall be rude and objectionable… a much easier posture to assume. Then you can be righteously offended." "Like a sweet and pink young miss… the kind you offend no doubt with great regularity." Offend wasn't quite the proper word; the Duc de Vec in fact tantalized all the timid sweet and pink young misses with his disreputable dark good looks. And had they dared—and had he been interested in sweet and pink young misses—he could have had any one of them.

During Bernini's aborted mission to rebuild the Louvre, he'd left artisans behind and architectural drawings, as well, for those nobles wealthy enough to afford his fees. Temperamental as a prima donna, he'd designed his glorious palaces with no concession to French climate or the function of the rooms. His de Vec patron had pragmatically adapted Bernini's genius for creating theatrical effects in architecture to the reality of daily living, his green-tiled grotto bath, an example. Hot water pipes maintained a compatible temperature year round—the skylights were reinforced with ornate metal bracket frames, the enormous pool and waterworks were heated. Amidst Bernini's frolicking dolphins, cavorting putti, and gushing spigots, Daisy washed the Duc's hair as he lay on the stepped cascade, taking his ease after a strenuous afternoon of polo. Like a harem houri she served her master, and like a sultan of a seraglio, he accepted her homage. "You're spoiling me," he murmured, half asleep under the warm water coursing over his lean, bronzed body. Running her fingers through his sleek black hair, she rinsed away the last remnants of soap. "And you spoil me," she softly replied, wanting suddenly to protect him from the malicious presumption of his wife, wanting to care for him in the mundane intimacies of everyday life, wanting also to make love to him in endless devotion—to preserve as loving memories against her bleak future. Bending down, she kissed him, the spilling water from the cascade running warm over the side of her breast, the sensation partly soothing, partly stimulating, oddly unsubstantial. His lips were cool; she was warmer than he, a heartbreaking ion arousing her, prompted by her imminent farewell. If she could, she would have stayed; if she could, she would have taken him with her. If she could, she would have set them both in another world, a secluded private realm where she would have willingly been his houri. He rose on his elbows to follow her mouth upward when she moved away, his hand slipping behind her head to pull her back. "Stay," he whispered, drawing her body effortlessly atop him. They lay for long moments, his body cushioning hers, their mouths lightly touching, their breath mingling, the soft rise and fall of their chests tranquilizing as the rippling water and rising steam.

Small intimate paintings by Gérome adorned the walls, adding dimension to Daisy's strange mood of subordinate lassitude—the array of erotic portrayals of harem life, of slave markets and Arab interiors, like precious jewels on the cool green tile. The brilliant depictions, minutely detailed, indulged the artist's sense of exotic locale and his male sensibilities: Women lazily re-clined or bathed with servant girls; they stood ively before buyers or indulged in harem games; they beautified themselves for their master—ornamenting themselves with jewelry and paint and fragrant scents. "Not mine," Etienne softly said, following the direction of Daisy's gaze. "My father's additions." He had nothing here, Daisy thought, even the picture of him and his mother no doubt had been left by his father. And that was why there was no trace of women. Etienne didn't take them here. "Where's your bachelor apartment?" she asked then, not in condemnatory inquisition but in her currently diffident mood, almost meekly. Immediately cognizant of her altered disposition, he didn't try to evade as he might have, but answered, "The Place de la Concorde." "How nice." His surprise at her answer must have shown. "I'm enormously jealous." He smiled, framing her face with the large palms of his hands, pleased he'd never brought any of his lovers here. "We perhaps have a corner on that market, and if our culture allowed, like an Arab man would, I'd buy you for my own." "Without my permission?" She spoke in a curiously provocative way. "Without anyone's permission, against armies of avenging angels or wrathful mullahs." "And you'd keep me with your other harem women?" "No," he softly replied, "I wouldn't. They'd poison you, for I'd have no more use for them." "I must be losing my mind, for an elusive urge within me doesn't balk at such submission." He smiled, his hands moving gently down her back. "It's the warm steam and this balmy hidden grotto and Gérôme's elegant illustrations that refine and glorify a distant culture. Bernini's design, compliments of Venice, owes much to the East too. You should try the slide then." "Then?" "If you're compliant." "Why would I have to be compliant?" He shrugged, wondering how much editing would be required for a woman like Daisy who considered herself not only independent, not only equal, but at times superior to men. "The slide was a source of entertainment for the harem women," he said in simple explanation.

"That sounds innocuous enough." "And a source of entertainment," he carefully went on, "for the sultan or khan or mogul as well." Her eyes were very close to his. "I see," she said and then unexpectedly laughed out loud. "Do you feel sufficiently despotic to take on the role of potentate?" His grin was instant. "As imperious, darling, as Genghis Khan." "On one condition." "Anything." Daisy's faint smile reflected the coquettish twinkle in her eyes. "You can only look, but can't touch." It was a Daisy Black mutation of submission—in her inimitable fashion, making her own rules. "Agreed," the Duc de Vec lied, like a true despot, oblivious to rules. Positioning himself for a clear and revealing view at the base of the slide, Etienne settled comfortably on the marble lounge designed at a convenient distance for just such a purpose. And when Daisy came slipping around the spiraling curve of polished marble, her laughter merry, her luscious bottom sailing through the air only scant feet over his fascinated gaze, the Duc considered for a moment the real advantages of ownership. Her swooping plunge into the heated pool pelted him with water. She surfaced seconds later with vivacious laughter, shaking the water from her eyes, her long sleek hair flinging droplets in an arching fan-shaped trajectory. "Do you like the view?" she called to him, dreading water with a teasing smile on her face. He could have reached out and stroked her delectable bottom as she'd sailed over his head, had he wished. And she knew it. "The view is prizewinning," he said with a rakish grin. Lounging at ease like a young prince of the blood, his nude body casually disposed as if on view, his wet hair lying in dark sleek ribbons on his shoulders, his eyes facetiously appraising, the Duc de Vec exhibited a demonstrable libertine disposition and connoisseurship. Daisy's smile faded abruptly. "Are there often contests?" Her voice held that heated edge. "I've been told," he said, "the origins of such slides involved a competition of sorts." Taking mild exception to her taunting, he considered a form of payback equitable. "You've been told?" Each word was suddenly sharp with insinuation. "Well… yes…" There. He was able to smile as complacently as Daisy had mockingly moments ago. "You'll be competent to judge then, I presume," she oversweetly declared, wishing to discipline Etienne's overused libido. "I think so," he quietly replied. Seated at the top of the slide a short time later, displayed like a bibelot for his pleasure, Daisy raised her arms above her head and posed for a moment as if flaunting that which he couldn't have.

"Are you ready?" she purred. He was this time, surprising her as she plummeted into the deep water, catching her and smiling into her startled face amidst spraying plumes of water. "You can't touch me," she protested, trying to squirm out of his arms. "I made the rules." Slipping one hand between her legs, he pulled her close. "I don't believe in rules." "Liar." "Flirt." "Libertine." "Coquette." And he slipped two fingers inside her as a sultan might appropriate his casual possession. "Let me go." Her voice had taken on a ragged edge. "I thought you were compliant," he murmured. "No," she whispered as his fingers sank deeper. But she lay very still suddenly, savoring the exquisite sensations. "In this small grotto, at this moment I own you," he whispered, recognizing her acquiescence. "No one owns me." But her eyes were half shut, Etienne's massaging fingers skilled and adept. "I can make you stay." He could, right at that moment, he could. And he did, carrying her to the marble lounge, positioning her atop his blatant arousal, holding her with a casual strength on the very crest of his erection until she whimpered for the feel of him. He accommodated her then, sliding her slick heated sweetness down his pulsing hard length with firm hands around her waist as though she were not only a slave to her ion but a slave to him. And inexcusably he held her there impaled for an hour and then longer, making love to her tenderly and selfishly, with thin-skinned resentment of his susceptibility and with imioned sentimentality—against protest and clinging embrace until she'd climaxed so often, she was prostrate with exhaustion. As if his covetousness could be satisfied in lust. She fainted finally—the ultimate submission—and while he should have been satisfied at last, he felt only fear. While he could with the skill of his experience subdue her sexually, he had no sovereignty over her life. None. And she was leaving him. He carried her as if she were infinitely fragile through the connecting dressing room to his bedchamber and laying her on the sun-warmed bed, wrapped her in a velvet coverlet. Alarmed at her continuing stillness, he kissed her gently on her cheek, silently chastising himself for his brutish behavior. Daisy was

more defenseless than the Ismes of the world, unfamiliar with sexual excess, more ardently ionate, too, giving of herself intemperately. He should have controlled his perverse discontent. Had he truly hurt her? Lightly holding her wrist, he felt for a pulse. Her eyes fluttered open at his touch and she smiled winsomely. "You definitely hold the record now." "Lord, I'm sorry," he whispered, regret poignant in his eyes. "There's no justification." He tenderly stroked the delicate curve of her cheek. "I'm fine. Just tired." "Are you sure? Should I call a doctor? I will… we should… we definitely should… I'll have Louis phone for—" Daisy stopped his restless apologetic rush of words with a finger to his lips. "I'm fine. Really." He took a breath. "Would you have Louis order some food instead? I'm famished." His grin was replete with relief. "Whatever you want. I'm penitent as hell. Do you want to hit me?" Contrite and conscience-stricken, he wished to make amends. "I'll buy you what—diamonds?… those black pearls we saw at Cartier?" "Food, darling," Daisy said with a tender smile. "That's all." "Food it is. Are you sure?" Hesitant and conciliatory, he would have given her anything. "I'm sure." "Louis!" Etienne shouted. "Get the hell in here!"

Some time later, after Daisy had restored herself with food, they lay on the Duc's bed, watching the setting sun color the sky an in-tense pumpkin-orange, exchanging kisses and endearments. Touching on the subject of Daisy's leaving with a cautious objectivity, Etienne said, "What if you have my child? What then?" "I won't." "How can you be so sure? These things happen." "Not with me they don't." Leaning on one elbow, he looked down at her, flushed and sated in his bed. She was the epitome of femaleness, lush and opulent and fertile. "Does that mean something?" She looked directly at him, her dark eyes grave. "It means I'm taking something to assure it doesn't happen."

"You don't want my child." The thought hurt him more than he imagined because lately it was constantly in his mind. "Under the circumstances, I don't want your child." "And if the circumstances change?" "They won't." He shrugged and sighed, a small rueful acknowledgement. She was right… at least now and for the immediate future. Isabelle was relentless in her refusal, in her threats and thwarting. "If they did," he said, very softly, as sensitive as she about the legalities in a country which had only allowed divorce seven years ago, but too deeply in love to care, only wanting her to .share his sentiments. "If they did," Daisy said, her voice hushed and low, thinking that more than delaying legalities would have to be overcome, "I would love to have your child." "Our child." "Our child," she whispered.

They heard the frantic pounding on the service door bordering the quai just as the sun was rising. "What time is it?" Daisy groggily inquired. Twisting around to see the clock, the Duc moved away from Daisy's warm body. "Five," he said. "Go back to sleep." He spoke calmly in order not to cause alarm, but the violence of the reverberation rising

from the ground floor at an hour in which normal manners dictated quiet instantly roused him. Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he shook his head to clear the drowsiness from his brain and with a fortifying inhalation of breath, quickly rose to his feet. Picking up his robe, he strode out of the room, shrugging into the green China silk as he moved down the hall. Ever since Isabelle's calculating visit yesterday, he'd experienced an uneasy sense of wariness—as though the gauntlet had been thrown down in a fight to the death. Warning himself against alarmist melodrama, he'd dismissed the more lurid analogies of a bloody battlefield, but fully aware of the depths of his wife's malevolence, he'd guardedly been on alert. A sixth sense, a premonition of calamity irrepressibly struck him as the frantic drumming on the door abruptly ceased. He was on the second landing of the stairway when Louis came racing through the ageway leading to the kitchens. To see Louis at a run was extraordinary. His pulse rate jumped. Louis stopped dead in his tracks when he saw Etienne, his face ashen. "Your black racer's dead!" Isabelle, Etienne immediately thought; he knew; he could feel it in his gut. May she burn in hell, he viciously avowed. "Are you sure?" He had to ask although Louis's mournful face was answer enough. Louis's grave nod conceded the bitter truth. Arrested on the polished marble landing, Etienne felt a moment of unbearable pain at the loss of his favorite horse. Poor dumb animal—helpless against the machinations of man—an innocent victim. Dead because he had the misfortune to be favored. "Who found him?" Etienne asked, his voice cheerless. In somber funereal tones, Louis said, "The Irish groom, Your Grace. He rode over straightway." "Bring him to me in my study." A crushing sorrow overwhelmed his mind as he walked down the remaining stairs and turned down the corridor to his study. The black had been raised from a colt, a beauty from the day of his birth. He'd trained him himself, taking particular delight in Morocco's playful disposition, an unusual quality in a thoroughbred of his size and breeding. And they'd forged a bond, an affinity based on a mutual love of speed—and kindness. Morocco had won all the two-year-old races last year and was finishing first without apparent effort in the early meets this season. They'd planned to run him in the English Ascot Gold Cup three weeks from now against the Duke of Beaufort's great horse Ragimunde. Damn Isabelle, he dismally raged. Damn her evil soul. What a callous waste of a beautiful horse. For vengeance. He wanted to cry. The gloom of his study suited his mood. Standing framed by the threshold, he stood arrested for a moment in the enveloping shadow, wondering if there was indeed a retributive God and he was being punished for all his misdemeanors. Walking to the windows, he lifted aside the heavy drapes to let the morning sun dispel the darkness. He was still standing at the bank of windows behind his desk, his hand on the windowframe, when Louis entered with the groom.

Turning around slowly, Etienne felt for a moment as though he couldn't bear to hear the details and a small silence fell after the two men approached. The room was utterly still, hushed, grief a palpable presence in the high-ceilinged book-lined chamber, the three men so diverse in occupation ed in a common sorrow. With an unreasoning reluctance, only knowing what he was about to hear would devastate him, the Duc finally said, "Please sit down and tell me what you know." As he sat across from them, slumped low in his leather chair, he listened to the groom's recital of Morocco's death. The thoroughbred had been fed sugar and carrots—a favorite treat—allowing the assailants to approach him. Since the paddock wasn't guarded, their entry had been easily arranged. An artery in the black's foreleg had been cut, a small and precise incision—nothing clumsy, a neat, clean half-inch cut—and the horse had bled to death. The details of his dying were gruesome. The huge black had tried to rise several times after the loss of blood had brought him down, a testament to his tremendous heart and courage. The stall's walls were splashed with blood, the straw bedding saturated, Morocco's death gaze, the groom tearfully related, directed toward the door. As if beseeching help. "I should have slept with him," the young Irishman finished, his bereavement evident in the redness of his eyes. "I should never have left him alone. If I'd been there, Morocco would still be alive." "Or you might be dead, since we don't know who did this. And none of us anticipated this. Don't blame yourself. It's not anyone's fault." Or at least neither of theirs, he thought, with heartfelt regret. Could he have blocked Isabelle's attack? Was it possible to protect everything he valued? An impossibility, he as quickly decided. But some priorities certainly had to be established, he instinctively realized. He couldn't afford a disaster more grievous than losing a horse. When he eventually returned to the bedroom, after the necessary decisions had been made for the black's burial—he would be brought home to the Chantilly estate where he'd been raised—Etienne devised a credible story about a seriously ill horse in his racing stable to satisfy Daisy's curiosity. And summarily canceled his polo for the remaining days of Daisy's stay. He simply wished to be with her for their short time remaining, he told her, his fear of Isabelle's twisted sense of revenge unvoiced. But after the particularly grisly manner of Morocco's death, he had no intention of leaving her alone. If he'd previously had doubts about Daisy leaving Paris, he no longer did. And if he'd had any reservations of his own sense of loss once Daisy sailed, they were now canceled by an ardent relief in knowing she'd be beyond Isabelle's reach in Montana. They stayed in that day, perhaps both aware of the fleeting hours left to them, enjoying the simple pleasure of each other's company. And protected, Etienne reflected, from the uncertainties of Isabelle's intent. That afternoon while Daisy napped on the garden chaise, Louis surreptiously slipped a note to the Duc. Since the Duchesse's footman had delivered it, Louis knew better than to announce its arrival in Daisy's hearing. The pale pink sheet of paper contained two brief sentences: You didn't mention your black, Isabelle had written in her favorite lavender ink, when you gave the fifty-meter warning. I hope you miss him.

Etienne crumpled the paper in his fist and handed it to Louis. "Burn it," he said, crisp and low, "and see that my pistols are loaded and placed in the top drawer of my bureau."

Five days later, the Duc and Daisy traveled together to Le Havre for her sailing. He saw her settled in her stateroom, their conversation disted and fitful as they exchanged those social banalities required in leave-takings. He'd write—he'd telegram; she should write, too, when she found time; she wished him well with Bourges; he hoped her court dates went smoothly; give Hector a hug for me, she said, and he promised he would. The seas looked choppy, a cognac helped, sometimes, to relax, he offered, and she smiled, reminding him after spending years on horseback, she was immune to erratic rhythms. As they held each other, the last warning whistle for departure shrilled. "You had better go." "I had better go." But neither moved. "Come to Montana with me." Daisy's words were a spontaneous declaration of feeling and need, but she'd realized even before she'd finished speaking, Etienne couldn't or wouldn't and she smiled at the end, as if in bantering whimsy. He hesitated. "I can't." "I know." They both knew the full extent of their commitments to other people and circumstances; they both knew the happiness they'd shared was predicated on adjusting their schedules and lives for a few brief weeks—and an extension right now wasn't a possibility. They were rational adults; they understood.

But beyond rational judgments they were desolate. And while they'd exchanged all the prescribed phrases denoting a future, neither was certain in their hearts such a future existed. The Duc had Isabelle to deal with and after his thoroughbred's death, Daisy and Hector had become a concern. Daisy's return to Montana would effectively remove her from danger but Hector still remained to be protected. The divorce proceedings were going to be a horrendous stalemate unless Bourges was successful in changing the venue. And since meeting Daisy, Etienne hadn't been actively involved in his business interests. Both his steward and his secretary were waiting for him now in Le Havre with their most pressing affairs on the agenda for this afternoon. After that, after all the significant problems were solved—then he had a future. He was a realist. But he was also in love. And there weren't any easy answers. Daisy's concerns were based less on specific problem-solving than on issues of compatibility. Geographical and emotional compatibility. There was no question, she loved Etienne; whether his love was as committed still concerned her. He seemed determined somehow that she leave—and whether danger from Isabelle was indeed real continued to cause her disquiet. Had their relationship instead reached the habitual limits of the Duc's amorous interests? She didn't know anymore what was reasonable doubt and what was excessive sensibility to the patterns of his past behavior. She didn't know anymore if she could think rationally about Etienne Martel. She particularly didn't know if she could survive without him. And her sense of loss was already achingly real. I won't cry, she determinedly told herself, I won't. For if this were simply another of the dozens or hundreds of good-byes the Duc de Vec had grown accustomed to, she wouldn't embarrass herself. Dear God, the Duc thought, what if Isabelle's right and she keeps me in court a lifetime. He stood for a moment absorbing the feel of Daisy in his arms, inhaling the fragrance of her perfume, trying to memorize the smallest details of her face and hair and expression… against his uncertain future. "Kiss me," Daisy said, because she couldn't help herself at the last. In a moment more he'd be gone and she desperately needed to kiss him once more. Tears welled in her eyes as she lifted her head, spilling over a second later despite her best intentions to control her weeping. Despite her reputation for coolness and restraint. Despite her attempts to bid Etienne farewell with cordial good manners. He thought for a moment before his lips touched hers, that he could take her from this ship, bring her to Colsec and keep her there in safety from Isabelle—in opposition to her family's schedule or even her own wishes if need be. He selfishly considered the real possibility of abduction because he didn't know if he would be able to bear her absence. With tears streaming down Daisy's face and the sadness of bereavement suffocating in the Duc's lungs, their lips touched and met and melted into each other softly like the first kiss of adolescence when time had no meaning. Openhearted and generous, they offered each other the fullness of their beings. A knock at the door, insistent and authoritative, curtailed their poignant embrace. "The gangway is being raised!" a man's voice shouted. "Write," the Duc said. "Think of me."

"Every second." Daisy smiled, warmed by his answer. "You have to go…" "Will you be all right?" She nodded. He brushed the tears from her face with gentle fingers. "Take care," he whispered. As he turned at the door for a last look, Daisy smiled. "I love you," she murmured. His eyes held hers for a long moment. "You made me believe in love," he said, his voice low. And he hoped with impatient longing and breathless fear it wasn't too late for him.

The problem of Hector's safety was fortuitously solved without the Duc having to reveal to his daughter any of his fears concerning Isabelle. She was Jolie's mother, after all, and that consideration made him reluctant to disclose her involvement in Morocco's murder. In the days since his thoroughbred's death, Jolie and her family had been enjoying the sea at Trouville, safely distant from Paris—out of harm's way. Before he had to face a decision, Jolie and her husband, Henri, surprised him with a visit, the same evening he returned from Le Havre. Louis brought the young couple into the library where Etienne had retired after dinner. With his gaze on the river outside, he was nursing a cognac, feeling solitary and unrelated to the world, as though he were isolated completely from the rhythm of humanity.

The bustle of their entrance, Louis's fussing to turn up the gaslights, Jolie and Henri's beaming smiles and salutations brought him gratefully from his morbid reflections. "Whyever are you sitting in the dark, Papa? Tea, Louis, for me, a brandy for Henri. Papa, you can't imagine what good luck has come our way. Maybe some sweets too, Louis—something chocolate. Light all the lights… I hate gloomy shadow. Just because Daisy's gone, Papa, doesn't mean you can mope. She'll be back soon, I'm sure, or you can visit her because—Henri—tell him—tell him all about your new business." During all her monologue, she was arranging herself on the small tapestry sofa, seeing that her husband was seated beside her, adjusting the tartan taffeta ruching on her green moire gown, touching last the matching bow set becomingly in her upswept dark curls. "But we had to talk to you first, Papa," Jolie excitedly said, usurping her husband's offered role as informant, "to see what you think of the proposal." Seated beside her tall blond husband, her hand in his, she smiled at her father. "It has to do with polo ponies and there's no one in the world who knows more about them than you." Etienne grinned at her enthusiasm and fulsome compliment. "So tell me what this marvelous proposition entails." Frankly he was surprised Jolie's husband was interested in business of any kind. While he thought Henri a loving husband and father, he'd not thought him concerned with making money. Henri usually played third on their team; he was a crashing good player and now that Hector was better able to travel, he followed the polo season again as he had before his marriage, across the continent and into England. For entertainment… and occupation. "You know Suantez," Henri succinctly said. "He's involved? Before even hearing the details, I'd say take it. No one breeds better polo ponies than Suantez. Where did he buy a property in ?" "Not , Papa, in Kentucky," Jolie interjected. "Isn't it exciting?" So far away was Etienne's first thought. He'd miss seeing his grandson. How convenient was his second immediate reflection… they'd be far away from Isabelle's evil temper. "It is exciting. When does Suantez plan on beginning or is he waiting for your decision?" "I tentatively agreed, sir," Henri said, "contingent on your more experienced judgment." "Well then. You can't possibly go wrong. Suantez has bred every champion polo pony in the world since the early eighties. Will I get a discount price on my next string," the Duc sportively inquired, "since I'm a relative?" "Absolutely, Papa. Because you see, you're our banker." His daughter's grin was sunny and it reminded him of the times in her childhood when she'd shared a secret with him. "I rather thought I might be," he said, his own smile warm. While Henri, as Comte de Saint-Joris was wealthy, breeding horses needed enormous capitalization for years before any profits showed. Suantez could use the de Vec resources. "How much does Suantez want?" "It's not a lot, Papa," Jolie declared.

"It's a stiff sum, sir," Henri quietly said. "Five million francs." Not as much as he'd anticipated, the Duc thought. Lower land prices in America no doubt contributed to more economical start-up costs. "See Legere in the morning. He'll arrange the money for you." "Thank you, Papa," Jolie cheerfully said, having known her father would agree, five million francs not a disconcerting sum to her. "Come with us, to visit the properties. You always said Kentucky was perfect horse country and we can use your advice on a thousand details. And," she added, her enthusiasm alight in her eyes, "with Justin in Egypt and Daisy gone to America and now us, there's nothing to keep you here." His business interests aside, nothing except an acrimonious divorce, the Duc regrettably noted. But the fact that Jolie was happy and exempt from the destruction consoled him. "Later I'll come, darling. After Bourges has settled matters between your mother and me." "Thank you very much, sir," his son-in-law said with more formality. "We're very grateful, sir." He put out his hand. "I'm damned glad to have access to the best ponies in the world," Etienne replied, taking Henri's hand in his strong grip. He was pleased to be of help, more than pleased Jolie's family was about to settle for a time so far from Isabelle's villainous temperament. "When are you leaving?" he asked then. Without causing alarm he hoped to persuade them on an early departure. "We're booked for next week, Papa." "It wasn't my idea, sir," the young Comte de Saint-Joris quickly interjected. "Jolie booked us without my knowing. She was sure, she said, but… well… I know how much five million is, sir, and sometimes… well… Jolie doesn't seem to—" "Understand economics?" "Exactly, sir." "Really, Papa, sometimes Henri goes on about money as though we didn't have any. I tell him my dot is more than enough, but he says we should save it for the children." "Children?" The Duc's voice was softly inquiring. Jolie's face was wreathed in smiles and she grinned at her husband first before she answered her father. "It's too early to be absolutely sure yet, but we think… Hector might have a brother or sister next year and that's why," she went on in pleased explanation, "we're interested in settling down for a time." "If Jolie's having a baby, I won't be playing on the circuit for the next few years," the young Comte earnestly said, squeezing his wife's hand and darting an affectionate glance her way. "So Suantez's offer came at an opportune time." The look ing between the two young people triggered a small pang of envy in the Duc. How nice they shared such pleasure in their hopes for another child. Isabelle had found both pregnancy and child-rearing an irritating imposition. Oblivious to her father's morose speculation, Jolie went on in her familiar buoyant good spirits. "You

know Henri lives for polo like you do, Papa, and if we have another baby, even if he can't travel the circuit, in partnership with Suantez, he'll still be actively involved in the game." "I don't live for polo," the Duc protested. "Of course you do, Papa. You haven't missed a match in years." Until this week, he thought. For Daisy. "Until this week," his daughter echoed. "Whyever did you let Daisy go?" she asked, as if she were reading his mind. For the same reason I want you to go, he thought. "She had business commitments in the States," he said. "When will she return?" "I'm not certain." "Will you be visiting her?" "Not until the divorce is settled." "Did she say that?" Jolie understood the awkwardness of her father's position. "No." "Well, you should change your mind about seeing her then and come to visit us on your way to Montana." Etienne smiled at his daughter's casual suggestion that overlooked the myriad social taboos relating to his visiting a single young woman at her family's home while he was still married. Even though Daisy had assured him no one would look askance at such a visit, the Duc knew better. In Paris, his influence afforded protection to Daisy from anyone who took issue with their relationship. Almost anyone, he corrected himself, thinking of Isabelle. In Montana, provincial custom would no doubt censure his interest in Daisy. Her family certainly would show concern for her happiness. "Maybe I will… someday," he replied, not so certain the someday would be soon. Not in the current gloomy aftermath of Daisy's departure. "Have you told your mother your plans?" he asked then with thoughts of Isabelle fresh in his mind. "Mother's in England. Lady Wilcomb invited her for the Ascot races. Henri spoke to Suantez in Trouville after Mother left. He has a small stud there… you know that." After the polo season closed in Paris in July, and the haut monde left the city for their summer homes, the circuit moved to the cool seashore at Trouville. "I'll write her in England," Jolie went on, "and tell her our plans." She refrained from saying what they all knew; that Isabelle wouldn't interrupt her social commitments to come back and say good-bye even if they telegrammed her. "But I'm not going to let you mope in Paris long, Papa," Jolie added, bestowing her special smile on her father. "Expect a telegram a week and then if you don't come—a message every

day until you do decide to visit. Hector will miss you terribly… so you see—you must oblige. And Henri needs your help," she added, patting her husband's hand, "don't you, darling?" "Yes, sir. Absolutely, sir." The young Comte, unlike his wife, was in awe of the Duc. Not only was the Duc de Vec the best polo player in , distinction enough to impress Henri, but in the milieu of Jockey Club and Hunt Club, he held the enviable reputation as the most sought-after ladies' man in Paris. His name was conspicuous, as well, for integrity on the playing field and in the world of business. "We'd be honored, sir," Henry said with genuine reverence, "if you'd consider taking a hand in the management of the farms." "Thank you, Henri, perhaps… later." The Duc smiled at the man who'd brought such happiness to his daughter and regretted again for a fleeting time his own misspent life. "Promise you'll come, Papa," Jolie insisted. "It's only a few days now from Le Havre to New York." "I'll come as soon as I can," he answered, smiling. "Fair enough?"

That evening while the Duc was being vague and ambiguous with his daughter's demands for a visit, Daisy was seated at the Captain's table listening to a rich industrialist's wife from Chicago remark on the necessity for clearing the slums. "They're altogether too offensive to look at," she petulantly maintained. "It quite ruins my drive up the lake to our summer home, having to through those… well… filthy blighted areas of town. They should simply move all those squalid people—" she waved her pudgy, bejeweled hand in airy disdain, "away." Her diamonds would have fed all those squalid people for a month, Daisy thought, familiar with the slums of Chicago since she'd attended law school in that city. She'd spent a good deal of time in those slums during her stay in Chicago, working with Jane Addams—trying to help where she could.

"All those foreigners shouldn't be allowed into the country in the first place," another matron said. "My husband suggested to our Senator an eminently useful quota system for all those dark-skinned foreigners." Her husband, a Judge from Philadelphia, City of Brotherly Love, Daisy recalled, apparently drew the line at dispensing love democratically. "No offense, Miss Black," the Judge's wife added, her smile gracious since she'd judged Daisy's diamond parure in the neighborhood of a queen's ransom. "Actually, I'm less of a foreigner than you, Mrs. Lowell," Daisy replied with a gracious smile of her own. "My family's lived in America for over a thousand years." And life goes on, Daisy ruefully reflected while the lady from Philadelphia sputtered in consternation. Outside the ambiance of Etienne's rarefied society, prejudice and bigotry continued unabated. So far removed from the censure of the world, he didn't begin to understand the existence of intolerance or predatory politics or stark privation. She could have chosen to stay in Paris, protected by his name and power, ensconced within the comfortable exclusivity of his privileged circle, allowing him to shield her not only from Isabelle's wrath but from the reality of life. She could have, had she been less committed to her own people… or perhaps, she reminded herself with a practicality independent of noble causes—had he insisted she stay. But he hadn't, had he? He'd only said, "perhaps it's for the best___" Damning bland words compared to her own fervent love. A polite and courteous conclusion, perhaps, to a love affair that was over. She found herself uninterested in the ensuing conversation centered on items of luxury, favored spas, and social amusements preferred by the wealthy matrons from Chicago or Philadelphia or Boston. Or the later discussion which digressed into mutual commiserations over the dearth of good hired help—of a non-foreign nature, of course. Withdrawing into the consuming sorrow inundating her mind whenever Etienne intruded into her thoughts, she left the table before dessert, not in the right frame of mind to watch overweight ladies who deplored the sight of poverty eat their fill of whipped-cream concoctions. Her dinner companions, reminiscent of the idle luxury of Etienne's fashionable milieu, reminded her too emphatically of the great gulf between her life and his. While the basic disparity in Etienne's and her life always remained constant, she'd simply ignored the staggering differences—in the tumultuous ion of their relationship. Conveniently overlooking the fact that he accepted the self-indulgence of his life without question, she'd allowed his personal charm to dazzle her and obscure her judgment and beliefs. Away from the hot-blooded immediacy of his ion, she could see more clearly how she'd been overcome and bewitched like the endless legion of females before her; the Duc de Vec was too perfect, she realized, too skilled, too darkly handsome with a personal warmth unparalleled in its intimacy. Like an addiction, she craved him without reason or conscience, but like an addiction, too, the drugging effect would diminish ultimately. And while she missed him like breath itself, she recognized the dilemma inherent in their loving each other. She cried that night, though, alone in her bed, no practical assessment sufficient defense against her longing. Tearful and miserable, she lay awake unable to sleep, wishing she could feel the comfort of Etienne's presence, wishing the only man she'd ever loved didn't live half a world away. Wishing perhaps he loved her more or she loved him less. Weeping with heartbreaking desolation, because even if he did love her enough to overcome the wretched distance separating them, he was unfortunately already married to a woman who meant to keep him.

In less than a week, the Duc was back in Le Havre, seeing Jolie and her family off to America. The stateroom overflowed with colorful flowers from their friends and from Etienne, while toys for Hector spilled over from his ading room. "Do you think you bought enough playthings for Hector?" Jolie facetiously inquired, her gaze on her father and son seated on the floor, absorbed in their play. "You never have enough toys," the Duc impenitently replied, looking up from the mechanical circus wagon he was winding for Hector. His smile was benign. "I think we need some more clowns," he pointed out to his grandson with jest in his tone, "to fill this wagon." "More clowns. Want," Hector cheerfully agreed, seated in the midst of a menagerie of circus animals. Etienne grinned up at his daughter. "You see?" "You're incorrigible," his daughter laughingly chastised. "Probably." Then her expression abruptly altered as she observed her son and father seated side by side in tender loving companionship and her lip began to tremble. "Oh, Papa, I'm going to miss you." Etienne rose swiftly to his feet and gathered her into his arms. "It's not for so long, darling. I'll be over to see that green-grass country soon." "Promise?" Jolie lifted her face to his and he thought again as he had a thousand times before how lucky he was to have his children. Although older now and a mother herself, she was still his little girl with her

dark curls framing her face, her cheeks rosy like a child's, her large eyes fresh with a green-eyed innocence he hoped she'd never lose. "Promise," he murmured, no more able to refuse her now than any time before. "On your word, Papa," she insisted. "On my word, darling. Promise." Her face lit with joy, warming his heart with a magic happiness he always thought of as his "twin sunshine." "Dry your eyes now," he said, offering her his handkerchief. "Henri will be back with your sparkling water and he'll wonder what I said to you to make you cry." "He knows I'm going to miss you awfully, Papa. He was the one who suggested we fit up an apartment for you right away, so you'll be sure to come and visit." "You're happy with Henri?" the Duc quietly asked, his simple question encoming a collective query. "Yes, ever and ever so much. He loves me, Papa, more than his polo, he says. And you know what an enormity that is." Her smile was suggestive and womanly suddenly. "Like you love Daisy?" "Yes, much more than polo," he softly agreed. "And Bourges will set you free." Her voice held the optimism of her good spirits. "I'm sure he will." This wasn't the time to mention the change of venue had been blocked and Isabelle's magistrate interview postponed for the third time. Henri interrupted then, walking into the stateroom with a bucket of ice and Jolie's favorite brand of sparkling water, at which point the conversation shifted to more pleasant anecdotes on the business of polo ponies. And when the Duc had finally to leave, for sailing was imminent, he bent down to give Hector a last hug. "Want come with me, Granpapa?" Hector asked as Etienne released his hold, his toddler eyes, green like his mother's, wide with inquiry. His little face was questioning and serious. "Want come, Granpapa?" he coaxed. The Duc fought back his tears, wondering how he was going to survive the coming months without his daily visit with Hector, knowing he was going to miss the companionship of his grandson, his joyful laughter, his curiosity, his hugs and wet kisses. "I can't leave right now, Hector, but I'll come to see you soon." "Come now. Granpapa come now, Mama. Tell him." He looked to his mother for confirmation of his wishes. Lifting her son from the floor, Jolie held him in her arms and carefully explained, "Granpapa can't now, sweetheart. But he will soon." The little boy's face collapsed in sorrow as he realized Etienne was leaving. "No! Granpa, come with! Don't go, Granpa!" Reaching out for Etienne, his little voice was sharp with alarm, his tears agonizing for Etienne to see. Hugging him quickly, Etienne promised to visit very soon, and with a poignant smile for his

daughter and Henri, the Duc fled the stateroom. Several moments ed in the quiet of the corridor before he composed himself sufficiently to walk away from the wailing terror of Hector's cries. Pausing some distance away at the base of the stairway leading down from the first-class section, he leaned back against the polished wood ing and inhaled deeply. In the last week he'd lost every person he cared about in the world and a wrenching loneliness assailed him. Shutting his eyes briefly, he gathered the disorder of his emotions into a manageable perception, shaky perhaps and raw with pain, but obedient to reason. This wasn't a permanent loss, he reminded himself, only a temporary one. He'd visit Hector and Jolie and Henri before too long. Justin would be back from Egypt in only a month. But contemplation of Daisy's leaving didn't yield so easily to facile reason. Unless she chose to return to , he wouldn't see her again until—Bourges's face appeared in his mind's eye, somber, touched with disbelief—their change of venue had been denied. It was impossible, Felicien had said, for the petition to have been refused when the Duc fulfilled all the requirements for residency—impossible. They would appeal. He'd immediately draw up the necessary papers. "Find out how much Isabelle paid the magistrate," Etienne had curtly said, "and then offer the bastard ten times that amount. Enough for him to retire—which he'll have to," the Duc had added, "because he'll never be allowed to serve again… as long as Charles or any of the Monarchists stay in power. Which series of corrupt long-standing political alliances, the Duc understood, might not succumb to nonmonarchist money. Making the possibility of seeing Daisy infinitely more remote. He'd written her several times already, after having realized a telegraph message of affection wouldn't be private. He was tempted to ask her to meet him somewhere, anywhere in America convenient to her, but he wasn't entirely sure she'd agree. Overcome with an unfamiliar trepidation for the first time in his life, he was uncertain of a woman's feelings. Daisy had claimed to love him, but she'd also chosen to leave him. Not a bolstering thought. Heeding the warning whistle for visitors to disembark, he pushed away from the wall and mechanically followed the flow of traffic ashore. Ten minutes later found him seated in a bistro with a harbor view, a cognac in hand. The bottle on the table was already half empty when the ship slipped from sight below the purple-tinged horizon. But when the small party of Parisians entered the busy establishment shortly after, caught sight of him, and made for his table, he was sufficiently restored to smile at their cry of recognition. Formonde and Vanier were escorting two young women he didn't immediately identify until their faces came into view beneath their large-brimmed hats. Vanier's sister and sister-in-law, he noted, recalling Theo, the elder Vanier brother had been called to Quebec to oversee some family business. "Are Jolie and Henri off now?" Formonde inquired in cheerful accents, the activities of mutual acquaintances within the society of Parisian aristocracy common knowledge.

"On their way," Etienne politely replied, not entirely sure he was in the mood for company. Having signaled for a waiter, Vanier gave his order for champagne while the ladies seated themselves in a flutter of silk ruffles, wafting perfume, and trilling laughter. While greetings were exchanged, Theo's wife winked at Etienne. The overture startled him at first, as though he'd been so long removed from the amorous chase, he'd forgotten the rules. He pondered briefly how to deal with the smiling young lady since forestalling female winks was entirely new in his experience. His decision to ignore it wasn't successful however, for Marie Vanier wasn't currently in the mood to be ignored. She, in fact, flirted shamelessly and provocatively, undeterred by the Duc's monosyllabic replies. When it became impossible to feign ignorance of the lady's interest—she'd taken to pressing her thigh against his, the Duc de Vec decided it was time to leave. With a bland smile and a blander excuse, he rose from his chair. "Damn feeble excuse, de Vec," Formonde cheerfully noted. "Your damn business manager can wait on you tomorrow. Stay on," he cordially invited at the same time he signaled for more champagne. "Do stay, Etienne. We can all go back together," the younger female Vanier suggested with a charming smile. "Please, Etienne?" Marie, the Duchesse Vanier purred, reaching out to stroke his hand in an intimate gliding progress that leisurely slid down the entire length of his slender fingers. "Perhaps some other time," he politely replied, drawing away a step so he was out of her reach. "Then why don't we go back now too?" Marie said to her brother-in-law. "We can share our compartment with the Duc." "No need, I've one of my own." "Well, we'll share yours then. It's settled. Come, André. Come, Formonde and Thérèse. Bring the champagne." And so the Duc de Vec found himself in the unusual position of refusing a beautiful woman's advances, for what turned out to be an excruciatingly long three-and-an-half-hour train ride back to Paris. He retreated delicately with a polite smile when she pressed close or turned off her suggestive double entendres with a sportive witticism. When she advanced, he withdrew or sidestepped or feigned deafness—a wearing game in close quarters in the company of three other people. Halfway to Paris, he arbitrarily ceased drinking, recognizing the need for all his faculties, and when the conductor announced the outlying suburbs of Paris, he began counting down the minutes. When at last they arrived at the Gare St. Lazare his adieux were terse and a shade hasty for absolute courtesy. And he literally jumped from the train while it was still coasting to a stop. Like a boy let out of school, he sprinted down the concourse, the smile on his face one of blessed release. Was this an epiphany? he joyfully reflected, dodging those individuals moving down the concourse with less haste. Had he ed through a personal revelation of principle? His grin widened. He didn't suppose a priest would understand.

Hazard met Daisy at the depot in Chicago. Since he had business in the city, he explained, and she was on her way home, he decided to arrange his schedule to accommodate hers. While not entirely truthful about his intentions, he had attended to 'some mining transactions, although his principal purpose in coming East had been his concern for Daisy. "How can you manage to look so fresh and cool?" her father asked as they walked toward his carriage. "It's damn hot here." Chicago was wilting under ninety-degree temperatures, the humidity damp as a steam lodge. "It's mental, Father." She smiled up at him. "I'm thinking of cool mountains." "I envy you your imagery. My mountains are three days away on a fast train." "Do you have much more business here?" "Not much," he replied, for he'd heard the small catch in her voice before she'd steadied her emotions, and the evidence of tears had been immediately apparent as she'd stepped off the train. "Are you in a hurry to reach home?" Daisy nodded, her face partially concealed beneath the brim of her straw hat. "I'm available to leave anytime," he immediately offered. "You decide." Glancing at his daughter dressed romantically in pink-flowered gauze, the streamers on her wide-brimmed hat, and at her waist, grass green trailing silk, Hazard wondered whether the Duc de Vec selected her dress, its style so unlike Daisy's usual taste. Was Etienne Martel also the cause of her tears? Resentful, he knew the answer to both his questions. In a general way, Hazard had heard of Daisy's liaison with the Duc, for he had friends in Paris, and, of course, Adelaide had written to Empress. While he had no objection to Daisy falling in love with whomever she pleased, he did object to the fact she was obviously unhappy. And if the Duc de Vec had harmed his daughter in any way. Hazard had every intention of seeing he paid for that injury. "Could we leave soon?" Hazard touched her hand, stopped in midstride, and when she looked back at the tall figure of her father standing very still in the streaming crowd of engers moving toward their destinations, he quirked a dark brow and said, "Should we leave now?" How did he know, Daisy wondered, tears welling into her eyes and closing her throat, that she wanted to be back in the mountains so badly even a few hours more in Chicago would have been unbearable? Without a word, Hazard opened his arms to his stricken daughter. She went to him in a rush, her hat slipping off in the sweep of his embrace, dangling by the silky green ribbons halfway down her back. She felt unassailably safe again, engulfed in her father's arms as though he could make her world right again, as though his protection could shut out the hurt and pain. "Take me home," she whispered against the solid strength of her father's chest. She could have been asking him to ride into a village of his enemies and he would have for love of his

child. He'd journeyed East to meet her because in the drift of rumor from Paris, he'd known she'd need consolation. But beneath the gentle comfort of his succor raged a furious rankling anger at the man who'd so casually devastated his daughter's content. And he vowed on the spirit gods of his medicine the cougar, the Duc de Vec would answer someday for this hurt to his child. "I'll find a train West," he said, stroking her hair, her tears wetting his shirtfront. "We'll be out of Chicago directly," he pledged, jettisoning his plans for the afternoon and evening. "I want to shoot him," he murmured, "when I see you cry. He doesn't deserve you." "It's not his fault," Daisy whispered into the crisp starched cotton of his shirt. "It's his fault if you're crying," Hazard said with the logic of a father. "I decided myself to leave." But he didn't try to stop you, Hazard reflected, another black mark against de Vec ed on his payback list. He knew from experience that sin of omission. "You don't seem happy with your decision," he softly prompted, wanting to understand her reasons. "It's never easy to leave…" "Someone you love." Daisy nodded, hiccupping and sniffling and looking so thoroughly unhappy, Hazard gazed for a contemplative moment at the teeming crowds ing around them like river current around a rock and debated his options. Most were violent and lethal, all of which he discarded because Daisy was very dear to him and her happiness was indispensable to his peace of mind. "Do you want him?" he simply said at last, an unornamented father's question ed by an unconditional love. She nodded again. "Then you'll have him." So bluntly did Absarokee chieftains arbitrate—so competently did Hazard-the-Black-Cougar meet his obligations. Raised as a warrior in a warrior society that maintained its suzerainty over the best hunting grounds on the Northern plains against mightier and more numerous enemies, Hazard Black had honed to perfection his skills in raiding and warfare. Like planning the success of a war party, he didn't envision any problems abducting the Duc de Vec and bringing him to the mountains. Daisy's face lifted to his, her eyes fierce with emotion. "No," she declared, with the same blunt authority as her father. "It's not possible for me to have him… for a thousand reasons—all rational, logical reasons. I know that and Etienne knows it too… or he will after a time. His wife won't divorce him. Won't, Father, and she has the entire judiciary behind her. Etienne doesn't believe he won't be able to bludgeon the divorce through… but he can't. He's ignoring the, reality of a judiciary rife with nepotism. He doesn't fully understand all the obstacles Isabelle can put in his way—all the delaying procedures legally allowable." She took a deep breath, relief and resolution evident in her expression. In the plainest of words she'd outlined her dilemma. "So I came home because there was no point in staying, and I intend to remain in Montana and I don't want you interfering." Her dark eyes were identical to his and they held his now in entreaty. "Papa, promise me you won't."

For the first time in his life, she'd called him something more, intimate than father, her childlike appeal so unlike her normal self-possession. He'd never seen her so wounded. "Papa?" Daisy's voice was so quiet, the small sound was immediately carried away by the noise of the crowds. She was his only daughter, he'd always wanted a special happiness for her; he'd hoped to guard her from the violence he and his sons had dealt with so often over the years to protect their land; he wished her a life of contentment. He smiled then at his dreams, for Daisy was too much his daughter to neatly conform to some idyllic safe world—an enchanted world unreal and fanciful. But he didn't wish her to be this cruelly unhappy. "Must I promise?" he asked in slow deliberation because he wanted above all to give her back her happiness. "Yes," she said very low, knowing her father's impulse for action. "I promise then," Hazard reluctantly said. "But he's a stupid man."

Twenty minutes later they were ensconced in a private compartment on a train to St. Louis, Daisy's baggage hastily transferred, their shoes off and bourbon-spiked cool lemonades in their hands. While not the most direct route home, the particular feature of immediate departure commended it. The station was receding from view, Chicago's densely built inner city rising like a monument to progress on either side. With the rhythm of the wheels a soothing melody of deliverance, the windows raised high against the oppressive heat, Hazard smiled across the small ed chamber at his daughter and raised his glass. "To the future," Hazard proposed. "And your happiness." "To the future," Daisy agreed, her smile grateful. "To the mountains of home. And to the best father in the world."

In the course of their journey to Montana, Daisy disclosed in an edited version, how her relationship with the Duc de Vec had evolved, what her feelings were concerning their future, and her reasons for leaving Paris. She detailed the complications of French divorce law as well as Isabelle's noncooperation. Since Hazard had been involved in the unsavory negotiations over Trey's divorce from Valerie last year, he was acutely aware how large sums of money generally expedited reluctant spouses and a sluggish judiciary. He wondered whether the Duc hadn't been completely honest with Daisy in of his divorce or hadn't he considered the efficacy of spending some of his fortune for his freedom? Or had he considered and not been sufficiently motivated? Knowing the Duc's reputation, Hazard suspected he hadn't been completely candid about the divorce. Familiar himself with attracting female attention, Hazard understood the fine line between utter honesty and politesse. In the years before his marriage, he'd managed with deft skill to accommodate a great number of ladies' amorous desires; one became well versed in the art of urbane gallantry. Even since his marriage he'd used that ex-pertise to good purpose in politely extricating himself from women intent on seducing him. "In a country so new to the legal process of divorce," he tactfully said to his daughter, "I expect a smoothly operating judicial mechanism isn't possible." "The Church, too, is adamantly opposed to the law." "So I understand."

"The legitimists are antagonistic as well. Many of Etienne's class the restoration of the monarchy, you know that." She shrugged, with a new Gallic insouciance, Hazard thought. "He was cut cold at the Opéra by the new clerical envoy to the Vatican… only one instance of old friendships now in jeopardy—over me." "Over the divorce, not you," Hazard didn't want Daisy to bear the burden of a divorce that might or might not occur. "I still feel responsible." He couldn't be as frank as he wished… reflecting that the Duc de Vec may have been merely amusing himself—again. So he said instead with a comforting smile, "Well, I'm pleased you're home with us—whatever the reason." Daisy's utterances, too, were less than frank. Her disclosure hadn't revealed the manner in which Etienne had practically urged her to return to Montana. Her humiliation over those reflections was too private to expose. She'd also not itted her skepticism over Isabelle's alleged threat; Isabelle may have simply been a convenient excuse for Etienne to approve her leaving. "I'm happy to be back," Daisy said. "And I'm looking forward to working again." In that, at least, no subterfuge existed. A peace of sorts had enveloped her as they'd traveled West, leaving the cities behind, leaving Paris and all her painful memories far away. The rolling prairie ing by the train windows made Paris less real, mitigated the ghastly visions of Isabelle's malevolent face, put her great longing for Etienne in some perspective. Lessened it? So far she hadn't experienced that saving grace; a great aching emptiness still filled her heart. Would he actually write as he'd promised or telegram; had he already sent her letters, was he as miserable and dejected as she? But when she arrived in Helena, no letter greeted her; a false hope, in any event, with the speed of her journey—an omen, her unhappy soul prophesied. Feted by her family and friends, Daisy reentered the welcoming comfort of her familiar world. She discussed the gallery openings she'd attended and the plays—her new Worth gowns elicited extravagant compliments. She agreed with all her acquaintances that Paris was particularly beautiful in the spring. With so many millionaires in the wealthy mining town of Helena who traveled abroad or had Parisian friends, gossip about Daisy and the Duc de Vec had preceded her to Helena. Although no one was discourteous enough to blatantly inquire, Daisy was conscious of a burning curiosity. Even talk of divorce in the St. Germain enclaves precipitated the direst speculation on the crumbling of aristocratic mores. People were naturally inquisitive—the name de Vec represented immemorial custom. Empress did broach the subject once, for as a friend of the Duc during her estrangement from Trey, she understood the full measure of his charm. Daisy had come over to visit and see the children, so she and Empress were in the large sunny, nursery watching the youngsters at play. "Will Etienne be coming West?" Empress asked. Daisy shook her head first as though she didn't wish to answer and then briefly said, "No."

A sense of tranquility pervaded the nursery, the family scene bathed in golden sunlight, felicity in all the smiling children's faces. So contrary, Daisy mused, to the oppressive disorder of her own life. Empress and Trey's young son, Max, was stacking blocks into towers with Belle, Valerie Stewart's daughter, who they were raising as their own. Empress's youngest brother Eduard, almost five now, helped the two toddlers steady their tippy structures. Born only a month apart, the toddlers, both dark-haired and nearly of a size, had immediately developed a natural affinity for each other from their very first meeting, like twins would, understanding each other's imperfect language when no one else could decipher it, showing concern for each other, sharing toys and special treats as though it were natural rather than unusual in children that young. And gazing at the happy scene of the three small children engrossed in their building, Solange sleeping peacefully nearby in her cradle, Daisy wistfully envied the tender image. Etienne had wanted a child and had she been less practical, she might be carrying his baby. She wished suddenly with an inexpressible yearning now that it was too late, that she'd been less pragmatic. Even if he were lost to her, she'd have his child to love and nurture, she'd still retain a part of him as vivid memory of their love. "Once Etienne's divorce is finalized," Empress said, interrupting Daisy's poignant reverie, "he'll certainly come West then." "The divorce will never be finalized." Her declaration, blunt and low, had the tone of an unequivocal edict. "You can't be sure!" Startled, Empress breathlessly took issue. "Surely de Vec will prevail." "You don't realize Isabelle's stance. Divorce is death, I think, succinctly describes her posture, and she has every intention of living a long life." Daisy reached down to help Max steady his block tower, her voice prosaic, as though she were commenting on the weather. The past weeks, while not assuaging the sorrow of her lost love, had allowed her considerable time to analyze the incontrovertible strength in Isabelle's defense. "Etienne can't leave anyway… even if some benevolent god obliterated all the barricades Isabelle has put in his path, because his numerous business interests are all based on the continent. And I can't live in Paris. My life is here." In any other woman, Empress might have questioned the firmness of her convictions, but Trey's family was unequivocably committed to their clan, to the Absarokee vision of "driftwood lodges" with a strength of character and indefatigable courage almost reverently devout. The Absarokee term for clan was ashammaleaxia, which translated as "driftwood lodges." As driftwood lodges together along the banks of the rivers, so the of a clan clung together, united in a turbulent stream, intrinsically linked to and part of the assemblage of human and spiritual personages surrounding him or her. A more traditional woman wouldn't have questioned living in her husband's world, but Daisy epitomized a fundamentally nontraditional female role, for the Absarokee nurtured an egalitarian acceptance of mission regardless of gender. Men and women were equally eligible for social recognition and spiritual attainment. One of only a handful of female lawyers in America, her determination to enter that distinguished rank was based solely on her desire to help her people. And she'd succeeded against daunting odds for the same reasons. Like her father and her brothers, Daisy's allegiance was steadfastly with her clan. Empress realized with a deeply grateful recognition, that she was fortunate in not having had to face such a cruel dilemma. While her family estates were in , competent managers and her oldest brother,

Guy, were supervising their operation. And her spiritual world wasn't as dynamically interdependent. "Could Etienne consider living in Montana for a portion of the year?" she gently inquired. Daisy straightened from her assistance in tower building, her expression unreadable. "He oversees a dozen estates, major interests in three European railways, a chair on the Bourse, his consuming ion for polo during the season commands hours a day—not to mention the maintenance of the thousand-year de Vec family grandeur. That combination would be hard to manage from Montana."

For the next month, Daisy and Etienne's letters crossed the great distance separating them, renewing and sustaining their imioned hopes. Until one hot July day in a Paris bereft of every soul fortunate enough to have escaped to the cool countryside, Bourges telephoned the Duc with some more disheartening news. Their appeal for the change of venue had been heard by a substitute magistrate because Beauchamp had fallen ill—he wasn't expected to live—and they'd lost again. "Bloody hell." Etienne sighed, leaning back against his chair and shutting his eyes. "I've never been so systematically struck down by wretched coincidence. It's like a damnable act of God," Bourges complained. "Beauchamp had agreed to be reasonable." "I suppose we can consider ourselves fortunate the reversal is only a loss in court for us," the Duc philosophically said, opening his eyes to the cool dimness of his study. "Beauchamp may not be so lucky." "Apparently it was his heart. You're right of course, although I'm hard-pressed at the moment to dredge up benign reflections." "So who denied us?"

"Plaige. Damn his jumped-up petite noblesse heart. His wife's connections put him where he is today and it's gone to his head." "No doubt he was easily persuaded then by Charles's pur sang," Etienne ironically remarked. "Where do we go from here?" "I've a meeting with Letheve tomorrow." "A waste of time, Felicien." "Maybe not." Felicien had a doggedness one had to ire, but Etienne knew talking to Letheve was useless. The man followed Charles and Isabelle's dictates to the letter. "I'm going out to my river estate for a few days, so I won't be in touch," the Duc said, needing some solace after another bleak report from Bourges. "I'll call you when I return. And thank you," he finished, "for all your work." "We'll get them eventually." Etienne had to smile at his persistence. "I sure as hell hope so," he said.

He hadn't been back to Colsec since Daisy left, the past month intensely busy with business commitments. He'd traveled to each of his estates to oversee the condition of the crops and vineyards, made two swift journeys to the south of where new rail lines were being proposed by one of the companies he financed, and saw to the construction of additional stables at his racing stud. Daisy's presence immediately struck him as he walked through the rooms at Colsec, all so reminiscent of sweet memories: she'd eaten with him in the small flagstoned parlor and sat there on the Turkish sofa under the window; she'd laughed over her shoulder at him, coming down these stairs, her eyes sparkling with mischief; in that bed they'd made love and on that chaise one warm afternoon—for the first time, and there on the balcony, in the cool of the morning, in the balmy hours of the afternoon, at night under the light of the moon. And then he caught sight of the new bathroom added since his last visit, complete with modern plumbing so Daisy would have more comfort than his small tub afforded when she bathed. He'd forgotten. Walking through the large portal cut into the bedroom wall, he stood arrested by the spectacular view overlooking the garden. Floor to ceiling windows faced east to catch the morning light, and hand-painted tiles in rich rose and moss green trailed floral garlands over the sleek surface of the walls. A green marble bathtub, splendid and ornate with sculpted faucets of gold, dominated one wall. A dressing table built in under the eaves, lace-skirted and fitted out with perfumes and mirrors, awaited Daisy's pleasure. Like he. He had to walk outside along the river for a time to gain some control over his despair, to leave behind the haunting echoes and lost hopes, to come to at last with a sense of unutterable hopelessness. When he returned, he entered his small study and sat down to write to Daisy. Inundated with his melancholy memories of happier times, depressed with the most recent news from Bourges, the Duc was thoroughly discouraged as he began his letter. This cottage at Colsec, once his snug refuge, seemed empty and forlorn without the woman he loved and his words reflected his desolation.

I'm sorry, he wrote, but I don't know if this divorce will succeed. The appeal for change of venue was denied. While Bourges is hopeful, in my present mood I find it difficult to agree with him. I'm at Colsec, missing you dreadfully, seeing you everywhere, unable to hold you or talk to you. At times like this your dour warnings reverberate like bells of doom, numbing hope, paralyzing action. While my feelings for you haven't changed, they're unfortunately incidental to the bleak future of my divorce. He added a few lines more about the prairie garden outside his window, how it reminded him or her, but he found it impossible to be cheerful and he closed without his usual promise to see her soon.

Etienne's letter came at the worst possible time, for Daisy, too, was disconsolate over the numerous problems impeding their future. His joyless news seemed only to echo her own despair. Riding up into the hills to be alone, she lay under the shimmering aspen, contemplating the new mood of his letter, its brevity, the gloomy use of the words "bleak, numbing, paralyzing." Smoothing out the single sheet of paper on the grass, she touched the curving forms of the words, as if she could feel his presence with her gesture. Almost two weeks had ed since he'd written that day at Colsec, and she tried to imagine what he'd looked like, seated at the small desk in his study on the ground floor. Had he been barefoot as he was so often at Colsec, was his hair wet from swimming in the river, had Gabriella brought him a citrus punch in a tall glass laced with kir, as he liked? What had he meant when he'd said the divorce wasn't going to succeed? Only the present procedural step—or ultimately? She knew the answer, of course, to her rhetorical question. She'd known the answer to that query months ago in Paris. Only her heart had refused to accept it.

That night she sent Etienne the message she'd been contemplating for weeks, defining her feelings, courteously and rationally acquiescing to his hopeless outlook. I don't honestly know how to begin, she wrote, struggling for the words to separate herself from the man she loved almost more than duty. Tears glistened in her eyes, her throat ached with suppressed sobs as her pen reluctantly transcribed the unhappy words. Nor am I sure of the wisdom of my actions. But when I read your letter from Colsec, my heartfelt to the ground, she went on, unconsciously expressing her grief in the words of her people. Your despair was my despair, your bitter taste of lost hope—mine. We've never been rational, Etienne, to think we could overcome the powerful age-old prejudices of your class. Although I care less about the actual divorce—you know my feelings on the whitemen's customs—I do care profoundly about the duty we owe to our different cultures. I love you with the same ion we first knew at Colsec, and I miss you every moment, but I can't marry you. Our allegiances are to different worlds. Worlds separated by distance and convictions. Promise me we can be friends at least, so I won't have to lose you completely.

The Duc hurled her letter across the room after reading it, and then swearing, was obliged to go and fetch it to reread the horrendous words. Damn her black eyes! Friends? he fumed. She wanted to be friends? Not likely! he caustically raged. She must have found someone else, was his immediate next thought. Damn her and damn her treacherous faithlessness! The third time he retrieved the perfidious letter, he ironed out the crumpled paper with the flat of his hand and went over her words slowly, as if some hidden meaning resided beneath the brief repudiating sentences. She was definitely stating she wouldn't marry him, he decided ten readings later, no matter how he interpreted the phrases, regardless of her protestations of love. Rage filled his mind at her damnable noble-sounding phrases, at the utter practicality of her tone, at the possibility—his more cynical contemplation deciphered—a new suitor amused the beautiful, hot-blooded Miss Black. A furious, impotent anger swelled inside his brain at the thought of another man touching Daisy and with that implacable image in mind, an overwhelming impulse to strike out and hit something gripped his senses. Friends? She wanted to be friends like bridge partners or asexual pairings at the tennis doubles at Trouville each summer. He couldn't imagine being friends with the seductive, sensual Daisy Black. She had to be joking! She'd found someone else, it was plain to see, like she'd fallen into his bed with teasing laughter and wanton eyes, and he said that plain and simple in the telegram he sent off. You're crazy if you think I want to be friends. Who's your new lover? He didn't sign it for the clerks in the telegraph office were sure to gossip, but she'd know who the message came from. He paced, cynical and surly and impatient, waiting for her reply—not knowing if she'd reply. She received the brutal reproach in the company offices in Helena and went cold at the tone. Composing

an immediate reply, she stood shivering in the summer heat while the operator keyed the words. There's no one. Believe me. No one but you. Can we be friends? He hated that word suddenly—a repugnant spurious word for the intensity of his feelings. Marry me, he dispatched back heatedly. I don't want a friend. I can't marry you. She almost didn't write those words. She almost decided to become the Duc de Vec's mistress because he wasn't free to marry her even as he asked. The convoluted struggle between belief and disbelief, between trust and misanthropy brought her momentarily to a standstill while the young telegraph clerk waited for her reply. She didn't at base care about Etienne's divorce, but she cared about the repercussions attendant to its omission. And she cared, too, in a spiritual way, for her own peace of mind. Which simple reflection called in all her interior landscapes—predominant with images of her beloved mountains. A decision finally. I'm sorry, she finally wrote, the two words insufficient for thirty years' affection to her clan. Tell me you understand. Don't understand. Won't understand. Can't understand. You're killing me, he added at the last, a wrenching ission for a man of his pride. I'm sorry. Words of duty, practical words, words that dimmed the sun. Don't be. I'm not. Etienne had replied, a prideful man, resentful and frustrated after two hours in the telegraph office at the Bourse under the interested scrutiny of the key operator. Affronted at having exposed his private life to the world, he stalked out of the office and strode to the Jockey Club to drink himself into an oblivious state of disregard for all women, friends or otherwise. Valentin came looking for him late in the afternoon after the Duc hadn't appeared for their scheduled meeting at Tattersalls to look at a new thoroughbred. "The horse was a beauty," Valentin said, approaching Etienne slumped in a chair near the windows. "You missed out. I bought him." "At least you can trust a horse," the Duc cryptically replied, waving over a footman to serve Valentin. "In contrast to what or whom?" Valentin asked, aware his friend had consumed nearly the entire bottle of brandy on the table beside him. Etienne rarely overimbibed this early in the day. "Women." The Duc's voice was heavy with disgust. "A lovers' quarrel?" "Remind me never to fall in love again. It's hell on earth." "You didn't look too unhappy a couple of months ago." "Lust warped my reason." "It never did before."

"Daisy Black's style of lust is more powerful." "Do you want to tell me about it?" Obviously, Etienne wasn't in a reasonable frame of mind… although a bottle of Napoleonic brandy generally occasioned loss of reason. "Nothing to tell," he muttered. "She wants to be friends. To friends," he resentfully pledged, lifting his glass to Valentin then draining the half-full tumbler. "Is friends so bad?" Valentin dropped into an adjacent club chair. "It's worse than bad. It's damned unbelievable," the Duc snarled, refilling his glass. "Can't marry me, she says. Let's be friends, she says. Is that incredible or what? Do I look like I want to be only friends with the seductive, hotter-than-hell Daisy Black? What do you want to drink?" he asked with a nod to the footman standing a discreet distance away. "The same's fine. When did this happen?" "Another bottle then," Etienne directed, pouring the remains of his bottle into the glass the footman had placed on the table next to Valentin. The Duc had withdrawn momentarily into a moody silence, his gaze contemplating the bottom of his glass. "When did all this transpire?" Valentin repeated, the Duc's sketchy replies leaving great gaps in his understanding. "Seven telegrams ago, as a matter of fact, or was it six? Hell, I forget." The crumpled sheets of paper, agents of his inebriation, were on the table beside him. "You're sure Daisy means it. You're not mistaken somehow." "No, I'm not mistaken. I can fucking read. Jesus, can you believe this was the woman I was divorcing my damn wife for, the same woman I was spending a fortune to buy off magistrates for, the precisely same woman who drove Isabelle to kill my goddamn record-setting black thoroughbred?" "Isabelle killed Morocco?" Valentin sat upright so swiftly the brandy sloshed over the rim of his glass. "Sure as the sun rises in the east." "How do you know?" His eyes still ed his shock. "She wrote to tell me and wished me a great deal of misery in my life. She must be prophetic." "Tell me exactly what Daisy said." Valentin still didn't completely believe Etienne. He and Daisy had been too ionately in love. He'd changed the entire pattern of his life for her. The Duc sighed, more sober than the amount of liquor consumed would presume. His green eyes were steady and clear. "My divorce isn't going to happen… and that's a major problem of course. I can understand her reluctance in of my marital status. But the divorce situation doesn't bother her, she says; what is irreconcilable in her mind is the fact we don't both live in Montana. A staggering concept for me to accept. My love weighed against Montana is insufficient. I told her we would work it out." "How?" Valentin knew of Etienne's business interests; they were vast and varied, but all European. And

Daisy… "Won't she live here in Paris?" "Apparently not," the Duc dryly said. "Would you live in Montana?" "I never thought I had to." He hadn't, of course. "Would you?" "No one ever asked me." "You're not answering." "I don't know. I don't even know if I was ever in love anymore because I'm so damned furious. And don't ask me why I'm furious because I don't know the answer to that either. But I broke two damned heavy pieces of furniture in the billiard room downstairs and scared the hell out of the steward. After standing there looking at the pieces, like a bloody fool, I apologized of course." He shook his head slowly from side to side, slipping down lower in the leather club chair, his brandy glass balanced on his chest. "If this is love," he muttered, "I hate it." "Come talk to Adelaide. She understands how women think. Maybe she can help." "Thanks, but I don't want to." The Duc's smile was affable. "Daisy was quite clear." His smile diminished, his eyes narrowed the slightest fraction. "I've never asked a woman to marry me before. Isabelle was proposed to by the de Vec solicitor. And when I do finally ask a woman to marry me and then try and move heaven and earth to make the marriage possible…" His voice took on a small edge. "I'm not going to beg anyone to marry me." "Pride?" "I guess. She wasn't ambiguous, Valentin. She said no."

July turned into August with both Daisy and the Duc consciously filling their clays with activity. Involved in the legalities necessary to open the new Braddock-Black copper mine south of Helena, Daisy was working sixteen hours a day. Dropping into bed each night exhausted, she slept like the dead. Her heavy schedule was deliberate; she couldn't bear dreaming of Etienne night after night. Bourges continued pursuing the Duc's divorce case because if nothing else came out his unhappiness over losing Daisy, at least, Etienne thought, he might someday have his freedom. The illusion of his marriage to Isabelle had ed the point of even the most benevolent excuses. Why should they share a name when they shared nothing else? He was seeing a great deal of his cousin Georges, too, helping him plan his next expedition to the East. An undertaking of sizable proportions with every item from stockings to food to pen points having to be itemized and ordered, the organizing palliative to the Duc's more painful thoughts. Georges intended an exploration of the steppes between Turkistan and Mongolia, possibly spending the winter with the Buriats near Lake Baikal. Their language interested him because it contained antecedents of both Syriac and Uighurian. As the planning progressed and the trip became more imminent, the Duc seriously contemplated ing the trek he was financing—at least for a month or so. The more he considered the possibility, the more intrigued he became. And when Justin returned from Egypt, announced his intention of participating in Georges's journey East, Etienne definitely reviewed what business commitments could be relegated to others. "Come along, Papa," Justin coaxed one day when the three of them were going over the maps. More than anyone, Justin was aware of his father's new moodiness, for their morning rides had resumed on his return and his father was visibly transformed. "The wind from the steppes will clear your mind," he added with a grin. "A pleasant prospect… I could go on the first leg perhaps." Unlike his earlier trip years ago, Etienne could no longer contemplate months away from Paris. He hadn't been involved as a major shareholder in the rail lines then nor been active in the Bourse trading. Neither business gave him the luxury of being absent for lengthy intervals. "Come as far as Samarkand. From that point you can return before the cold weather sets in." "The trains to Samarkand are reliable," Georges added, knowing Etienne needed distractions in his life. Women had always been his entertainment in the past, but since Daisy, he'd not returned to his previous pursuits. He rarely went out and he was noticeably restless. "You could be back in Paris in eight days," his cousin suggested. Etienne ran his slender finger over the etched railway line connecting Asia to the capital of , paused for a moment, then, looking up, smiled. "I need a change of scene—why not." They planned to leave in a month.

The Duc's anger with Daisy had abated over the past weeks, his previous bitterness overlaid with a benign magnanimity. He'd been selfish and unfair to ask Daisy to wait for the lengthy time required for his divorce. She deserved more immediate happiness, not a years-long delay while Isabelle appealed the final appeal with the last magistrate in the highest court of appeal. And she would—that much was patently clear. If he was absent from Daisy's life she'd have the opportunity to find someone else to love. His benevolence didn't withstand his most vivid dreams of Daisy though or his gloomiest melancholy, and he sat up and drank on those nights, to blur the graphic intensity of her image or dull the corrosive edges of his sorrow.

The days were manageable for Daisy. She arrived at the office early and stayed till late in the evening, the sheer volume of the work she took on consuming every minute. And if she could have worked all night, too, she would have, for at times her dreams wouldn't so conveniently succumb to conscious repression. She'd see Etienne then in the full beauty of his person, smiling and teasing her, holding her, making her laugh. Those mornings when she woke and realized she was alone in her bed were like a small death. The opening of the new mine was a blessing, the complexity of establishing a mining operation from day one absorbing enormous time. Down two levels now and into the top perimeters of the ore vein, they were scheduled to start shipping in six months. Water had been a problem early on, but after a redesigned pumping system was operational, no further crises occurred. Daisy had gone upmountain twice during the summer camp, to take part in the games and festivities, but her smiles were less spontaneous, she was noticeably more subdued, and she politely refused to accompany the young couples when they went berrying. On the moonlit nights when the beating drums drew the clans out to dance, Daisy found herself lured by the pulsing rhythm, the throbbing resonance bewitching her senses. She danced those nights, but never twice with the same man—as if she were no longer available for flirtation.

She continued her restraint back in Helena when Hazard and Blaze entertained; more quiet than usual, she'd listen rather than participate in the discussion, and more often than not, directly after dinner, she'd make her excuses or simply disappear. Her refuge and security in all those weeks after leaving Paris centered on her commitment to her tribe. Like her father and her brothers, she'd accepted Hazard's vision of hope for their people. Together with the of their small clan, she and her family cooperated in the mining ventures, the horse breeding, the education of the children, the struggle to maintain their lands for their people. There was satisfaction in knowing each long day of activity contributed to the improvement of life for everyone in their clan. The percentage of their children in school was gratifying; the number of their students going to college and returning to serve as instructors was proof of the harmony of clan spirit. A special effort pridefully ed Absarokee artisans dedicated to preserving the craftsmanship of their nomadic way of life; apprenticeship programs had been established to guarantee none of the age-old arts would perish. Daisy volunteered, as well, at their medical and legal-aid clinics. Contributing to a working society living in harmony, a society with common goals and purpose, offered her a measure of contentment. But it wasn't complete compensation for what she'd given up. And no one understood better than her family. One morning at breakfast with Hazard, Blaze said with a faint frown creasing her brow, "Daisy stayed in town again last night. She's working entirely too many hours and you should put a stop to it." A small startle reflex ed across Hazard's face. "How would you suggest I do that, darling? Bodily carry her from the office?" He smiled to mitigate his rebuff, set down his paper, and diplomatically added, "She may prefer being alone in her apartment in town." "That's a worry as well. She shouldn't have so much time alone to brood." In her concern, Blaze was demolishing a muffin into dust. "Darling," Hazard soothingly said, reaching over to put a calming hand on his wife's restless fingers, "she's not going to forget de Vec in a few weeks. Daisy's never even shown an interest in anyone before… or that degree of interest," he added, thinking of Martin. "Damn shame he was married." "Well, it may be a shame and she may need time to get over it," Blaze replied, shifting a demonstrable anxiety to a rearrangement of her coffee cup and juice goblet, "but in the interval, I'd suggest we take a hand in helping put his memory to rest." Hazard gazed at- his wife skeptically over his coffee cup. ", you're talking about Daisy. She's not easily guided or open to casual suggestion." Blaze's small grimace was acknowledgment and her ensuing smile typical of her inherent optimism. "Really dear, give me some credit. I wasn't planning on giving her a lecture. I rather think a trip to Newport might be a nice change of scene. You know Frank's been begging you and Trey to play in their international tourney at the end of the month. We could stop briefly in New York first and buy Daisy some new things—"

"She doesn't like to shop." "Don't be negative, darling," Blaze remonstrated, her mood noticeably lightening as she outlined her plans. "She'll shop for a day, at least, if you make it interesting. Why not bring some of Riding Star's paintings to that gallery mounting an exhibition of Western art? We have to show a little imagination to tempt her out of Montana." "A damn good imagination, sweet, to talk her into society right now. Even under the most benign circumstances, she avoids the fashionable world." "I intend to bring her to Newport." Blaze's voice was softly emphatic. "When I hear that tone of voice, bia. I'd better have the rail-car brought out and fitted up." Blaze smiled. "How clever of you, darling. Now, we're a large and intelligent enough family to talk one of our into 'cooperating' in a family excursion." "Are you talking major guilt?" His grin was teasing. "Nothing so unsubtle. Friendly persuasion, I think is the proper phrase. I'll have Empress talk to her." "And Trey." "And you at the last, with some project that will be beneficial for the tribe. I rather like the paintings for the New York gallery but if you have a more creative idea, so much better. Oh, I forgot to mention, Kit will be at Newport. He sailed in from the Indies… something to do with a sugar plantation in Jamaica. He's been in Newport for a day or so, he said when he telegraphed." "Say no more. Daisy'll go to see Kit. She adores her uncle and delights in the fact he's four years her junior. Last time he visited they both agreed, kindred spirits at heart, that no earthly reason existed to ever contemplate marriage. Although, unlike Daisy, who's since discovered the potent force in Cupid's erratic aim, I don't think Kit will ever stand still long enough to make a target." "We're agreed then. Newport for the polo matches." Hazard smiled at the wife he adored. "I know that look. You've started packing already, haven't you?" "Just a few things for the babies." "This will be a major undertaking, I can see." "Frank will be thrilled you're coming and it it, darling, you're dying to show those Brits a few Absarokee riding tricks again." The last time the British team had come informally to play polo at Newport, Hazard and Trey had dazzled the cool British officers with their fearless, "riding-with-their-necks-for-sale" speed and matchless combination plays. No one ed with their precision or brilliance, or scored so effortlessly with strikes from under their pony's belly, while both men hit with finesse from either side, off or near. Hazard's grin was boyish. "Well, there's Sandhurst training and then there's the Absarokee way. What can I say?" "So you don't mind going?" Blaze wouldn't have pressured her husband even for Daisy had he been

strongly opposed. Her first concern had always been Hazard's happiness as was his for her. Friends, lovers, confidants, a sustaining empathy served as basis for their enduring love. "No," he quietly said, "I don't mind. And if it'll help Daisy, we'll go."

The Duc de Vec opened his latest telegram from Jolie—the daily missive she'd warned him against. When are you coming to visit? the familiar message inquired, as had the ten previous ones, and he glanced at the calendar on his desk this time with a purposeful gaze. Justin had informed him yesterday, the polo club was putting together an extra team to send over to the informal matches in Newport and if he'd play, everyone would be eternally grateful, because Centrelle's team was bound to lose with their excessive interest in drinking. The auxiliary team would operate in an unofficial capacity, but in the event Centrelle couldn't play or others of his hard-drinking team succumbed to their excesses, the auxiliary team could serve as replacements. As head steward of the polo club, Centrelle, of course, had the right to assemble his own team, and he had. It was a touchy situation. Etienne hadn't committed himself yesterday, but with Jolie's telegram in his hand and his trip to Samarkand coming up next month, perhaps, he should consider a short visit to America. Seated on his first pony, Hector smiled at him from the framed photo on his desk. The Duc believed in his shaman gods; that smile looked real. Jolie, Henri, and Hector would be in Newport for the polo matches. He'd go.

Trey noticed Etienne first, when the French team cantered onto the field. He was substituting for Centrelle at second.

"There's de Vec," Trey said to his father, "at Centrelle's position. I didn't know he was here." Hazard's head swiveled around and he half turned in his saddle, his dark eyes dwelling consideringly on the man who had caused his daughter so much heartache. "Centrelle was tight as a mink yesterday; he mustn't have been up for play. Both he and Daudet have preferred the bar at the clubhouse." He squinted against the sun, his eyes taking on a calculating expression. "The French won't be so easy to beat today." "Saint-Joris is playing too." Trey lounged in his saddle, his hands resting on the pommel, a light breeze from the ocean ruffling his dark hair. "For Daudet. Someone finally had the good sense to take him and Centrelle off the team. De Vec and Saint-Joris must have both come in recently." Hazard unconsciously touched his gold cougar charm at his wrist, a contemplative expression visible on his face. "Have you seen him play?" Hazard turned an inquiring look on his son, as though brought back suddenly from some inner reverie. "Have you seen De Vec play?" "Once, years ago at Trouville," Hazard said, his tone still half musing. "He plays a rough-and-tumble style of polo, learned, I was told, in Chitral in northwest India during some of his travels. They play there in the streets without rules." "Like the Absarokee riding games," Trey said with a faint smile. "Except we don't have streets." Hazard's small shrug seemed to indicate dismissal of the concept of rules altogether. The Absarokee played literally for blood. "And you're playing second too," Trey noted, his gaze on the positioning of the French team. "How convenient," Hazard replied, his voice chilling to ice, turning his pony with a nudge of his knees, vengeance strong enough to taste in his mouth. "Shall we get into position?"

The big polo field near Morton Park was curried until the grass was smooth as a carpet. Rolled lengthwise in opposite directions, broad stripes of light and darker green alternated down its length, giving an illusion of artificiality. Under a clear blue sky, bright sunshine shone down on the ranks of splendid carriages filled with well-dressed gentlemen and elaborately gowned ladies, the ladies' great cartwheel hats adorned with sumptuous silk flowers, ribbons, and feathers like a showy garden bordering the field.

The teams were lined up at opposite ends of the field waiting for play to begin, keenly watching the umpire about to roll the ball out to the center of the field. According to the rules currently in vogue, once the ball was dropped, both number-one players raced for it in a mad charge, their teammates close behind. Horses sidled, impatient to be off, players slid their reins once more carefully into place, readjusted their grip on their mallets, their eyes on the official. A moment later the ball dropped.

And the large crowd of spectators in carriages three deep around the field sat in dead silence as the galloping horses raced headlong down the field. At the moment of impact when the teams clashed, they all groaned in unison as the Duc de Vec was unhorsed. He held onto his reins and vaulted back into the saddle before the astonished referee could stop play, but in that flashing instant, the Americans had taken possession of the ball and were charging down toward the French goal with the disorganized French team flying after them. Trey had a clear shot for a goal and he scored. On the next swiftly executed play the tables were promptly reversed. The French back hit off a tremendous wallop to Etienne, who, with a punishing backhand, that had both loft and length, dropped the ball neatly in front of the American goal for Henri to knock through. "Good shot," Hazard grudgingly said, as the teams took position for the next play. De Vec played like a wild man, his pony trained to the inch. One had to ire his skill. "The last time I was unhorsed, I was eight. Good shot yourself," the Duc acknowledged. Hazard's checking had been deliberately rough, but recognizing Trey, Etienne had identified his attacker as Daisy's father, and understood. No father would appreciate his daughter being coupled by gossip with a married man. His resentment was natural. Their ponies sidled and jostled each other as they stood at the ready. "Stay out of my way and it won't happen again," Hazard murmured, watching the referee confer with an official on the sidelines. "It won't happen again," the Duc softly said, his gaze too sharply focused on the field. Expecting conservative polo, he hadn't been prepared, but he wouldn't be taken by surprise again. At the quiet defiance, Hazard turned to glance at the Duc briefly, his gaze immediately returning to the ball being placed in position. "I'd watch out if I were you," he warned, his body alert, intent on the movement of the other players, his eyes staring straight ahead. "She's unhappy; you made her unhappy." "She left me." It wasn't necessary for either of them to define "she." "And before you try to run me over with your pony again, we should clarify that point." "How's your divorce progressing?" Hazard's voice was sardonic. Of course Daisy would leave him under the circumstances; the man had no intention of getting a divorce. "Held up in court." "Convenient." Sarcasm blended with Hazard's growl. "How's her new boyfriend?" The coolness of the Duc's tone enhanced the effect of his British accent. If Daisy's irate father was out to kill him on the polo field, Etienne thought, he might as well understand who had left whom and for what. The ball skitted across the field, in play once again, abruptly curtailing their conversation. As they both raced forward, Hazard risked a moment to look at the Duc's face. New boyfriend? Was the man serious? All Daisy had done since her return was mope over her loss. The Duc's attention was concentrated on the ball, his mallet already swinging back for a hit. Bloody cool bastard. Was he trying to say Daisy was at fault? Damn him! He was the bounder, toying with Daisy's affections. Leaning

forward in his saddle, Hazard urged his pony to more speed, overtaking Etienne, racing neck and neck with the Duc for possession of the ball. Drawing his left foot completely out of the stirrup as he came within range, Hazard twisted downward, stretching out for a jab shot. Both men galloped full-out toward the French goal, the roar of the crowd, their teammates cries a distant clamor. The Duc moved his pony recklessly near Hazard's galloping mount, his mallet sweeping the grass, his body half out of the saddle, stretching for the ball sitting directly in line with the goal. Hazard shifted his mallet to his fingertips, his reach exceeding Etienne's by a scant breathless half-inch, and he sent the ball clear. His damn pony was oversize, Etienne fumed, that extra advantage giving Daisy's father that hairsbreadth more he'd needed to reach the ball. With his eye on the ball sailing out of range, Etienne wrenched his mount into a speeding, dangerous forehand turn, pursuing Hazard. Galloping close on his near quarter, Etienne shouted over the uproarious cries of the spectators, "Your pony's bigger than fifteen hands, dammit!" "It measures fifteen hands," Hazard returned with a grin, knowing his Indian pony measured smaller with the right preparation, preferring a bigger mount than those currently prescribed. "Like hell!" "Lose out on that last strike?" Hazard's long hair was flying in the wind, his smile smug, taking satisfaction in thwarting the man who'd made his daughter so unhappy. Etienne's answer blistered the air. The game took on a serious edge after that, a hard-riding, high, wide, and handsome game of grim competition, Trey and Henri battling at first, their teammates playing as fiercely. At the end of the third heated fifteen-minute period, the teams were even. Then in the final chukker, the weariness of both ponies and men began to show. The mounts were lathered, their speed slowed, a stumbling gait evident on the speed turns. Fatigue was equally apparent on the tight-lipped players. The sun slipped low in the sky as they fought up and down the shadowy long field with never a foul or safety to change the score. The sun set, twilight shadows appeared, the light dimmed as dark crept in, but they played on until at last only night itself put an end to the game. "We'll see you at the play-off," Hazard growled at the Duc, every muscle in his body aching after the savagely contested game, his breath coming in short hard gasps. "Fuck you," the Duc muttered, nursing the two fingers he'd sprained when Hazard's mallet hooked his—intentionally, he was sure. Damn, they hurt; they'd already swollen twice their size. "I don't think so," Hazard said, drawing air into his aching lungs. "But then I'm harder to fuck than most. Keep it in mind." He turned his pony, then, without using his reins, the merest pressure of one foot signal for his paint to move. And he rode off toward Trey who was conferring with the officials.

As Etienne rode away with his teammate Fallon, the French team's hostess, Nadine Belmont, waved them over to her carriage. A society hostess of note, she'd offered her recently built eleven-million-dollar "cottage" at Newport as guest quarters for the team, and with the Duc de Vec's arrival, she found added interest in pursuing warm French-American relations. The sky was the lilac-gray of evening, the mist from the ocean beginning to cool the air as they cantered slowly across the playing field. So many carriages still rimmed the perimeter of the turf—few spectators indifferent to the excitement of the fiercely fought match—the Duc wouldn't have noticed Daisy in the press of the crowd had Fallon not stopped to visit with Empress at their calash. "Etienne, you Empress," Fallon said, turning slightly in his saddle to include the Duc in the conversation. "We grew up together. She could outride me in those days." "He doesn't say we were eight then," Empress re-turned with a charming smile, looking elegant in maize georgette and a flower-bedecked straw hat, "and Papa had put me on a pony when I was two. You looked very skilled out there today, David." And moving her gaze to the Duc, Empress said, "How are you Etienne?" "Tired and slightly maimed," he said with a small smile, holding up his swollen hand. "How are you?" His query lapsed into an inattentive courtesy as he suddenly noticed Daisy seated slightly behind her sister-in-law and a flood of acute and conflicting feelings bombarded his mind. Surprise dominated, although he should have suspected she'd be here, watching her father and brother play—she'd watched him often enough. "I'm well," Empress said. The Duc's eyes were on Daisy, dressed with utter simplicity in white linen, a plain boater tipped gracefully over one eye. "Have you met my mother-in-law, Mrs. Braddock-Black?" Fallon nudged him. "I don't know whether we've actually ever met," Etienne quickly replied, his eyes swiveling to Blaze seated across from Daisy, "although I've seen you several times at Esme's." He smiled

in apology for his preoccupation, and introductions were exchanged between the men and Blaze, between Fallon and Daisy. "You know each other, don't you?" Empress casually went on when it was Daisy's turn to be introduced to the Duc. "Good evening, Miss Black," the Duc said, circumspect and precise, as if they had been no more than incidental friends, aware all parties to the conversation were watching them. "I thought you'd be in Montana." "I didn't know you were with the team." Their statements were spontaneous, unguarded, their critical thoughts impossible to contain, both too conscious of what had ed between them, too expectant, too taut with a riveting, familiar heat. How large he looked and seductive in his white polo jersey and twill jodhpurs, his hair damp with sweat, and curling. "I wasn't officially until this morning," he carefully said, training his voice to an emotionless tone. "My decision to come was belated." And had he known she was in Newport, would he have chosen otherwise? "Damn lucky for us you arrived," Fallon interrupted. "Centrelle and Daudet couldn't sit a pony any longer." Two carriages down, their impatient hostess was signaling them, the silver and rose streamers on her large-brimmed hat trailing back and forth as she gestured with it, beckoning energetically. Her voice carried across the mauve twilight, unquiet and irrepressible. "Etienne, darling, do hurry! Etienne! Eti-ennnne!" "Excuse me," the Duc quietly said, beginning to gather his reins. "Will you be at Nadine's tonight?" Fallon quickly asked the carriage at large, preparing to leave with the Duc. "Yes," Empress said. "Later. We're dining with the Rutherfords first." David Ney, Marquis de Fallon, waved as he turned his pony's head. "Till then." He saluted with a casual wave, and kicking his pony into a canter, followed the Duc. "Are you all right?" Blaze asked Daisy, reaching out to touch her hand. "I'm fine, just fine." Her voice was crisp. "Nadine has a new darling," she added, curtly. "Somehow it doesn't surprise me." Empress and Blaze exchanged glances. "Nadine calls everyone darling," Empress said. "She calls every handsome man darling. Let's be specific." Daisy's gaze traveled down the line of carriages to the one holding the hostess of the French polo team

who was at the moment smiling up into the Duc de Vec's laughing face. Nadine Belmont, second wife to the Chesapeake and Ohio Railroad Belmont, a man old enough to be her grandfather, was arching her back provocatively, showing her famous bosom to best advantage. "If the Duc hadn't gone to her, she'd still be screaming," Blaze declared. "It's not as though he had a choice." "You don't have to defend him to me. I know as well as you do, Etienne doesn't let others make his choices for him. If he didn't want to go, he wouldn't have. Now, can we change the subject because I don't care to be viewed with those consoling looks of sympathy. He and Nadine will get along swimmingly. She collects handsome men and Etienne holds the record for female acquisitions in this century. A match made in heaven." Daisy hadn't known what to expect on seeing Etienne again. She supposed with female vanity she'd expected him to show some feeling, indicate in some romantic way that he cared—he'd always care in some poetic eternal golden dream of unrequited love. She should have realized her sentimental fantasies were outside the scope of his emotions. Etienne Mattel didn't pine. By personality and inclination he rejected that sensibility. He found another woman was what he did. And she'd seen Isabelle's staggering list to prove it. "Speaking of matches," Blaze said, segueing into a more palatable topic as requested, "they left blood on the field this afternoon. My word, that was a brutal game." "No more than those at the summer camp when everyone's betting their best horses on the outcome." Empress had been shocked at her initial introduction as spectator to the Absarokee warriors' notion of play. The riding game of choice on the northern plains was a cross between lacrosse and polo or more aptly between suicide and warfare, with no quarter given or requested. Played in minimum garb of leggings and moccasins, the first time she'd seen Trey ride off the field after a game covered with blood, she'd fainted. Since then she'd become accustomed to their masculine games where courage, bravery, and an undeniable audacity were prerequisites of competition. But in lieu of horses, she suspected the prize today was pride. Hazard and Trey rode up then, dust-covered, sweaty, exhausted, but cheerful. There was satisfaction in a hard-fought game where the teams were evenly matched and the play rough-and-tumble. Hazard's biggest complaint with Eastern polo was its conservative style. Coming from a culture and generation where warfare had been a way of life in his youth, he missed the bold intrepidity of attack. "We'll take them in the play-offs," Hazard said, his smile white in the gathering dusk. "No broken bones?" Blaze inquired with an answering smile. "A few bruises, that's all. Nothing to keep me from dancing with you tonight," Hazard gallantly replied. He knew how much Blaze enjoyed Eastern society where she had a vast network of friends from her past. "Nadine's birthday party promises to outshine Alva Vanderbilt's, I'm told on good authority. An orchestra from Vienna no less."

"Do you want an orchestra from Vienna?" Hazard pleasantly inquired, generous to a fault. "No, but remind me to tell you what I do want, later." Her glance-was significant and her husband smiled teasingly. "My word on it, bia." What Blaze had in mind was not precisely what Hazard envisioned; she was, in fact, deadly serious about what she wanted this time. And later, after a slow trip back through congested traffic to Frank Rutherford's mansion on Bellevue Avenue, when she and Hazard were in their bedroom suite relaxing before dinner, she said, "I want to ask you a favor, darling." "Not again," he said with a grin from his lounging position on the ornate baroque bed where they'd recently made love. She turned from the closet where she stood before a vast array of evening gowns, debating which to wear this evening and grinned back at him. "You're eternally boyish… but I'm not complaining." "You keep me young, bia." Hazard was in fact, at fifty, as trim and fit as ever. Muscled and lean, he lay sprawled on the burgundy silk coverlet, his black hair in silky disarray on the lace-trimmed pillow, his arms thrown over his head, his dark eyes dwelling appreciatively on his wife. "Name your favor." "I'd like you to try and be pleasant to the Duc de Vec." Her words brought him sitting upright on the bed, a scowl prominent over his snapping eyes. "Ask me something else, bia. I can't do it." Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he rose in a swift, restless movement and strode over to the window overlooking the ocean and Cliff Walk. He stood nude before the curtained window, looking through the lace s, the waves crashing against the rocky shore, analogous to the savage impulses filling his mind. "He doesn't deserve our courtesy," he said low and tense. "You didn't see Daisy's face when he rode up to our carriage after the match." He whipped around. "He talked to Daisy. How dare he—" "You should have seen her face, Jon. She's still desperately in love with him." "No, she isn't. She told me she wasn't any longer. She told me it's over." "Well, she lied then." His black eyes stared at her as if he could decipher the discrepancy between Daisy's words and his wife's. When he spoke, his voice was curt, dry as the dust on the banks of the Powder River. "Say you're right." He stopped her comment with a raised hand. "Just say Daisy still loves him. What then? The man's married. He can't or won't get a divorce." "Say it's can't." "Say it's won't." He was less romantic than his wife. "Would it hurt to give them a chance to talk?"

"Am I keeping them from talking?" he said with distinct violence in his tone. "Your attempt at mortal injury this afternoon on the polo field might have given him the impression you don't like him." "He wasn't concerned whether I liked him this summer when he cast his libertine eye at Daisy. Why do I have to like him?" "For Daisy." Hazard stared at his wife for a lengthy moment and then exhaled in frustration. "Tell me how she looked," he softly said. And when Blaze described Daisy's defensive posture so distinct from the poignant hurt in her eyes and the way her gaze had lingered on the Duc as he conversed with Nadine Belmont, Hazard said with grudging reluctance, "You're sure?" "I like to think I'm a good judge of people. I married you, didn't I?" "Flattery won't get you anywhere tonight, bia. I'm pissed." His scowl while not bristling was one of displeasure. "Think of Daisy, Jon," Blaze quietly onished. "Not yourself." She was right, he had to honestly it. Whether he took issue with the Duc's methods was irrelevant to his daughter's happiness. "Oh, hell," he grumbled, "if she wants him, I suppose I can be pleasant to the damn fellow." He grinned. "He does play one hell of a game of polo. He can't be all bad." "If anyone should understand libertine men, darling…" Blaze suggestively declared. "That was a long time ago," he said in reference to his past. "De Vec's escapades, on the other hand, are too damn recent for comfort," he complained. "I'm only suggesting you might have a bit of Christian charity considering the adventures of your youth." "I'm not a Christian, bia," he said with a small smile, "and," he went on, his tone collected and temperate, knowing she was referring to his children born before he married her, "our culture permits a different style of liaison than the yellow-eyes." "Does that include Lucy Attenborough, Cornelia Jennings, et al.?" "All before you, sweetheart, keep in mind." He sighed then. "But I see your point. I'll be civil to the man." "That's all I ask." "That's all you'll get," he muttered. "What was that darling?" "I said, wear the green flowered silk. It does you justice." He grinned. "And you'll owe me."

"I'll try and think of some way to repay you," she said with a wink.

Belcourt was the largest of the Newport "cottages," the most elegant, extravagant, and opulent of the summer residences built for America's haut monde. Designed by Richard Morris Hunt and freely copied from Marie Antoinette's Petit Trianon, the ultimate example of the Newport play palaces was ablaze with gas and electric lights—a breathtaking sight rising out of the dense and oppressive fog. Flanked by her parents and the Rutherfords, Daisy walked into the mirrored-and-gilded ballroom on the arm of Beau Rutherford. Not trusting her emotions after meeting the Duc that afternoon on the polo field, she considered Beau's escort necessary protection and defense. He'd long been in pursuit of her in any event. Their families also looked on the possibility of a match between them with great favor, so when Beau had suggested at dinner, with a teasing earnestness she'd come to recognize as his own offhand style of courtship, he accompany her to the dance, she'd accepted. He was very blond, very tall, and tanned from sailing. He was also bending low, whispering into Daisy's ear when the Duc first looked up at the announcement of the three couples. She could have been alone on the threshold of the ballroom, for his gaze focused only on her as she stood framed by enormous palms, liveried footmen, her parents, and their friends. Defenseless at the sight of her, fierce desire swept over him with the force of the pounding surf on the cliff shore outside. And when she smiled, then laughed outright at something Beau Rutherford whispered, the Duc de Vec abruptly excused himself from the group discussing the afternoon's polo match. Without reason or thought, impelled by a jealousy so intense he felt the heat of it to the tips of his fingers, he precipitously moved through the heavy crush of guests toward Daisy.

He had no idea what he'd do when he reached her—that wasn't precisely true, he recognized a moment later, as visions of making her prisoner on one of his remote estates crossed his mind—'and he cautioned himself to some semblance of civility. A struggle soon lost, as hot, wrathful discontent overcame him no more than four strides later. A dozen feet from Daisy, Nadine Belmont put herself directly in his path and as he heedlessly began to move around her, she took his hand in hers, forcing him to stop. She hadn't made her way from a seamstress's cottage in Louisville to her Newport cottage and profitable marriage on her looks alone, but the smile she turned up to him was gracious. "I think you owe me a dance, darling," she said, aware of Daisy's arrival, conscious of the rumors concerning the relationship between Daisy and the Duc, not disposed to let her newest amorous quarry escape. "Actually, I know you owe me a dance, because I'm your hostess and my husband Oliver rules on eligibility for the polo teams." The Duc had to smile despite himself at her audacity. "Are you threatening me if I don't dance with you, Nadine?" "Do I look like I have to threaten, Etienne?" Bringing her fan up in a practiced languorous movement so the lacy arc rested on the black lace verges of her splendid décolletage, she smiled, her kohled eyes seductive. He could refuse and risk a scene. He could refuse and risk disqualification, her implication of her husband's stewardship not necessarily benign. Charitable impulse hadn't brought Nadine to her present position in Eastern society. Glancing over her head in swift perusal, he saw Daisy walking out onto the dance floor with the Rutherford heir. His green gaze returned to Nadine, lazily drifted over her smiling face, down to her décolletage, and then slowly back again to her amused eyes. He grinned. "Did I say I was on my way over to invite you to waltz?" She snapped her fan shut and winked at him. "Clever man." The dance floor was crowded, strains of the Viennese waltz wafting dulcetly above tinkling laughter and flirtatious conversation as dancers twirled and glided across the ballroom. Rustling silk gowns framed naked shoulders, gleaming and perfumed. Jeweled and coiffed ladies with painted fans swinging from their kid-skin covered wrists were juxtaposed like plumed and tropical birds of paradise with the stark black severity of their male partners in evening dress. The pungent scent of wealth rose in the heated air past the glittering crystal chandeliers to the gold-leaf ceiling reputedly costing more than the new city hall. "You should dance more often, Etienne." Nadine's smile was flirtatious, her suggestion based not only on his expertise but on the Duc's normal reluctance to participate in ballroom festivities. "If threatened so effectively," he replied with a roguish smile, "in future, you can be sure I will." "You wouldn't have danced with me otherwise?" Her coquettish face was raised to his, her pale brows arched in provocative query. The truth would never do. "I live to dance with you, Nadine," the Duc drawled, his smile distracting from the irony of his remark.

"Your Viennese orchestra is superb." Behind an artful arrangement of potted lilies and flowering hibiscus trees, the fifty musicians from Vienna were earning their generous stipend. "Alva has never brought over a Viennese orchestra," Nadine said, contentment smooth in her voice at having outshone her Vanderbilt adversary. Aware of the rivalry between the two ladies vying for leadership of society's exalted four hundred, the Duc wondered at what point the competition would reach outrageous levels. Both ladies had already brought "cottage" architecture to new heights of the ridiculous. "A coup for you then," he replied, amusement in the gleaming green of his eyes. "And you've never been her guest." Etienne masked his momentary shock at the ownership in her tone. He'd never realized he was a commodity of such import. "I'm sure Alva's had many guests of considerably more interest," he modestly replied. "She wants you, too, Etienne, mark my words." He was always slightly astonished at the freedom of speech American women affected. And when Nadine melted into his body on a swinging turn, he decided he'd better lock his door tonight. He'd lost sight of Daisy in the crush of dancers, she and her young blond partner having slipped away in the sea of twirling guests. But they reappeared suddenly from behind a decorative arch festooned with garlanded orchids and she was smiling up at the blasted man. It shouldn't matter, he reasonably decreed. It shouldn't matter so much, he thought a second later, an abrupt, surging frustration assailing him. She could smile at whomever she pleased. Rutherford was probably her newest attachment. Perhaps Beau Rutherford was the reason for her letter offering him her friendship. Was he? The Duc glided into a turn to maintain her within sight. Arrayed in a cloth of gold-gown embroidered with glittering butterflies, Daisy presented a ravishing sight of opulence, the shimmering fabric gorgeous contrast to her dark skin and hair. If she'd suddenly shouted to him across the milling crowd and vast ballroom, he couldn't have been more struck. She was a veritable vision—a glowing tantalizing vision. Damn the man holding her and damn her offer of friendship.

And damn her father, too, who tried to kill him this afternoon. He intended to rip her out of Rutherford's arms. And then what? the saner portion of his brain posed in rational query. But a second later, lucid thought lost out to the flood of galvanic violent emotions flaring through his senses. Then I'll have her, he grimly decreed, like a long ago de Vec might have contemplated the advantages of plunder.

From the look of things, Nadine had put her stamp of ownership on Etienne, Daisy reflected, her eyes drawn to the splendid image they presented. Small and fair against his powerful size and brooding good looks, Nadine and the Duc were the personifica-tion of femininity and virile manhood. And Nadine couldn't have been any closer to Etienne unless she climbed inside his jacket. Where the hell was her husband? Probably upstairs sleeping. Oliver Belmont maintained an eccentric regimen of exercise, diet, and rest, waking at sunrise and retiring very early. Since Nadine often danced until dawn and slept until afternoon, perhaps the brevity of their hours together ed for the preservation of their marriage. Oliver was tolerant, too, everyone knew, of his young wife's escapades. And it looked like Nadine's newest playmate was the Duc de Vec. Why did it bother her so? Since this afternoon, when she'd first recognized his reckless style of play on the polo ground and then spoken to him, Daisy had asked herself that question countless times. Her answers were muddled and incomplete, logic battling the power of her emotions. On seeing him again, she'd felt as though a hot sun were beating down on her naked body, desire so overwhelming a sensation. But the practical voice so dominant in her personality had won the struggle for supremacy over the last few hours, its influence more persevering and tenacious. She'd made the right decision considering all the serious problems explicit in their relationship, she kept reminding herself. She and Etienne could never have solved all the numerous and fundamental discrepancies in their lives. So grow up, she silently onished, get a grip on yourself. And keep Nadine in mind. As usual, Etienne had found a cordial woman eager to amuse him. Typical. Normal. Habitual. He'd never change.

When the waltz concluded with a flourish of violins, half a room separated Daisy and the Duc. Discussion immediately broke out as conversational groups drifted together to exchange the latest gossip concerning Newport's "cottagers." While Daisy and Beau ed a group of his friends, Nadine and Etienne were surrounded by guests offering congratulations or advice on the afternoon's tied match. As high scorer, Etienne modestly accepted the accolades, politely acknowledged advice from the polo cognoscenti, but he was restless, his glance straying frequently to Daisy, talking with friends near the terrace doors. Vaguely detached from the exchange of comment swirling around him, he found himself automatically agreeing with something Nadine said, only to discover later, when one of the men launched into a long recital of the many ships wrecked on Barkley lighthouse shoals, that he'd promised to accompany a picnic excursion to the seashore the following day.

He could plead a polo match or practice later, he decided, to avoid the outing, his gaze drifting again to the group surrounding Daisy. She seemed to be making her adieus, for men were bowing to her. Gently lifting Nadine's hand from his arm, he, too, made his excuses. "I promised Durham a game of billiards." His smile encomed those in their conversational group, falling last on his hostess's cool, suspicious expression. "I'll go with you," she said. "You can bring me luck," he pleasantly replied, knowing the billiard room, a male bastion of cigar smoke and masculine ribaldry, was uncongenial to a lady's comfort. But he was saved, instead, from delay in his pursuit of Daisy or an unpleasant scene with his hostess, when a lackey approached her. Nadine's husband, it seemed, was threatening to fly into a rage if his new shipment of ginseng root wasn't immediately located. Oliver Belmont wanted his evening elixir, he wanted the latest delivery, and he wanted it immediately. "Very well. Tell him I'll see to it." With raised eyebrows Nadine turned back to her guests. "Oliver will sulk if he doesn't have the freshest ginseng, although I can't see how it matters when it takes two weeks to be brought over the sea, but—" Her shrug was a delicate indication of sufferance. Touching Etienne's arm lightly, she murmured, "Don't go away… I'll see you later." Having been delayed by several acquaintances as she made her way down the corridor in the direction of the powder room, Daisy was still in sight when Etienne exited the ballroom. But only barely… a flash of cloth of gold and one bare shoulder disappeared into a doorway. Since several other ladies followed in her wake, Etienne recognized the withdrawing room set aside for female guests. Taking up a position a short distance away, he was able to observe the entrance without being obvious. Leaning against the wall in the shadow of one of the numerous malachite columns decorating the corridor, he waited for the woman who had been constantly in his mind, the woman who'd ionately declared her love for him, the same one who'd written only short weeks later refusing his offer of marriage. In the seclusion of the dim hallway he tried to be more accepting of her refusal, to understand Daisy's reasons with a benign detachment. A certain peacefulness prevailed in the cool shadows away from the brightly lit ballroom and brittle party chatter. The cloistered marble vault should have helped soothe his more savage impulses. But images of Beau Rutherford reappeared in his mind, initiating an ungovernable rush of anger. In all the weeks of their separation, he'd rationally considered the possibility of other men with Daisy. But faced with the reality, all rationale disappeared. Emotion alone impelled him… and uncontrollable jealousy. And perhaps pride, too, incited his temper… he'd never asked a woman to marry him before. Did Daisy's egalitarian principles allow caprice in her relationships as inconstant as had been all his previous liaisons? Had all her talk of love been no more than playful frolic? Too familiar himself with sensual indulgence as amusement, he chafingly realized that same impulse may have influenced Daisy. 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 ed, 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 ed, 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 serenity 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 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 itted. 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 irers. 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 her 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 ed… 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. "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 ed. 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, ed 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 ionate 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 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 ed 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 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. "I promised Hector a day at the beach, Nadine." Etienne's smile was pleasant but detached. Hmmm, Hazard thought. His grandson before Nadine. The man showed good judgment at least. "Did I hear Hector's name?" Appearing from behind a towering floral arrangement flanking the door to the ballroom, Jolie and Henri ed them. "I was telling Nadine, Hector has a day at the beach planned for us. You know everyone, don't you?" the Duc said, the presence of his daughter and son-in-law a comfortable addition to the disproportionate number of Braddock-Blacks. "But Etienne, you promised me as well. My picnic, , to Barkley lighthouse?" "Forgive me, but Hector's too young to understand if his plans are altered. Perhaps next time I can

you." A polite but definite dismissal, Hazard noted with satisfaction… or perhaps Nadine simply wasn't the Duc's style, he cynically reflected. "I hope you haven't changed your mind as well, Empress," Nadine sulkily said, her full lower lip pouty. "We'll be there. Trey's reserved me a day away from polo, and Daisy told me she's looking forward to painting the lighthouse. She's very good with watercolors." "I could stop by later," the Duc quietly said, "when Hector goes in for his nap." "Thank heaven for little boys' naptimes," Nadine purred, leaning into Etienne's side, "although big boys' naptimes can be heavenly too," she added in a low breathy whisper, meant for his ears alone. "There's Daisy now," Blaze remarked, saving the Duc the necessity of responding to Nadine's sultry innuendo. "She was upstairs!" Nadine muttered, her narrow blue gaze on Daisy descending the staircase, her mind swiftly attempting to sort out the possibilities of where and why she was upstairs. "Did you know that?" Her pale eyes critically assessed the Duc. Although the others hadn't caught her words, her tone was decipherable. Nadine alone wasn't interested in the Duc's answer. "No. Did I miss something?" Etienne inquired mildly, aware he was the cynosure of everyone's gaze. "Good luck, Papa," Jolie whispered and when he turned to look at her, she winked like she had as a child when they'd shared confidences from the sterner discipline of Isabelle and numerous governesses. He grinned back at her with an unburdened joy she hadn't seen in months.

Good Lord, Daisy thought, startled at the full array of family assembled in the hallway below. Was something of importance being discussed? Hopefully not, with Nadine in attendance. Mentally reviewing her appearance, she also hoped her dress was suitably composed, with no buttons left undone or chemise straps showing. Was her hair still properly arranged? Although distinctly nervous, faced with such a fascinated audience, she resisted checking, in the event her gesture caused comment. She needed an excuse, she rapidly contemplated, stepping off the last carpeted stair, only fifty feet separating her from a certain inquisition. An excuse for Nadine at least. The others might be inclined to politeness. Unfortunately her mind was blank of suitable subterfuge, filled instead with graphic images of Etienne, her emotions pervaded with erotic sensation. Damn him, she couldn't think. Fortuitously, at that precise moment, the entrance doors were thrown open by two footmen, and a sweeping cool damp breeze blew in from the ocean, bringing in its wake her uncle Kitredge Braddock with Valerie Stewart on his arm. Attention was immediately diverted from Daisy. Valerie! With Kit! The shock of their attachment ed in varying degrees on everyone's faces.

"Greetings!" Kit shouted, waving, his grin instant. "Well, darlings," he drawled as he strode nearer, his white tie slightly askew like his lopsided smile, "and the whole family's here now." Wildness on the prowl was Daisy's first thought, with wanton sybaritic pleasure on his arm, she waspishly appended, taking in her brother's short-lived ex-wife, suitably unchaste in purple chiffon lined provocatively in blush silk. A sportive match, at least, without great need for conversation. Like Etienne and his darling Nadine, she peevishly noted. Kit gave Daisy a smile and a brushing kiss on her cheek as they both reached the waiting group, then turned his sunny grin on the mildly shocked countenances observing him. "Sorry I'm so late," he affably said to everyone in general, his dark brows rising slightly in the direction of his disheveled auburn hair, "I met Valerie earlier today at Bailey's Beach. Valerie, you don't need introductions, do you?" he casually added, swinging her hand in time to some inner music. "I don't know everyone." Valerie murmured. Like Nadine, a connoisseur of masculine beauty and sensual pleasure, Valerie focused on the Duc de Vec, who hadn't previously come into her predatory range. "I see why you didn't show up for dinner," Trey murmured, while Valerie flashed a pretty smile at the Duc who was being introduced to her by a sulky Nadine. Trey's brows were raised in masculine understanding of Kit's delay. Kit grinned. "Your ex-wife is…" "… Accomplished," Trey said, his smile discerning. Kit's grin broke into a wide smile. "Definitely a woman of accomplishments." "Just as long as you don't have something she wants." "Oh, I think you've financed her sufficiently to leave me and all her other 'interests' free from her avaricious instincts. Thank you, by the way." Kit chuckled. "A cheap enough price for my freedom. You're more than welcome." The intervening years and the contentment of his life had mitigated his resentment toward Valerie. She'd also had the good sense to keep her distance from Belle, the child she'd left for him to raise. Taking in the massed array of family, Kit quietly inquired, "Have I missed anything?" "Only a possible case of one absent sister. You arrived opportunely and saved her from everyone's avid regard." "Daisy?" Trey nodded. "Absent with… from?" "With… I believe." Trey's eyes moved in the direction of the Duc.

Kit's brows rose again, his green eyes wide with interest. He and Daisy had been the last holdouts against the heated tempests of love—for quite opposite reasons. On his part, he'd always found the delectable choices too limitless to narrow down; Daisy's critical selection process, on the other hand, eliminated most of the male population. "You're looking well, Trey," Valerie said, transferring her attention from the Duc who had been engaged in conversation by a protective Nadine, to her ex-husband. "And you're looking… healthy, Valerie." A mildly sardonic intonation took into the precarious state of her bountiful bosom alarmingly close to popping out from the immodest confines of her low-cut gown. She was pleased he'd noticed, recognizing his lazy, assessing scrutiny. She would have kept him if she could have, Valerie thought, taking in her former husband, dark and beautiful as sin with those silvery eyes she could still smiling at her from very close range in those long-ago days when they'd still been lovers. But Trey Braddock-Black had been elusive, even within her marriage trap. "No hard feelings?" she inquired, he voice dulcet and inviting. "Not after two years," he said with a cultivated civility. But his pale eyes took on a hard edge for a moment when he considered how she'd almost ruined his life. Reaching out, he took Empress's hand in his and pulled her close. Turning from her conversation with Jolie, Empress quietly said, "Hello, Valerie." She leaned into Trey's shoulder, sure of his love, secure against Valerie's style of attraction, confident of her husband's faithfulness. "Was the beach busy?" she asked, Kit's comment about Bailey's Beach piquing her interest since she knew Valerie wasn't the athletic type. "Not early in the day." Valerie smiled at Kit. "The water was cold." "We went out for a sail instead," Kit offered. Which explained to everyone the lateness of their arrival. Kit's sailing craft, specially designed for ocean travel, had all the luxuries—including an extremely large stateroom. With Daisy too close for comfort and Valerie's capricious attention a possible threat, Nadine abruptly declared, "I want to dance." Unshy and assertive under the most benign circumstances, with the Duc's strong arm beneath her hand and her husband sleeping peacefully off in the far west wing, she was avowedly determined to keep the Duc for herself. "Right now," she added, firmly, gazing up at the Duc. "Excuse us," Etienne said. He had no choice short of publicly embarrassing his hostess by refusing, although he knew his leaving with Nadine would be disastrously misconstrued by Daisy. Hell and damnation, he heatedly thought, there were times when a lodge on the prairies held great appeal. How many times in his life had he been gracious under duress? After Etienne left with Nadine, Daisy found herself wretchedly dispirited with all the subtle and not so subtle machinations surrounding the Duc. Wherever he went beyond the privacy of his home, women fawned over him, made demands of him, wanted him to entertain them in a thousand individual ways. She was weary of the competition—Isabelle a serious contender, in a class by herself—and she could no longer deal with the universal ardor. She was no better, she realistically itted, her behavior tonight in his bedchamber as eagerly ionate. "I'm tired," she said, her voice suddenly curt. "Excuse me, but I'm

leaving." So sharply uttered was her declaration and so obvious her dejection, Blaze instantly suggested accompanying her. "I've had quite a long-enough day; it must be after midnight." "Twelve-thirty," Empress offered, checking the small diamond brooch-watch on her bodice. "I'm tired too." Empress preferred rising in the morning with her children, although they had nannies enough. "I'm going to stay for a short time more," Hazard gruffly stated, intensely aware of his daughter's unhappiness. "No need to send the carriage back, I'll walk." "Since I generally sleep until afternoon," Kit said with an amiable smile, "the evening's just beginning for me. Do you want to dance, Valerie?" Half drunk and cheerful, his life held nothing more urgent than an occasional junket off to some distant corner of the globe when the mood struck him and the winds were favorable. Valerie had even less to concern her; she didn't sail, her junkets pertaining to pleasure of another kind—less lengthy and of the boudoir variety. She was amenable. Jolie and Henri had excused themselves when the Duc left to dance with Nadine, so after the ladies had their wraps brought to them, Hazard and Trey escorted their wives and Daisy to their carriage. "Are you sure you're going to be all right?" Blaze asked Daisy as the horses drew away from the brightly lit entrance portico. She was pale beneath the golden bronze of her skin. "You miss him, don't you?" Empress sympathetically declared, the visible evidence before her eyes conclusive. "No," Daisy harshly replied, "not with Nadine hanging all over him." "She can be a problem." Blaze sighed. "Although he doesn't seem smitten," she kindly added. Daisy snorted in derision. "Etienne's never smitten. It would take too much emotion. It's so much easier to casually play the game—an effortless endeavor for him after all his years of practice," she tersely concluded. "You're too hard on him," Empress reed. "He obviously was only being polite to Nadine." "And he certainly knows how to be… polite, doesn't he?" Daisy's elaborate sweetness cut like a knife. "Oh, dear," Blaze murmured, concerned with Daisy's unhappiness. "Can we do anything, darling?" she softly inquired. "No, nothing really, I'm fine. Absolutely fine," she declared, fixing her gaze on the fog outside. She wasn't though, she was miserable, desperately, unbelievably miserable. During the months away from Etienne, she'd conditioned herself to a measure of equanimity and peace. And in only a few brief moments, he'd completely destroyed all her hard-won tranquility.

"I'll be in the billiard room," Hazard was saying to Trey at the same time Daisy was grieving the loss of her carefully wrought serenity. "When de Vec's finished dancing with Oliver's wife, would you ask him to

me?" From the tone of his father's voice, Trey understood one dance would be the limit of Hazard's patience. "Are we concerned with Nadine's wishes?" Hazard's dark brows rose in ironic response. "She can have him back when I'm finished with him." "He doesn't threaten." Trey recalled his last meeting with the Duc in Empress's Paris home two years ago. When he'd threatened to kill him, the Duc de Vec had only quietly said, "You can try." "I've no intention of threatening him. I'm simply going to ask him a few pertinent questions concerning his intentions in regard to your sister." "Daisy won't like you asking." Hazard glanced at his son as they stood in the loggia near the billiard room, the sound, of the waves breaking on the shore out-side the arched windows distinct, the wind off the sea pelting the dark gleaming glass with spray. "Daisy won't know." "He might tell her." "I'll see that he doesn't." In that precise tone, Hazard had told the chiefs of his enemy, the Lakota, years ago, that he'd come for his son.

A short time later, the Duc de Vec walked into the billiard room, stood for a brief moment surveying the large chamber, and on seeing Hazard seated near the fireplace, proceeded toward him. Since the French team was lodged at Nadine's, several of the men at the billiard tables were friends and teammates, occasioning an interrupted progress across the room. "Hell of a game, Etienne." "Great lift on your backhanders, de Vec." "That last shot was a ball-breaker." He acknowledged their remarks with only a smile or a nod or a brief thank you. Intent on presenting himself to Daisy's father, he didn't wish to be waylaid. "Are you up to Nadine, de Vec, with your bruised body?" He silently groaned. The masculine ribbing was expected with Nadine's attention so obvious, but the timing could have been better. He was about to face a wrathful father. "With Oliver getting up so early in the morning," another man said, sportively, looking at the case clock in the corner, "you'll have to give Nadine an abbreviated version of your skills, de Vec. It's almost one o'clock." "I'm not interested, Charles," Etienne disavowed, skirting a British player making a bridge shot. "I'm here to play polo."

"Maybe you haven't made that perfectly clear to Nadine," a young man lounging against the table bumper said, his smile wide. "She looks as though she's taken a sincere interest in you." "Feel free, Abercrombie," the Duc offered. "She's all yours." Hazard was standing when the Duc reached him, his expression grim, and Etienne felt he should apologize somehow for the comments about Nadine. It wasn't a propitious beginning to what was probably going to be—at best—a difficult conversation. But he only said, "You wished to see me?" because it was impossible to say he was sorry about Nadine with any simplicity. Hazard didn't immediately answer, gazing at the Duc in silence for a long moment, as if judging him against some internal assessment scale, before finally saying, "The smoking room will be less busy." Turning, he touched a hidden at the side of the fireplace, opening a door concealed in the ing. "Oliver has his eccentricities," Hazard explained, shutting the hidden door once they were in the smoking room. "This leads outside past that alcove." For a fleeting moment Etienne wondered if he was going to conveniently disappear through that outside doorway until he noticed two men seated in the room smoking and enjoying a brandy. "Could we have some privacy?" Hazard quietly said to the two men comfortably disposed in plush armchairs, and despite the softly spoken request, there was no mistaking Hazard's voice of command. The sight of Hazard's stern expression augmented his dictatorial tone; both men immediately scrambled up, stammered their excuses, and exited through the outside terrace. "Excuse the excess," Hazard apologized, his voice serene, as though men jumping up and going out into the damp night to accommodate him was normal. "Oliver had this room reproduced from the Alhambra, which isn't the problem so much as the decorator from New York who 'improved' on the original." The proportions of the room duplicated royal magnificence, the vaulted ceiling rising more than forty feet, its moorish arches and ing walls covered with exact reproductions of the rare mosaics in the Alhambra. A magnificent glass chandelier hung from the elegant dome, illuminating furniture upholstered in red velvet or tiger skins, glistening above elaborately carved tables, enhancing the subtle lustre of four Yamoud Bokhara carpets specially ordered from Turkestan. As added decor, enough potted palms to shade an oasis punctuated the enormous chamber, lending a shadowy quality of exotic locales. "This could almost cause one to stop smoking," the Duc said, casting a sardonic eye about the room, his attitude as calm as Hazard's. Too long a de Vec to be intimidated, he only questioned what position Hazard would take. "A foul habit anyway. Sit down." For a man who had ordered the world to his perfection for decades and was comfortable with authority, the Duc experienced an odd deference. Hazard Black manifested a quiet unusual strength beyond the physical; a mystical power reminding him potently of the shaman magic he'd seen in his travels with Georges. An intense and capable force Etienne couldn't help but ire. "Would you like a drink?" Hazard asked, moving toward an ornately carved ivory table holding various bottles. At the Duc's affirmative, he poured them both a bourbon neat. "Some of Oliver's private stock

from his Tennessee farm," he added, handing the Duc his drink. "And smoother than most." Lifting his glass, Hazard smiled for the first time. "So you've become friends with my Daisy." Etienne choked marginally on his swallow of liquor at Hazard's politic word for the flame-hot ion between himself and his daughter. "Don't drink it too fast," Hazard cautioned with a grin as he seated himself across from Etienne on one of Oliver's tiger-skin club chairs. "It has more bite than brandy." Under the charming influence of Hazard's casual grin, the Duc recognized a portion of Daisy's appeal was inherited from her father. He had an astonishing warmth, charismatic and unaffected. And his dramatic physical presence in the overdecorated, flamboyant room brought with it a clean, fresh sense of majestic nature. Maybe his exotic long black hair or the small painted shell-earring hanging from his right earlobe contributed to the image of open-sky wilderness, or perhaps the fine lines evident near his eyes, brought on by years of gazing over the open plains, bespoke a man of the outdoors. He embodied an unmistakable spirit of nature, a tangible essence of forest and mountain and freedom, despite his stylish evening clothes and urbane manners. "Daisy doesn't like Parisian society," the Duc said, as though the revelation of that fact was suddenly clear after meeting her father. "She never has." Hazard held his glass lightly between his palms, his slender fingers dark against the sparkling crystal. A gold charm dangled from a delicate gold chain circling his wrist, and Etienne recognized the same cougar design Daisy wore as a locket at times. It was an amulet, she'd told him, crafted from the gold of her father's first mine, an insignia of his Absarokee name and his protective vision. "I think it has something to do with her rearing. In her early years, our tribe still followed the buffalo. It was a time of plenty, our land stretched across hundreds of miles of mountain and prairie. They were good years… when the land was still ours." In a voice betraying none of his poignant memories, Hazard succinctly added, "Paris is an anomaly to her." Intellectually, Etienne understood the nomadic way of life for he'd lived with many of the Asiatic tribes during the years he traveled with Georges. But coming from his background of aristocratic privilege, he couldn't fully perceive of a childhood entirely related to nature. Or understand completely the dichotomy now between her past and the sophisticated woman she'd become. "Daisy takes strongest issue with the idleness… the frivolity," he said. "She was always quieter and more serious than most children," Hazard replied, "and after her mother and stepfather were killed—well… she's never been open about her feelings." His voice was hushed suddenly, the old memories vivid and fresh. Daisy's mother had been his companion the last summer he was home with his tribe before the Civil War, in those happy days when the Absarokee were still in possession of the best hunting grounds on the northern plains and the spirits were still looking down on their people with benevolence. Daisy had been born after he'd gone back to Harvard. Then the war had intervened, and he hadn't seen her until she was almost four. He'd always felt guilty about missing that portion of her childhood. But Dawn Light had fallen in love with Seven Arrows by the time he'd returned from the war and in the way of their tribe, Daisy had been raised with her mother and Seven Arrows. In some ways he felt more responsible for Daisy because of his absence in her first years of life, feeling that perhaps he'd contributed in some way to her reserved nature. Clearing his throat, he leaned forward, his expression grave. "I might as well get right to the point," he said, his dark eyes fixed on the Duc. "I was wondering—if you don't mind the fatherly term—exactly what your intentions are toward my daughter." Hazard wasn't prudish; he understood ion and need. But he'd seen Nadine tonight and

knew the Duc's reputation. "I asked Daisy to marry me." Etienne's statement elicited a skeptically raised eyebrow. "After my divorce is finalized." "Daisy says perhaps that isn't a possibility." Hazard's tone was scrupulously polite, exquisitely polite, a tactful inquiry into the Duc's honest intentions. "She probably told you my wife isn't cooperating." Etienne sighed. "It could take some time." "How long?" The Duc set his glass down on a small table intricately inlaid with fragrant sandalwood. "I don't honestly know." A moody ill-humor colored his voice. "Neither Isabelle nor her family approves of divorce… a very new option in anyway, as you might know." "So I've been told." Hazard's dark gaze took in the Duc's brooding scowl for a long moment, and his voice, when he spoke, was grave. "How much do you love her?" He didn't ask do you love her because he wanted to know more than that. "She's my only daughter," he cryptically added. "I've never loved anyone before. I love her that much," Etienne simply said. Hazard put his glass down, too, as if the amenities were past and the serious issues confronted them. "I don't care about your divorce," he quietly said. "Our culture enfranchises individual choice. Male or female," he softly added. "What I do care about though, is my daughter's happiness. My question is whether you can offer her that." He put his hand up to stay the Duc's response until he finished. "She's not sure apparently about her feelings and I don't know if the problem is yours or hers. I don't even know positively a problem exists, but my wife tells me one does. You tell me." "Is Daisy involved with anyone else?" Not only jealousy but practicality prompted Etienne's question. "Because if she is, then the reasons she's given me for her refusal of my marriage offer are in the way of a polite dismissal. If not… I'll do my damndest to change her mind." "I don't know if her involvement matters. In my culture, a man woos a woman whether he has rivals or not. If he cares." "Good." Etienne's smile drove the moodiness from his eyes. "You shouldn't have any trouble pressing your suit if rumor's true," Hazard mildly said, amusement prominent in his tone. "I have your permission, then, to court your daughter?" The Duc spoke in swift declaration. "And I intend to divorce Isabelle if it means buying off every magistrate in ." "I was wondering if you hadn't considered that possibility before. Bribes are quite effective over here. Although certainly never cheap. Trey's divorce cost us one of our mines, but you met Valerie tonight. The exorbitant price was worth it."

"Yet the man with her tonight is a family member." "Valerie's a pleasant diversion; one simply wouldn't want her for a wife, and Blaze's brother Kit is still only interested in diverting himself. He'll enjoy her company." "A benevolent point of view." "Kit's special. He's my wife's only family." "Does he live in Montana too?" "At times. He mostly sails." "For business?" "No. Kit's only business is pleasure. Some of your commercial interests are railroads, Daisy tells me. A problem for her, she also tells me, with your lines in Europe. Do you see it as a problem?" "I was hoping she might live with me in Paris… at least part of the year. I honestly hadn't considered it an issue. I told her the problems of our two lives could be solved… somehow." "Can they though? I wouldn't be honest if I didn't it Daisy's extremely important to our clan as well as to our family. We're in litigation right now over mineral rights to our new mine. These court fights are hell; the case could very well drag out for years and she's the best legal resource person we have. In that respect I don't know how much she'll be willing to compromise. Daisy is seriously committed to our tribe." "I'm more of a romantic than she. I'm convinced we can reach some agreement." "Would you live in Montana?" "I can't permanently. My business ventures require my presence in Europe at least occasionally." "Hmm," Hazard murmured. An ominous sound suddenly in the silence of the Alhambra chamber. "Surely we can compromise." "We've railroad building out West now too. You might want to think about it. Come out some time and take a look for yourself." The door to the smoking room opened then and Nadine swept in, her arms open wide, her smile radiant. "There you are!" She sailed over in a cloud of perfume and black lace. "You've had him long enough, Hazard. He's mine now." "Good luck," Hazard murmured to Etienne with a grin. "He's all yours, Nadine," he said aloud. "But , we might need him for a polo match tomorrow if our play-off is scheduled. The Duc might like some sleep." "Rest assured, Hazard, I'll see that Oliver arranges a rest day for tomorrow. The Duc has graciously promised to come over to Barkley lighthouse later in the afternoon for my picnic."

"I do have an early appointment with Hector in the morning, Nadine." "It's only one-thirty, Etienne." "It's only one-thirty for people who sleep until noon, Nadine. And that doesn't include me since I'm Hector's breakfast partner. In fact, Jolie invited me to stay with them tonight." "Could I drive you over on my way home?" Hazard offered, although he knew his carriage was back at the Rutherfords'. He didn't think the Duc would mind walking. With heartfelt relief, Etienne took Hazard up on his offer. Nadine pouted prettily for a moment, but the French team would be playing in the tournament another week; she had time. "Tomorrow then, Etienne," she softly said, "at the lighthouse." Since he knew Daisy would be there, he said, "Sometime later… after Hector's visit." Nadine's smile was complaisant, satisfied. "Pleasant dreams," she archly murmured, and with a coquettish tap of her fan on his cheek, she left. When Hazard and the Duc reentered the billiard room a few moments later, Trey and Kit momentarily paused in their game. Guards at the door? Etienne mused. Their presence, however casual, had that look, although Trey and Kit both were smiling and friendly when they reached them a moment later. "Nadine tells us Oliver will schedule us a day of rest before our return match," Hazard said, as if his conversation with Etienne had been inconsequential. "Who's winning?" "Kit." "Trey." They hadn't been keeping score, more intent on the events in the smoking room. They were, as Etienne had suspected, there as backup. "We're tied, actually," Kit said, his expression bland. "Care to us?" "I'm giving the Duc a ride over to his daughter's." Which comment raised interesting possibilities, Trey thought, considering their carriage was at the Rutherfords'. "I'll come with you," he said. "I can beat Kit anytime." The grin he directed at his uncle was teasing. "You don't mind walking, do you?" Hazard looked at Etienne. "Blaze took the carriage but you looked like you needed an excuse for Nadine." "I'd walk a hundred miles to avoid arguing with Nadine at my bedroom door tonight. Thanks." "If you're leaving," Kit said, "I'll find Valerie, provided she hasn't left with someone else by now."

"A distinct possibility," Hazard dryly said. "If she has, then I'll walk home with you." Kit didn't give the appearance of being profoundly concerned. "I'm happy to see your heart isn't involved," Hazard lazily said. "Valerie isn't interested precisely in… hearts." Kit's grin creased the deep tan of his cheeks. And when he returned a few moments later to report she'd been seen leaving with a younger son of the Duke of Beresford, Trey sardonically drawled, "Apparently Comers has a few more dollars in the bank than you do." "Actually he doesn't, poor fellow. He's a younger son. But he does have several titles, and since Valerie already has a great deal of money—thanks to your generosity," he added with a grin, "she's probably in the market for a coronet." "Poor wretch." "Not necessarily, Hazard. He may be in the market for a healthy bank . A common interest, as it were, for their relationship. Besides sex," Kit added with a wolfish smile. "Always the basis for any of Valerie's relationships." "But as you well know, Trey," Kit's arched his brow suggesting roguish memory, "not at all common." Trey couldn't help but smile. "True."

Moments later they were being ushered out into the foggy night by Nadine's liveried footmen. Standing under the huge lit portico before stepping out into the fog, Hazard apologized for their candid discussion of Valerie. "In her own way, she's an interesting and um energetic woman. And were it not for her extreme selfishness, well…" "You wouldn't be raising her child," Kit said. "Or be one gold mine poorer than before," Trey curtly added. "Don't forget that." "The Duc and I were discussing the expenses of divorcing earlier. Certain expenditures are necessary." "Mine has currently reached an ime," Etienne declared. "A permanent ime, Daisy seems to think," Hazard ex-plained. "The Duc has asked my permission to press his suit with Daisy." "So you're the reason she's been moping since she returned from . Good luck and welcome to the family, as long as it's not my wife you're interested in," Trey added, his smile pale in the gray foggy night. In Trey and Empress's estrangement before their marriage, the Duc de Vec had been one of Empress's closer friends. All the palatial cottages on Bellevue Avenue faced the ocean, and having strolled several doors down from the Belmonts', the men paused at Hatfield Keene's, where Jolie and Henri were guests. "Jolie isn't

actually expecting me," Etienne explained when they stopped to say good-night. "I'm going on to the polo club. I thought I'd stay with my ponies. A pleasant alternative to Nadine." "Come to Rutherford's instead," Hazard offered. "The club is bare-bones sleeping arrangements and probably full up anyway." "I don't want to impose," the Duc courteously replied. "I can sleep with my groom if need be." "Nonsense. No need to sleep with your ponies when there're palaces up and down this block. Frank built Idle Hour to satisfy his tastes anyway, not his wife's. His annex was built to accommodate his bachelor guests. There's plenty of room there. If you stay, you can see Daisy in the morning." A simple decision suddenly. "You've got yourself an overnight guest. Although I'd better stop at the club first for a change of clothes, so I don't have to go to the beach with Hector in evening dress." The men accompanied him to the small veranda-framed clubhouse at the end of Bellevue Avenue and waited while he picked up the clothes he'd left there as replacement clothing between matches. Retracing their steps, the four tall men conversed in companionable fashion about polo and ponies, the fog shrouding them from all but each other, their voices drifting off into the wispy damp atmosphere. They separated at the main house, Kit and the Duc turning toward the bachelors' wing. "If you're rising early, breakfast is set up in the main floor dining room at seven," Hazard said. "Although hardly anyone wakes before eleven," he added in mild condemnation. "Including me," Kit cheerfully said. "Do not wake me for breakfast." "He was raised in the city," Hazard said, his grin indulgent, "which s for his society ways." "Hector's too young for society ways, yet, so I'll be up early. I'm seeing him at eight." The Duc wanted to ask if Daisy still rose earlier than the fashionable eleven o'clock, as she had when he knew her in Paris, but decided against it. He'd find out in the morning.

Daisy hadn't slept well. Between her frustration over Etienne's allure to women, particularly Nadine in this instance, and her own disastrously ardent response to him, her mind had been too full of conflict to sink into a deep slumber. She'd dozed fitfully, waking every few minutes, hoping the sun had risen so she could leave her bed. But exhausted by her restless night, she fell asleep just before dawn, waking with a start at seven. Morning. Finally. The summer sun shone brilliantly through the lace curtains, the chiming clock on the mantel trailed off on its last melodic vibration of the hour, her bedroom gleamed with lemon light. Throwing off the covers, she scrambled out of bed, knowing she had to get away, outside, anywhere… to distract her morbid thoughts. A ride on the seashore had the advantage of privacy and she had to be doing something, something physical, something requiring concentration, or at least an activity away from the frivolous perfumed Newport society. Did she dare think of Etienne? Or rather, was it possible to eliminate his powerful image from her mind? How humiliating her response last evening to Etienne's seduction, how much more humiliating would Nadine's discovery have been, she hated him and wanted him, she hated herself for succumbing so easily. But his kiss had been… wonderful and disastrous. Her confusion was total. In less than ten minutes, dressed simply in moccasins and leather leggings, a plain white shirt opened at her neck, her hair tied back with a leather thong, Daisy stood with her hand on the doorknob, hesitating. Her stomach was growling. She hadn't eaten last night at Nadine's, nor had she more than minimally at the Rutherfords' earlier, too agitated after having seen Etienne at the polo club that afternoon to have much appetite. If she called for breakfast in her room, its appearance would take longer than she cared to wait. Not certain she was in a suitably sociable mood considering her lack of sleep, she debated having breakfast downstairs. But another glance at the clock assured her—at this hour, she could almost be guaranteed solitude in the dining room. The hallway was empty when she stepped out of her room, the staircase, as well, while the two-story entrance hall, sunny under its domed skylight, was occupied by a single footman, half asleep in a chair. Seven-fifteen on a Newport morning definitely offered privacy. Humming a music hall tune all the rage that summer, she walked across the polished parquet and entered the large silent dining room. Even under heavy silver covers, the aroma of breakfast food drifted into her nostrils with gratifying seduction. Her stomach gurgled in anticipation as she walked over to the mahogany sideboard gleaming with Georgian silver. She was helping herself to a second slice of honey-drenched ham, her plate piled high with an unladylike amount of food, when the Duc walked in. "You don't belong here," she exclaimed, stupefied, the ham dripping honey in a widening puddle on the Irish-linen buffet cloth. How could Etienne be in her breakfast room, a half a mile from Nadine's at seven-fifteen in the morning? In a voice impolite and aghast, she breathed, "What are you doing here?" "Having breakfast. The laundress is going to wish you didn't like ham." His head inclined slightly in the

direction of the dripping ham on her fork and he smiled. Hastily dropping the ham on her plate she blurted, "You can't." "Can't?" His dark brows rose and fell in a swift quirked inquiry of politeness only. He had every intention of staying. "Have breakfast here." "Actually I'm only having coffee because I'm breakfasting with Hector. Do you think the Rutherfords will miss a cup of coffee?" They were of course talking about two different things. "Why aren't you at Nadine's?" She might as well ask since it was her overriding thought along with her staggering reaction to his appearance. He looked so achingly familiar in his short-sleeved white polo jersey and tan twill jodhpurs; how many times had she seen his sleek brown boots lying on the floor in the bedroom of his apartment on the Seine? Was it only a few weeks ago when she loved him with all her heart, without reservation or thorny doubts? Without all the obstacles raised now like insurmountable barriers? "Your father invited me to stay here." "I don't believe you." "Suit yourself, but he did." The Duc preferred not discussing Nadine if possible, the topic too fraught with minefields of dissension. "Are you going riding?" "Yes… no… it's none of your business. Why aren't you at Nadine's?" He hadn't answered her question. "She was being… insistent and I thought it best to leave." His answer was as bland as possible. "Insistent?" "Yes, insistent. Would you like me to spell it out?" "I thought you liked insistent women." He didn't want to argue about the women in his past. It was such a useless argument… and at base, she probably was right. In the past, he'd preferred insistent women, his tastes catholic and libertine. "If I did, I don't anymore. All right?" he quietly said. "So you came here?" "I was going to sleep at the polo club." "But?" "But your father invited me to stay in the annex, which beat the stables at the club." "I don't believe you," Daisy repeated, still moderately dumbfounded.

"Jesus," Etienne said, mildly exasperated after a very short night's sleep. "Why would I lie?" "I don't know. Why do you lie?" "I've never lied to you." His voice was very soft. His reply could be interpreted as ambiguous if she wished to analyze every nuance, but she found herself more and more conscious of the fact he was standing close to her than the precise content of his remarks. "I suppose I should be grateful then," Daisy said in automatic response opposed to the physical sensations his nearness aggravated. "I'll take anything I can get." He meant it sincerely, but last night was still too fresh in her mind, with Nadine and the ladies in the hallway drooling over him, to have his meaning transferred properly to Daisy's psyche. "Don't you always. Why didn't you consider a bed at Clara's or Bea's or Lily's if Nadine wasn't to your liking. I'm sure they would have been ecstatic to have you as a guest." "I haven't slept with a woman since you left me." He hadn't intended to say that, a private person by nature, unsure too of Daisy's involvement with other men or her uninvolvement with him. But he was weary suddenly of her accusations when he'd overturned his entire life for her. "There you are. Good morning," Blaze said, coming toward them with a smile, Hazard at her side. "We didn't know if you'd left yet for Jolie's." No other women? Daisy thought. The shock of Hazard and Blaze's appearance showed for a moment in the Duc's face before he recovered. "I just stopped by for coffee. I'll be off soon." "Did you sleep well?" Hazard politely inquired, putting out his hand in greeting as he came up to Etienne. "Well, but not long enough," Etienne replied with a smile, taking Hazard's hand in a strong grip. No other women? Could she believe it? "You look hungry," Blaze said to Daisy, her gaze on the plate in her hands. "Yes." And a hunger of another sort glided through her mind. "Sit down," Blaze suggested. "I'll bring you some coffee. Sugar this morning?" she inquired when Daisy didn't seem to respond. "Yes, sugar," Daisy absently replied before moving toward the table, not entirely certain her senses would remain obedient to the dictates of her mind. The smaller of two tables in the fifty-foot-long dining room had been set for breakfast, a pristine white tablecloth with heavy lace borders stark contrast to the scarlet brocade Jacobean chairs placed at each of the fourteen place settings. Three large bouquets of summer flowers were centered on the table like a fountain of color, their golden tones bright as the sun pouring through the sheer lace s on the

windows. Hazard and Daisy ate while Blaze drank cafe au lait and Etienne sipped on the heavily sweetened coffee he preferred. Hazard was dressed casually like the Duc, intending to go over to the polo club later and help the grooms take his ponies out for their morning warm-up. "Will you be coming over to the club later?" Hazard inquired, cutting his ham, the ornate gold flatware dwarfed by his large hands. "Not if I can help it," Etienne replied with a grin. "I'm still recuperating. Although I should put Bradley's electrical machine on these fingers for a few hours." "That works?" Hazard looked skeptical, his fork poised before his mouth. "It does. Last year Collin recommended it at Hurlingham after I'd sprained my wrist rather badly. Without the treatment I wouldn't have been able to play the next day." "What do you think, Daisy?" Blaze asked. "Maybe we should bring a machine back to Montana." "Why not," she tersely replied, awkward and uncomfortable sitting at the breakfast table with her parents and Etienne, her precarious poise threatening to crumble. Not only frustrated her father had interfered, inviting Etienne over as if she were a child who didn't know her own mind, she was haunted by the markedly significant words—no other women—repeating like hammer blows in her brain. If it were true—and she wasn't naively accepting that possibility, the enormity of Etienne's commitment was staggering. Those three words obliterated the potential fawning women, they rectified Isabelle's list as irrelevant, they meant change was not only possible but a fact. She trembled. "Are you chilled?" Blaze asked, her gaze intent. "No… maybe just a touch," she amended, aware Etienne's eyes were on her. "Take a jacket with you when you go then." Blaze noted Daisy was dressed in her habitual attire for riding. "Although it should warm up soon." "I certainly hope so," the Duc said, his voice infused with a sudden quiet. And Daisy's dark eyes lifted to his for a dramatic moment while a sudden hush settled over the table. Their attraction was palpable. Blaze flushed at the sudden public display. Hazard stopped chewing for a moment, his gaze thoughtful. The Duc composed himself first. Glancing at his watch, he said, "I should go. Hector hasn't any patience." He smiled. "Thank you for the hospitality." Pushing his chair back, he rose. "I'll see you at the club," Hazard said. "Give our best to your daughter's family," Blaze politely added. "Kiss Hector for me," Daisy said. "Tell him I've missed him." She tried to speak in a calm voice, the sight of Etienne over breakfast reminiscent of a ion and contentment she'd been attempting to obliterate from her memory for weeks. But the tidal wave of emotion was too overwhelming, her feelings powerfully affected, unmindful any longer of pragmatic restraint.

"Hector named one of his new kittens for you, he told me. So you have a namesake now. A calico, I think." Etienne had to speak of trivialities or he'd jump over the table, lift her out of her chair and kiss her, parents or not. "Au revoir," he quickly said and walked away. "The Duc seems very nice," Blaze said. "I hope you didn't damage his fingers too badly, dear," she added to Hazard in mild reproach. "Sometimes your temper is—" "I'm sorry. I told him that. He knows." Hazard grinned. "He was holding his own, so you needn't worry. I've the bruises to prove it." "I can see why you… like him, Daisy," Blaze declared. "He's very charming." "I don't know if I like him." She hadn't been able to eat a tenth of what she'd taken, her stomach filled with butterflies, reminded of so many past mornings when they'd shared breakfast. "He asked my permission to court you," Hazard said, his voice carefully modulated, his gaze fixed on his daughter who was destroying a kipper with the tines of her fork… not certain whether he was making a mistake telling her. She dropped her fork as if suddenly burned. "Permission!" Her eyes so similar to his bore into him. "Am I an ingenue? He asked your permission? He shouldn't have. He doesn't have any right. You don't have the right to grant him that permission. I'm thirty years old, Father. I'll make up my own mind about what I want to do. I'll make my own decisions on courtship, which is a damned old-fashioned term anyway. How could you, Father, discuss me like a commodity for sale!" "The Duc was simply being polite. His request isn't any more than a formality. You can do as you please, you know that," her father quietly said. "We just don't want you to be unhappy." "He's going to change that?" "It's up to you." "And everyone else who feels they can interfere. Don't, Father, I mean it. Don't interfere. Tell him, Blaze. He doesn't seem to understand." She stood abruptly, the high-backed chair tumbling over at her sudden movement. "Don't you think I'd like everything to work out perfectly? So I could be ecstatically happy everyday? Well, it won't. Because he has his life and I have mine and both lives are too damn busy to cavalierly toss aside, like some frivolous plaything turned dull. So I would appreciate it if everyone would leave me the hell alone!" After she'd stalked from the room, Blaze turned to her husband and softly said, "That judgment call went awry, darling." Leaning his head against the upholstered brocade back of his chair, Hazard exhaled softly. "I debated about being honest or opting for the diplomacy of omission. Hell and damnation," he went on, a grin forming on his lips, "she must have her mother's temper." "Sweet-tempered man that you are, right?" "You don't think she inherited that unbridled temperament from me?"

"As I recall, Dawn Light was a sweetly ive woman, capable and self-reliant. But inclined to use persuasion in achieving her goals." Fleeting memories of the summer they'd spent together came to mind. Dawn Light was definitely persuasive or he wouldn't have stayed with her so long. He'd been young then and not inclined to permanence in his relationships. "Humpf," he muttered. "She's very much her father's daughter, darling. And that's a positive statement. So don't worry about Daisy. She'll get over her temper just as you always do. And I think the Duc de Vec's temperament will figure rather largely in the outcome of this contretemps too. He looks like a man who's used to getting what he wants." "You think so?" Hazard sat upright, his mood moderately relieved. "He's very much like you, darling. I don't know how you can be unaware of that. Yesterday you were so evenly matched, I was afraid you'd both gasp your last breath on that polo field. He wouldn't have given up any more than you." "You think so?" Hazard said again. "I'd bet my new sapphires on it." "That much." Running both hands through his hair, Hazard relaxed in his chair, sliding into a comfortable sprawl. "Is this woman's intuition?" "Woman's perception. You just listened to Daisy's words. You didn't watch her face when the Duc spoke of Hector." "I didn't miss either of their expressions, though when he spoke of the weather warming. As a matter of fact," Hazard said with a grin, "it brought back fond memories of that cabin on our first mining claim." "Those are fond memories," Blaze agreed, her voice husky with emotion. "I want Daisy to be as happy," Hazard simply said. "Is that too much to ask?" "Give her time." "She's turned down so many suitors I've lost count. And now when she obviously cares about this man, she's going to walk away because of some… I don't even understand to be perfectly frank. She doesn't care about the divorce. I sure as hell don't. Maybe the Duc does. He's been reared in his religion, I suppose. And as far as their two different lives, I already told him we've plenty of railroads out West if Daisy wants to stay." "That's the problem. She does. Your vision for your people is hers as much as yours. She was almost grown when she came to live with us, as trained as her grandmother in the ways of a medicine woman. I don't always understand when you talk to your spirits or fully comprehend the supernatural powers that guide you, but Daisy does and I don't think she can walk away from your sense of destiny and duty anymore than you can. Your talisman, your protective vision, the powerful medicine that guides you, is inherent in both your natures." "Would I be interfering if I bought de Vec a railroad?" Hazard's smile was pure boyish mischief.

"I'd say Daisy might put that in the category of interference." "That leaves out kidnapping him." "I'd say so." "Would she send him back do you think?" "Probably out of spite." "Intractable girl." "You're obliged to relinquish your managerial role, darling. I'm sorry." "You mean we just have to sit here and wait for something to happen or be resolved?" He was restive like a young child curtailed from his normal activities. Blaze smiled benevolently. "Probably not for too long from the look of things over breakfast." Hazard sighed. "I hope you're right. At least he's not Martin Soderberg," Hazard added, his face brightening at the thought. "That man was a by-the-numbers martinet." Pushing his plate away, he set his napkin on the table. "Well… if I'm not allowed to meddle, I'm off to see to my ponies. Nadine spoke of coming here to look at some of the stock we have in Frank's stables. Trey can deal with her. Nadine is too damn breathless for my taste. Oliver must have married her purely for her well-kept body." "You noticed her body?" Blaze sweetly inquired. "I didn't notice." Hazard grinned. "I think Kit mentioned it. Maybe it was Trey. I've no idea what her body looks like—word of honor. Do we have to see all those people again tonight?" "What would you rather do? Are you sure?" she added with a small pique of jealousy, half teasing, half real. Nadine was undeniably voluptuous. "I'd rather be with you and, darling, I'm not even sure of the color of her hair," he wisely replied. "Good. Where would you like to go?" "Anywhere, as long as I can hold you and there's not a milling mob surrounding us." "We could have stayed home for that." "I know. But you like this, so I came for you." Reaching over, he covered her hand with his. "And this time for Daisy too. Let me know when you've had enough and we can go home." "When Daisy's settled." "When Daisy's settled," he said with a small sigh.

Daisy rode her paint mare out past the perimeter of Newport to the beach road that would take her eventually to the shore. She rode slowly, letting the morning sun and gentle breeze soothe her tumultuous thoughts, hoping the quiet open landscape would offer repose to the chaos in her mind. No other women . The phrase was etched vividly in her consciousness. Was it possible? Could Etienne have been truly faithful since she'd left? How much did that disclosure matter, what weight did his ission carry in her own personal assessment of him? She grappled with the exact measure of her jealousy, the unforgettable message Isabelle had delivered, the actuality of Etienne's words being true. But most of all she struggled with her intense reaction to his presence—last night at Nadine's and again this morning at breakfast. She could intellectualize the liabilities in their relationship with a cool scrutiny, but Etienne was stark temptation to her, a ionate appetite she couldn't control. If Nadine hadn't interrupted them last night, she would have tumbled willingly, impatiently, into his bed. Regardless of the hundreds of guests on the floor below, regardless of her family's presence—shameless in her urgency and need. On reaching the seashore, she guided her brown and white mount into the shallows, the low water and marsh grasses reminding her of the journeys along the Yellowstone at home. The vast open sky recalled the familiar landscape of home, too, although this sky bordered the horizonless sea and not her beloved prairies. Should she leave Newport, she mused as her pony splashed along in the shallows; should she flee the Duc's too powerful attraction, escape the tantalizing promise he'd made as he left? "I'll be coming after you," he'd said. She shivered under the hot sun, a chill sliding down her spine. Would she be able to resist? Would she want to?

The Duc spent the morning at the beach with Hector, building sandcastles, digging trenches to be filled with water, sharing a picnic, listening to his grandson's toddler chatter. Barefoot, they both played in the water, carrying bucketsful of ocean to their castle moat. And when Jolie came down later in the morning

to them, watching their activities from an umbrella-shaded chair, they came up occasionally to rest on the blanket she'd spread beside her on the sand. The hot sun was like a diaphanous narcotic as they lay basking in its rays, Hector dozing at times from his energetic play, the Duc drowsy after his brief hours of sleep the night before, his body still fatigued from the strain of the previous day's polo game. The beach was busy with nannies and children, an infrequent parent present as well. And Etienne found his gaze hypnotically drawn, as he rested beside Hector, to the young babies and toddlers cavorting on the beach. Unnerving possibilities swam up from his subconscious, disastrous musings having to do with his and Daisy's child. Would its hair be the heavy silk of Daisy's or touched with curl like his? Its hair would be dark, there was no question of that. But how would the different color of their eyes be reconciled in their child, and whose nose would it favor, whose mouth? Both Justin and Jolie had his coloring, so he had a strong recollection of dark-haired babies… his and Daisy's baby. Disciplining his mind to a realistic sanity, he shook away his mental aberrations only to find the same thoughts looping through his consciousness a few moments later as some child's voice was raised in laughter or a baby would cry or a chubby toddler would gambol past, running in the tremulous heart-stopping unsteadiness so typical of that age. He was too old, he told himself, with two grown children and a grandson of his own, to be fantasizing like some grass-green cub. He had had his children when he was young, a sensible time, and his wish for a child with Daisy was ludicrous. She would hardly speak to him. He mentally dismissed his fantasy with deprecating logic, embarrassed at the extent of his longing. Thinking of having children, babies was madness; he was going to be forty at Christmas. Would Daisy mind being pregnant? Insensate to reason, his mind pursued the obsession stirring his susceptible emotions. Isabelle had found the entire situation loathsome. Did all women? Or would Daisy find pleasure in bearing a child? Should he ask her, he wondered, a smile forming on his lips, when he saw her this afternoon?

As it turned out, the Duc arrived at Nadine's picnic almost simultaneously with a storm rolling in from the sea, its heavy thunderheads darkening the sky, blowing in on brisk thirty-mile-an-hour winds, the shoreline bearing the assault of crashing foam-tipped waves. All Nadine's picnic guests were in the process of scrambling into barouches while Belmont servants struggled to secure the raised carriage hoods against the imminent rain. Catching sight of Trey helping his groom tie a wicker hamper onto the back of a well-sprung landau, the Duc guided his horse through the numerous vehicles, their teams restive in the rising wind, his own mount sidling and sidestepping in response to the nervous teams. "Where's Daisy?" Etienne had to shout to be heard above the shrieking gusts. He hadn't seen her in the congestion of people and carriages. Trey came closer, putting his hand to his ear, and when the Duc repeated his question, answered. "She's still at the lighthouse. She stayed behind to paint." His words, strangely muted by the intensity of the blustery squalls, were perceived by the Duc's auditory senses in a rhythm of half-spoken syllables. "Alone?" he asked. "With the lighthouse keeper. You brought the rain," Trey went on with a grin, moving closer so his voice was clearer. "Daisy'll be safe there until this blows over. Ride back with us in our carriage. You're going to get soaked otherwise." Etienne gauged the distance to the lighthouse, visible on a spit of land beyond an undulating series of dunes and stunted pines. "I'll see her home when this blows over. If you don't mind." The men's voices were raised, their dark hair whipped by the wind, their eyes half-shut against the blowing sand. "Whether I mind isn't a factor with Daisy," Trey shouted, his smile amiable. "Be my guest." The Duc smiled back. "Thank you," he said, but his words were taken away by a gust of rain.

Sweeping sheets of rain struck Etienne before he was halfway to the lighthouse, his horse slowed by the gale-force winds. He'd changed at Nadine's after his morning with Hector so at least his leather jacket protected him from the worst of the downpour. But his clothes were thoroughly drenched by the time he entered the lighthouse after tethering his horse in the lee of the building. "Afternoon," the lighthouse keeper casually said when Etienne scaled the steep narrow steps to the top, the old man's seventy-years experience with Atlantic storms evident in his unruffled serenity. "You get a good view of the storm front from up here. Nice animal you're riding." The Duc was mounted on a bay, bred at his Chantilly stud, a long-legged thoroughbred with enough Irish hunter in him to have the staying power he needed for polo. "Thanks," he briefly acknowledged, not here for a chat, his glance swiftly taking in the small dimensions of the tower room. "I'm looking for a woman who was painting on the shoreline this afternoon. Is she here?" Had he somehow missed Daisy downstairs? "Nope." The old man rocked his cushioned chair in a slow rhythm, his old spaniel lying at his feet, keeping time with his feathered tail. "Saw her over to the old Hammerhead farm earlier. Figured she

picked up and left when the clouds started rolling in." "Were's the farm?" The Duc's voice was quiet, but the spaniel must have caught his anxious intonation because it lifted its head and stared at Etienne. "Just past that rise over there." The lighthouse keeper lifted his chin in a northerly direction, indicating the area beyond the curve of the bay. "Where them three pines are leaning almost to the ground." "Is there shelter?" "Nope. Everything burned to the ground thirty years ago. Excepting the well-house and that would have gone too but the artesian well kept is moss-damp so it wouldn't burn. Fire killed old widow Hammerhead in her bed though," he went on, relating the details in the slightly nasal inflection of the local populace. "Smoke must have got her or mayhap a heart attack considerin' the state of her heart. She was too fat to move fast too, so—" "Daisy might be there then," Etienne interrupted, already turning toward the narrow staircase. "Told you she left." "She never returned to the carriages." Etienne's voice echoed up the stuccoed walls of the stairwell as he sprinted downward. "You want me to send Boscoe here for help?" The man's voice followed Etienne's descent. "Can't leave the station during a storm but Boscoe will bring back Will Shatterly." "No," the Duc shouted back. "I'll find her myself." He wanted to be alone when he found her.

Etienne's horse struggled gamely over the saturated terrain, its hoofs sinking deep into the marshy ground or water-soaked sand of the dunes. At least the wind was slicing into them at an angle now, easing the strain of having to fight the full force of its velocity. Etienne's eyes were almost shut against the driving rain, his horse's ears laid back as it strained its powerful muscles to maintain its balance in the yielding soil. When they crested the rise some twenty minutes later, what remained of the old farmstead came into sight. An ancient apple orchard lay to the south of what appeared to be the foundations of the house; the ruins of a barn, distinguishable by the charred remains of a few roof timbers not completely burned, lay to the north. If there had been smaller outbuildings, after thirty years no evidence of them remained. But a large stand of orange day-lilies caught his eye against the storm-gray of the sky and when the Duc turned to focus on the splash of color in the landscape laid waste by fire and time, he saw the well-house. The tiny weathered building had been constructed at the base of another small knoll, so the wind broke over it before dissipating into the grassy dunes. A gnarled lilac bush spread halfway across the doorway, its leafy branches lashing furiously against the soaked wood. He saw no sign of life as he approached. No window on the structure. No indication Daisy had been in the vicinity. Dismounting, Etienne tied his horse behind the well-house, and fighting the wind, moved around to the door. When he caught sight of the freshly crushed grasses on the threshold, he involuntarily sucked in a

breath. Was she here? Exhaling, he conditioned himself against the possibility of an untenanted building. But his gaze took in the evidence of footsteps, and quickly shoving the door open, he bent his head to enter the low portal. Silhouetted against the silvery sky, his broad leather-clad shoulders filled the entrance like some apparition of the storm itself: potent and powerful and overwhelming. Pausing for a moment on the threshold between light and darkness, he turned his body slightly to ease his wide shoulders past the jamb. Once inside, he stood upright and shook his wet head like a wild animal might to clear the water from his face. "Etienne!" It was Daisy's breathless voice. Narrowing his eyes against the deep shadow beyond the door, he distinguished her form—only dimly visible pressed against the far wall. She was standing very straight… and trembling. Taking a moment to visualize her position in relation to the entrance and the bubbling well in the center of the space, he shut the door, closing out the storm. And the world. "I found you," he quietly said, knowing instinctively what would follow. Daisy's chilled body responded to his murmured words as if he'd lit a fire to warm her, pleasure inundating her senses without cerebral dispute. But a pulsebeat later, a small voice of reason reminded her to be less desperately happy and more wary. "I'm cold," she said, still pressed to the wall, as if her trembling susceptibility to his dramatic presence required explanation beyond the obvious. As if her untrustworthy emotions needed concealment. "Of course you're cold." He touched her shoulders lightly as he reached her. "You're soaked." Swiftly unbuttoning his leather jacket, he placed it over her shoulders. "My jacket's not wet in-side." It was warm from his body, heated like her newly pulsing blood. "Now tell me how you came to be caught in this storm." He smiled and she heard it more than saw it. "I thought an Absarokee woman would have read the signs better." He was disarming in his courtesy, easing her tremulous feelings, talking to her about the weather as if good manners were applicable even in a tumbledown well-house in the middle of a raging storm, as if discussing the weather was the only reason he'd come. As if the other reasons he was here could be momentarily curtailed. His jacket smelled of his body and his scent, the fragrant cologne he had had made specially for him in Grasse sweetly pungent in the small dim interior. He stood very close although he made no move to touch her. There was no need for haste in their complete isolation. "I was painting a seascape," she said, trying to be as urbane as he, when she was struggling with the sensation of his nearness. "Everything was going just perfectly, you know the feeling when each brushstroke is absolutely right, when your mind and hand are in perfect conjunction"—her words began tumbling out with the same spontaneity she experienced while painting—"when even the watercolors blend mysteriously into the most magical hues…" "No." Etienne's deep voice was quiet in the dimness. And amused. Daisy grinned. "Take my word for it," she said, ing his comments when they attended the gallery shows, about his complete lack of artistic talent, "it happens and when that phenomenon occurs, the world is blocked out, you exist in some energized dimension of your mind, isolated and detached.

When the winds became strong enough to interfere with my work, I finally noticed the thunderheads behind me. I started back immediately but the rain overtook me and I decided to take shelter here. I was drenched through by the rain." "I noticed." The velvet resonance of his voice seemed to reach out and touch her, his eyes too close suddenly, his husky tone conveying a message distinct from the words. "I'm trying to fight this," Daisy whispered. "You didn't want to fight it last night." he murmured. "At Nadine's." "Yes… yes, I did. I tried… Etienne, you're too close… please." There was desperation in her voice… and need. He heard the need and ignored the desperation. "I've missed you every day and night since you left," he whispered. "I haven't looked at another woman. My word as de Vec on it." "I don't know what to do." Her voice barely carried across the small distance separating them. "Honestly?" His whispered word touched her cheek, warm and seductive. And her answer lodged in her throat because he was right. They both knew. Like an insatiable hunger, they knew. Alone in this sultry, stifling darkness, they knew. When Daisy slid away, as if she could flee impulse by moving the eight-foot width of the well-house, the Duc shut his eyes for a moment and drew a deep calming breath. "There's nowhere to go, Daisy," he said, very softly, his gaze following her. "Nowhere." "I don't want you to touch me, Etienne," she said in a small breathless voice, holding his jacket close around her, like a shield. "I want to forget you and last night, I want to go back to Montana and continue forgetting you, I want to find someone else," she went on with new heat in her voice, "who doesn't have a wife with lists of her husband's infidelities, long lists, someone who lives where I live and cares about my people. Someone—" He'd moved with predatory speed when she mentioned finding someone else, convulsed with unspeakable jealousy, and his mouth stopped her flood of words, covering hers with a punishing kiss of possession and fury. His fingers hurt her as he pulled her tightly into his body, his splayed hands at the base of her spine, and the back of her head inflexible in their restraint. "You're lying," he murmured, his mouth lifting from hers for a brief moment. "You're lying." His eyes emitted a hint of color somehow in the near-dark, jealous-green and angry. "Tell me other men can make you tremble, tell me other men can make you breathless. Tell me, damn you, because I haven't slept a peaceful night in nine weeks and I want to hear the truth." Daisy wasn't cold anymore, her clothes beginning to warm from the heat of her skin, from the heat of Etienne's body pressed hard against hers. And what was truth was coiling in the pit of her stomach,

flame-hot and spreading with every pulsebeat. "You know already, damn you," she quietly exploded, "but here's the truth if you want me to say it. I want to make love to you. I want you to make love to me. I want us to make love to each other. Is that clear enough?" she cried, although he was close enough a whisper would have sufficed. "It's honest at least," he bluntly said. "Finally." "Here's some more honesty then. I can't sleep at night for want of you, and in the morning I crave you beside me to kiss me at daybreak, I hate Nadine's possessiveness, I hate all the Claras and Lilys, too, and your wife's claim on twenty years of your life. I think of you when I'm trying to work and when I'm trying to eat. I think of you when I see a tall man anywhere, when someone with dark ruffled hair walks by me in the street. I think of you when I see a baby. I think of you a lot when I see babies. And I hate you for making me feel this way." She had run out of breath at the end, her final words finished in a whisper of sound. "Have my baby," Etienne said, very softly, knowing what she was feeling, for the first time in his life overwhelmed by emotions he couldn't control or rationalize or neatly walk away from. "Don't say that," Daisy whispered. "Do you know how many babies were on Bailey's Beach this morning?" he said in a voice taut with consternation. "Do you know I never would have noticed six months ago? I question my sanity at times." He took a steadying breath. "Obsession has never been a part of my life. Until you." "Circumstances circumscribe our lives, Etienne. Our feelings don't count for everything." She was saying the words with her mind in the practical familiar way habitual to her personality, but the pragmatic sentiments didn't properly anymore. They didn't at all, her brain's receptors intent on absorbing the vivid heat of ion coursing through her body. "Have my baby," he said again, ignoring her words, interpreting her own hesitant uncertainty beneath the logical explanation, feeling the heat of her skin next to his. His hands moved to the buttons at the neck of her dress and he slowly slipped the first one free. "It's not that simple," she protested, but she didn't stay his hands, the touch of his fingers, the warmth of his palms on her breasts cure for the ache inside her. "It's simple. This is simple." He smiled then and kissed her lightly on her lips. "The rest is complex." But complexities were ignored a moment later, and the opposing circumstances of their lives, because their need and desire, their obsession for each other and their love, eluded the practicalities and exposed the weakness in logic. "If there's a baby," Daisy whispered, recognizable joy in her voice as he slipped her dress from her shoulders, "it's all your fault." "I'll remind you of that," he teasingly replied, "later, when you're screaming." She reached up and kissed him then, her arms clinging around his neck, her kisses sweet as candy. And they stood together, their bodies melting into each other for a languid dulcet time of murmured lovewords and warm mouths.

"We should build a monument for this momentous occasion," the Duc teased, between leisured kisses. "Could you build one that looks like a bed?" Daisy murmured, the curve of her smile tactile pleasure as Etienne's mouth dipped to kiss her again. Raising his head, he surveyed the limited space, his brows creasing in a mild scowl. "Not exactly pavilions of paradise. I'd envisioned something different for the conception of our child." Trained by her grandmother as a medicine woman, Daisy understood better than most nature's ways. "You can't be so certain, Etienne, even if you are de Vec. Some things aren't accomplished by fiat." How could he tell her he had this feeling without sounding adolescent or mad? How could he say he'd never experienced this sensation before because the women he'd dallied with in the past were sophisticated women who didn't wish to add to their families any more than he wished to add a de Vec bastard to some aristocratic family other than his own. He couldn't, so he said instead, "I'll make you a bed." His smile was beautiful and lush. "And then we'll work from there… on the other… things." The interior was moss-covered, floor and walls, even patches of the old tin roof bearing evidence of the tenacious vegetation. "Are you cold?" She smile. "Not any more." He moved to open the door a minimum distance to introduce light but not let in the storm, the stiff old hinges sufficient resistance against the wind. "So I can see you better," he whispered, brushing her cheek with his finger as he walked past her to the corner farthest from the door. Taking off his shirt, he laid it on the soft cushion of moss covering the ground. Lifting his jacket from the floor where it had fallen, he extended the rough bed by spreading the leather wet-side down. "If I were more temperate," he said, smiling, taking her hand in his a moment later when he returned to her, "I'd wait for better accommodations. But after nine weeks…" His mouth quirked into a broad grin. "If I were more temperate," Daisy replied, her smile matching his, "I'd make you wait. But nine weeks is…" she ran a gentle hand down his bare chest to the buckle of his belt, "a critical factor." The smooth leather slipped from the gold buckle a moment later and the Duc drew in a quick breath as Daisy pulled his belt free. "Out of curiosity," he murmured, attuned to her fingers, unbuttoning his tros, "how exactly would you have made me wait?" "You say that as if you doubt I could." "Perceptive of you," he gently said, sliding her chemise strap over her shoulder. "Size and strength isn't everything in these matters." "Really. There is additionally?" "Pain… if necessary." "Maybe I should do that myself," he said with a grin, taking her hands in his.

Her answering smile was angelic. "In your case, I'm more than willing. Rest easy." He looked at her for a moment from under half-lowered lashes. "After that threat, I may never rest easy again, darling," he teased. "What a formidable woman for the mother of my child." "You're obsessed with babies." "Only with you." Lifting her hands to his lips, he kissed her fingertips delicately, one at a time. "You even taste like the mother of my child," he said a moment later, laughter in the undercurrent of his voice. "I'm glad." And in those plain words Daisy relinquished all her doubts and fears, her happiness spilling over to drown all the fragmented debris of uncertainty. She was strong and Etienne viewed the world as his own personal domain. They could together solve each problem in the continuum of their love. She was too miserable without him. Work wasn't enough nor was duty comfort at night in the solitary emptiness of her bed. She gave in at last to the glowing tumult of love. They undressed each other leisurely while the storm raged around them, the rhythm of their movements congruous only with their private insulated world. And they lay together on their rough bed oblivious to its rusticity. It was soft and scented, the crushed moss pungent in their nostrils, the artesian well cooling their fevered bodies as they played at love. They had missed the ion of their union too much in the past weeks to rush, and with adolescent slowness they seduced their senses. The rain cooled the air but they didn't notice, their bodies summer-hot and oblivious to the dropping temperatures outside. They made love as if each sensation were new, as if they'd never kissed each other or tasted each other or felt their skin touch… or felt the slow invasion and penetration that made the world drop away. It was different, too, in that poetic way captured by erudite lovers through the millennia in lyric, meter, and tune. Unique. Exquisite. Eager. Intemperate… Magic.

"Making babies is exhausting," Etienne murmured, a sweet and ionate interval later, Daisy nestled against his chest, his arms holding her gently close. "Arrogant man," she murmured. "How can you be sure?" "I heard the shaman drums," he said in a teasing whisper. "Or your heart," she softly replied, the powerful rhythm of his heartbeat strong beneath her ear. "Or yours." "Or mine," she agreed, so tired suddenly she could sleep a month. "You pick a name."

"Mmmmm," she drowsily murmured, sated and content and already half-asleep. "Maybe I should pick one," he said with a grin, "unless that's a favorite Absarokee name." Daisy was sleeping already, fatigued from their ion and her restive night past. Secure in her love. Reconciled and happy. The Duc lay awake, holding—he reflected with unlimited joy—the mother of his child in his arms. Secure in his love. Reconciled and happy.

Etienne cradled Daisy in his arms on their ride back to Newport, their conversation the carefree, glowing kind in which the future offers endless joyful possibility. He would come back to Montana with her, he said, and look into railroad building out West. He'd planned on going with Georges's expedition anyway, so his business managers could do without him for a few weeks. Daisy smiled and he kissed her for the hundredth time that day, his need for kisses unquenchable. "I could come to Paris after this next stage in our court battle with Hanna is concluded." She beamed up at him. "Say in three months." "With Jolie and her family in Kentucky, maybe I could talk Justin into coming back with us to the States for Christmas. The crossing's only six days in my yacht." "I didn't know you had a yacht." "There's a lot of things you don't know about me."

"Our life should be interesting." "Plan on it." Unalloyed bliss wreathed their lives and emotions. Their plans were accommodating to each other's schedules, to the inflexible portions of their agendas, to their families and the seasons. Daisy was wrapped in the Duc's leather jacket against the chill of the evening air while the fog creeping in from the sea shrouded their journey down Bellevue Avenue from the curious. "I'll bring you to the Rutherfords', speak to your mother and father with you, go to Nadine's to change for dinner, and come back for you at nine." Licking her earlobe with the warm tip of his tongue, he added, "Where do you want to go tonight?" He was looking forward to being with Daisy again, like his personal Eden recaptured. "Lily's having a dance," she sweetly said. He groaned. "Empress said the Gardners are putting on amateur theatricals tonight." "Good, I can steal a kiss when the lights go down. The Gardners are my choice." "Nadine's entertaining again, a string quartet from London." "No." She was pleased to hear the gruffness in his tone. "We'll go to the Gardners then. You can participate if you wish. Ella is always looking for promising thespians." "The only acting I'll be doing tonight is playing the gentleman when I'd much prefer letting my carnal ions take over." "Later," Daisy whispered. "Where? Not at Nadine's. Someone pounding on the door is hell on my concentration." "Why don't you stay at the annex again tonight? I'll have Trey find you a room with a terrace door outside and I can come to you later." "This international polo tournament has definitely taken on a new and fascinating charm. I'll win the play-off game for you tomorrow." "That means father and Trey would lose." Her loyalties were clearly divided. "I'll lose the play-off game for you tomorrow," Etienne said with a grin. A man in love, he was willing to give his darling her heart's desire..

As it turned out, Etienne never participated in the play-off game because an urgent telegram from his steward was waiting for him when he returned to Nadine's. His business partners had combined with Isabelle and were trying to take over the railroad lines he controlled as majority stockholder. He returned to the Rutherfords' within the hour, attired not in evening dress but casually in a light sweater and slacks, his belongings having already been transferred to his yacht. When Daisy came down and saw him, she immediately said, "You're going back." She could tell from his grim face and restless stance. "I have to. Come with me." "What happened?" And when he told her, she felt a great sadness. "Have you heard from Bourges?" "I have different attorneys for business. He's not involved in this. Although I'll be dealing with him on the divorce as usual." "Talk to him, Etienne. The nobility use him for divorce, but his major work is merchant banking. He knows the players. He can help." "Come with me. Talk to him if you like." He wanted her with him; he didn't want to be away from her so long again. Although he was planning on bying the law courts on this venture. He'd already sent a telegram to both his partners before coming to see Daisy. Gentlemen: You've undertaken to cheat me. I won't sue you, for the law is too slow. I'll ruin you. Yours truly, de Vec

Included in that threat, now, was Isabelle. From the beginning, Bourges had wanted to conduct a no-holds-barred kind of fight, but Etienne had been reluctant. As a gentleman he'd resisted the street-mentality combat Bourges recommended. No longer. As soon as he reached Paris he intended to have detectives hired to observe Isabelle. "You can't come with me, though, can you?" he said, Daisy's expression as melancholy as his. "I understand," he added, trying earnestly to live up to his words. "I'm sorry," Daisy softly said. "I've been working on this case for almost six months. It's not new, these litigations over the ore veins, but there's a great deal of money involved. Like your railroads." She took his hand in hers and placed it around her waist, moving into the circle of his arms. "Come back as soon as you can." Her smile was a half smile, both rueful and wistful. "See how understanding I can be?" The Duc held her very tight, thinking how much misery Isabelle had caused him over the years. "I'm having trouble being understanding about damn near everything at the moment. But I love you. That at least is absolutely clear. Give me a kiss now and I'm off. My crew fired up the engines an hour ago." Their kiss was hasty and insufficient, touched with the gloom of their coming battles. At the door, the Duc turned back for a last look at the woman he loved, then changing his mind, strode swiftly back to Daisy, and lifting her in his arms, held her close for a moment more. Placing her back on her feet, he touched her lips gently. "I'm not looking back this time," he murmured, his breath warm on her lips, a faint wry smile curling his mouth. "Because I'm facing ruin in Paris and wondering if I even care." He grinned. "Is love this kind of insanity for everyone?" He'd never understood before—never. His form of love was only ion and amour, silky smooth pleasure, an intensity that flared and burned away. The kind one ed fondly but not often. "You're asking the wrong person," Daisy softly said. "You've changed every thought and vision and precept I've ever known. You've destroyed my serenity and reason." "I love you too," the Duc said, his smile lush. "We're moon-mad." "And miserable." He was smiling, though, when he said it. With tears brimming over, Daisy held his face in the palms of her hands. "Don't forget me," she whispered, her heart in her eyes. She was afraid, suddenly, despite his teasing, afraid that he'd leave and Isabelle would claim him somehow. Not for herself. She knew better. But claim his soul, somehow, in this black and wretched scheme of hers and make it impossible for… their love to survive.

In his six-day journey across the Atlantic, the Duc had considerable time to determine his course of action, and immediately upon stepping ashore at Le Havre, he ed Bourges. From subsequent telegrams received aboard his yacht, he understood Isabelle had contracted as a public trader (marchande publique) for the purposes of trade. It allowed her to enter into contracts concerning their community property without his consent. His fortune was in enormous danger. Bourges was waiting for him at his apartment in Paris when he arrived three hours later, several files spread out on the desk in Etienne's study. "Thank you for coming," the Duc said, striding across the ed room. "This attack was unexpected… even from Isabelle." "Your crossing was—" "—swift." He took Bourges's outstretched hand, his smile pleasant. "Now then, tell me about your detectives." For the next half hour the men went over the extent of the damage possible if Isabelle exercised her option with their estate as a public trader, the directives necessary for those men being put on Isabelle's trail, which markers the Duc should call in from those of his friends placed on the various boards of directors where he had investments she might attempt to sell. "I'll be closing out my bank s in the next few days and transferring the money either to London or Amsterdam for safekeeping," Etienne said when they'd decided on their immediate plan of action with Isabelle. "I'll transfer those of my stocks other than the railroad capital to a trust independent from our community property. My estates are separate from our common property in our marriage settlement, as are hers, so they're protected. Are you willing to involve yourself with the rest of my legal staff on this and

the railroad takeover too? Everything has to be taken care of quickly. I don't know how much she has plans to sell… other than the railroad stock." "Would Charles have been the one to advise her to contract as a public trader?" "I don't know. Does it matter?" "It could. If this ends up in court in a lawsuit. The magistrates have wide discretionary powers." "By tomorrow I want everything I own transferred out of the country or out of Isabelle's reach. Discreetly. Then we can concentrate on the fight for my railroads. I don't intend to go to court. I haven't the time." "And the divorce?" "Find something on her… then we'll turn the screws. I should have taken your advice about the detectives a long time ago." "It's rare to find a completely virtuous woman," Bourges calmly said. "Well, Isabelle sure as hell wasn't sleeping with me. Although coming from her pious family, and convent-bred background, together with her propensity to socialize with priests, it's probable her vices are confined to other mortal sins." "Perhaps." Having seen so much of aristocrats' private lives, Bourges was more cynical than most. Priests, he thought. Interesting. "How old are these priests?" he asked, a casual remark uttered without expression. "I don't know. They all look the same to me." Etienne was busy g several of the papers Bourges had prepared in his absence, routine briefs required by law for the ongoing appeals in his divorce. Looking up suddenly, the Duc cast a look of query at Bourges as the implication of his barrister's question ed. "Really? Priests? And Isabelle?" He shook his head in the next second of contemplation. "You don't know Isabelle." Had he been a less courteous man he could have said Isabelle was the only women he knew, and he was speaking from vast knowledge, who was actually tight-lipped while engaged in intercourse. With Isabelle one didn't contemplate using the words, making love, to describe the experience. An experience that had caused his youthful ego some small amount of anxiety at the time. "Although it's certainly an interesting speculation." The Duc was infinitely less naive than he'd been all those years ago and no longer apt to discount any aberration purely out of hand. "We'll find out soon enough," Bourges said with a degree of conviction based on his previous successes. "I'm pleased you decided to…" he paused, knowing the Duc was still inclined to be private about his marriage. "—Take off the kid gloves?" Etienne finished for him. "Sometimes it's necessary. Often, it is," Bourges added. "I suppose when one's wife tries to reduce one to penury, it's time to discard courtesy." Etienne's smile was tight. "Can you my legal staff after lunch? We're going to discuss all the ramifications of this bid

to take them over." Bourges's agreement brought a genuine smile to Etienne's face.

But when Bourges left a few moments later, Etienne sat at his desk, slumped low, his head thrown back, his arms lying slack on the deep green leather arms of his chair. He was tired. Physically fatigued after a rough sea-crossing, weary of the fight with Isabelle. Feeling a solitary desolation. Feeling alone. He was taking on the entire fabric of the small, insulated world he lived in, the world his parents and ancestors for a millennium had claimed as theirs. By seeking his own individual happiness, he'd alienated his wife, the Church, the aristocratic society in which the hypocrisy of separate lives ed for the union of marriage, and many of those people he'd previously called friends. Enormous changes had occurred in his complaisant life since he'd met Daisy. And while he never regretted loving her, there were moments, like now… when he was overwhelmed by the extent of those forces aligned against him. He supposed he should eat something before his phalanx of barristers arrived to help devise their campaign. He had every intention of winning—an inherent courage was well-grounded in his soul, but it took a certain girding of his motive power at times to vitalize his energy. He smiled suddenly. Maybe Daisy was right. Maybe his life had been too easy. But if it had been, he was paying for it now. Sitting up abruptly, he reached for the bell-pull. Lunch. And then the ruination of his two partners and Isabelle for dessert. At least there was pleasure in the prospect of dessert.

Etienne and his attorneys spent the next three weeks ing every stockholder of consequence, explaining the situation, offering to buy their stock for more than Verlaine and Marveil. It was time-consuming drudgery and, of course, ultimately expensive to outbid his partners. He owed enormous favors on the Bourse before he was finished because Isabelle was claiming the stock as hers. The concept of public trader for a female may have been a legal principle in at the time, but the men sitting on the board at the Bourse, preferred the traditional language of French law in which the husband had sole control of property. And there at least, Charles and his magistrates had no power. So his railroads were salvaged, bought at the inflated bidding price by a Monaco-based holding company which the Duc owned through an intricate and concealed layering of corporations. Isabelle no longer was a threat to his income. But the price was steep. To realize his vengeance on Verlaine and Marveil required a more complex scheme. The Duc wanted his money back from the sale of their magnified stock to his Monaco firm, so he made arrangements with friends in Amsterdam to interest his two ex-partners in a diamond mine in South Africa. Like setting up an elaborate ballet of deceit and potential profit, his Dutch allies, for a suitable price, slowly drew Verlaine and Marveil into the intrigue. With the lure of enormous profit temptingly seductive, his two ex-partners were currently traveling to Amsterdam to see gems extracted from the "mine"—which existed on paper alone. In the meantime, to the Duc's impatient inquiries about Isabelle and the detectives, Bourges had pointed out: "These things take time to check out. We're gathering information. Soon we'll have something substantial, but we need reliable witnesses to go to court." Almost a month had ed since the Duc had left Newport, and in that time he'd accepted no invitations, gone nowhere other than those places required to save his railroads and his property. Valentin had come often to visit; he'd also been helpful at the Bourse since his father sat on the board; he'd stayed for dinner occasionally and was a frequent companion at night over drinks. Fall had touched the leaves, the evenings were cooler, the last summer roses bloomed sporadically in the garden where the Duc and Daisy had lain in the sun short months ago. Etienne was waiting now to hear if Verlaine and Marveil had taken the bait, but he found himself less concerned with his revenge as the days ed and more concerned with seeing that Isabelle was disengaged from his life. His feelings were less pragmatic than emotional, based on his longing to have a child with Daisy. While Daisy declared the divorce irrelevant to her, he wished for his child to be legitimate, an heir to his titles as well as his fortune. He understood her rearing discounted the relevancy of nobility, but de Vecs had been a power in too long, his family descended from the early kings, his family's courage and honor sustenance to in its battles for supremacy and empire, their bloodlines represented in all the princely families of the Almanach de Gotha. He wished that heritage ed on to his children. He'd give Bourges two more weeks, he decided, in the hope some progress could be made in the divorce process; he'd delay his return to Daisy for that further period. His railroads were preserved, his income secure; only the divorce eluded him. That evening, after days of coaxing from Valentin, the Duc decided to accompany him and Adelaide to a showing of prints and paintings by a young artist who'd become a celebrity since his brilliant poster for -Champagne had appeared on the streets of Paris in March. An exhibition of Pierre Bonnard's posters, music illustrations, and color lithographs were being shown at the gallery Le Bare de Boutteville. The critic Felix Fen-eon in the avant garde magazine Le Chat Noir had been quick to recognize the sensual edge implicit in the -Champagne poster and welcomed the appearance of Bonnard's

"serpentine and cruel eroticism" on the streets of Paris, voicing in symbolist what was perhaps the vast appeal of the poster to the lay public. "You can buy yourself some of Bonnard's sweet and demonically exuberant nudes," Valentin had said with a smile. "He's done some lithographs, I'm told, of women bathing." "Would Daisy like them, do you think?" Etienne asked, with a faint smile, "because I'm so reformed from my past I'm no longer inclined to buy for my pleasure alone." "The critical press has been arguing about Bonnard's increasing fascination with the 'woman question,' so even an independent female like Daisy might agree with his portrayals. And Senator Berger may appear in his guise as head of the morality police. He's been demonstrating against the exhibit in the Senate. Such a spectacle could be entertaining." "Rene's fervor against the feminist press and displays of sexuality is always amusing." "You'll come then." "I'll buy a print for Daisy."

Senator Berger was indeed there in full flower as the upholder of the moral order of the Republic and the Duc was amused. He watched from a location near the doors, so he was close enough to distinguish the beads of sweat breaking out on Rene's forehead as the pompous guardian of 's morality denounced the relaxing of the censorship laws—cause for these displays of eroticism and sexuality. The "animal" in woman was considered just as dangerous to the established order as the anarchist and foreigner, in the Senator's mind, a theory Etienne found difficult to . Personally, he'd always preferred a woman of nerves and caprices to sweet perfection. Like Daisy, he thought. A woman who not only inspired but aspired to dominate; a woman who invited one to participate in her sensual splendor. A woman who didn't see sexual identity as an issue—only women's status. He grinned, listening to Rene ex-postulate on the increasing difficulty in distinguishing good women from bad, how displays of provocative sexuality like Bonnard's posited a serious disruption to the social order, how these black-stockinged women contributed to the moral decay of French society. Daisy would have been livid; the Duc thought. His smile was erased from his face a moment later, however, as he caught sight of Isabelle, half concealed behind a large woman in fuchsia silk. He recognized the de Vec emerald beneath her egret headdress first, and when the woman in fuchsia leaned to one side to speak to a companion, Isabelle's face became visible. They hadn't spoken directly since her visit to his apartment, all the recent machinations over the railroad stocks done through intermediaries. And while she'd lost that particular fight, he'd come away with the feeling she hadn't seriously cared; she'd been willing to help his partners only because of the possibility they might succeed. With no crucial need for money, victory wasn't essential. Isabelle's adamance on the divorce was unchanged however; on that her stand was clear. A moment later, as the crowd began to disperse at the conclusion of the Senator's harangue, Isabelle's companion became visible too. A young seminary student stood at her side, his plain cassock obviously tailored by Kriegck. The Duc recognized Paris's premier tailor's characteristic shoulder seam. A wealthy young novitiate, Etienne mused, knowing the prices charged at the exclusive tailor's.

Hadn't the young man been at the house on occasion? His face looked vaguely familiar. Maybe it was his pale blond hair, more distinctive as a characteristic than his youthful good looks. Strange. He'd never paid attention to the priests constantly in attendance on Isabelle. As if the prejudice in his dislike for his cousin-in-law the Archbishop, and the dogmatism in church doctrine, had obliterated the individuality from all the black-frocked guests of his wife. As he watched them from his sheltered position near the bunting-draped entrance hall, he observed an astonishing display. Isabelle slid her hand down the young priest's back to a point distinctly south of his waist. Her movement masqueraded in a step she took to better view a print, was gracefully discreet, but staggering to behold. Especially to the man who'd been the recipient of her disdain for his own sexuality. He must have been mistaken, he decided a moment later, too many years of conditioning causing him to doubt his eyes. And though he kept Isabelle in sight amidst the crush of viewers for sometime more, no further lapse in her conduct occurred. But back at his apartment later, in his nightly letter to Daisy, the Duc remarked on the transient glimpse. I stood gape-mouthed for a moment, he wrote Daisy, at the incredulous possibility. Also, he continued, writing in a swift easy rhythm, alluding to another less fantastic facet of sexuality, I bought you some prints of females bathing that are engaging assimilations of the Japanese style. They're of new and contemporary females, I'm sure you'll find to your taste… socially ambiguous women with wonderful black stockings. I'm giving myself two more weeks, he added at the end, his bold slashing words indicative of his frustration, and with or without progress on this divorce, I'll come to you in Montana. I'm alone and missing you with a sulky gloom predicated by Isabelle's stubborn intractability. How nice it would be if her religious fervor was based on principles more carnal than divine. I kiss you good-night and send a message of love by your night spirits. Etienne

That same evening in Hazard's study, Daisy, along with her father and brother, was reviewing the afternoon proceedings in court when she suddenly stopped talking in midsentence. "Are you ill?" Hazard asked, a thin beading of perspiration visible on Daisy's upper lip, her breathing suddenly shallow. "A little dizzy," she whispered. "Get your mother," Hazard tersely said to Trey, moving around his desk toward Daisy. Trey swiftly swung up out of his chair, his silver gaze taking in his sister's stricken look. "I'll get the doctor too." "No!" Daisy said in a rush of breath. "Just your mother." Hazard's dark eyes met his son's. "Oh, dear." And both men lunged for Daisy as she toppled from her chair. Catching her under her arms, they steadied her for a moment. "I have her," Hazard said, adjusting his grip so he could lift his daughter into his arms. "Fetch your mother. Bring her upstairs." "I never faint," Daisy whispered, as Hazard carried her from the room. "Only genteel ladies faint," she added, attempting a smile. "Maybe some of that de Vec aristocracy rubbed off on you," Hazard teased. "Although it's more likely you've been working too hard." They'd all spent late nights preparing for court, each day's cross-examination requiring new strategies, new assessments. The litigation, currently a priority, nevertheless had to be managed in addition to normal operating procedures at the mines. Everyone had been putting in long days. After Daisy was settled in bed, and sometime later the servants dismissed, after Blaze had gone downstairs to see to some herbal tea should Daisy need it later, Hazard went in to see his daughter. Standing at the door for a moment before speaking, he digested Blaze's information and momentarily debated his approach with Daisy. "Are you getting too old for a good-night kiss?" he asked, his voice quiet in the silent room. Daisy shook her head, feeling tremulous and uncertain and not very old at all. The smile she gave her father across the large chamber held a small hint of joy beneath its gravity. "I'm sorry you had to wait so long. Blaze insisted on feeding me something after I was put to bed and she said a roomful of people would upset my appetite." "Did you eat then?" Hazard approached the tester bed hung with natural linen embroidered in the beaded designs of their people.

"Some apple tart and cream. The beef and vegetables didn't appeal to me." "Apples and cream are healthy." Hazard stood beside the bed, a worldly man, but hesitant in the presence of his daughter who guarded her personal feelings so closely. Bending, he kissed her gently on the forehead, brushing her hair lightly with his fingertips before he straightened once again. "Blaze told you?" He nodded. "Are you pleased?" Daisy nodded, too, then as her lips began to quiver, she held open her arms and whispered, "Papa." He went to her, gathering his daughter into his arms as he had so long ago when she'd come to him, frightened and alone after the death of her mother, and sitting on the side of the bed, he held her in his lap, his arms tight around her. "Everyone's happy for you," he softly said, stroking her back in soothing comfort, his voice tender and low. "I want Etienne here." She looked at her father, their identical eyes meeting in understanding. "Then he must be here," Hazard said. His words were simply put, his intentions as plain. He would see that the Duc de Vec left Paris. "I shouldn't ask for that, it's not grownup or mature, I should act more responsibly, he has—" "He has responsibilities to you too," Hazard interjected, "and while I'm the last person to subscribe to bourgeois principles," he added with a smile, "when your happiness if involved… he has responsibilities." "He wants the baby, Papa. Truly." "Then you'd better tell him. And he'll be here without a party going out for him." "He wouldn't come to Montana like that." Daisy knew her father was talking about a raiding party, a warrior's method of taking what he wanted whether it was horses or women or hostages. "Then we'll send a telegram." Hazard smiled, kissing his daughter on the bridge of her fine straight nose. "You see how adaptable I've become?" He might be adaptable, he thought, but he was a father first, and if the Duc de Vec didn't respond suitably, he'd go out himself and bring him back. "I often feel guilty, Papa, for asking him to give up so much. His family's been part of the fabric of for a thousand years." "My uncle Ramsay's family traced their English title back to the Roman conquest of Britain, but he left that heritage behind and found happiness and a new life with our clan." Daisy had been very young when Ramsay died in the smallpox epidemic that took nearly half of the Absarokees, but her father spoke so often of his adopted English uncle who'd taught him English that she felt she ed him too. "Do you think he ever regretted leaving?"

"There's a certain commitment, Ramsay used to say, to one's personal happiness. I think he's right. I know he's right." And Hazard recalled his own struggle to reconcile his love for Blaze with his duty to his tribe. "There's a balance… we all seek, between personal happiness and some responsibility to the world we live in and if we're lucky, we find that parity." "I told Etienne I'd live part of the year in Paris." Hazard smiled. "He was hoping you would." "He's going to look into buying stock in some of the Western railroads." "I see a glowing future. But for now, Blaze tells me you mustn't work so hard. I have orders for no more late nights after the days in court. Agreed?" "I think I became faint because I forgot to eat today." "Perhaps. But you have to begin taking better care of yourself. We're all going to insist on that. McKinney or Carl Bluefox can take over your place in court. If you discuss strategy with them and continue to help with the legal research, they can take on the tedium of the hours in court. You'll have time to rest during the day, Blaze will continue talking to me, and the Duc de Vec's son or daughter will come into one of his numerous titles as a healthy young child." "Not likely… that." "What?" "The title." "Sorry, I forgot. His wife's such an elusive figure to me, she doesn't seem to exist." "Unfortunately… she very much does." He shrugged. "The phrasing was rhetorical, darling. Titles aren't a requisite for distinction. One's identity and power come from within, one's medicine and abilities, one's kon-ning is nurtured from personal strength and courage. Did you know my uncle Ramsay left a wife and family behind in Yorkshire?" She hadn't. Not that it would be the same or even relevant to her own problems, but she felt a sudden comfort in knowing the man her father had loved very much had overcome separation from his family. "Why?" she asked. "He didn't speak of it often, but apparently Ramsay and his wife had never felt a deep affection for each other. He told me once he hadn't intended to stay when he first came to our country with the Duke of Sutherland's party, who was traveling through to the Pacific Coast. He prayed to his God many days and nights before staying behind when the party went on." "Did he have children?" "Two sons." "How could he leave them?"

"I don't know. It's something I could never do, but people do, Ramsay did. He signed his estate over to them when he decided to stay, keeping only his mother's inheritance for himself." Hazard stroked the backs of Daisy's hands as they lay in her lap. "People live their lives in a thousand different ways, darling. We only have control over our own." Daisy smiled, her father's words of tolerance familiar. He advocated acceptance and adaption as principles in a world often hostile to the way of life he'd been born into. "You're saying adapt." "An alternative to the less desirable options." "And accept?" Hazard grinned, this man of power and influence, and great personal courage. "Sometimes," he said. Her need for freedom and independence had been nurtured in the security her father had fought to maintain for her. "You always make me feel better. Good. Hopeful." "That's what I'm here for. Now sleep late tomorrow," he said, standing, settling her back into bed. Straightening the lace on the sheet under her chin, he pulled the blanket up and murmured good-night in the language of their people. At the door, he paused. "In the morning, you can send Etienne a telegram. I'll bet you a new pony he's here in two weeks." It was a pleasant thought to contemplate while falling asleep, which was exactly what Hazard intended.

Walking through the in-conspicuous doorway identified only with gilt lettering—House of Worth—at 7 rue de la Paix, the Duc de Vec hoped he would be able to persuade the Monsieur Worths to be more forthcoming concerning Isabelle's escorts to their salons. Bourges's detectives had been able to document

various occasions when Isabelle had come for fittings at the haute-couture establishment with various young priests in tow, but beyond agreeing the men had been present, no more information had been gleaned. "We need documentation and witnesses willing to testify if necessary," Bourges had said. So he was here today for that information. Greeted at the door by a sophisticated young man dressed in black glossy broadcloth, like an attache, with an English accent, pearl tiepin, and curled hair, the Duc was escorted up the crimson-carpeted staircase banked on each side with flowers, to the salons on the second floor where the furnishings were set off by carpets in imitation tiger skin. He walked through the familiar rooms, a favored customer over the years, an escort himself for a variety of his lovers. How many gowns had he purchased from the House of Worth as gifts for women who'd given him pleasure? In addition to his wife's wardrobe which he also paid for; enough, he hoped, to gain him the information he wanted. The first salon displayed only black and white silks—as if to clear the palate in this temple of temptation; next came the rainbow room, named for the lush, liquid silks in all colors from the looms of Lyon, complemented by the fanciful brocades from Italy that Worth favored. The third room, like a hothouse for orchids, contained the velvets and plushes in all their varieties, followed by the room displaying only robust woolens of England. Nestled amidst the overstuffed and tuffeted chairs and couches were glass and gold-leaf curio cabinets revealing enchanting pieces of Monsieur Worth's private collection of snuffboxes, antique fans, porcelains, and bibelots—none for sale. After the anteshowrooms, Etienne entered the mirrored salon where actual garments were displayed on wooden forms, and ignoring the parties of ladies sipping tea and gossiping, who glanced up at him en masse, he walked through the doors to Worth's reception room. The master's twin black spaniels looked up from the green velvet chairs they occupied, and at the Duc's greeting them by name, wagged their tails in acceptance. He was offered tea or champagne by the solicitous young man preceding him, and when he said, "Coffee, four sugars," was shown to a chair by the windows overlooking the street. The scented, elegant young man left, returning moments later with the Duc's coffee and the three Monsieurs Worth, Charles-Frederick, father, and his two sons, Jean-Philippe and Gaston. The elder Worth was sixty-six now and in failing health, but he still dressed in the dramatic artist's style he favored: a cap of black velvet; a gown of dark material relieved with touches of tulle, the edges richly trimmed in fur—over a smock and baggy tros. His sons, Jean-Philippe, who many said was more talented than his father, and Gaston, the practical and austere business manager of the firm, were both dressed in understated tailored elegance. They knew why he was here. Bourges had set up the appointment. They had not yet agreed among themselves whether they could reveal what information they had without jeopardizing their business. At their firm, the Faubourg Saint Germain sat between kept women, and the world of officialdom met the Faubourg Saint Germain, a mingling of social classes, political parties, and marriage partners. At times, kept discreetly separated. As had been the case last summer when the Duc de Vec had come in with his newest amorata, Miss Daisy Black, at the same time his wife the Duchesse had been undergoing a fitting in one of the salons under the watchful eye of her latest young priest.

After greeting each other, the Worths took chairs, the assistant poured them tea, and after a glance from the elder Monsieur Worth, the assistant left. "Bourges told you what I need," the Duc said immediately after the door clicked shut. "My wife has been here often, it seems, with one or another priest as escort." "As do others at times, Monsieur le Duc," Gaston answered. Etienne's brows rose slightly. "An interesting concept," he quietly said, putting the spoon he'd stirred his sugar with aside. "But this particular variation on a theme interests me only so much as my wife is involved. Do you recall specific instances when she was here, in dishabille, as it were, with such an escort?" "It's difficult to recall," Jean-Philippe lied, the panic of the near-encounter of the Duc and Duchesse de Vec only months ago very fresh in his memory. "I not only require a witness," the Duc said, pressing, because they weren't going to volunteer the information, "but a witness who would be willing to testify in court if necessary. And I'm prepared to reimburse you for that information. An employee would be sufficient," he added. "I'm not suggesting any of you need appear." "It could be very damaging for our business," the elder Worth bluntly said, his Manchester accent still strong after forty years in Paris, his French inadequate for conversation. "Send a midinette to me. You could have let her go; she was discontent and willing to testify. Your firm would be clear of any mistrust from your customers as to confidentiality. No divorce cases can be publicly revealed, as you know. The risk would be minimal." "Gossip travels fast in the insulated world our customers frequent. Divorce scandal particularly." Gaston was only pointing out the reality of the situation. "How much does my wife spend here a year?" The Duc's curt query brought all eyes to Gaston. The Duchesse was one of their best customers. "I don't have an exact figure." "An approximation will do. Be generous." "A hundred thousand francs a month." Good Lord, how could she possibly wear that many dresses? Having purchased his share of gowns at Worth, he did the arithmetic quickly in his head—two gowns a day, per month, each year. Certainly that should be worth a midinette or two in court. "I'll pay you that sum each year. Bourges will draw up the papers. Now can we speak frankly?" He could see they were interested in his offer, but Gaston spoke first, as business manager more aware than his father and brother, who were the designers, that should news leak out of their disclosures, they could stand to lose much more than one hundred thousand francs a month.

"Allow us to confer with our attorneys before we decide." "I need details, tell him that. We already know she was here many times with one priest or another. And I'd appreciate an expeditious reply." His politeness was familiar to the Worths, the Duc de Vec's courtesy was legendary. So they were surprised when he said, just before he walked out the door, his voice cold as ice, "I intend to have that information, gentlemen, so you might as well prosper by it. Do we understand each other?" His question was the kind that didn't require an answer.

Daisy's telegram was delivered to him as he sat in a meeting late that afternoon with Bourges and several of his attorneys, their discussion centering on the overture recently received from the Worth solicitors. The solicitors had suggested, in language couched in cautious legalese, that the Worths would be willing to Cooperate under certain conditions. Those conditions had brought the Duc's men together and were now causing considerable disagreement. Bourges was for subpoenaing the Worths if and when they went to court—thus saving the Duc a million two hundred thousand francs a year. Several of the more conservative of his legal advisors were interested in pursuing the Worth overtures, while others suggested a counteroffer to set off negotiations. "Excuse me for a moment, gentlemen," Etienne said, taking the telegram from the salver held out to him by a footman. He had orders for Daisy's telegrams to be brought to him immediately. Tearing the envelope open, he read the message quickly, the buzz of conversation going on around him separate from his preoccupation. Taking a deep, steadying breath, he read the words through again.

Your shaman gods must have planned the storm. I just wanted you to know. Come back to us soon. Love from Daisy and your child.

"More problems?" Bourges inquired, noting the Duc's unguarded reaction. Etienne's head rose slowly as though he'd heard Bourges's voice from a great distance, his green eyes oddly lit. "Problems?" Bourges repeated. Silence had fitfully fallen since the telegram arrived, conversations coming to a halt as first one man and then another observed the Duc's strange response. "On the contrary." Etienne's voice was hushed, his attention still not fully returned, the impact of Daisy's news distracting: pride, joy, wonder, discomposing and wildly tumultuous, pervading his mind. A child! The wonder of it took his breath away. His and Daisy's child. He carefully folded the paper, placing it in his vest pocket as if the embodiment and spirit of his child were already under his protection. What had seemed important moments ago suddenly lost its relevancy. Whether the Worths would or wouldn't him was no longer of overriding importance. He and Daisy were going to have a child! The immediacy of that miracle made even Isabelle's excruciating meanness disappear in the tidal wave of joy suffusing his soul. He surveyed the men seated around the table, pausing for a small moment as if gathering their images into his memory. "Daisy and I are having a child," he said, elation shining from his eyes, his smile stunning even the lawyers who dealt in drama with its exultation. "I'll be leaving Paris tomorrow." Responses erupted around the table, congratulations first, polite and genuine, followed closely by consternation and dismay as each man protested the impossibility of carrying on without the Duc. He answered each man individually, kindly, at whatever length was required, but he wouldn't be moved. He was leaving the following day. All he could think of was Daisy and their baby. The past weeks without her had been ones of deprivation and loneliness. Without her, Paris was empty… his apartments devoid of life. He marveled how fate could take a hand so strikingly, how a single evening at Adelaide's could change his wayward life. "What of the divorce?" Bourges finally said, quietly, after the last of the other men had left and they sat alone over brandy at the large table strewn with the debris of their discussions. "Continue the appeals, of course… to the last petition and magistrate." Etienne raked his fingers through his dark hair with familiar exasperation when reminded of the avenues already closed to them. Picking up his glass again, he drank it down, his frustration plain. "Dammit," he said, signaling Bourges to slide the bottle closer, "my divorce is even more urgent now with a child on the way. And the Worths' attorneys are just another legal maneuver that's going to mean more delay." "I think we'll have something soon. I had a man hired on at the Duchesse's—as a footman. Servants are

apprehensive answering questions put to them by detectives. I don't blame them. Like the Worths on a lesser scale, they're concerned with their livelihood. Charbeau is competent." "I want my child legitimate." There was nothing to say to the Duc's emotional need, but ever the practical attorney, Bourges pointed out the optional legalities. "The child can still be named a legal heir and legitimized later. Once the divorce is accomplished." Etienne smiled at Felicien's kindness. "Isabelle's been more unwieldy than you thought. I should have known, I suppose, after observing her so long." "There's no question of defeat," Bourges crisply replied. "I can assure you." Felicien Bourges had never lost a fight and he didn't intend the Duchesse de Vec to be his first defeat. Beyond the issue of failure, in itself unthinkable to the peasant boy who had risen so far, was the matter of Isabelle's contempt. He would see her deprived of her duchesse's coronet if it took him another ten years. Ever since receiving Daisy's telegram, Etienne had been considering the necessity, the possible usefulness, of a visit to Isabelle. He wished to make one last attempt at a settlement before leaving and he contemplated getting down on his knees and begging her as a last alternative. In the extremity of his need, pride was suddenly incidental, only the future of his child mattered. "I think I'll stop by Isabelle's before I go," he declared, gazing at the liquor in his glass. Aware the Duc hadn't spoken to his wife at any length since leaving his home months before, Bourges understood the impulse driving him. "Would you like me to come along?" The Duc looked at him for a moment over his half-empty glass before saying, "No." He grinned suddenly. "I'd rather not have an audience when I'm humiliating myself." "Let me arrange for Charbeau to be in attendance… if possible. I can him before you arrive." "A witness?" "Just in case." Bourges always considered the myriad possibilities. Etienne looked at the time. Nearly three. He'd hoped to see Isabelle before tea in case she'd be entertaining… or out. "I'll have to see her before four-thirty. Is that enough time to your man?" "I'll send a messenger immediately," Bourges said, rising. A moment later, after vigorously cranking the handle on the Duc's phone, his call was put through. Etienne listened with half-interest to the instructions Bourges was giving to one of the aides in his office, reflecting instead on his opening remarks to Isabelle. Entreaty would be best accompanied by something more to sweeten the proposition. Isabelle lacked most Christian virtues, including charity. "Done," Bourges declared, returning to the table. "Charbeau will be informed of your imminent arrival." "There's still time for a drink," the Duc said, reaching for the bell-pull to have his carriage brought around. "You can wish me good fortune. Or more appropriately, considering it's Isabelle I'm seeing," he added with a smile, "you can more realistically offer me condolences in advance for a wasted trip."

Was he asking so much, he wearily thought, sprawled in his carriage as his driver took him through the rain-wet streets to the palace that had been home to the de Vecs for five centuries. Was his freedom from a marriage devoid of everything but malice such an enormous favor in the eyes of the fates? Had he no right to happiness like others on this planet? In desperation he was traveling to see a woman who had shown him no comion or charity in two decades to ask of her a boon. It was an outrageous act of hope. Many of the old de Vec retainers had gone with the Duc when he'd set up separate quarters at his apartment, and Isabelle's new butler didn't recognize him until he announced his name. The new majordomo didn't know whether Madame le Duchesse was in, he told Etienne, but if the Duc would wait in the green drawing room, he would have the Duc's card brought up to Madame's quarters. Motioning to a footman standing at attention near his shoulder, the butler said, "Charbeau, take His Grace's card upstairs." Bourges's man had no choice but to obey. Bringing another footman over with a wave of his hand, the new steward of Isabelle's home directed, "Picard, show Monsieur le Duc to the green drawing room." Handing his gloves to the butler, Etienne followed the footman down the corridor he'd walked through a thousand times in the past, a small stab of nostalgia gripping him as the familiar interior reminded him of happier days, of his children, and his childhood. As they approached the drawing-room doors, the young footman turned, smiled, and said, "She won't see you, Your Grace." "She won't?" While the possibility wasn't entirely unexpected, this young man plainly telling him was.

"Orders, sir. You're not allowed upstairs." "The Duchesse is there now?" The footman nodded. "You didn't hear it from me, sir." "You're Douet's grandson, aren't you?" Etienne recognized the tall broad-shouldered frame and the shock of flaxen hair. Douet's family had come originally from one of his grandfather's estates in Normandy and their size and coloring traced back to some long-ago Viking ancestor. "Yes, sir, I have to leave, sir. Montrose will come looking for me." "Why didn't you come with your father when he left the Duchesse's employ?" "Well, sir, the morning parlor maid was newly hired and would be staying… so…" "So you stayed," the Duc said with a smile. "You're both welcome in my household, should you wish… and thank you for your information." "Thank you, sir. Marguerite would be happy to be away… the Duchesse frightens her, Your Grace." "Being your things and Marguerite, too, to your father. You know the way?" "Oh, yes, sir, Your Grace, sir," the young man stammered, backing away and bowing. "Thank you, sir, Your Grace." If Isabelle wouldn't receive him, he'd have to find his way to her though less formal channels, the Duc thought, deciding to take the conservatory stairway to avoid Montrose. The conservatory dominated the eastern courtyard, the three-story glass structure housing a collection of exotic trees and plants brought home by generations of travel-prone de Vecs. Fragrant flowering plants and shrubbery perfumed the entire east wing of the hotel, the open stairway added by a de Vec enamored of the tropical climes he'd visited in his youth. The staircase was rarely used, for its distance from the family and public rooms made it inconvenient. So Etienne paused on the second-floor landing for a brief time to ire the enclosed garden he'd nurtured through his years as master of this house. He drew in the smell of damp earth, of lily and jasmine and island grasses, inundated suddenly by a sense of melancholy as the familiar smells assailed him. He had not perhaps a profound veneration for his ancestors—since his father's role had been so detached even on the rare occasions he was in residence, and his mother's friendship had come to him in his adulthood—but there was a certain sense of continuity in this beautiful old building. If his attachments weren't based on familial emotions, they were devoted to a fidelity of place; he had spent his entire adult life caring for the de Vec estates, improving them, expanding them, restoring those his father had neglected. Like this hotel. With a conscious effort he shook away the nostalgia, reminding himself no amount of satisfaction in estate management compared with the deep happiness he'd found with Daisy. And if he must sacrifice in his lifetime all the de Vec monuments to the past, he would. Leaving the landing, he strode down the carpeted hallway toward those rooms Isabelle occupied. It was

quiet this time of day between drowsy afternoon and teatime, the rain outside casting the interior into an orchid shade. He must hurry, he realized, increasing his stride, for his time was limited to that interval between his card being brought up and returned to the majordomo downstairs. He then would be sought out in the drawing room to be given his refusal. There was a new gold screen inside Isabelle's reception-room door, and as Etienne crossed the threshold into the room, he saw through the crack between two of its folds, his wife and the young blond priest from the Bonnard show sitting side by side on the sofa by the fire. He hesitated for a second with the knob still in his hand, mesmerized by the scene, and then he realized that the young priest was gazing devouringly into Isabelle's eyes and holding her hands in both of his. The carpet was so thick and the latch so well oiled his entrance hadn't made a sound. In a rich throaty tone he'd never heard before, Isabelle caressingly said, "Roger, darling, you understand me so well." "It's always special when it's raining, isn't it, heart of mine… since that first afternoon…" "… at Charles's reception." Lifting her hands, he slipped them inside the opened front of his cassock, and Etienne heard the pounding of his own heart in his ears as Isabelle slipped the black garment from the young man's shoulders. Etienne stealthily closed the door behind him, thinking belatedly, how would Charbeau know he was inside? But if all transpired in its normal course as appeared likely from the events taking place before his eyes, in a few minutes more, he'd make his presence known, open the door, ring for the servants, and then sit down on one of Isabelle's cushioned rococo fauteuils and calmly wait until a witness appeared. "Will you make me do penance for this sin, Roger, darling?" Isabelle whispered. "I know lust is sinful. What penance will you have me do?" She had stripped his cassock away and he wore only black silk underwear, monogrammed with his family crest at his thigh. He had not yet apparently, the Duc dryly observed, cast off all the luxuries of the world. Or its decadence… he reflected, as Isabelle's small hands stroked the curve of the youthful clergyman's shoulders. "First you must undress for me, my child," the young man said, his voice mock gruff, his cadence that of the confessional. "Cast your clothing away so I may see you as God intended." "Naked, Your Worship?" Isabelle whispered, a sultry resonance to her voice. "As Magdalene was before her Lord." "Are you my Lord, Your Holiness?" "In all things, my dear." The young priest's erection lifted the soft black silk of his underwear into peaked prominence, an attraction Isabelle couldn't resist. She paused in the process of untying the ribbons of her pale blue mousseline-de-soie reception dress to unbutton the waistband of his undergarment so his arousal was free.

"I like to see it," she murmured, "lift its impatient head." She stroked the rampant crest of his erection and the young priest shut his eyes momentarily against his shuddering desire. "No more," he said short seconds later, having composed himself, his hand deliberately setting Isabelle's stroking fingers aside, "until you expose your nakedness to me." "Must I?" she said in feigned apprehension, even as her fin-gers resumed undoing the bows holding her flowing silk gown together. How much had he paid for that reception gown? the Duc wondered, the magnificence of its fabric and lacework stunning tribute to Doucet's sense of luxury. Isabelle's "at home" gown, loose-fitting and worn without the discomfort of corsets and stays, incorporated dozens of yards of euchre lace and embroidered diaphanous mousseline. He would have to stop and order some as beautiful for Daisy before he left tomorrow. Isabelle's gown slid to the carpet in a soft whisper of silk a moment later, and the Duc saw his wife's body for the first time in nearly two decades. Isabelle had always prided herself on maintaining her weight by playing tennis every day, and it showed. She'd changed very little. Standing now before the fair-haired priest, her blonde hair loose on her shoulders, her back to the door, she was waiting apparently for the next procedure in a game seemingly familiar to its players. "Have you been good, my dear, and not committed any sins?" "No, Your Worship." "You have sinned?" "I have lusted, Your Worship." "You must be punished, my dear, you realize." "I know." "Put your hands behind your back and bend forward, my dear," the young man intoned with mock sternness, "so I can ister justice." She did so willingly, and the priest gazed at her for some moments as she bowed before him, her breasts suspended within reach. Leaning forward leisurely, he grasped them both in his hands, pulling her closer until her nipples, squeezed into prominence by the pressure of his fingers, were within inches of his mouth. "I'm doing this for your own good, you know," he murmured, seeming to wait for an answer. "Yes, sir," Isabelle whispered on cue. And he took one jewel-hard nipple into his mouth and suckled it with such force, the Duc heard Isabelle gasp loudly enough to carry the distance to his position by the door. Despite the priest's roughness, which he democratically portioned out to each breast, Isabelle seemed to be enjoying the sensations, for her hips began moving in a rhythm of arousal. After some time, the young man asked, "Are you cleansed of your lustful thoughts now, my dear?"

"Not completely, Your Holiness." "Let me see." He released her breasts, leaving behind vivid red fingermarks where he'd savagely grasped her flesh, and his hands moved to the juncture of her thighs. Without comment or hesitation or preliminaries, he roughly slid two fingers deep inside Isabelle. Isabelle moaned in luxurious response, her hips moving to capture the full extent of the young man's manipulation. How far should he let them go? the Duc wondered, and then decided it would be useful for legal reasons to have the young man's sperm on Isabelle's thighs. He would wait for their divine climax… unless, of course, this game was devised for saintly penitents who stopped just short of consummation—for conscience's sake. Since he had no religious neurosis or perversions to call on for counsel or guidance… He would have to wait and see. Did Isabelle reach orgasm? he wondered. She did, he saw a moment later, as she sensationally expired from the priest's harsh manipulation. She fell in a delicate swoon, her head in the young priest's lap. He could immediately see where the diversion was leading next and he hoped Charbeau was taking his time getting back to Montrose, or the staff was going to be sent out soon in search of him. They wouldn't dare come into this room, though, unless invited, so he was safe. But the alarm would be sounded in the rest of the hotel. Perhaps that would be an asset after all. A full complement of servants in the corridors ready for his call would be useful. The young man initiated the next activity in their divine drama of carnal transgression. Lifting Isabelle's head from his lap, he bent to kiss her gently on the forehead, his tenderness startling contrast to his former domination. "You have made progress, my dear, in controlling your lustful thoughts. You didn't cry out at your climax. I commend your restraint." He kissed her again, his fingers holding her chin tilted upward so their eyes met, their lips ing this time in a long heated caress. "Thank you, Your Worship," Isabelle murmured, when he freed her from his grasp. "Will I be rewarded now for my restraint?" Kneeling at his feet, she arched her back so her breasts jutted upward, offering herself to him. "Naughty girl," he chastised, moving his hands from the curve of her shoulders to her upthrust breasts. "Are you trying to tempt me into your sinful ways?" Taking her nipples between his thumb and forefinger he squeezed and lifted, forcing her to rise higher until their faces were almost touching. "Are you?" He squeezed harder. "No, I would never try to tempt you, Your Worship," she murmured, smothering a small moan, her mouth almost pressed to his. "I'm your handmaiden only…" she whispered, "to serve you in all things." "Will you bathe me?" He held her still in his steely grasp, forcing her breasts prominently high. She nodded.

"And bring me my food?" "Yes, my lord." "And bear me children?" "Yes," she whispered. Good God… Etienne thought. "And bring me pleasure?" "Truly Your Holiness, I live to serve you." "We'll see," he said, as if in grudging reluctance he might allow her that office. He released her nipples, leaving her kneeling before him, waiting for his next command, docile and subdued. Taking his erection in his hands, he stroked it as Isabelle avidly watched, bringing its rigid length to a full turgid arousal. "Have you been applying yourself to your handmaiden lessons?" he asked, languidly stroking his erection. "Yes, absolutely, sir." "Do you think you've reached a level of performance I would find satisfactory?" He circled the shiny red crest of his tumescent manhood with a slender finger while he watched her eager gaze. "I've been most diligent in my studies, Your Worship," she breathed, her rapt eyes focused on the casual stroking of his fingers. "Very well, we'll allow you a small compensation for your studious activities. Pleasure me," he said in a deliberate, commanding tone, "with your sinful mouth." And Etienne watched with a curious detachment as his wife leaned over and drew the young pale-haired priest's aroused manhood into her mouth with an avid enthusiasm and skill and competence that did indeed indicate some lessons well learned. She sucked and licked and nibbled on the engorged and gleaming wet erection at some length while the priest's slender hands squeezed and fondled Isabelle's breasts in absentminded unconcern. Di-vinely motivated or not, it was obvious before too long the young man was reaching his peak and even spiritual discipline wasn't going to stop his orgasm. "On the couch," the priest curtly ordered a few short moments later, as if he were a general and not a clergyman, and Isabelle jumped to obey, lying open for him, guiding his rampant erection into her, like a dutiful handmaiden, clasping him in her arms and moaning softly as he drove into her with a frenzied violence. The fair-haired man groaned softly in only seconds more, collapsing on the twenty-seventh Duchesse de Vec as though she were a scullery maid. In a way this odd arrangement made Isabelle more human, Etienne reflected. He'd wondered all these years what she'd done with her life. But now he'd seen… And no one could accuse him any longer of being the only libertine de Vec. He was genuinely smiling when he opened the door to the hallway and then stepped from behind the

screen. "Good afternoon," he said, mildly surveying the astonished young priest lying on top of his wife. "I don't believe we've met. I'm de Vec. And that, I believe, is my wife warming your cock." "Get out!" Isabelle screamed, an unholy rage glaring from her eyes. "My, my, such a tone for a handmaiden of the Lord. I'm shocked." Etienne calmly settled his large frame into one of Isabelle's pastel and gilt chairs. "Had I known how pious inspiration stimulated you, darling, I would have embraced religion years ago. A truly awesome performance. And heated from my vantage point. You have a bit of sweat on your upper lip, darling." "I'll have you thrown out," Isabelle snarled, attempting to move the body of the stupefied young man from atop her. "By this slender young man? Really?" Etienne's smile was angelic, his breadth of shoulder twice that of the pale priest's. "Ah, there you are, Charbeau," he said to the footman entering the room, satisfaction evident in his voice. "Would you say I've found my wife in an um indelicate situation?" "Yes, sir, Your Grace. My word on it in court." "Get off me, Roger!" Isabelle exploded, shoving the startled young man onto the floor. "Who are you?" she shouted at Char-beau, arrogant even in her denouement. She stood before him naked, putting on her lace robe without a thought for his presence. "You work here? Who hired you? I'll have their heads! You're dismissed. Get out!" He had to give her points for noblesse. She had neither humility nor remorse, only this melodramatic rage. "It's a little late for theatrics, Isabelle," the Duc quietly said, "although," he added with a wicked smile, "you have a wonderful flair for acting. I never realized you could be so submissive." His dark brows rose in compliment. "I'm truly amazed." "Roger, find your damn clothes and get out of here!" Isabelle commanded, she the general now, their roles reversed. A more familiar posture for the Duc to comprehend. "Get his name," Etienne said to Charbeau as he watched the man struggle into his long cassock while he was moving toward the door, his crested underwear abandoned on Isabelle's couch. "Yes, sir." By this time, several servants had converged in the hall outside, standing well back from the open door, fearful of approaching too closely with the Duchesse's voice raised to that familiar pitch. The Duc smiled at them all and waved a greeting before he closed the door behind the retreating figures of the priest and Charbeau. "I have the legal right to shoot you and your lover dead," he pleasantly said, turning back to Isabelle. "You're aware of that, I presume, since you've been so dedicated to the infinite details of divorce these past months. Unfortunately, you don't have the same option with me. Unfair, I know, but men, after all, devise these laws so it's to be expected." His voice was softly amused, his green eyes touched with a

sardonic neutrality. While he understood the injustice of the law, he'd suffered, too, under the injustice of his brother-in-law's patronage. Life wasn't always fair. "So—are we even now?" "I hate you!" "Somehow I already knew that," he said coolly. "What I'd like to know is whether we can now proceed with this divorce like reasonable adults or whether you wish to be brought into court to recount the events I just witnessed?" "I'll say you lied." "Charbeau is a bailiff." "Charles can have him dismissed." "This isn't the first time, Isabelle, you've amused yourself with these… advocates of God on earth, only the first time I've seen you. Bourges has several other incidents on file concerning you and your pretty young priests that only require time to fully develop as potent cases against you. The Pope isn't going to receive you anymore if this all becomes public. Think of the waste for all those lace mantillas you have that Flemish village produce for you each year." "Divorce cases are sealed." His smile was brutal. "You know how gossip is…damaging even without corroboration. How do they put those tantalizing tidbits in The Herald or Le Figaro… Duchesse X was seen being spiritually invigorated by Monseigneur Z, secretary to an important Archbishop at the Minister of Justice's reception last June. You're right. Nobody would know it was you." "Charles can censor those papers." "Don't count on it. Was Baptiste the first of your priestly lovers?" he asked, the black disgruntled looks he'd received years ago from the Montigny family cure finally explained. "I won't discuss Baptiste with you!" "Are the twins mine?" he asked in ing, out of a morbid curiosity only, because, as he recalled, the Montigny cure was slender with light brown hair and his children favored the de Vec size and coloring. Even Jolie was tall for a woman. "Of course!" "Don't act so offended, Isabelle. You could have been fucking him too. Although what's the polite period of time for you convent-bred ladies—a virgin at marriage or at least the look of it. I was never quite sure. Did you bring him to your bed once you knew you were pregnant with the required heir?" "You disgust me!" "Pardon me for speaking plainly. I forget how damned refined you are. When you fuck priests, does it obliterate the pungent odor of sweaty bodies… and illicit sin?"

"Baptiste always said you were an animal! How all the girls were grabbing you at the May Day in our village at Poisse. And you teasing them back like some peasant. You had hands like a peasant, too, Baptiste said, too large, like your body. Maybe governesses like loutish men—" The Duc's eyes opened fractionally at the citation about Ursalina. "He told me about your pretty little governess who taught you more than French literature!" "Like your abbe, you mean. With hands like these, Isabelle, I'm surprised you consented to marry me. You shouldn't have lowered yourself. So many other families were angling for the de Vec fortune at the time, I wouldn't have been devastated. You should have run off with your parish priest." "He was penniless." "Ah…" the Duc softly sighed, everything suddenly… infintely clear. He was the husband who made the Montignys so much richer, while the abbe was not only already wed to the Church, but worse—he was poor. Oddly, he felt relieved to know. Over the years, he'd brushed off the inadequacies of his marriage, but Isabelle's indifference had left some scars on his youthful psyche. Time had exonerated the taint of personal blame when so many females found him tantalizing, but he'd never forgotten Isabelle's cold repudiation once she was the Duchesse de Vec. He'd always questioned whether the fault lay with him. "It was never very pleasant, was it?" Etienne said in a low quiet voice, gazing at the woman he'd considered his wife for so long, overcome with the small ruin of their lives. "Good Lord, Etienne," Isabelle said in impatient exasperation, "you always had that romantic streak. Romance has nothing to do with marriage. We lead lives like everyone else, like our parents did, and their parents." "What about happiness?" "Your newest bitch-in-heat can give you that. She's remarkably dark, by the way… like a blackamoor." So much for the finer points of happiness as a philosophy, Etienne realized. "Nothing's as black as your damned heart, Isabelle," he said, a great wave of loathing and weariness overcoming him, reminding him of the utter lack of feeling in his wife for anyone but herself. "If I hear another word about Daisy, I guarantee you, I'll see that every last person in Paris has a description of your interesting display of religious eroticism. And while I've never been formally introduced to your dominant partner, I recognized the embroidered crest on his underwear," he said, glancing at the black silk left behind. "I don't think the Duc de Nantes will appreciate you corrupting his darling son. He has influence with the Pope, I understand. Maybe he could have you excommunicated or your hypocritical cousin the Archbishop. Think about that for a minute or so while you ponder your decision on our divorce. I'm in a hurry though, so be quick." "Do I have a choice?" "It depends on your threshold of humiliation and my vindictive tendencies. You've put me through hell,

Isabelle, these last few months." "I don't particularly care." "That's honest at least. Shall we have our lawyers begin some preliminary negotiations… in say—an hour?" "Impossible!" "What's impossible?" he said menacingly. She had the good sense to say, "The time… an hour's impossible." "Maybe one of your spiritual advisors could contrive a miracle then, because I want Letheve at Bourges's office in one hour. I'm leaving for America tomorrow." He could see the light dawn in her eyes—the narrow thing it would have been to have had him leave unknowing. "You bastard!" she exclaimed. "You lucky bastard, you mean," he said with a grin. "Tell Letheve not to ask for too much," he quietly added, "because I'm still smarting over that railroad takeover attempt you participated in." "I'll get you someday, Etienne. Damn you!" "Maybe," he said, because he didn't doubt her malicious intent, "but think of the bright side, Isabelle. With all these divorce matters out of the way, now you'll have more time to be a 'handmaiden' to all those pale young men." She was picking up one of his ancestor's Ming vases when he decided it was time to leave. "That comes out of your settlement, Isabelle," he said with a grin, making a break for the door. "Two of them," he murmured, sprinting down the hall, a second vase following the first in crashing crescendo. When he reached the top of the stairway, he turned back and winced at the sight and sound of smashing porcelain. "Three."

Etienne had his driver break all records getting to Bourges's office where Felicien was waiting for the re-suits of his visit to Isabelle's. Walking through the two reception rooms on his way to Felicien's office, the Duc smiled in greeting to all the employees, his smile turning into a wide grin by the time he waved Bourges's young assistant aside and pushed open the door to the office himself. "You're looking at an extremely happy man, a jubilant, exhilarated man… a man who once again believes in the concept of justice." Etienne threw open his arms expansively to include the world in his felicitous embrace. "A miracle of some sort has obviously occurred," Bourges said, an answering smile on his face. In shirtsleeves at the end of the day, he pushed his rolled sleeves up a fraction, crossed his arms behind his head, and leaning back in his chair, added, "Give me the glorious details." "First, Letheve will be here within the hour. With his hat in hand, I presume." Taking hold of a chair, Etienne pulled an early Chippendale armchair closer to Felicien's desk. "As for details, they are indeed glorious, but also slightly disreputable and definitely iniquitous." The Duc's smile was jovial. "I assume we aren't talking about a decision over tea after these past months of dealing with the Duchesse's malevolent concept of justice." "There may have been tea," the Duc said with feigned recall. "Although their hunger was of another sort." "They? My imagination runs—" "Wild is the appropriate word, Felicien. Definitely. And 'they' were my wife Isabelle, who didn't believe in divorce until very recently, and her friend from the gallery showing of the other night. I can see by your face, you anticipate my recital." "In flagrante delicto." "Precisely." Ever the lawyer, Felicien said, "Was Charbeau a witness?" "Eventually. Opportunely, as it were, at the consummation." Even Bourges was slightly shocked and he'd seen a great deal in his climb from the gutters. He was aware the variety of vice didn't differ so much from class to class, only manifesting itself in more luxurious surroundings at the top. But the Duchesse de Vec was a haughty, arrogant women who somehow gave the illusion of never completely losing her self-control. "You saw it all?" "Every perverse urgency."

"You could have killed them both." "I know. I told her that." Bourges arched his dark brows slightly. "Maybe you were too kind." "The thought crossed my mind briefly. But that kind of act is performed in ion and ion isn't an emotion I can conjure up with Isabelle." "It's also done in cold calculation." "It would save a great deal of money, wouldn't it? But, Lord, you have to hate more than I do. Hell, when I saw them there on that hideous pink satin sofa Isabelle has had recovered so many times—and now I know why—hate was the furthest thing from my mind. My spirits soared higher than the snowcapped heights of the Himalayas. Freedom! I thought. Glorious freedom!" "How little do you want to leave her?" Etienne's mouth curved into a smile. "What a difference. I went as a supplicant, quite literally willing to beg. Did her luck finally run out or is there divine justice after all?" "I think you'd never looked before," Bourges quietly replied. "You mean, had I, I would have discovered this long ago." "Very long ago, and I think, too, you were hoping to settle the divorce like a gentleman." "And you knew better." "I've seen so many. One learns." "What do you suggest?" "Return her dower portion; no more is legally required." "I'd like my home back. I realized today the host of memories in the Hôtel de Vec are important to me. I can give her sufficient funds to build or buy another residence." "You needn't be generous." Etienne shrugged. In his own immense happiness, he was beyond vindictiveness. "I can afford it… and settle a sum on her for maintenance." "With some stipulations. To protect you and Daisy from any possible malice." "You define those then. I understand the wisdom in your suggestion, but I don't feel inclined to deal with every eventuality. I'm benevolent in victory and feel ashamed in a strange way for my own enormous happiness… for Daisy and our child and my future. Surely Isabelle's diversions with the younger sons of aristocrats who've bought a bishopry for their family crest can't be entirely satisfying… over time. And I'm speaking as a reformed devotee of my own particular style of amusement."

"Ah, love," Felicien softly said, aware of the enormous changes he'd witnessed in the Duc de Vec from the man who'd first come into his office, self-contained, aloof, operating within the circumspect perimeters of the privileged class he'd been born into. He was transformed. "I recommend it," Etienne said simply. "Are you still leaving tomorrow?" Bourges asked, knowing love was motivating the Duc's precipitous departure. "Yes. You'll have to take complete charge. Telegram your questions and I'll respond promptly. Justin will be in Paris for a few weeks more before he leaves for the East. He is my factor in my absence for anything you might require signed." "What should be done with the Worths' proposal?" "Pay them something for their willingness to aid me. They can name their price." "And what of the Amsterdam venture?" "I only want my money back… what it cost me to buy Verlaine and Marveil out. I'm benign to them as well. Negotiate something after they've bought into the worthless mines. They should be pleased to have gotten off so lightly." "No revenge?" "Daisy and I are having a child," he said. "Daisy and I are going to be married once this divorce is processed. Revenge has dropped very low on my list of priorities." "A small warning in your paradise of happiness." The Duc's green eyes met his swiftly across the muted light of the evening-shrouded room. "Even with capitulation, the actual court procedures in divorce will take some months." "How many months?" Etienne was counting the time until his child would be born. "Four, maybe five, possibly six." "Make it four." "I'll do everything I can." "I have to see Justin yet, and Georges. Both need funds for their expedition." The Duc rose and put out his hand to Bourges. "Thank you in advance and for all you've done. We'll send you a wedding invitation." He smiled. "I'm not entirely sure what a Montana wedding entails." The thousand-year de Vec heritage echoed for a moment in his words, the royal prerogatives and noblesse distinctive. "But I'm extremely grateful to be the bridegroom," he added, a telling humbleness in his voice.

"Do you know when you'll be back?" "It depends on Daisy." Bourges nodded, understanding the Duc's feelings. "I'll wait to hear from you then. And congratulations." "Thank you." Etienne shut his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath as a chill ran down his spine. "It was a close thing, wasn't it?" "It was a miracle," Felicien said quietly, "of gigantic proportions."

Nine days later the Duc was in Montana, standing on the train station platform in Helena, a chill autumn wind blowing his hair into disarray as he gazed down the street leading into town. Louis was inside checking to see that all their luggage had arrived intact, and he was wondering if he'd given the wrong date in his telegram from Chicago. When Daisy still hadn't come after some time, the Duc called11 the Braddock-Black house and was told Miss Daisy was in court. When he left his name, the butler expressed astonishment he'd arrived in Helena, apologized thoroughly for not having someone there to meet him. He would have a carriage sent immediately. "An emergency called her to court today, Your Grace," the man politely added. "You weren't expected until the evening train." As it was ten o'clock in the morning, Etienne asked when Daisy would return. "For dinner, Your Grace. I could have her informed of your arrival," the cultured tones of the Braddock-Black majordomo added. And he apologized again for the misunderstanding.

"Don't bother her in court," Etienne said. "I'll have my man bring my things in the carriage." The Duc promptly sent Louis off and had himself driven to a real estate agency. Since he had an entire day to himself, he'd find a home. After not seeing Daisy for over a month, he didn't relish living under the Braddock-Black roof as a guest, nor did he like hotel living. Neither venue offered him the privacy he wished. After viewing several photographs,12 the Duc selected two ranches as possible choices and was driven out by an extremely deferential agent. Both ranches had been put up for sale by their British owners after the disastrous winter of eighty-six when three-quarters of the cattle had died. The bubble had burst on many foreign investors that year, leaving numerous abandoned businesses behind. "Will you be grazing cattle, Your Grace?" the agent asked, curious about the quiet Duc who had picked his two most expensive properties without inquiring about the land. He wished only to know whether the ranch houses were livable. "Probably not," the Duc said, gazing out on the beauty of the mountainous landscape rimming the horizon. "Will you be staying permanently?" The Duc turned to look at him with a mild scrutiny, not familiar with being asked personal questions by strangers. Americans had a frankness and open friendliness he always found disconcerting. "Probably not," he said again because the man seemed to expect some answer. "All the remittance men lost their shirts the winter of eighty-six. Just thought I'd warn you, if you were thinking about raising cattle. Got better properties for that than these two ranches." "Actually, I looking for a house that's private," the Duc said in a mild voice, the very moderation of his tone causing the owner of Burnet Properties to wonder what the Duc had in mind. Foreigners were all a strange lot, her reflected, scrutinizing the Duc with a sidelong glance. Remittance men sent by their families to live down some disgrace before returning to society in Europe; Scots businessmen with the knack for making money but not conversation, like this fellow; that French couple a few years back who bought a place on Winter Mountain and thought they could farm. None of them knew squat about ranching. But he liked the color of their money. So he smiled at the large, well-dressed man beside him on the buggy seat and said, "Well, if it's privacy you want, both these places are so private your chimney smoke ain't even seen by a soul until they get through that over yonder." "I need a telegraph line put in. How soon could I get that done?" Bourges would be trying to get in touch with him immediately and he'd prefer not going through public channels. "Depends." "Depends?" He already knew the man's answer. "On how much money you have." "Good." Business was done the same everywhere.

He liked the house at the second ranch better. It was larger, had been more recently lived in, and didn't smell of stale tobacco smoke like the first one. They were both built rustically of logs with large verandas running across their facades, but the one in the Clear River valley had an additional small porch on the second floor, giving the master bedroom access to the outdoors… and the magnificent view. Standing on the bedroom balcony, Etienne took in the quiet majesty of the mountain landscape, the rushing river slicing through the grassy valley the dark pines and colored aspen covering the rough mountain terrain. The property was close to town, a consideration for Daisy whose daily schedule required her presence in the capital. Taking out his pocketwatch, he checked the time. Not yet three. An opportunity still for shopping. Turning to the agent who was rolling a cigarette with a familiar ease, Etienne said, "This one will do." "Do?" Tom Burnet wanted to make sure he was understanding the taciturn man properly. This was his most expensive property. He licked the paper, shaping the cigarette as he lightly pressed the paper together. "I'll buy it, with a minor stipulation added." Here's where the customer haggled, Tom understood, hoping to lower the price because he knew it had been sitting vacant for almost four years. "I'm sure we can come to some agreement," Tom said, already calculating how much to go down on the first go-round. "I'd like a cleaning crew up here within the hour. I want the house thoroughly washed from top to bottom by eight tonight. Hire as many people as you need. And I'll be picking out some minimum furniture when we get back to town. Could you see that it's delivered immediately? Provided the house is warm, clean, and livable by eight o'clock tonight, I'll pay each worker an extra bonus of a hundred dollars." "Deal," Tom Burnet said, his breath half lodged in his throat in astonishment. "Eight o'clock it is." "How soon can we be back to Helena?" "Half hour, for sure." "I'll have the banker bring you over a bank draft for the price of the property. What bank would you suggest to a newcomer?" Etienne carried letters of credit from Amsterdam and Paris. He'd come prepared to buy a home although he hadn't planned on doing it so promptly. But he was pleased the opportunity had arisen. He could build something more substantial than a log home later, but he'd have his own dwelling in the meantime. Never comfortable like Isabelle, staying endlessly at other people's homes for country weekends or autumn hunts or summer weeks at the seashore, he'd always preferred having his own residences. He looked forward to having Daisy to himself tonight. His banking accomplished on his return to town, Etienne selected several pieces of furniture at a shop stocking Liberty of London's products, then bought a fine quality sleigh bed much like the one he had in Normandy at his hunting box from a craftsman who restored antique furniture. Helena's mining base and lumbering interests produced a large number of millionaires for a town of modest size, and the merchants offered a variety of luxury products for the carriage trade. Etienne even found a leather club chair like his one at home. The familiar chair helped in his startling adjustment to a new frontier life. He'd place it before the fireplace in the master bedroom. Right next to the small settee he'd bought for Daisy. That wouldn't do,

he thought a moment later… he wanted her in his arms. The chair could go near the window for reading. He added a down-cushioned velvet couch to his order. There. At least they'd be comfortable this evening. And tomorrow, Daisy could buy what else was needed to furnish the house.

"You bought a house? Timms said you bought a house?" Daisy whispered in shocked surprise, as Etienne hugged her in the large entrance hall of her family's home. "You weren't going to be back till dinner." He'd had Louis bring his luggage to the ranch, along with the furniture delivery, and when he'd left from the valley a half-hour ago in the new buggy he'd purchased, lights were glowing in the ranch-house windows, the scent of soap and wax permeated the rooms, Louis was preparing his favorite punch cup, and the green velvet sofa was in place before the fireplace in the master bedroom. "I'll show you later tonight," he murmured. "Where is it? How did you find it?" "The ranch is in Clear River Valley. Lord, you look wonderful. The weeks were endless. You feel wonderful," he added, smiling as he released her, his gaze taking in the rest of the family coming in from the small parlor off the foyer. "Everyone's here, I see." Daisy nodded, her brows simultaneously rising in inquiry. Dozens of questions were running through her mind, but her parents were waiting to say hello, as were Trey and Empress, all having stayed in town tonight to welcome Etienne to Helena. "Sorry about the mix-up at the station. We intended the entire family be out in force to meet you," Hazard said, still in the clothes he'd worn to court, their family dinners without the protocol of evening dress.

"My telegram was probably unclear," Etienne replied, handing his light wool topcoat to Timms. "No need to apologize. I used the time to settle in. I bought a house, hired some servants, and, in general, made myself comfortable." Taking Daisy's hand in his, he pulled her dose, his smile warm. "I hope you like the Clear River Valley." "You bought Viscount Enfield's place. That's a nice piece of property," Trey declared. "His stables were fashioned after his father's stud in Ireland. They're prime." "I haven't had a chance to look at them yet, but the agent mentioned they were extensive. I'm hoping to raise some racers out of the same bloodlines as my Grand Prix winner who died this summer." Tell me about Isabelle, why she suddenly changed her mind, Daisy wanted to say, when Etienne spoke of his black thoroughbred Morocco, but she couldn't just blurt it out while everyone was making polite conversation. Etienne's telegram had only said, Isabelle agrees to a divorce. Make wedding plans. She squeezed his hand and he turned briefly to smile at her before turning his attention back to Trey. "You'll have to race with us at the summer hunt next year," Trey said. "Horses are brought in from as far as the West Coast to race against our homebred ponies. The heavy betting always makes the outcome more interesting." "Timms is signaling me dinner is ready. You lead the way, Trey," Blaze said. "And if you like racing, Etienne, you'll find plenty of competition at the summer hunt." "I don't suppose Daisy told you the Absarokee are inveterate gamblers," Empress said, giving a teasing look to her husband, as they preceded Daisy and the Duc into the dining room. "A little wager makes the run more exciting and gives a pleasant edge to victory," Trey replied. "The betting book at the Jockey Club's no different. When I was in Paris last, they were taking odds on whether the Duc de Richelieu's wife would run off with her groom or wait until old Richelieu died and then marry the young fellow. How did it turn out by the way?" Trey asked, seating Empress. "She didn't wait." "How romantic," Empress said, looking across the table with a smile. She wore a modest dinner dress with a shallow scooped neckline in spring-green to match her eyes, with a single strand of pearls lying glistening around her neck. "But a poor gamble," the Duc said, noting how Trey's darkness complemented his wife's golden beauty, and how his eyes followed her when she spoke. "She should have had more patience," he said ironically, "because Richelieu died only two months after she ran off." "You men are too practical." Empress's remark was facetious. "Right," the Duc dryly declared. If he were a practical man, he would have walked away from the sensuous Miss Black as soon as his need for her had begun threatening his comfortable existence. A practical man wouldn't find himself on the frontier in Helena, Montana, the new owner of a two-story log home of vast proportions, sitting beside a woman pregnant with his child, whom he may or may not be able to marry before that child was born. "Well, some men are practical," Daisy said, her smile sweet, the heated depths of her eyes as tantalizing

as the first time he'd met her at Adelaide's. "And then again, some men are lucky," the Duc quietly murmured, wondering how long this dinner would last and how long after that, one would be required to be polite. "If everyone's too well-mannered to ask, I will," Blaze said into the small silence that had fallen as the two lovers forgot for a moment others were present. "Why did Isabelle change her mind about the divorce?" It took the Duc a moment to answer, his mind dwelling on Daisy lying on his new bed. "She turned out to be somewhat of a gambler herself," he answered. "Like Richelieu's wife. Only with Isabelle it was priests instead of grooms." "Priests?" Hazard's voice was amused. Having met the Duchesse de Vec, Trey was momentarily confounded by the disclosure. "You're sure?" he quietly expostulated, setting down his fish fork. Cool, almost cold, the perfectly dressed, exquisitely coiffed Duchesse seemed the least likely woman to indulge in such lurid excess. "Positive." The Duc's smile was warm, pleasant, triumphant. "Why was she so incautious… with the contentious divorce?" Trey inquired, Valerie's excessive lifestyle prominent in his thoughts. Even Valerie knew circumspect behavior was required under certain conditions, and unlike the Duchesse de Vec who gave the impression she found sentiment and emotion vulgar, Valerie was profligate in her lovelife. "Isabelle was at home where she felt secure. The servants were never allowed to enter her room without an express invitation." "Who discovered… the situation?" Daisy inquired, her curiosity couched in tactful language. "I did," Etienne answered. Everyone was too polite to ask for the details. But Hazard, having lived long in a contentious world, asked the pertinent question. "Were there witnesses?" "One very good one. Which was what convinced Isabelle, I think, to reconsider her position. The divorce should be concluded in four to six months, Bourges tells me. I told him four would be more acceptable." "A winter wedding then," Blaze cheerfully said. "Ermine and white velvet would be nice." "With white orchids," Empress added. "And a Viennese orchestra." "And all the children strewing rose petals." "Dressed in Gainsborough fashion." "You might like to get in a word, Daisy," Hazard teased, "before they have your honeymoon planned as

well." "Do you care?" Daisy asked the Duc, knowing her own feelings on the subject, but not sure of his. "No," he quietly said. The style of wedding was incidental to his happiness. "Can we go soon?" he whispered. She nodded. "We give you permission to freely orchestrate the wedding of your choice," Daisy said, smiling at Blaze and Empress. "As long as I don't have to make lists or wear a dress styled for an ingenue." "No Gainsborough white gauze for Daisy," Empress said, making an imaginary note in her palm. "And not an enormous crowd. I detest crushes. Now if you'll excuse us, we're leaving," Daisy added, pushing her chair back and putting her hand out for Etienne. "You've hardly eaten," Blaze said. "I'm sure Etienne's staff can make them something to eat later," Hazard interposed. "Could you spare Daisy for a few days from court?" Etienne inquired. His question was a polite query only; he had no intention of returning her for at least a week. He'd been courteous through three courses, three courses longer than his desire could comfortably manage. "Of course," Hazard said. "Daisy hasn't been working such long hours lately. She was just filling in for a day. Let us know if you need anything up in the valley." "I'm having a telegraph line and phone put in this week, so soon we won't be isolated." Standing with Daisy's hand in his, he felt an overwhelming need to hold her for a thousand years. The past weeks had been unremittingly lonely. Daisy squeezed his hand as if understanding his feelings. "We'll keep in touch," she said. Everyone understood… visitors weren't welcome.

The night air was cold, October well into fall at the mountain altitude, the stars vivid in the blackness of the sky. Etienne drove the single-horse carriage with an effortless skill, the reins looped lightly around his gloved hands as they traveled through the city streets. At the outskirts of town, he transferred the reins into one hand, touching Daisy's fingers with his. "Are you warm enough?" She nodded, settled beneath a fur lap-robe, his heated body pressed closely to hers, an unfathomable contentment inundating her soul. "Are you tired?" "A little." She found herself existing more often now in a state of benign lassitude, with the baby absorbing some of her energy. "I'll put you to sleep in twenty more minutes. Louis has the cook preparing some warm almond milk for you." "If you're going to take such good care of me, having your children could get to be a habit." The smile she gave him was unmotherly and seductive, her awareness of his thigh and arm and shoulder like a resplendent memory and promise. "In that case," the Duc said, his voice charged with husky emotion, "taking care of you offers an added dimension of fascinating… advantage." The back of his gloved fingertips brushed the curve of her cheek. "You look radiant. Are you as pleased as I?" He grinned into the starlite night, adding in a teasing voice, "No one can be as pleased as I, but are you half as pleased?" "I look in the mirror a hundred times a day waiting to see… that first indication, wanting to have visual evidence of our child." Reaching up, she kissed the coolness of his cheek. "I'm ecstatic. And thank you for coming so soon. I told Father I should be more mature and patient, but I wanted you here with me… right now. I couldn't wait." "When your telegram came and I read it, the normal operation of my brain stopped for a moment in this shuddering suspension of belief, followed a second later by a fanfare of trumpets and colors flying. Bourges said I quite literally stopped breathing for a moment. You couldn't have kept me away." "How long can you stay?" She said it quickly, like a child would ask for bad news about bedtime. "I hope to stay as long as you need me." His words frightened her mildly, for they didn't speak of permanence. Although she understood in the rational portion of her mind he couldn't offer her what she wished. "You found a house. I'm glad." She could say that at least without being clinging and difficult. He had said they would marry, too, when his divorce was final. When that happened, he would be hers in the commitment of his world. She should be

content with that. She shouldn't want everything. She must accept there would be times in the coming months they would be separated. She worried, though, in a small recess of her mind—about those separations, her jealousy a stabbing reality. What would he be doing and with whom… should they be regularly apart? "I'll build something better… later." "I'm finding my nesting instincts are becoming more active. A biological manifestation apparently, because I've never cared particularly where I lived. I've always had my own apartments in my parents' homes and been content." She didn't say she had this overpowering impulse to include him in her nest. An irrational kind of jealous bondage so that he was hers alone. "Do some shopping tomorrow then. I only bought the bare minimum today. Nest to your heart's content. I'll help you." "I'm going to buy baby things." His arms went around her shoulders and he hugged her close. "We'll buy out the stores." "Oh, Etienne…" Daisy whispered, tears spilling over onto her cheeks, her heart so full of love she found the boundless sky too small to hold her happiness. He stopped the buggy when he realized she was crying, pulled her into his arms and kissed her gently, his lips cool, their pressure delicate. "Don't cry," he whispered. "We don't have to buy out the stores." His teasing huskiness drifted over the softness of her mouth. Daisy hiccupped a wet smile, then spoke from her heart because the words wouldn't stay repressed any longer, because she couldn't be acceptant or practical as she should be, as she'd been most of her life. "I love you too much," she said in a tremulous voice, "and I'm happy beyond any dimension I'd ever envisioned, but I'm jealous and petty, too, and I want you beside me every minute, every day. I want you to stay with me after we buy baby clothes; I want you to stay with me until our baby isn't a baby, until our baby has brothers and sisters, and I'm afraid of my own possessiveness. I'll drive you away with this intense need for ownership. I'm sorry. I wish I was more…" "Submissive?" Etienne offered, amusement lacing the richness of his voice. Daisy's lashes lifted abruptly. "I don't like that word." The Duc was pleased to see his darling Daisy had reverted to form. "I think the baby makes you feel this way… along with your nesting instinct. I'm not going anywhere… don't worry." "You have to though. Bourges can't telegraph everything, nor can your business manager or—" "Let me worry about that. You feel free to be as possessive as you wish. I'll fight back if you become annoying," he added with an indulgent smile. "You won't mind? You won't find it intolerable?" She sighed softly. "I'm afraid I'm only going to get worse…" "And fatter," he added with a grin.

"You won't want to look at me," she said with a pout. "Or I may want to look at you more." He gently lifted her chin with one crooked finger. "I have my own obsessive inclination of ownership. That's my child you're carrying and I want to see it growing in you." "You're sure?" Her question was tentative, a need for assurance. "I've been counting the days and hours since I received your telegram till I could see you again. When I went to Isabelle's I was prepared to beg her for a divorce, on my knees if necessary. I'm sure," he said in a quiet, hushed voice. "I've never been so sure of anything in my life." Daisy's smile was blissful. "You'll allow me to be demanding then?" "I'll allow you anything, darling. My benevolence knows no bounds." "That must be why women love you." She said it in open artlessness, as if she were not a sophisticated woman who had lured him more provocatively than most females. A benevolence of a specific sort, the Duc recognized, was the reason women found him attractive, but he knew Daisy was speaking in a more comprehensive, unsubstantial way, so he said, "As long as you love me, I'm content."

They were in Clear River Valley short minutes later, the two-story log home nestled at the base of the treeline, aglow with light, welcoming with every window golden warm against the dark shadowed pines. And when Louis greeted them at the door, Daisy experienced a delicious feeling of coming home. Louis had been such an integral part of their existence at Etienne's home on the Seine, it seemed for a moment, she were back in Paris. But the gun rack in the foyer reminded her succinctly she was not in cosmospolitan Paris, as did the moosehead mounted at the top of the stairway. "Tomorrow you have free rein, darling," Etienne said, noting the direction of her gaze as they ascended the wide staircase, carpeted in a tartan plaid typical of male hunting lodges. "There was only time today to clean. Apparently the Viscount's household was a bachelor one." "You don't mind?" "It's your home, too." "Then the moosehead goes." "Have the moosehead taken down, Louis," the Duc said to his valet who was preceding them up the stairs. "Immediately, Your Grace." "Morning's fine, Etienne." "In the morning, then, Louis," Etienne said. "Unless some of the help is available tonight." Louis understood without turning around, the Duc wished immediate action. "Very good, sir," he replied,

opening the door into the master bedroom and standing aside. "Your punch is ready, sir, on the table near the fire, and Miss Daisy's milk will be brought up directly." "Thank you, Louis. Tell Cook breakfast will be late." "Certainly, sir, and if I might say so, sir, it's very pleasant to have Miss Daisy in your household again." "You may tell her yourself, Louis. Ceremony is out of place in this setting." The Duc's smile was warm. Louis turned to Daisy with a small bow, his smile welcoming. "It's a pleasure to have you back, Miss Daisy. We've missed you." He spoke in the royal we, as Etienne often did, more conscious of protocol than even his master. Daisy smiled at the trim, middle-aged man who had taken care of Etienne since he was first in need of a valet. "I'm pleased to be back with you, Louis. And tomorrow you must help me put this house to rights." "Certainly, Miss Daisy. Now that the house has a mistress, the decor requires substantial renovation. We look forward to your directions." Etienne was standing patiently at Daisy's side but his gaze restlessly surveyed the room, his separation from Daisy too long for much more polite conversation. His glance returned to Louis, a bland, pointed look to which Louis immediately responded. "Good night, sir. Will you require anything else?" "No." The Duc's response was exceptionally quiet. "Good night, Miss." "Good night, Louis." And when the door closed softly behind Louis a moment later, Etienne pulled Daisy into his arms and kissed her, fiercely, intensely, with pent-up ion. He'd had to sit beside her and talk to her, only touching in the ways prescribed by politeness while they dined and visited with her family. Now at last he had her alone, after weeks of separation, and a wild need raced through his senses. She felt softer than he ed, her body filled out with new, rounded contours, her breasts fuller against his chest. And her mouth beneath his, her lips, wet and warm, offered a sweetness he craved. Tightening her arms around Etienne's neck, Daisy rose on tiptoe, the pressure of her lips demanding more, wanting more, her body stretched against his hard frame, offering her ion. His tongue penetrated her mouth in slow, languid arousal, the evidence of his need rigid against her belly. Lifting his mouth slightly, he brushed a lingering kiss over her lips. She reached higher, wanting his mouth back, wanting the sensation, the pressure, the taste and feel of him. The Duc eluded her. "I promised to put you to sleep…" he said, ing. "I'm not tired…" Daisy breathed, her blood heated and pulsing, the feel of his erection, hard and long, burning into her body. Her tongue traced the curve of his lower lip she could reach. "Kiss me…"

"I shouldn't…" Etienne murmured! obliging her demand, his mouth caressing hers lightly, "you should sleep." He nibbled gently on her bottom lip and she shifted slightly to better feel the tingling heat between her thighs. "You're sleeping for two now…" he whispered, his hands lazily stroking the silken curve of her waist, his mouth lowering to hers once again, its pressure subtle, inquiring, teasing. "Umm," Daisy sighed a few moments later, as the Duc's mouth released hers. Her hand drifted over the soft wool of his lapels, past the buttoned front of his jacket, slipped downward to the strained fabric over the swelling bulge in his tros. "You don't seem tired either…" She stroked lightly and squeezed. "Umm." The Duc's response rumbled deep in his throat, a luxurious smile lifted his mouth, sleep the farthest thing from his mind. "Am I keeping you awake?" Daisy murmured, coy and teasing, her sensuous massage adding vivid dimension to the Duc's arousal. "Acutely." Gazing down at her, his green eyes were heavy-lidded, intemperant, extravagant with desire. "I have a feeling I may be up much of the night," he whispered. "If you don't mind." There was a faint wildness in the rough-soft timbre of his voice, and a familiar flare of fevered, intoxicating excitement raced through Daisy's senses. Her nipples peaked hard at the insinuation in his words, her breasts ached to be touched, sensitive suddenly to the fabric of her chemise, to the muscled strength of the Duc's body. A fluttering palpitation in the heated dampness between her legs kept time with the agitated beat of her heart and it took effort to force the air from her lungs. "I don't mind…" Her seductive dark lashes lifted to his another scant inch allowing him to see her flame-hot desire. The fragrance of pine logs scented the air, the heat from the fire warmed the room to the same delicious temperature as ion had its occupants. A single kerosene lamp, its glass globe etched with grazing deer, shone in brilliant golden splendor from the dressertop, prisms of shimmering radiance reflected brightly from the tall pier mirror mounted behind it. "Take your hair down," Etienne softly said, unlacing her arms from around his neck. "I want to rip your clothes off instead," Daisy said, her fingers touching the silk of his cravat. A soft rapping on the door interrupted. "Later," the Duc promised, his tone provocative with promise. "Your milk, I expect." And he led Daisy over to the green velvet couch. "Wait here for me." Their eyes met for a moment in the light of the dancing flames. "I don't want to wait long," Daisy murmured. "I don't want to wait at all," Etienne said, brushing his palm lightly over the fullness of her breasts. Daisy's eyes shut as quivering need raced downward. "Don't move," he whispered, kissing her gently on the mouth. Striding swiftly to the door, the Duc opened it, took a tray from Louis, thanked him and nodded his dismissal simultaneously. Locking the door after it closed, he placed the tray on the bedside table and returned to Daisy. "Take your hair down now," he quietly said, taking off his suit jacket, drawing up a chair and sitting down beside her.

The velvet couch was soft, cushioned in down, engulfing her in its sensuous luxury. She was reclining against the high tufted arm, her legs stretched out, crossed at the ankles, her arms raised already to do his bidding, the rounded curve of her breasts lifted high. And he watched as she slowly pulled out the small jeweled pins holding her hair in place, watched the heavy coils of her hair slip over her shoulders, slide delicately over the olivine green of her dress. Putting out his hand, he took the hairpins from her, moving his chair closer so he could reach more easily. When she'd removed them all, he deposited the handful of sparkling pins on the table beside the couch. Turning back, he reached out, touched the heavy black silk of her hair, stroked it, let it slip through his fingers, swept it downward to cover the rise of her breasts. "This is mine," he said, holding a sleek length of her hair in his palm. "You're mine," he added, brushing her lips with the curling end of her hair. "I've missed you," he murmured. "I've felt deprived…" Arching her back slightly as tingling anticipation raced down her spine, her breasts rose provocatively. "… of everything." He smiled, her meaning clear. "I'm here now to see that you're no longer deprived." "I like the sound of that." Her fingers slid the top button of her olivine silk bodice free. "You look… professional," the Duc murmured, intrigued by the number of small jet buttons yet to be undone, "in that mannish cut." Daisy's dress was severely tailored, in a silk faille that was heavy enough to restrain the mounded exuberance of her breasts. With long sleeves and collar and cuffs in black velvet, it had almost a military look. "This is my court persona." "In contrast to?" "My personal life." "Which is being… exposed now." Each button sliding free further opened the bodice front, her satin skin, the lace of her chemise, the alluring curve of her breasts slowly unveiled. "For you," she said with a seductive smile. "Only for me," he murmured, the barbaric ring instantly apparent. He smiled. "Forgive me. My droit du seigneur comes to the fore with you. Do you want help?" Daisy shook her head, almost finished slipping the faceted jet buttons free. The dress top opened like a jacket, the gown composed of skirt and bodice, and she slipped it off slowly, aware of Etienne's intense gaze. Tugging the tight cuffs over her hands, she leaned forward to pull it free, her breasts almost spilling over her chemise top. And the Duc shifted in his chair. She handed it to him with a small smile, as if he were her waiting valet, and he tossed it on a nearby chair without looking, his gaze intent on her. "Your breasts are larger already," he said, sliding his fingers over the pliant flesh, across the sheer mauve silk of her chemise.

"They feel… motherly," Daisy said on a sigh of pleasure, the sensation of his fingers vivid and acute. "I can feel the air on them like a blanket… any touch or change of temperature"—her eyes held his for a moment—"like now." "Do you mind being pregnant?" She looked beautiful, radiant, her gleaming hair trailing in arabesques over the smooth curve of her shoulders, her slender athletic arms languidly disposed on the back of her couch, her voluptuous form fecund in its splendor. "I'm luxuriating in the state," she replied with a smile, stretching like a cat against the soft dark green velvet, her breasts swelling in luxury over the lacy top of her chemise. "And you promised to indulge me." "Absolutely," he murmured, his arousal obvious as he sat beside her. "My promise on it." "You must take your clothes off then because I haven't seen you in months and I'm impatient." "We're talking speed here?" The quirk of his brow was sardonic. "Definitely." Her voice matched the sultry promise in her eyes. Pulling his cravat free, he draped it over the chair arm, unbuttoned his vest and shirt swiftly, sliding them both off in a single shrugging motion, and dropped them on the floor with the careless disregard a lifetime of servant-filled homes allowed. He unbuckled his low boots next, kicked them off, and pulled off his silk stockings bearing his monogrammed crest. When he stood to take off his tros, Daisy's gaze focused on his fingers unbuttoning the fabric stretched taut over his arousal. He looked up for a moment, grinning. "Tailors never consider amorous situations—damnable number of buttons." Although there was no hesitation in his strong, lean fingers, their task accomplished with dispatch. His long muscled back turned to her briefly as he stepped out of the fine gray wool, the crisp cotton of his monogrammed underwear coming off with the same smooth movement. He was beautiful as she ed when he stood before her a moment later, dark as an Arab, powerful and elegant both in line and limb, his erection so large, she said on a small caught breath, "I forgot—" "Let me refresh your memory then." The light in his tropical green eyes, amused and knowing, an arrogance, too, implicit in his tone. There had been too many women to miscue that breathless comment. He knew what he looked like aroused. "I should resent that tone." "Perhaps under less dramatic circumstances you could afford to," he softly replied, sitting on the couch beside her. "There's drama in ravenous desire?" "In a manner of speaking. Actually," he added with a wicked grin, "It outranks any other form by a wide margin. Feel my heart." And taking Daisy's hand in his, he placed it over his heart. She could feel the racing beat, strong and thudding beneath her palm. "You're emotionally involved then." There was pleasure in her smile and lush teasing in her voice, her delirium echoed in the tripping

beat of his heart. "Oh, yes." he whispered, lifting the green silk of her skirt. Slowly pushing up the diaphanous mauve of her petticoat, he ran his hand up her silk-stockinged legs to the lace garters circling her thighs. "You have a great number of undergarments on," he said with a smile, sliding a garter down her leg, "for someone who wants to hurry. You're shielded against invasion." "My day clothes. We came home so late from court." "Even drawers," he noted with a sidelong look of ironic query. "I when you made a point of not wearing any." He was untying the bow at her waist and drawing the lace-trimmed garment down over her hips. "Now that you're here," Daisy murmured, feeling him lift her to slide them off, "I've reason to discard them again." "So you can always be ready for me?" He stroked the silky hair between her thighs. "Yes…" she whispered. His fingers slipped downward to glide over the luscious liquid evidence of her wanton need, his fingers gliding sleekly inside, invading gently, deeply, and she moaned as rich luscious splendor inundated her senses. "You are ready," he murmured. She was always ready with him, she thought, like a houri whose hours were devoted only to her master's pleasure. It always astonished her how erotic sensation was stimulated by his presence: his touch, his beauty, the sound of his voice. His smile could make her forget completely who she was or where she was, make her heedless of her carefully cultivated independence, make her feel like a docile possession. She smiled at her personal enthusiasm. "When you touch me, kiss me, want me—I'm completely abandoned, meek, and compliant, as if I must do what you ask or…" "Or?" he softly prompted, his fingers gently stroking her slick hot sweetness. Her eyes were half-lidded against the heat coursing through her body, an exquisite throbbing urgency spiraling up from his expert touch. "You won't…" "I will, though," Etienne whispered, his proficient fingers bringing her nerve endings very near to orgasmic release. "And I understand." He knew what Daisy meant because his need for her had inexplicably altered his life. And if someone had told him six months ago he'd meet a woman who would do this to him, he would have scoffed. "I can't wait," Daisy breathed, pulling him toward her, her hands on his shoulders strong, urgent. And when he moved over her, to satisfy her ionate need, she touched the swollen pulsing crest of his erection, her fingertips gentle and guided him into her honeyed warmth. He filled her slowly, penetrating in measured degrees until his entire length was deep inside her. Then slipping his hands under

her hips, he slid her down so he could invade a fraction more. And when he thrust forward that small extra distance, Daisy cried out in ecstasy. "Welcome home," he murmured. They made love in a fevered tempestuous haste the first time on the green velvet couch before the fire because it had been too long for both of them. And it was over swiftly. "You embarrass me," Etienne said, short moments later, breathless and panting, his long black hair swinging forward to frame his face as he looked down at her. "I'm like an unchecked schoolboy." He lay lightly over her, the crushed volume of her silk skirt and petticoats, buoyant, smooth and heated on their skin, a magical dissolving tenderness pulsing through their senses. "I'm coerced by the same unbridled eagerness… so we're matched," Daisy murmured, touching the full sensuous curve of his bottom lip, the diminishing waves of sated ion balmy and sweet. "I'll make it up to you." He was serious and teasing at the same time. "A man after my own heart." "Greedy woman." She smiled in a delectable languid way. "So I'm not absolutely perfect." But she was, he thought, like a man in love would think. He carried her a short time later to the bed, placed her sitting on the edge and finished undressing her. Untying the ribbons gathering the décolletage of her chemise together, he pulled it over her head while she dutifully lifted her arms to his murmured command. Smiling up at him as he reached for the buttons at the waistband of her skirt, she said, "I'm all sticky." "We'll have to remedy that. Now be good and sit still," he ordered because she was stirring slightly on the bed, "while I finish undressing you and then I'll wash you." "It doesn't feel… displeasing." Her voice held a sultry insinuation. His faint smile took on a wolfish cast. "How does it feel?" "Like there's a hot part of you still inside me." "Clever child," he teased, dropping a kiss on the fullness of her bottom lip. "You noticed." "Kiss me here too," she softly said, touching her tingling nipples. They were still distended and stiff as though her body was ardent yet, ready for love. "Let me undress you first or we'll never manage to get the rest of your clothes off." "How can you sound so reasonable and look like that." Reaching out she stroked the rigid length of his arousal. He was hard again, as enormous as though he'd not climaxed short moments ago.

"Someone has to be reasonable," he said with a grin. "Why?" Coquettish dark eyes gazed into his. "Because I want to get rid of this damnable interfering skirt and these petticoats. This waistband is too tight," he added, the button reluctant to be dislodged. "I'm beginning to add an inch or so, here and there." He gazed at her for a moment, desire, affection, an odd contentment in his eyes. "A pleasant thought," he murmured. "You need a new wardrobe then. Tomorrow." "We can't do everything tomorrow and I may not want to get out of bed tomorrow." "A gratifying possibility," he said, his voice hushed for a moment. "The next day then or we'll have someone come out here and you needn't get out of bed at all." "This isn't decadent Paris." "Tradesmen refuse money in Montana?" "Gossip travels fast in a town this size." "As it does in Paris. So?" She grinned. "Will you always be a spoiled child of fortune?" "In some things—yes. I intend to keep you forever. In that I won't be thwarted. And in other small ways, as well, I refuse to be gainsaid." He snapped the button off with a small ripping sound. "Smaller buttons or larger buttonholes from now on," he declared, his smile lighting his eyes, "If I'm going to be your dresser." "And undresser." "Even more, then, we'll need ease of operation." "Right now, I'd be content to not dress for a month or so." "I'll arrange it." "I'd die of bliss… before a week." "I wouldn't let you." "Arrogant." He grinned. "I read about this somewhere." "In addition to volumes of empirical experience."

"From the day I met you, I've been faithful," he said, shrugging away her statement. "Now stand up and we'll get rid of—" Throwing her arms around him, she kissed him in a great rush of love, overwhelmed by her emotions and his faithfulness. "Did I say the right thing?" he asked, his mouth curved in a roguish smile as she released him. "It had better not been smooth and consummate charm," she sternly charged, although she was teasing and he knew it. "I brought you presents, too, as a measure of my consummate charm. I hope they work." "In what way?" "In the usual way," he teased. "Now don't pout," he playfully added, "or I won't give them to you." "I'm not pouting," Daisy said, her lush bottom lip irresistibly rebuking, half playful and half serious, at the thought of all the other women he'd bought gifts for. "You've no doubt had previous success with amorous bibelots." "You don't like presents?" he said, lifting her to her feet so he could slide her skirt and petticoats off. "You'll like my presents," he went on, immune to her small jealousy, as he placed her reclining against the snow-white pillows. "Soon." He washed her then with warm scented water left ready on the washstand, the act itself erotic as he slowly smoothed the linen cloth over her thighs and upward to wipe away the residue of their lovemaking. And she was content to let him care for her, redolent in her love, lazy in the aftermath of her climax, warmed by the heated room and her heated senses. He washed himself afterward with an efficiency she ired and begrudged. How many times had he done that before in how many boudoirs before how many iring ladies? He was beautifully formed, his erection turgid and engorged. But he seemed detached from the phenomenon of arousal, and she wondered how he disciplined himself to subvert his obvious physical need to some rational chronology of gift-giving. But she discovered later, as he had years ago, that the ebb and flow of ion was enhanced by respite. Bringing over a small leather portfolio, he took numerous prints from it, spreading them across the bed. And with a punch for himself and warm almond milk for Daisy, they sat crosslegged on the white satin coverlet iring Bonnard's seductive array of female nudes. In various stages of undress, small feminine women bathed or rose from bed, lay indolently, covered or uncovered their slender legs with long black stockings, ired themselves before mirrors, lazily brushed their hair. "They're beautiful," Daisy said, gazing at the score of small prints, "and very stylish in their black stockings." "They pale in comparison, love," the Duc replied, Daisy's voluptuous form, perfection, "but they've a sense of independence and charming freedom I thought you'd like. I've another in a different style," he added, rising to fetch a small painting that had been tucked away behind a chair.

The painting was of a mother holding a baby just out of the bath, a delicate, patterned composition derivative of Japanese prints, but imbued with a touching rapport between mother and child. "This was done by an American woman painter—Mary Cassatt. I thought you might like it." Both the mother and baby had dark hair, their heads close as the mother held the small child in an affectionate embrace, and Daisy felt a small heated joy at the tender scene… and at Etienne's thoughtfulness. "I didn't buy you anything," she softly said. "I feel guilty." Her fingertip ran over the elaborate gold frame. "No gift could equal the child you're giving me." And leaning over, he kissed her, a long, slow, heated kiss of sweetness and love that deepened so she felt a glow begin to radiate in a seeping languor of arousal. He felt her response, felt her mouth open beneath his, tasted her welcome, felt her low purr of desire vibrate delicately against his lips. With tender leisure he absorbed the resonance of her warming ion, his mouth and tongue toying and teasing, nibbling and possessing until Daisy wanted more. Lifting his mouth, the Duc took the empty cup she held in one hand and placed it with his on the nightstand. "I don't know if Louis is aware or not," he said, taking in the sultry ion of her glance, "but the warm almond milk his mama prescribed as a soothing elixir is used for another purpose in the Arab world." "Maybe that's why it's considered a panacea to fatigue," Daisy murmured, her smile warmly seductive. "Perhaps," Etienne answered, pushing the prints and painting to the foot of the bed. "It's healthy certainly, with milk and honey, ground almonds and egg whites," he added, turning back to her, the tenor of his voice taking on a husky richness as he continued. "And we must keep you healthy." Both his hands brushed over the swelling rise of her breasts, slid around their flaring fullness where they touched her inner arms, and moved to the prominence of her nipples. He stroked the sensitive peaks gently, tugging them into flaunting stiffness, murmuring as he bent his head to take one into his mouth, "I'll accustom them to the coming baby." He sucked gently at first and then with more explicit pressure, first on one breast and then the other until Daisy collapsed on the pillows, her senses focused on the exquisite feel of his mouth, flagrant, palpable desire bombarding every nerve and pulsing receptor in her body. "I want you," she whispered, conspicuous in her need, her fingers twined in the blackness of his hair, her back arching to raise her breasts to his touch, her eyes shut tight against the flaring pleasure. He didn't answer, only nibbled and bit lightly and sucked the taut hard crests until she felt sensitized with a palpable torrid bliss from her flushed cheeks to the tingling bottoms of her feet. And when he lifted his head at last, she couldn't move for a moment, the pressure of his raised head solid in her palms. "Open your eyes," Etienne whispered, his hand sliding between her legs. And when she did languidly, letting her arms drop away, coming back with effort from the paradise of her senses, he added, "Look at this." He placed a small wrapped package he took from the drawer of the nightstand on her stomach. While she untied the orchid silk ribbon, the Duc's fingers drifted over the dark triangle of hair between

her legs, glided downward over her dewy cleft. "I can't concentrate when you do that," she breathed, stopping for a moment to absorb the delicious sensations. "Here, I'll help," the Duc said, ignoring her onition, opening the silver paper with his free hand. "Do you like them?" Inside lay a dozen pairs of silk stockings in a rainbow of shades, in stripes and patterns or sheer luxurious hues, all sinfully delicate. "They're gorgeous." Touching them lightly, Daisy felt decadent just looking at them. She wore sheer white stockings normally or ones in a shade of taupe. These were stockings for seduction, for sultry rendezvous, for undressing before one's lover. With the tantalizing incitement of Etienne's fingers heating her brain, she was feeling as though she were meant to wear these vivid colors of wanton desire… forever. "Put on the black ones—like Bonnard's nudes wear," Etienne said. "With the lilac garters." "You'll have to move your hand." She spoke in a hushed voice, his directions and the sound of her voice separate somehow from the sensual intoxication centered between her legs. He shook his head—minutely—his fingers sliding over her slick pouting lips, probing gently, penetrating slightly, then deeply. She was melting away, she thought. "Put them on," he urged, low and hushed. She obeyed because he wanted her to, and she was obsessed with ion and desire and her need to please him. And herself. When she drew up her knee and stretched down to ease the black stocking over her toes, his fingers slid in deeper, her position further opening her honeyed age, and she had to catch her breath at the searing pleasure. Since she seemed momentarily distracted, the Duc helped her slip the frilled lilac garter over her foot, aiding its slow ascent to the soft fullness of her thigh. "I don't want to feel this slavish," Daisy whispered. "Do you want me to stop?" His words were soft, polite, knowing. She didn't answer at first, a tiny thread of obstinancy still operating beneath the flood of pleasure washing over her in heated waves. "Do you?" She shook her head because he'd begun sliding his fingers out and she wanted the feeling more than she wanted autonomy. "Here's the other stocking then."

She thought she'd expire from intemperate ecstasy as she lifted her other leg to pull the stocking on. Could you faint from intensity this powerful? she wondered. And looked up into brilliant green smiling eyes. "I'm going to make you wait for me," he whispered. "You can't." How could he? How could he possibly control her arousal? But he knew somehow exactly when to restrain his stroking fingers or move them more slowly or faster, deeper or less deep. He knew how to keep her suspended just short of climax. And while one part of her brain was grateful for his virtuosity. Another part hated the experience required to so finely tune that skill. Short moments later her eyes opened wide because she was suddenly bereft of his sweet skill and like an addict craved more. "It's the almond milk too," he softly said. "Don't blame me entirely," he added in a lush whisper. "I'm insatiable." Daisy's voice was tremulous with discovery and need. "It is you," she said, recall of her weeks in Paris without almond milk vivid. The sheets beneath her were strikingly cool in contrast to the heat of her body, the temperature of the heated air so perfectly balanced she felt it like silk on her skin, even the sound of Etienne's voice seemed overtly three-dimensional. He didn't disagree with her, he only said, "Feel this sensation." Placing both his hands around her breast, he exerted the smallest pressure so the soft flesh between his hands mounded in distinct display, so her nipple projected erect and flagrant. It was different, she thought with a whimpering sigh, as though her breasts were swollen and quivering, objects of desire in themselves, autonomous, requiring satisfaction of their own. "And feel this…" His palms drifted over the warm inner surface of her thighs from the terminus of the black silk stockings to the dew-wet sweetness he'd brought to pulsing flame. She arched up into the feel of his heated hands, but he held her down, his palms burning into the flesh of her thighs like brands. "Sensation's more vivid, the throbbing of your heart and racing blood noticeable, your nerve endings sensitized. Almonds are very nutritious," he added with a grin. "How nice to know," she murmured, "As I expire from ecstasy." The tip of her tongue slowly, wetly traced the fullness of her lips. "Do you want me to kiss you?" "Among other things," she replied, her voice sultry with ion, a bewitching siren lying beneath his hands. "I will if you open a few presents more."

"Must I?" She pouted, contrary and self-willed, but her luscious dark eyes were seducing him, like a concubine would, shameless in their power. It took a great effort to refuse her eyes, but he knew what was in the boxes and she didn't. "You must," he firmly said, handing her two boxes, one small and one very large, both from Doucet. Daisy recognized the couture house and knew what to expect, for their lingerie was resplendent, but the white lace corset she lifted from the silver tissue was constructed differently, the boning arranged to separate the breasts and cup them individually in the flower-petal scoops of lace. Holding it up to her, she smiled at him. "Would you like to see if it fits?" He only smiled back, lounging at her side, his long lean body taking up a great length of space on the bed. Her black-stockinged legs slid over the side of the bed. She cast him the flaunting look of an enchantress, and rising from the bed, walked, nude and long-legged, over to the cheval glass. Bending over slightly, she adjusted the fullness of her breasts into each of the half-shells of white lace, and standing upright again, tossed her long black hair over her shoulders. Holding the corset closed behind her back, she said with a teasing smile, "You know, of course, I'm going to need help with the lacing if I'm going to tantalize you with this erotic garment." "At your service, ma'am," Etienne lazily drawled, his inflection perfect western Montana. And he rose from the bed to help her. The lacing was silver cord slipped through silver grommets, a contrast to the sheer white lace in of metallic ornament, as if the Industrial Revolution met decadent luxury. But the silver embellishment was elegant extravagance, too, for the silver was hand-crafted rather than machine made, each small eyelet engraved in decorative detail, the lacing woven by hand from fine silver thread. "Tell me if the lacing's too tight," he said, pulling on the silver cords, the process forcing Daisy's full breasts high, the corset stays compressing her waist and accenting the flaring curves of her hips. "It fits," Daisy murmured, casting a smile over her shoulder at him. The Duc made a neat bow at the base. "And Doucet doesn't have my measurements." The proportion from hip to breast was perfect, the lace cups designed to display the extravagance of her breasts. "I've a good memory," the Duc said, cupping her jutting breasts in the palms of his hands and smiling at her in the mirror. "And Doucet understood my description." His fingers moved upward to tease the peaked crests of her nipples. "It's designed for pleasure." The lace fabric was so delicate, the corset wasn't meant for practical use. The half-shells ing Daisy's breasts only lifted their mounded weight, baring them, offering them for pleasure, and the ribboned, flounced lace at the bottom of the corset was designed to accent the juncture between a woman's legs. Daisy leaned back into his body, her head lying against his shoulder, and she watched herself in the mirror being petted and fondled, the black silk stockings on her slender legs and the white lace corset framing the bounteous femaleness of her anatomy. She felt in the utter bliss of her abandon as hot desire flared through her senses, like a fertility goddess from ages past, flaunting her nourishing breasts and fertile womb. Like the Bonnard prints and Cassatt painting, she was a combination of ionate wanton and fecund

female. And both personas only wanted the tall dark man pleasuring them to consummate their ion. Turning, she faced him, her mounded breasts warm on his chest, the lower half of her body enticing him with the gentle swaying rhythm of her hips. "One more package," Etienne murmured. And when Daisy moaned in opposition, he lifted her into his arms, walked the short distance to the bed, and sitting down with her in his lap, turned her so she was facing him. Raising her enough so she could straddle his thighs, he lowered her deftly onto his rampant erection. "Is that what you wanted?" he softly asked as Daisy clung to him, waiting for the dizzy waves of pleasure to reach manageable proportions. "Is that better?" And he thrust fractionally upwards at the same time he exerted a downward pressure on Daisy's hips with his hands. "Don't go away," he said, his husky voice teasing, all Daisy's quivering senses tuned to the rigid hard length of him filling her, impaling her like an offering to erotic pleasure. The world retreated, only sensation mattered, only her throbbing need, the focus of the universe momentarily centered in the hot, pulsing sweetness between her thighs. Reaching for the large Doucet box, the Duc tore the ribbons away, tossed aside the cover, and pulled out a sunshine-yellow diaphanous robe, as though he were unaware of Daisy's ravenous delirium. He put her arms into the lace-drenched sleeves, gently dressing her like a child, pulling the flowing gauze garment up on her shoulders in a whisper of scented silk. Layers of creme lace ornamented the yoke and voluminous sleeves, fell in ruffled splendor down the open front. "Etienne, I'm dying…" Daisy's voice was a heated whisper, the tight corset seeming to accentuate the sensitivity of feeling in her breasts and in the melting hot center of her being. She could feel him as he moved gently inside her and began lifting herself to augment the sensual rhythm. "Wait…" His hands stilled her hips. "No." She fought the pressure of his hands. "Just a minute more." His voice was calm, as though he wasn't stiff and hard inside her, as though she weren't flushed and panting across his thighs, as though he knew how much better it would be if she waited. She couldn't move with his hands hard on her hips and she shut her eyes as the splendor of her arousal heated her body like the hot sun in August. He moved his hands a pulsebeat later, slowly… waiting to see if she'd remain quiet, and when she did, he tied the frothy taffeta bow at her neck with a meticulous precision. The robe fell open around her, framing her white lace corset and upthrust breasts, sliding over the soft flesh of her thighs, over the Duc's bare legs and feet. "Do you like it?" He lightly caressed her nipples as he asked, forcing her wider with a slow upward movement, his legs flexing beneath her as he lifted her weight. Her yes was muffled by a throaty sob of pleasure. "I'm glad," he murmured. "Would you like to climax now?" he whispered, lifting her so she glided up his erection, sliding her down again, setting a slow rhythm of withdrawal and penetration.

She was past speech at the moment, but he understood her sighing exhalation and her fingers lacing into the silk of his hair. He sucked on her nipples when she raised herself up so she lingered for long moments each time on her knees. And he held her on the downstroke keeping her impaled for measured seconds more until she trembled. And expired like a jeune fille in sobbing release. The Duc stroked her hair and kissed her, his hands gentle, soothing, conscious her insatiable need might last for several hours more. It was, he knew, partly circumstances. For a sensuous woman like Daisy, weeks of celibacy were an inducement to greedy pleasure. But the almond milk was often strangely aphrodiasic. He'd been surprised the first time Louis had given it to him for fatigue. But other times he'd drunk it, the milk had only soothed. And he'd not done enough scientific sampling to know conclusively, his previous partners in amour never the recipients of his valet's concern. "I love you," Daisy said in a dissolving whisper, her words muffled against his shoulder. "And I love you," the Duc said, the words he'd spent half a lifetime avoiding simply uttered. His paradise on earth was represented, he mused, by one beautiful dark-haired woman who'd captured his heart. "I'll make you happy." She raised her head and smiled. "You have already…" She felt at that moment so suffused by love she wanted rose-covered cottages and swarms of bouncing babies by this man she loved to distraction. She wanted a lifetime of his teasing smile and gentleness and his magical ion too. Would his captivating smile be reproduced in his child, or the distinctive obliqueness of his dark brows—would he mind a girl? Some men did. "Do you want a boy or a girl?" she asked, wishing she could please him. "What do you want?" he queried, lifting her from him and laying her against the pillows. "Both." "That's easy then. You're bound to be pleased either way. And you can always have another later." "I'm going to lock you away so you can't leave me and go back to Paris," Daisy softly said, lying in a froth of pale yellow silk. "So you can give me more children." He lay beside her, untying the bow at her neck, and bending low, kissed the softness of her mouth. "Come back with me sometime and we'll make babies in Paris too. But I like Montana so far," he quickly added, cognizant of the sudden anxiety in her eyes. "You haven't seen much, but thank you," Daisy replied with a grateful smile, knowing he was allaying her fears. "You're here. That's enough. And Justin can learn some of the business so I'll be more available to be locked away for your pleasure." "A fascinating concept. Would you do my bidding?" He grinned. "Probably."

She ed the wrecked harem bed and smiled back. "Probably not, you mean." "I'm being diplomatic on our first night together in months. Newport doesn't count." His grin widened. "We didn't do much talking." And they talked that night between the playfulness and love-making. They curled up on the couch before the fire or lay on the large rumpled bed and discussed their future, their child, their hopes and dreams and the irrepressible wonder of their love. Both practical people at base, even cynical at times about the extent of goodness in the world, they agreed that the spirits or shamans or unknown gods had taken a benevolent hand in their meeting that night at Adelaide's. "I didn't like you when I met you," Daisy said, lying on the solid strength of his muscled body, her face only inches from his, her warmth reminding him of childhood security—and his nanny's sunrises from the nursery window. He'd loved ancient chubby Rennie McLeod with the same unconditional delight. "I didn't like you either," Etienne said, lounging with his arms under his head, his grin roguish, "but then I wasn't looking for a friend. In other ways, of course, I found you fascinating." "We have your lust, then, to thank for our fateful meeting." Her teasing glance was close and coquettish. "That's about it." He nodded in a brief small movement. "And the Baron Arras's broken leg on the polo field. Although Valentin's persistence should be added to the catalogue. I'd turned him down three times before I finally capitulated. I didn't dine out often in those days." "Why?" She stirred on him slightly, her soft voluptuous form distracting him momentarily. He wanted her again. Not again, he drolly thought… but always. "Tell me," she prompted, wanting to know more of the man who had become her world. She looked so innocent at times, like a young girl in the openness of her expression, in her artless curiosity. It made him more careful in his choice of words, as though the cynicism of his life before meeting her might sully that wide-eyed eagerness. Dining out was too tame for him in those days; he preferred more direct seduction without the hours of flirtatious conversation over twenty courses at table as prelude. Although Daisy had fascinated him enough to alter his longstanding prejudice against society dining. "I had an excellent chef," he said, stating the truth and evading the pointed reasons, "my clubs had very good wine cellars and," he added in explanation, "dinner conversation bored me. It invariably centered on society gossip." "Did you eat alone?" She pictured him in solitary hermitage at a yards-long table. "Not usually," he evasively replied, finding himself going deeper into prevarication. He usually dined in one of the private rooms the fashionable restaurants offered, in company with his friends and several beautiful, willing ladies. "Well?" "Don't ask, darling," the Duc said, genuinely uncomfortable. "It was a long time ago."

"Oh." Daisy suddenly realized her pensive image was incorrect. "But you love me madly now," she said, secure and expansive in understanding. "Madly," he whispered, unfolding his arms from under his head and sliding his hands down her spine. "Oceans-deep madly. Young-love madly. So madly you could ask me to give up polo and I would." His smile warmed her with its candor. His hands resting at the base of her spine held her close in a gentle possession she understood because her spirit walked the same path as his. "Until the pines turn yellow…" she whispered, stroking his dark hair lying in waves on the pillow. "Until then," he softly promised.

Hearing the door open and shut, Daisy lazily opened her eyes. "What time is it?" she said drowsily, the room in half darkness with the heavy drapes pulled shut, Etienne only dimly seen as he stood by the door. "You're dressed." "It's eleven." "Have you been up long?" Daisy stretched luxuriously, the weight of the down comforter pleasant on her bare skin, the pillows soft beneath her head, her memories of last night heated and lush. "Not too long," Etienne pleasantly said, walking nearer the bed. "You look rested." Standing beside her, he looked country-morning fresh in a white shirt and chamois jodhpurs, his riding boots lightly coated with dust. He bent to kiss her, a sweet, chaste brushing of his lips on hers. "Ummm… I haven't slept this late—"

"Since Paris?" His grin was sweet. She smiled, lifting a tumble of hair from her forehead. "You always keep me up too late." "As I recall," he said in a roguish undertone, "You were the one saying—just once more." She was, there was no denying. "I didn't hear you complaining," she said in a pouty, small girl voice, gazing at him from under half-lowered lashes. "No one's ever accused me of stupidity," he said, his eyes amused. "Should I apologize?" "Hardly. You have my profound gratitude." "Then maybe you won't mind me asking you a… small question." He quirked a brow. "Ask away." "Are we going to be busy today doing some of that redecorating Louis wants help with and maybe some shopping?" "That's your question?" "It's part of it." "I suppose we will. And?" "Do you think you could make love to me… then… before… all that?" "I've a feeling," the Duc said with a smile, beginning to unbutton his shirt, "production levels are going to be rather low around here." "Some production levels," she corrected him. "I'm doing my best making your baby." "Some production levels then," he softly agreed, his smile indulgent. "I'll have to get my work done while you're sleeping." He tossed his shirt on the footboard of the bed. "So you can entertain me when I'm awake." Seated on the bed, bending over to remove his riding boots, he looked back at her over his shoulder. "You might just want to stay in bed and I'll check in occasionally to see if you're ready—" he smiled, "—to be entertained." "It's a thought," Daisy whispered, shocked at the possibility she might be tempted to allow herself that indulgence. For a woman whose life had centered around her career, she found her ready acquiescence to the role of ionate concubine staggering. But her body was less intellectual in its response. Her body was pulsing already, throbbing, receptive, waiting. And when Etienne lifted the covers aside a moment later, gently lowered his body over hers and murmured, "It's morning, Miss Black, and I'm here to wake you," she no longer questioned her motives.

She only felt herself melt around him, felt the world drift away, felt a shimmering, heated bliss seep into every breath and pulsebeat, and shuddering nerve. He was an addiction and she was consumed with desire. Throwing the drapes open afterward to let in the sunshine, the Duc ordered Daisy breakfast in bed. He drank coffee while she ate, his own breakfast eaten hours earlier. When she'd finished, he helped her wash and dress with clothes he'd brought out from her home in Helena. "You've been into town already?" Daisy said when she saw her gowns hanging in the armoire. "Did you sleep at all?" "I had to bring my horses out," he answered, taking a wool jacket from the armoire, not replying directly to her question about sleep. He hadn't had time to sleep. "Put this on now and I'll take you riding." Daisy was sitting on the bed, dressed in leather riding pants and a warm sweater, her bare feet swinging idly. "How did you bring your horses?" "The usual way, darling, in their stalls on my yacht." "No, I mean out here so quickly." "In a boxcar on the railroad. We unloaded them and boarded them at Dale's Livery. But I didn't want to leave them there too long. They're used to being pampered." She grinned. "Like me." He was holding out her jacket and his smile was wolfish. "Not exactly." Sliding her arms into the jacket sleeves, she inquired, "Are you going to get tired of my demands?" Her question was asked with frankness, concern, and her own patent audacity. "I'll let you know," Etienne said, buttoning the large red buttons, "if I do." "I love you too much," Daisy declared, throwing her arms around him as he stood before her, her world having abruptly diminished in scope to the immediacy of Etienne's essential presence, his touch, his smile, his wanting her. His child growing inside her augmented the enormity of her love, as if she were a receptacle for his ion, a repository for the issue of that love, a replete and sated woman only in his arms. "You belong to me," he quietly said, her hair soft under his chin, his arms holding her close, "and I to you. And I'll love you… always." "It unnerves me, Etienne," Daisy said, gazing up at him, "to be so consumed with need for you." "I'm obsessed with you as well, darling. I don't understand it—" he smiled, "—but we're astonishingly lucky." "And you really like Montana?" It was her world and she wanted his assurance. "Montana's beautiful—like you. And since I now own six thousand acres13 that came with the house,

why don't you show some of it to me?"

They rode out on the horses the Duc had brought from Paris, a beautiful gray barb mare for Daisy and his own favorite black who'd helped him score most of his goals this past year. With Daisy as guide, they traveled the length of the valley and up into the foothills rimming the open country. He'd never seen her on a horse before because she'd disdained riding in the Bois as too tame and sedate. She was a skilled rider, as he'd expected, coming from her background, sitting comfortably and at ease on an unfamiliar mount, holding her reins with a casualness only the best riders developed. Dressed in leather pants, moccasins, and red-plaid jacket, her long black hair loose on her shoulders, Daisy seemed in harmony with the natural beauty of the country. She knew the terrain intimately, indicating features of interest of him, showing him those boundary markers that were close, even pointing out the original survey markers now obscured and overgrown by underbrush. All the section lines and subdivisions were familiar to her, and when he marveled at her wealth of pertinent information, Daisy said, "We've been fighting to retain our land for almost thirty years. I've been personally involved for the last ten, so I know the plat maps as well as I know my name. As well as I know mining law. Probably," she added with a faint smile, "as well as you know railroad development." "I should take advantage then of your"—his green gaze was sportive—"expertise." "I certainly have enjoyed yours." Her tone was playful. "After last night, I feel I owe you. What do you want to know?" And they discussed at length the possibility of developing new mining properties, the locations of the newest deposits, the profits available from copper mining, both short-term and extended, the new coal bodies being exploited, the labor organizations coming into existence. The Duc understood railroads, but Daisy's competence in every facet of mining was formidable. When they stopped in midafternoon to rest and eat the picnic lunch Louis had sent with them, they went into some of the specifics about possible partnerships with her family. They ate the simple roast beef sandwiches and peach pie Cook had made, drinking from the clear cold water of the stream at the foot of the clearing. And when Daisy yawned for the third time in one sentence, the Duc suggested she nap before they start back. "We were going to go shopping for baby clothes. Is it too late?" She had this overwhelming urge to purchase little lacy, embroidered baby things. Tiny booties and ribboned bonnets, silver rattles and engraved cups. "It's half past three. We won't have time to ride back to the ranch, change, and drive into town. We'll go tomorrow… if you wake up early enough," he teased. "I won't take full blame for my fatigue," Daisy protested with lazy good humor. "Nor should you." His smile was warm, the well-house at Newport a favorite memory of his. "But since baby is still seven and a half months from needing a wardrobe, I'd say we could wait another day or so for our shopping trip. This week you're not allowed to work—only rest and take care of yourself." "And you."

"And me," he softly agreed. He made a bed for her from scented pine boughs, covered her with his jacket, and seated beside her, held her hand while she slept. For a man who'd never known contentment, he was content. For a man who'd never known the fulfillment of loving a woman, he was converted. And for a man who had always considered himself as de Vec, an integral element in his country's cultural past and tradition, he was now seated on newly purchased ground in a frontier country holding the warm hand of the woman who had brought him so far from home. And brought him imminent fatherhood. And probably too—a new understanding of priorities. Bourges would have to become more active in his business affairs. He trusted him. Justin would have to begin assuming some responsibility too. Once the baby was born and Daisy's current court cases concluded, they would have to negotiate for some semblance of equal time in Paris. He smiled faintly. Maybe. It might be easier, he decided, to talk Bourges into being his business manager. He was too apt to let Daisy have her way. The sun was slipping below the horizon in a flaming crimson display, hovering for sleek moments on the shadowed mountain-tops before disappearing in tattered remnants of magenta and gold. The silence of the forest clearing seemed to deepen in the shadowed calm of evening, and when Daisy stirred, the rustle of pine boughs was distinct in the quiet twilight. As if she felt the new absence of light, she opened her eyes, taking a lingering moment of conscious reckoning to where she was. "I'm sorry I slept so long," she murmured, her hand engulfed in Etienne's warm palm, his protection and solicitude tangible. "Are you getting cold?" He shook his head. "The sun just went down." "I suppose I have to get up…" "I can carry you back." He would, too, she realized and wondered for a moment whether she'd become spoiled for the real world in Etienne's indulgent care. She could do absolutely nothing for herself if she wished, a startling change from her former independent existence. "Last night was enervating. I'll be more prudent tonight and let you sleep." "You must be tired," Daisy said, sitting up.

"I'm fine." The Duc was used to a careless schedule of sleep. "Do you want to ride alone or with me?" "Your black might complain." "He won't; he knows better. Besides, today's excursion is like a rest cure compared to two periods of polo. He's on holiday." But Daisy rode by herself after stretching and yawning and waking up more completely while Etienne saddled the horses. And when they returned to the ranch, he insisted Daisy go into the house while he take the horses to the stables. "Get into something comfortable for dinner. Louis said our new cook is temperamental about dinnertime." "You should have awakened me earlier. Are we late?" "I can always hire another cook, darling. You… are irreplaceable. But I think we're in time to avoid a tantrum."

Dinner was very French with faint Creole overtones because the woman Louis had hired was a native of New Orleans. The fish sauce was a subtle blend of an oyster and meunière sauce, so delicate in flavor it reminded Daisy of the scent of sweet basil after the fact. A hint and remembrance curiously combined. The beef and peppers were hot and spicy and served over a saffron rice as beautiful to look at as to eat. Over a lemon pastry so delectable Daisy ate three while Etienne watched her, amused, she said, "Your cook will have to be allowed her tantrums for this level of skill. What time do we have to be up for breakfast?" Etienne laughed. "Hopefully it's negotiable. I think she knows her worth though." "Wherever did you find her?" "Louis did, actually. He hired everyone. She came, I think, from one of the hotels in town. There weren't any chefs available." "You've never had a female cook?" "Louis could answer that better than I. He was in touch with my kitchen staff, but I don't think so. She is good, isn't she? Have another," he offered, his smile beguiling. "I shouldn't." "You're allowed to indulge yourself, darling." "I'll get too fat." "You're on holiday."

She didn't need much coaxing when the lemon pastry tantalized with its fragrant citron aroma, fluted volumes of chantilly creme, and sugar-dusted meringue. "As you can see," she said, reaching for another swan-shaped confection, "the simplest excuse will do in my present frame of mind." "I've several dozen more excuses when you need them." They were alone over dessert, Etienne having dismissed the servants for the night so they could linger at table undisturbed. "Are they a condition of your noblesse?" "No, with Maman's influence, excuses weren't necessary. She always encouraged freedom of choice." "Yet you stayed in your marriage against her counsel." "Until I met you, it didn't seem to matter. We had our separate lives." "Tell me you're happy," Daisy whispered, all the disquieting insecurities hurtling back when he spoke so casually of the separateness of his marriage. Alone in the lamp-lit dining room at an enormous table too large for only two, the beamed ceiling adding height and dimension to the sizeable proportions of the space, they seemed isolated, Daisy thought, not only in the masculine room decorated with heavy furniture and weapons, but isolated from the world in this mountain valley seven thousand miles from the bright lights of Paris. Would he fall again into patterns so habitual to his nature once he returned to his own milieu? she wondered. "Happy's too mild a word," he quietly said. "Contentment too. Although I feel them both. I've traveled across the world in some restless quest for an unknown… intangible. Not understanding at the time I was actually searching for you… so I could sit like this, overcome with delight at the sight of you in my nightshirt with rolled up sleeves and tumbled hair and powdered sugar on your lips." "Good," she said, simply, like a child would, satisfied, the measure of his words chasing away all the old demons. "And I'm glad you like my dinner gown," Daisy said, licking the sugar off her mouth, her smiling words conveying the extent of her own contentment. "I'll wear the Doucet creations some other time." "Don't ever wear them. I don't care." The Duc was lounging in his chair, relaxed, one hand loosely cupping his cognac glass. "I like you in my nightshirt." The unadorned white cotton garment flowed around Daisy in great sweeping folds as she sat with her legs tucked under her on one of the oversize chairs, the pristine color accenting the bronze of her skin and the blackness of her hair. Her lips in contrast to the monochrome colors were cherry-red. "Louis brought more than enough," he said with a grin, "to keep you dressed for dinner indefinitely. Adelaide wouldn't understand, would she?" he quietly added. "Nor would Valentin. They're both inclined to prefer people around them. I like to be alone with you." "If I didn't have my family to concern myself with, we could fence in the valley and lock out the world." "I don't want to think about family tonight," the Duc said with a sigh, too aware of the reality of their busy lives, and of Bourges wondering why his telegrams weren't being answered. "Let's delude ourself for a

few more hours. Tomorrow we'll have to go into town, however briefly. It's imperative the phone and telegraph lines are begun."

Before going upstairs, Etienne wanted to check his horses on their first night in a new stable. "I'll be right back," he said, sliding Daisy's chair back and helping her up. "I'll come with you." "We'll find you a long coat then. Your short jackets won't keep your legs warm in that nightshirt." Finding his wool topcoat in the foyer closet, he held it while Daisy slipped into it. Helping her button the coat up to its velvet collar, he put on a leather jacket and lifted her into his arms. "It's too cold for bare feet," he said. Reaching for the door, he unlatched it with his fingertips and kicked it open. "And I'm lazy after four lemon pastries," Daisy added, snuggling into the solidness of Etienne's shoulder as they stepped out onto the porch. "You don't have to come. Wait for me in bed." He half turned to reenter the house. "No. I'm slipping into one of my moods of utter dependence. Like carry me, hold me, don't ever leave me, tell me you adore every hair on my head, every finger and toe, every breath I take. And kiss me." He did then, obliging with a teasing smile that shone in the moonlit night. The journey to the stables was interrupted by several more pleasurable obligations of a similar nature under a night sky brilliant with sparkling stars. Their breath curled in the brisk autumn air, but their hearts were warm with love, their teasing smiles and murmured words of ion and devotion more special somehow away from the world, more private and significant, as if their love could flourish unimpeded in the silent majesty of their mountain valley. "I love you beyond the starline and the galaxy's boundaries," Daisy whispered, as Etienne set her down on the straw-covered stable floor, the open doorway illuminated by moonlight, the soft rustle of the horses moving in their stalls audible in the quiet night. "And I don't care anymore if a thousand generations of de Vecs roll over in their graves when you divorce." "You never had to even consider anything so noble," Etienne softly said, enclosing her in his arms. "You're not the reason or cause, only the impetus for a divorce I should have gotten years ago." "I feel sad at times," Daisy quietly said, "being the agent for your disgrace with certain of your world." "Lord, Daisy, don't say that, don't even think it." He lifted her chin gently with the pad of his forefinger and said very low, "You're the reason, the heart of any joy I've ever known." Her eyes were enormous in the moonlight. "You're not marrying me… just… because… of the baby." The consideration overcame her reason at times, although she'd never put her reservations into words before. "No—never—although I would of course, if I hadn't… Oh, hell. No," he began again, "I'm not marrying you for that reason. I'm marrying you because you're crucial to my life. I can't conceive of living without you." He sighed, his hands drifting down her arms. "Although I hope you have patience. It's going to be endless months yet."

"We could be married tonight," Daisy said, her voice hushed, hesitant at the very last—embarrassed she was pressing him. "Tell me how," the Duc said without debate, a dream being offered him he wouldn't refuse no matter what the requirements. "My gods aren't your gods… but they're benevolent spirits." "Through thousands of years," Etienne softly added, the totems vivid in his mind, their existence integral to all tribal cultures, understanding Daisy was offering him marriage in the way of her world. "I will take you for my husband. I have said it now and it is so." Her warm breath spiraled up between them, her body close and warm, her face lifted to his, radiant with love. "I will take you for my wife." His hands slid up to her shoulders and he bent to touch the heated softness of her lips, thanking the benevolent spirits who spoke on the wind and in the blue sky and in the darkness of the night—the gods who protected the Absarokee from unknown demons and known enemies, the gods who loved The People of the northern plains. "And it is so," Daisy whispered, sealing their troth.

The next weeks were idyllic, a time of holiday and work and ornamented pleasure, a season of flourishing and growing closeness between two people who hadn't realized what infinite nuances of intimacy existed. They shopped for baby clothes one day, although Daisy had developed a case of cold feet at the very last before entering the fashionable store catering to wealthy parents.

"Tell them you're buying the clothes as a gift," Etienne suggested. "That should be innocuous enough." But as they left the shop later, carrying their numerous packages, Daisy declared in a faintly anxious tone, "Did you see them whispering as we left? They didn't believe me." "I wouldn't have either when you stammered and blushed so." His grin was cheerful. "We should have left." "But then we wouldn't have all these little embroidered things. It doesn't matter what they think." Stopping abruptly, Daisy drew in a deep breath. "Father tells me to be less concerned with opinion." "Excellent advice," the Duc lazily replied. "And now you have the baby clothes you wanted." "They are darling, aren't they?" "Absolutely." "Let's go home and look at them," she said, her voice buoyant with joy. "Let's," the Duc agreed, taking in the flushed and happy face of the woman he loved. And any of his acquaintances at his Parisian clubs would have been flabbergasted at the notion the Duc de Vec was about to spend his afternoon iring baby clothes.

They went on holiday for a few days upmountain to Daisy's lodge tucked away in a secluded highland pasture. The weather was ideal, the fall leaves a panoply of color in the valleys below, the sun closer, it seemed, and warmer at the higher altitude, the stars at night so near they seemed within touching distance. They lay in the sun in the afternoons and under the stars at night, their bodies entwined, their hearts in accord, their feelings of contentment and love too pervasive and overwhelming to be neatly contained within the spare perimeters of those two simple words. They talked of their plans—how Etienne wished to explore buying a mine, how much longer Daisy's counsel would be required in the litigation currently in court. They spoke of the possibility of traveling to Paris before too long. "Once the divorce is final, we should be married in ," Etienne suggested, "in order to assure our child's inheritance." "I'm not in need of your money." "I'm concerned our child—children," he corrected with a smile, "have legal access to my wealth." "I have money of my own." "I'd like our marriage legitimate in French courts. Besides, your father's money is shared with the tribe." "Blaze's fortune is more than enough for the family. As children, we have trust funds." "If we're not married in , inheriting not only my estates but my titles could be in question."

At Daisy's skeptical expression, he added, "Why not let the children decide… about the titles? Is that fair?" She hesitated for a moment, struck with the fact her child would be titled, she too. How odd, she thought, the belief in aristocracy so far removed from the normal pattern of her life. There was no excuse, however, for her own prejudices biasing her children's choices, so she agreed. "It's fair of course. How many titles do you have?" He shrugged, then smiled, his eyes taking on a playful cast. "Enough," he said, "to fill a nursery… if you like." "Give me some idea of your plans." Her voice was softly teasing. "They're not my plans. You wanted more, you said." "How many titles?" she murmured, lying beside him on a fur blanket, the lodge walls translucent in the afternoon sun. "Justin has some of them already." "I understand. How many are left?" She rolled over so she lay partially on his chest, the seductive purr of her voice persuasive and heatedly cordial. "Nine." "Umm. That's a lot." But her pink tongue came out wetting her upper lip and she stretched to reach his smiling mouth. They discussed the infinite possibilities in fragmented amorous phrases, having to do not so much with titles but with pleasure, agreeing in the end to fill their nursery in indulgent leisure.

In the course of the following weeks, while Daisy helped manage the court case, Etienne spent his days reviewing mining properties, attending to his affairs in Europe as well as possible via telegram, and negotiating to buy a local rail line. Hazard and Trey served as the Duc's guides on the days they were available, and by month's end, Etienne had decided on investing in two properties. One was adjacent to the new Braddock-Black copper mine, allowing less possibility of controversy over ore veins, the other was at Butte. In the evenings, Daisy and the Duc returned to Clear River Valley, to a home being renovated under Louis's guidance, turning it from a bachelor ranch house to a comfortable residence. They dined informally in a small parlor Louis had redone, made love like new lovers each night, and fell asleep in each other's arms. And if paradise could have been depicted in visual , it would have been patterned after the happiness and harmony of their existence.

On Saturday morning Daisy slept in, a luxury she allowed herself lately as the baby seemed to deplete

her energy level. Etienne had risen at dawn, as he often did, to ride out with his grooms for the ponies' morning warmup. He also planned on meeting Hazard and Trey early to go underground with them for an inspection of one of their mines. With the same energy he put into polo or any of the enterprises he undertook, the Duc was systematically learning all he could about copper mining. After an hour of watching his young thoroughbreds put through their paces on the valley flats, the Duc left to ride to the Ruby Mine. The crisp fall air was invigorating, his spirits buoyant as he traveled the quiet country road. He liked mornings—he always had, a sense of renewal, freshness, and unlimited promise seemed to waft on the morning air. And one of the young two-year-olds they'd brought with them from had run the mile in record time; he was looking forward to the next racing season. He was also keenly interested in his tour of the Ruby Mine. As one of the older Braddock-Black properties, it was extensively mined, and they'd be descending almost three thousand feet underground.

"You won't need your jacket," Hazard declared as he greeted the Duc outside the manager's office. "You can leave it inside. This is George Stuntz, our manager at Ruby." And introductions led to a discussion of the exploration going on in the lower levels once George understood the Duc was interested in learning as much as he could about underground mining. "We're driving drifts out to the east for two thousand feet, then starting drilling off at right angles," George said. "And exploring at both the 2666 and 2433 levels," Hazard added. At 2433 they were out as far as they wanted to go, but down at 2666, the progress was slower because the men couldn't work more than four-hour shifts with the one-hundred-degree temperatures and humidity. "Some can't even manage that length of time," George explained. "The work's hard. We're having trouble with the drills again too," George told Hazard. The granite was so hard, each drill bit only lasted fifteen minutes before it was too dull to use. "The drill shop's falling behind trying to keep them sharp." Hazard asked about the signs of water that had been showing up lately. The manager held up crossed fingers and smiled. "Let's hope our luck holds."

It was almost nine-thirty when Hazard, Trey, and Etienne entered the cage taking them underground, and when they exited at the 2666 level into the lamplit station, the news greeting them was troubling. The men were beginning to get water in all the drill holes. "Tell the men to come out," Hazard immediately ordered, the new signs of water ominous. "We'll pull back and shut the bulkhead door at the 2666 level." The Ruby had had water problems from the beginning, its ore veins linked somehow to underground water.

Within ten minutes, the entire crew on that level had been brought out from their workings, and the iron door to the east drift had been solidly closed. Within minutes after the door was sealed, water started coming up the raise—a four-by-four-foot vertical shaft used for ventilation and dropping ore—so fast everyone knew a major rupture had occurred. "We'll have to shut the door at 2433 level too," Hazard tersely said, hoping to contain the water at that point. The men knew the procedures. Everything had to be cleaned out of the tunnel so the force of the water wouldn't be augmented by loose timbers or equipment crashing into the iron doors. The crew scrambled, moving at top speed, loading everything onto the hoist, the skip squealing as it pulled the filled hoist to the surface at maximum speeds of thirty-six hundred feet per minute. As one skip went up, another came hurtling down, until the timbers for scaffolding and all the mining gear had been cleared. The men, wading knee-deep in water by now, were evacuated to the 2433 level where the next iron door had to be closed. At the end of the tunnel leading to the east drift, an enormous iron framework had been installed, its two doors pushed back against the tunnel walls. Built against such an eventuality as this, water always a threat in the Ruby mine, the doors were of heavy-gauge metal. Trey noticed the seeping water first, a small puddle begin-ning to form a hundred yards past the doors, and in the short seconds it took to call attention to it, the puddle expanded rapidly. Would the water break through? Trey wondered. Everyone knew the possibility existed and they worked feverishly to pull the doors into place. A muffled roar reverberated like a giant's rumbling tread, giving them only a moment's warning before the tunnel floor exploded in a geyser of water. The new exploratory tunnels were more unstable than the established working ones, not shored up with the same amount of timbers, and Hazard's voice echoed everyone's apprehension when he said, "We haven't much time." The weighty doors moved in creaking protest as the men all threw their weight against them, the water already lapping around their base, adding resistance. With the temperature and humidity hovering around the hundred mark, the men were soaked in sweat, sapped by the work they'd already accomplished in the sultry heat, unable to muster the strength necessary to swing the doors shut quickly. With their muscles pushed to the limit, the strain showed in every face as gritted teeth indicated each man's intense effort. The water was nearly a foot deep now and rising so rapidly one could distinguish its upward progression without even using a reference point, the swiftly streaming tide from the breakthrough in the tunnel ahead gushing toward them like a river in flood. But their brute strength was bringing the doors slowly together despite the irresistible pressure of the rising water. Only a narrow ten-inch gap remained with the water thigh-high, when a water-soaked timber—missed somehow in the cleanup—shot through the opening like a projectile, lodging itself with an explosive clang against one of the doors. The brawny men struggled and cursed, trying to heave the timber free, or force it back, but the timber had splintered on one side on impact and was hung up with deadly accuracy on

the levered handle mechanism. It was immovable. The door, only inches from closing, couldn't be shut. Water was sweeping through the gap with increasing momentum as two hundred feet of water pressure below propelled it upward. "It's over," Hazard curtly said when the water reached his waist. "Everyone out." He couldn't risk so many lives. And as they waded back toward the hoist, their progress slow in the ris-ing water, Ruby Mine, a man-made invasion of the earth drilled and blasted out over the course of several years, began succumbing with horrifying speed to the more powerful forces of nature. "We should—try—the pumps, boss," one of the miners suggested as the hoist came into sight, the kerosene lamps at the station glowing in the inky shadow. "We'll try two of them—down at the 2200 level," Hazard replied, his breath, like all of the others', coming in labored gasps. "Maybe—we can control the rise." The Duc didn't have to ask what would happen if they didn't contain the water. He could tell from the grim looks on everyone's faces. In less than ten minutes, two deep-well pumps were dropped into the shaft, and twelve-inch pipes began drawing up the water, the turbine motors above ground operating at maximum speed. But the water continued climbing even with the pumps draining at full capacity. If the water reached the pumps, everyone knew… the mine was lost. The situation looked ominous, for the water was a foot deep already at the 2200 level, the pump platforms almost underwater. "We could try opening the crosscuts over to Alaska shaft," Trey shouted above the sound of the driving pistons. They were all in the process of shoring up the pump platforms. "It would reduce the water pressure here." "The cuts aren't through yet," Hazard shouted back, the sinews in his arms strained with the weight of the pump. "Dynamite," Trey cried. "I'll go too," Etienne yelled. Trey shook his head no. The Duc nodded back—yes. Neither man wasted unnecessary words, both competent, capable, and familiar with taking on the world head-on. "He'd better not go," Hazard cautioned Trey, after the pumps were raised another two feet above the

water and the men were far enough away to speak in a more normal tone. "You'd better not," he declared, turning toward Etienne. "Daisy won't approve of you risking your life." "I happen to know a little about dynamite," Etienne modestly replied, a faint smile on his face, "since I own a share of one of Nobel's Ballistite factories." His mind was made up; with or without Daisy's approval, he was going. "I can help. She won't know… and I don't intend to argue… there isn't time." "I'll go too," a large blonde man interjected, understanding, as they all did, the rapidly rising water didn't allow lengthy discussion. "Me too," another miner offered. "I'm a fast runner." "Thanks," Trey said, smiling at Trewayne's realistic appraisal. They were all going to have to run like hell once the dynamite was lit, because if they were successful in blowing the crosscut open, a ten-foot wall of water would be racing them to the skip. The decision made without further discussion, for time was at a , the men left the pumps and took the cage up to level six where another crosscut connected the two shafts. "You and Trewayne blow the east side, and Lund and I will do the west," Trey explained. "You're sure you know what you're doing?" he added, gazing at Etienne. A strong affirmative would go far to assuage the measure of guilt he was currently feeling. Daisy would tear him apart, Trey thought, if she felt he'd encouraged the Duc in this foolhardy mission. "I learned to use dynamite when we were blowing tunnels through the Alps for one of our railroads." "This should be familiar then. Does Daisy know? About the tunnels?" "It never came up," the Duc replied, but his tone suggested it had never come up for a reason. "Sensible man," Trey muttered. Daisy had a way of making her feelings known on a subject, a circumstance of which Trey was fully aware. Bringing enough dynamite with them to assure opening the crosscut, the four men loaded the wooden box and drills on the cage and lowered themselves to the 2433 level of Alaska shaft. They made their way to the extremity of the new tunnel, cutting through to the adjacent shaft where Hazard and the other miners were battling the flood waters. As they neared the rock wall separating the two mines, the muffled turbulence of surging water was audible. "What do you estimate—ten or twelve feet between us and the Pacific shaft?" Trey asked, recalling his earlier conversation with the foreman. "Fifteen feet, at the most," Trewayne clarified. "No more than six feet then for the drill holes?" "Six would be safe. Anything more, the water might bust through before we can dynamite and get the hell out." Trewayne's voice was emotionless, as though their discussion didn't carry the imminent threat of death 2433 feet below the surface of the earth. And the men set to work, running the two-man drills, slowly cutting into the granite. The time required seemed an eternity although only fifteen minutes ed until they had enough holes drilled, loaded with dynamite, and primed to accomplish their task.

With sweat dripping from their faces, their clothes wet from the water they'd been working in for the past hour, the four men surveyed the four neatly packed drill holes attached to the seven-foot fuses stretching out from the wall. "Good luck, gentlemen," Trey said, his voice grave for a moment as he considered their chances of outrunning the deluge. "And thank you." He smiled suddenly. "Any wagers on the race to the hoist?" Their hat-lamps shone dimly on the underground scene, the nearest station lamps beyond the curve of the tunnel, the damp heat almost smothering, like the darkness barely kept at bay. In the shadowed gloom, the men's smiles shone white against their dirt-smeared faces. "Let's just say, last one there buys beer at Skala's," Trewayne quipped. And they bent to the task of lighting the fuses, the masculine sportive crisis management discharged and preempted now by more pressing concerns. After waiting just long enough to make certain the fuses were burning well, the men sprinted down the rough tunnel toward the main ageway leading to the hoist. The ground shuddered under their feet forty seconds later when the dynamite exploded prematurely, and a moment later they all heard the ominous thundering explosion of rushing water. The glow of the lit cage station seemed minute and distant, the roar of the water menacingly close, their speed inadequate against the equation of distance and water velocity. A cool mist drifted over them, the deafening rush of water intensified, preface they all knew to the engulfing tide. The cage was a hundred yards away now. Life and a future beckoning… if they could reach it. Then seventy yards. Running full-out, agonizing pain stabbed their rasping lungs as they gasped for air, every man's eyes on the cage, all thoughts on the essential need for speed. Fifty yards left. The lights shone vividly now behind the metal mesh protec-tive covers, the cage door invitingly open, the lever required for ascent brilliant red. Their goal and salvation. Only thirty yards to go. Each man's heart thudded in his chest, and the smallest man, Trewayne, was keeping pace with the longer stride of the other three only by sheer gutsy determination. Ten yards. The light mist had altered to dense fog, the lights almost concealed although they were near, the tumultuous roar behind them booming in their ears. Trewayne's boot caught on a rough outcropping and he stumbled. As Etienne's peripheral vision discerned the flashing lurch, he instinctively checked his speed.

Trewayne's arms flailed out in a jerky spinning flutter and he caught himself—in the next split second—almost… as Etienne tried to reach him—then losing his battle with gravity, toppled over, falling in a staggering sprawl. Trey and Lund, running a few places ahead, were unaware of the accident until they'd reached the cage. Turning back, they observed with horror the fallen Trewayne—Etienne in a crouch, reaching for him. Behind them a dark glistening wall of water, roof-high and black as hades, rushed toward them. "Signal up!" Trey shouted above the deafening sound of the water before sprinting back toward the two men. Seconds later, adding his strength to Etienne's, they swept Trewayne up, and ing him under his arms, ran toward the cage. "The door! The door!" Trey screamed, gesturing with his free hand to start swinging it shut. And the cable began slowly revolving, the cage lifting the first few inches off the 2433 level. Five seconds more and they would have been safe. Five seconds more and the cage door would have been closed on them. But the wall of water hit them two strides short of their destination, hurling Trey and Trewayne into the slowly rising cage. Sweeping Etienne away… past the steel cage, past the shaft, into the tunnel extending westward from the hoist. Into pitch-black darkness as the station lamps went out. Into a suffocating maelstrom of swirling water.

As powerless as a leaf in a flooding torrent, the surging force took him away. Twenty-four hundred feet below the ground, he realized with horror. And if the pumps in Pacific shaft went under, it would be months before the mine could be reopened—he'd be buried twenty-four hundred feet beneath the surface in a watery grave. Holding his breath, he controlled the panic screaming through his mind. He wasn't dead until he was dead, dammit! But unnerving images flashed through his mind, vignettes of his past life, of Daisy, his children, his mother… those fearful prognosticated final moments of existence. His lungs felt like they were going to burst when the powerful suction took hold of him, and moments later he was swept into a narrow opening of some kind because he was being smashed and buffeted against solid rock. Protecting his head with his arms as he was dashed back and forth by the hurtling pressure, he wondered if he'd black out first from the suffocating pain in his lungs or still be alert when he was compelled to draw the breath that would drown him. With an obstinate determination, he forced himself to contemplate the image of the holy men in central Asia who sat for days without moving, hardly breathing in their meditation of God, willing his mind away from the agony in his lungs, willing his thoughts to a tranquility that would see him face death with a calm serenity. But beyond his effort to suppress both pain and fear, his final conscious thoughts were irrepressibly of Daisy. She was smiling at him across the dinner table, wearing his oversize nightshirt, her hair tumbled in shining splendor on her shoulders, her lips dusted with sugar. I love you… I'll always love you, he promised.

He could vividly see the love in her eyes… as her image floated closer, nearer… he could almost touch her now… Drawing his arms away from protecting his head, he reached out to embrace her. The pain in his lungs was agonizing. Unbearable. A lacerating blow tore into his shoulder, overwhelming the torment of his lungs, and then his head violently crashed into the unyielding rock. Death hovered. And darkness closed over him.

Trey, Lund, and Trewayne fell out of the cage on level six and lay on the ground panting, the first two hundred feet of their ascent an underwater breath-held panic before they rose above the flooded tunnels. No one spoke for a moment, their lungs still bereft of adequate air, and when Trewayne finally uttered the first gasping words, they reflected everyone's thoughts. "I owe him my life. Poor devil." "Even if… we could go back… down there," Lund added, his breath expelled in little puffs of phrases, "he'd be… dead… by now." They all knew, no one would be able to return in any event—not for weeks… even if the water pouring in had definable limits. Heartsick at the tragedy, at the awful consequences resulting from a few lost seconds, Trey pulled himself to his feet, brushing his wet hair from his face with both hands in a rough, sweeping gesture. Although stricken with anguish, the bitter reality of the continuing peril in Pacific shaft didn't even allow them time to grieve now; the flooding that killed Etienne could be the cause of more lives lost if the water couldn't be stopped in the other shaft. They had to return immediately to give what help they could to the

men manning the pumps. Bloody hell, he thought, oppressed and disheartened, obliged to force his weary legs to move. They'd all understood the risks involved. But, damn. Only a few seconds more and Etienne wouldn't have been swept away. He felt like crying. What could he say to Daisy? "Sorry, boss," Trewayne quietly said, keeping pace with Trey as he began moving down the tunnel, his gaze on Trey's distrait face, his own feelings even more guilt-racked. "He should have let me go." "It's not your fault, Billy. None of us knew if we'd make it back. He understood the odds." There was no point in conjecturing or asg blame. The Duc was dead. If resurrection were a possibility, he'd gladly pay penance and accept the blame for letting him come along. Not that de Vec would have listened to him anyway. He was a man who made his own decisions. But God above, what was Daisy going to do? Desolation swept over him.

When Trey stepped out of the cage on 2200 level of Pacific shaft, a miner shouted, "The water's stopped! You did it!" Hazard swiveled around when he heard the shouted greeting, his face lighting up in congratulatory response. But his dark eyes immediately took in the diminished ranks in a quick fleeting count. Had the Duc returned to the surface already was his first hopeful wish. He could have resurfaced through the Alaska shaft. But further observation correctly read the anguish in his son's face and all his elation at saving the mine abruptly disappeared. Desperately hoping he was wrong, he inquired, "Is Etienne… ?" Trey shook his head. "The water took him." His gruff voice broke, his pain visible. "Just as we reached the cage." Hazard had seen his share of death: in the Civil War; on raids in his youth; in the smallpox scourge that had killed his parents and half their tribe; his own young children's deaths were never forgotten. But death always struck one like a blow to the heart. Brutal and unexpected. The thin sound of wailing whistles carried only faintly to Clear River Valley, but Daisy was attuned to the signal. When the mine whistles blew in chorus, everyone knew disaster had struck. Or perhaps some sixth sense roused her as the unpropitious warning pierced the air and floated across the morning sky. Aware some catastrophe had occurred, she threw back the covers and was already partially dressed when the phone rang. How many times before had she answered emergency calls from the mine? But Etienne was at the site today and she steadied her nerves before picking up the receiver. "The mine's flooding," Blaze said, "with a shift still underground—our men included." With conscious effort Blaze forced her voice to remain calm, without a trace of hysteria or fear. Calling on an inner strength, Daisy answered with equal composure, but subliminal emotion unrestrained by conscious repression had triggered panic from the moment she'd first heard the siren. "I'm leaving

now." She didn't waste time in asking questions; she understood the calamity in flooding. And her hand was shaking as she set the receiver back in its cradle.

When Daisy arrived at the mine, others drawn by the distress signal were gathered around the base of the skip tower, waiting for news, watching for the cage to surface, fear for their loved ones etched on every face. Mothers with young children clinging to their skirts prayed for their husbands' safety; old men who knew what it was like underground hoped their sons would be on the cage because the next one might not operate if the water overtook it; older children, their apprehension for their fathers vivid on their young faces, tried to comfort their younger siblings; old women, who knew it would be a miracle if everyone came up alive, cried. Blaze and Empress stood with the group, the night foreman at their side, waiting with the others for the cage to surface. The bell signaling ascent sounded again, focusing all eyes on the mine entrance. Some prayed, their lips silently mouthing the words of salvation, others moved from foot to foot, unable to composedly stand and wait the few remaining minutes. A small child cried, only to be hushed by its mother, and then a young boy's elated voice shouted, "Pa!" and a welcoming cheer rose as the men began walking out of the cage. The crowd surged forward in a wave of hope, each family searching for their loved one. Scanning the men as they exited, Daisy's fingers unconsciously tightened on the reins, her breath in abeyance as she watched for Etienne. But he wasn't aboard the lift, nor was her father or brother. Beating down the ominous fear flooding her mind, she reminded herself that any number of reasons ed for their absence, and she tried to enumerate the procedural steps required when water broke through. She knew as well as anyone a crew was left behind to operate the pumps. Dismounting, she skirted the happy families embracing the miners, and walked over to Blaze and Empress. "Ten men are still down there, but the flooding's checked," Blaze said, not specifically naming their men but reiterating what Daisy already knew. "Come out of the wind." She indicated the timekeeper's structure, a small building adjacent to the mine entrance. And as they stood on the lee side, out of the wind, she filled Daisy in on what details she knew. "2666 and 2433 levels are flooded out. Water started showing in the drill cores on the 2666 east drift early this morning." "They've brought pumps down to 2200 level," Empress added, the fur hood of her coat framing her pale face. "The crew's on 2200?" "That's what Joe says. They're still monitoring the pumps. Do you think you should wait in town?" she added, worried about Daisy standing out in the cold. "No." Daisy's tone of voice didn't allow for discussion. "I had hot coffee and food brought out. It's been set up in the engine house. Why don't you wait inside," Blaze offered. Daisy shook her head to all the offerings. "I'm warm. I'd like to go down."

"George isn't letting anyone down. On your father's orders," Blaze added as Daisy's expression turned obstinate. "I'll talk to him." But George Stuntz was adamant… polite, but firm. Hazard would have his skin if he allowed his daughter underground in the existing circumstances. He'd skin him first and then kill him. "Sorry, Miss Daisy," he repeated. "Your pa won't allow it." So the three women waited at the mine entrance together with the families who still had men underground. The inactivity was wearing on emotions, as was the uncertainty—not knowing what was going on thousands of feet underground. Not knowing if the rising water was gaining on the pumps. The unrelenting rhythm of the huge motors set up near the shaft was at least reassuring, as was the steady flow of water pouring out of the large pipes into the drainage ditches. Since Joe Sherwood, the night foreman, and George stayed with them, the conversation centered on aspects of the salvage efforts. Daisy paced, unable to sustain the composure of Blaze, or the polite conversation of Empress. A more volatile personality, she balked at her uselessness. With her background, she understood mining operations as well as her father and brothers; she could help if George weren't so intractable. A sense of frustration augmented the anxiety gripping her senses, driving her restless tread. With long strides of her leather-troed legs, she crossed and recrossed the area in front of the entrance to the mine, the skirts of her coat swinging out behind her as she traversed the rough ground. Although it seemed an eternity, less than an hour had ed when the skip bell rang and the steel cables began humming—indication of an ascending cage. An interminable interval ed—each second stretching endlessly as the hoist brought the lift up the shaft. Steam rose from the wet clothes of the men exiting the cage as they walked out into the brisk autumn air, their faces barely recognizable beneath the grime, their shoulders sagging with weariness. Seven men, immediate calculation computed in dozens of brains. As though the counting brought everyone up safely. "The water stopped," the first man said, "just short of the pumps." Oddly, his voice held no elation. He was too tired, Daisy thought, to show enthusiasm. But where were the rest? Where were their men? "Where's Hazard?" Blaze demanded, her composure shaken, her voice taut with terror. "He'll be up soon," a man answered. "And Trey?" Empress queried, her voice equally fearful. "He's with him." Empress sagged against Blaze's shoulder. Daisy's eyes met those of the man answering Empress, and her own words of inquiry caught in her throat.

He avoided her gaze after their initial , his glance sliding away. "Etienne?" Daisy's voice barely carried over the sound of the motors, a suffocating dread already filling her throat, closing off her breath. "They're looking for him." Only sheer willpower kept her standing.

Hazard and Trey came up to the surface twenty minutes later, after a new crew had gone down to man the pumps, after they'd carefully explored the Alaska shaft at the 2200 level—a futile exercise under the circumstances with four hundred feet of water flooding the mine. But they had to make the effort, however futile, against the remotest chance. When they stepped out of the cage, the people remaining outside were subdued. Word of the tragedy had spread. Daisy stood with Blaze and Empress, her red wool coat a splash of color against the earth tones of the mine landscape, a contrast as well to the dark fur wraps of the other women. At the sight of the men, she immediately rushed toward them, tears glistening on her cheeks, the only sign of emotion in the controlled mask of her face. "Tell me what happened," she said, hushed and low, wanting to know, wanting an ing after the awful hours of waiting. "How?" she asked, and then quickly, "Where?" As if knowing the details would bring some relief, as if the knowledge would allow her to reach out to him one last time. Daisy was very like the first time he'd seen her after her mother's death, Hazard thought. Composed, too quiet, grave… all her feelings held in check.

And when Trey fully explained the sequence of events, she only quietly said at the last, "Can Etienne's body be recovered?" Hazard shook his head, the movement minimal. "We don't know," he said, his voice subdued. "So much depends on how long it takes to pump out the mine… or if we can pump it out. We don't know where the water's coming from or the extent of the reservoir behind it. Come back to town with us," her father suggested, "until we…" He fell silent, knowing the recovery of the body might take days or weeks. The state of the corpse would be gruesome by then. "I'd rather go home." She felt empty suddenly, and alone, in the midst of her family. Clear River Valley was home… hers and Etienne's. "I'll drive you. We'll come with you. You shouldn't be alone." She couldn't bring herself to rudely tell her father she wished to be by herself, so she allowed her family to accompany her to the ranch. But after suffering through what seemed an interminably agonizing period of restrained and solemn conversation, she finally said, "I'm going to sleep. Please…" She hesitated, understanding her family meant well but unable any longer to abide company. "I'd like to be alone." "Of course," Blaze said, taking Hazard's hand, her eyes filled with tears at Daisy's suffering. "We'll come back later in the day to see if you need anything." And after their good-byes, Daisy had Louis turn the phones off. She wasn't capable of receiving condolence calls; she didn't want to have to politely accept well-meant sympathy. How could she possibly respond with the required courtesy when she didn't know at this moment whether she cared to live herself. After some rest, after some time to grieve alone, she'd handle all the required duties. Etienne's children would have to be notified… and Bourges. Although Louis appeared collected, he was hushedly somber, his eyes red-rimmed. But he didn't speak of Etienne again, once he'd asked for the details of his death. Reserved as he'd always been in his master's presence, he quietly carried out Daisy's wishes. "I hope you stay with me, Louis," Daisy said before she went upstairs to her bedroom. "I'd be most grateful." In her grief she couldn't fully express how much his staying would mean to her, but somehow the house would seem normal with Louis there. With Louis in residence, Etienne's presence would be more vivid as if he were just around the corner or upstairs or out with his horses. Louis could talk to her about Etienne… he knew infinitely more about him than she did; he knew a lifetime of detail and anecdotes. She'd have a link to Etienne and his past. "Yes, Miss Daisy," Louis answered in French, although she and Etienne had spoken English to him since they'd come to America. He was a man of tradition and protocol, but his eyes were warm when he said, "I'd be pleased to stay."

Daisy had the maid close the drapes in the bedroom, shutting out the afternoon sun. It didn't seem right that the sun should still be shining brilliantly or the autumn leaves continue in their dazzling splendor when her world had died. And she turned Etienne's chair away from the windows before she sat in it, curling deep in the soft leather redolent with his scent. Only last night he'd sprawled in his chair, holding her in his lap, and they'd gazed at the starry night,

deciding with silliness and laughter on baby names. Her tears began then in a slow seeping at the poignant memory, as if her grieving heart was free at last to mourn in the solitude of their room. The trickle gave way slowly to great gulping sobs and then a flood of uncontrollable weeping. How would she survive, she despondently thought, when she'd never see him again… never hear him laugh or have him tease her, never feel his arms hold her close, never see his face at the first sight of their baby? Clutching the soft leather of the chair arms with tears streaming down her face, she lay back against the warm scented contour, wanting to dissolve into the chair and feel Etienne envelop her in his arms as he had last night. And she lay distrait and mournful for an endless time, tormented by her loss. An embittered fury, too, dwelt just beneath her sorrow and pain as she berated herself for her own folly at wasting precious months in separation because she'd been constrained by righteous principles. Because she wanted blameless perfection in an imperfect world. She should have stayed with Etienne in Paris and allowed someone else to handle the court case; she should have taken advantage of every minute of their time together. But she'd been less perceptive than he about the rarity of love, thinking instead that one could negotiate for a style of love and marriage convenient and suitable to one's cherished beliefs. Etienne had been more willing to make the necessary adjustments. His divorce, she realized now, was the ultimate sacrifice of his entire way of life. And she'd quibbled at the time about his sincerity and fidelity or the degree of his commitment to her. Now when it was too late, she realized how senseless and trivial her censure. Did others think with regret as she did—if only she were given another chance, she'd know better, she'd promise to treasure every moment of time together, every word, every kiss, the smallest breath, the lightest touch. And she prayed to her benevolent spirits, asking like a child would in utter earnestness for a second chance—a wishful pathetic prayer, sent across to the spirit world. Her sobs fell into the dark silence of the room, her heartache so intense her breath was stifled in her throat. Laying her cheek against the warm leather where Etienne's head had rested only short hours ago, she cried, wishing for a return to yesterday. She fell asleep after some time in the softness of Etienne's chair, exhausted from crying, weary in spirit, devastated by the staggering realization she'd lost him this time—forever.

Etienne felt the air on his face first, a tenuous sensation not immediately recognizable. And then some moments later, his consciousness sent the proper signals to his brain and he realized he was still breathing. Lying in water up to his chin, his sluggish senses slowly ed that circumstance, lagging moments behind his initial observations, and panic overwhelmed him. Struggling to escape the water, he disregarded the intense pain in his lungs and in his battered body as he shoved himself in lurching, erratic terror into a half-seated sprawl. The effort left him gasping while white flashes burst before his eyes in the total darkness of his entombment. But he was gloriously alive! Understanding finally clarified what his reflexive responses had already surmised.

And he smiled in the black dampness, thousands of feet underground in a labyrinth of tunnels that could swallow a man for life. He smiled because there was infinite pleasure in the simple act of breathing and in the knowledge he could contemplate a first wedding anniversary with the woman he loved. His shaman gods would receive a generous offering for their fateful rescue. Or perhaps Daisy's benevolent spirits had wanted their union to last longer than two weeks. He thanked in turn the full panoply of possible deities.

He'd been propelled by the flood up a raise into the exploration areas of the Alaska Shaft, he surmised sometime later when he'd regained his strength and faculties enough to inspect the walls and low ceiling of his entombing space. He had only to climb the ladder in the raise, he knew, up to the surface… and freedom. He rested a brief time after his investigation, to give the agony in his lungs time to subside to more manageable levels. Then he began ascending the ladder inside the ventilation shaft, moving slowly in his weakened state, his body bloodied and raw where he'd been flung against the jagged rocks. Resting often, light-headed and unstable from the blow to his head, his upward journey took considerable time. At the 1400 level, the raise ended and he found himself up against solid rock. A sudden rush of panic assailed him in a mindless fear of burial. Stay calm, he cautioned himself, gripping the ladder rungs tightly while his heartbeat slowed. There's a way out… you only have to find it. Backtracking, he descended to the 1800 level where he hoped it was possible to enter the mine, and crawling several hundred yards through a low working, not yet cut out to standing height, he prayed the rough channel merged with a larger one. With the lamps flooded out at the lower levels, the darkness was complete, the absence of light so absolute, a suffocating denseness smothered his senses. Would he find his way out, he fearfully speculated, reconnoitering with his hands before moving the next few inches forward, feeling at times as though the low ceiling and walls were crushing down on him. Progress was torturously slow, each movement painful; he was bleeding from his wounds, the oozing blood cool on his skin. He stopped once to calm an overwhelming sense of doom when he was struck with the thought that no one would come looking for him. No one would expect him to survive the deluge. How grotesque a fate to survive the flood only to die a lingering death in this black maze of tunnels, like a human mole a half mile under the ground, a half mile away from rescue. Forcing himself to breathe a slow count of ten, he suppressed the daunting image and then doggedly resumed his forward progress. He intended to continue crawling until he couldn't… or until he bled to death. After an uncounted pattern of exploration with his hands, then two feet of forward movement, after achingly slow progress, after another short rest before resuming his journey, he found himself at a juncture. He stood upright cautiously, heedful of his injured body, not certain in the utter blackness whether the ceiling would allow him to stand. It did and he gingerly stretched. A tunnel of this dimension indicated some proximity to the hoist. Now which way? he wondered. Mentally tossing a coin, he turned to the left, hoping his intrinsic com was

on target. The shaft they'd come down had been situated at the center of the north-south cut of tunnels, and they'd traveled south to dynamite, so presumably the water had swept him north. His talent as a cartographer served him well, for ten minutes later he abruptly walked onto the station turn-sheets. Cautioning himself against premature joy, he recognized the flooding may have curtailed operation of the cage. Feeling like a blind man for the signal lever in the dark, his fingers at last closed on the blessed metal lever. Swiftly signaling three bells to hoist up, he unconsciously held his breath, waiting apprehensively to hear the familiar hum of the running cable in operation. Long tense moments later, the cables stirred into life. Releasing his breath, he offered up a small prayer of gratitude.

As the cage reached the surface, he found a full contingent of astonished miners crowded around the shaft, the skip signal having rung above-ground like a veritable voice from the grave. The Duc blinked in the sunlight, squinted against the dazzle of daylight, stood wet, cold, and battered, feeling mystically reborn… like Jonah discharged from the stomach of the whale. Colors gleamed with glaring brightness, the landscape took on a more three-dimensional quality, people's faces and forms developed a marvelously full-bodied volume, voices struck his ear with a distinct articulation, like the clarity of church bells. And the air was blessedly fresh in his lungs. A deafening cheer exploded and he smiled, gripping the hand Joe Sherman put out, and allowing his arm to be shaken more vigorously than his damaged body appreciated. But pain was a pleasant reminder he was alive, he decided, and he wouldn't begrudge the discomfort. As soon as congratulations diminished to less raucous levels, he explained how his miraculous survival had occurred, how he'd been propelled up a raise by the pressure of the flood waters, and been lucky enough to have been forced up the ventilation shaft while he was still alive. Impatient to talk to Daisy however, he excused himself from the milling crowd to make a call to Clear River Valley. Smiles and understanding looks of indulgence followed him as he walked toward the office. When he failed to get a response, he had the foreman try, assuming he must be overlooking some idiosyncrasy in local telephone connections. "Grounding must be down on the line. Happens a lot, Mr. De Vec," Joe Sherman said after his attempt failed as well, "once you're five miles out of town." Etienne tried the Braddock-Black home next in the event they'd returned to Helena with Daisy, but was told the Braddock-Blacks were still out at the mine. "Since they left to bring Miss Daisy back to Clear River Valley, sir," George Stuntz said, "they're probably all at the valley ranch."

The Braddock-Blacks were, in fact, all in transit at the moment, Hazard and Trey on their way back to the mine, Blaze and Empress returning to Helena.

The Duc's horse had been taken back to Clear River Valley, as well, when Daisy left, so Etienne borrowed a mount and one of Trey's coats to cover his wet clothes. The long travel-duster lined in wool would keep him warm on the ride home; he didn't want to take the time to change. He wasn't sure, in any event, if his battered body would appreciate the abrasion. "Would you try reaching the Braddock-Blacks later," the Duc asked, slipping his wet shirtsleeves into the coat. "If the phones at my ranch are down, I won't be able to them." Shaking hands once again with all the smiling men in the office, he took his leave. "Good to see you alive, sir," Joe reiterated. "Made our day, sir." The men in the office, as well as the miners, were all friends of Daisy's for she'd grown up underfoot, tagging along with her father as a child, naturally assuming a role in the operations as she matured. Daisy talked to them all exactly like her father and brother would, her understanding of mining equal to theirs, and they teased her like they would a daughter or sister. While still a child she'd begun going underground with her father with an undaunted courage they'd all ired. She'd grown up, as it were, with copper dust in her teeth, and she was their darling. "Give our best to Miss Daisy," George said, echoing the feelings of all present. Standing in the doorway of the office, Etienne bore a startling resemblance to Hazard and Trey, dressed as he was in Trey's long leather coat, his harsh aquiline features and long black hair reminiscent of an Absarokee. Saluting with a briefly raised hand, he said with a smile, "I'll deliver your message personally."

Etienne arrived in Clear River Valley in record time, the sight of the rustic log house so beautiful it compared for that moment with the architectural wonders of the ages. Move over Rameses II temple at Abu Simbel, step aside the Taj Mahal, weep in envy the Parthenon, he jubilantly thought cantering up the

drive. He wanted to shout with joy. But the house was silent as he approached—odd for this hour of the day, particularly if the Braddock-Blacks were here. More curiously, when he dismounted and ascended the stairs to the entrance, no one opened the door for him. The stillness was palpable as he stepped into the foyer, now denuded of its numerous mounted trophies. Glancing up the stairway to the darkened hallway above, he wondered: Had Daisy not come home? Sprinting up the stairs to see for himself, he strode swiftly down the carpeted hallway, his boots softly squishing at each step, leaving a trail of damp footprints on the burgundy carpet. At their bedroom he quickly pushed the door open and then abruptly stopped as he caught sight of Daisy. And he understood the Absarokee phrase—my heart sang. Across the deep shadows of the room, Daisy lay curled in his chair, sleeping. Closing the door softly behind him, he stood in the gray light, drinking in the precious sight of her, his heart and mind pervaded with the sheer beauty of his love, a sense of miracle so strong he silently promised all the gods who might have aided his escape some tangible recompense for their spectacular handiwork. How deeply moving it was to simply stand in this plain and unadorned room, knowing he could take Daisy in his arms once more and hold her. He could be with her when their child was born. He could sleep with her at night and wake with her beside him in the morning. He could take her hand in his, feel her slender fingers lace companionably through his—a simple act—trivial and mundane. But almost lost to him. And he was so profoundly grateful he shut his eyes for a moment, standing like a dark shadow before the door, and whispered into the hushed room, "Thank you." Walking quietly over to the chair, he squatted down, his long coat trailing on the floor, and saw where the tears had dried on Daisy's cheeks, saw her small hand clutched into a fist under her chin, saw the soft curve of her cheek resting on the high padded arm of his chair. She'd tranfigured his restless, fickle existence, given him love and wondrous delight in their child. A gambling man by instinct, his stomach tightened transiently at the odds against his freakish escape. Even a rash and reckless gamester wouldn't have touched those odds, and his faint smile bespoke an acknowledgment of his phenomenal luck. Reaching out, he softly stroked the swell of silky black hair falling over her shoulder—a tactile surety of his revivification. Her eyes came open slowly at the gentle touch of his fingers. "I found my way out," he whispered. His words were meant to soften the shock. A declarative statement easily absorbed. And when her dark eyes opened in astonished awareness, he smiled.

His face, she thought, was the most beautiful configuration of stark plane and modeled form ever contrived by man or god. And in her own spiritual awareness, she didn't question his presence with fear, she only accepted the bounty of his reincarnation. "You're back," she whispered, reaching out to touch his face, as though he had indeed returned from the dead for her. "I couldn't leave you." "I asked the spirits on the other side of the slippery log to send you back." And she had, with a solemn earnestness attuned to a spiritual world of magic and reality so intertwined, she didn't doubt now they'd listened to her plea. "Voila ," he murmured, his smile achingly beautiful. She sat up then, opening her arms in welcome, her dark liquid eyes still half-lashed and drowsy with sleep. "I'm wet," he said, taking her hands in his before she touched him. "You're alive," she softly corrected. He nodded, gracefully rising and pulling her upright in one fluid movement. Taking her in his arms, they stood body-to-body for a lengthening space of time, savoring their nearness, her face lifted to his, his gaze consumed with the beauty of her smile. "You shouldn't have volunteered," she chastised in the convoluted reasoning of a dream recaptured, wanting to rearrange the sequence of the horrendous events. "I'm never allowing you out of my sight again." Her smile defined her raillery, but in a less conciliatory way she meant it. "The dynamiting almost went perfectly," he diplomatically, said, the sound of her voice paradise, the feel of her in his arms beyond paltry definition. He smiled, thinking he'd trade this sensation for any golden-tongued articulation, and thinking, too, I'm going to kiss her—for a thousand years or so. His jubilant bliss swept aside theories of relativity. Savoring his anticipatory joy, he understood the word future held new meaning. It was a minute second-by-second, breath-by-breath appreciation of life. He would never rush again. "Trewayne said you saved him." "He fell." The Duc's words were simple, an honorable man doing the expected. "I won't let you go underground again." His smile lit up his eyes. "I adore your orders. Have I told you that?" He hadn't of course. In the past, he'd either ignored them or circumvented them or allowed her her way with his own special style of gallantry. "I mean it, Etienne." She wouldn't ever. "I'm serious."

"It's like falling off a horse, darling," he murmured, lowering his head, his mouth drifting nearer. Daisy's heart began beating in swift and pulsing rhythm, as the small flurry of his warm breath touched her face. "I'm truly serious," she repeated, but her voice had lost its onishing edge. "I'll take you with me." An ambiguity imbued his quiet murmur. And with his lips brushing hers, Daisy absorbed both the tremulous sensation and his seductive words. "We'll talk about it," she whispered, not totally beyond reason yet, the cold fear of having almost lost him still starkly real. "I have to get these wet clothes off and then we'll talk." His mouth moved lazily over hers, a teasing pressure of anticipation. "We should talk first." "I'll catch pneumonia." Blatant irony infused his tone. "I'll keep you warm." "I was hoping you'd say that." "Seduction doesn't solve every problem." "Really." His crooked grin lifted his brow too. "I'm not so easily distracted from a very serious issue." He adored her lack of levity, the serious, essential elements ingrained in her character that viewed the world as fixable with either determination or obstinacy or sheer iron will… that resolute energy driving her to accomplish so much for herself and others. That same energy, in the form of her bold assurance, had first attracted him that night at Adelaide's, as had, of course, her obvious and sultry beauty. "I'll have to reassess my methodology then," he said with teasing expediency. "That would be wise." What he meant didn't involve wisdom—what he had in mind was more fundamental. More basic. Less intellectual. Less talk, he thought with masculine disregard for interpretive topicality, and considerably more touching. When he kissed her again short seconds later with a special emphasis on touching, her eyes opened wide in momentary astonishment, and then her lashes fell, a small moan trembled in her throat, instant flame exploded through her senses, and serious issues took flight. And the words he murmured in the next moment, as his mouth moved across her cheek in a brushing caress to nuzzle the softness near her ear, had to do with how much he loved her and how he intended to show the extent of his love. Those whispered words melted into her brain, heating her senses and intellect. Some were small instructions for later, others were petting, coaxing words that fired her imagination. And when he reminded her of what the shepherd and shepherdesses had witnessed from their vantage point on the boudoir walls above his barge's harem bed, she was lost.

"You can't always win this way," she said in breathless remonstrance, her hands moving already to unbutton the smooth leather of his coat. "Next time it's your turn." His hands were sliding under the crimson wool of her sweater, his slender fingers warm, although her skin was warmer, heated, waiting to be touched., "It's my turn this time too," she said with a grin. "You'll be happy you came back from the dead." Their eyes met for a moment in the shadowed room, and beneath and above and beyond the teasing, both viewed the extravagant wonder of their love reflected in the confronting glance. Brilliant green held umber depths in a moment of suspended benediction. They had found each other again across the great black abyss, their love restored against odds no gambler would have risked. And then Etienne's mouth curved into a wolfish grin, habitual and familiar, less terrifying than the reminders of what they'd almost lost. "How happy?" he softly inquired. "Let me show you," she said, her smile dazzling. And she did.

They lay afterward in the sleigh bed he'd purchased for his new home in Montana, the drapes thrown open, the afternoon sun a mellow glow illuminating the room. "Welcome home," Daisy murmured, her body warm against his, her smile the young-girl smile he ed from that first afternoon at Colsec when she'd asked if she could untie the ribbons on her shoes. "I think I'm going to stay this time," he quietly replied, everything else in his life insignificant against the fragility of life and the beauty of their love. His deep sense of gratitude for having cheated death tempered the significance of enterprises that in the past had seemed important. There were limits to one's allotted time on earth. Daisy understood. "I'll help you raise polo ponies." He looked down at her from under the dark fringe of his lashes. "And who will single-handedly orchestrate the court cases?" "Some of the others of our twenty-odd lawyers." "We're intemperate souls." "It's why we get along… so well." He smiled. "You can help me sometimes raise polo ponies," he said. "The Braddock-Black empire needs you." "And Bourges will require directions occasionally." He sighed, accepting the advent of reality in their golden world. "Yes."

"But we'll still find time for—gratitude." A thankfulness that went beyond the ordinary, she meant, a thankfulness for the second chance they'd been given. "Yes," he said again, his bruised and lacerated body a potent reminder. "I'll never forget that." He'd come too close to dying, too close to losing Daisy forever. "And we'll start an American branch of the de Vecs." His arms tightened around her. "I'll have to buy more land then." "Buy a lot." Her chin was resting on his chest, her eyes close and warm and dazzling in their splendor. "Are you saying I've a production quota to fulfill?" "That's what I'm saying." "How nice," he said, pulling her up so her mouth was almost touching his, ignoring the twinge of pain her movement provoked. "Should we being practicing now for—" She nodded her head, her tongue coming out to lick his bottom lip. "So you don't lose your touch," she whispered. For a man who had kept his touch honed to perfection for a very long time, the Duc sensibly replied as if the concept were novel, "What a good idea."

The staff had been absent when Etienne arrived because Louis had assembled them in the kitchen to issue instructions on Miss Daisy's care in the coming days. He wished her treated with the utmost solicitude, she would require privacy for her mourning, and under no circumstances was the Duc's name

to be mentioned unless she herself brought it up. Cook was to prepare her tastiest morsels to tempt Miss Daisy's appetite, and everyone was to move about the house as quietly as possible in order not to disturb her sleep. And until further orders from Miss Daisy, she wasn't at home to visitors. He took great care preparing his mama's almond milk himself, hoping it would help Daisy sleep through the worst night she'd face in the painful aftermath of the Duc's death. And Cook added her special macaroons to the silver tray. Louis was shocked when he knocked some time later and the Duc's voice bade him enter. Years of serving the unconventional and reckless Duc had developed a certain imperturbability, however, and his aplomb was only momentarily shaken. Entering the sunny room, his smile lifted the small trim ends of his moustache, although his voice, when he spoke, was temperate. "It's a pleasure to have you back, sir," he said. "Some people are harder to kill than others," the Duc said from the comfort of his bed, his grin wide. "How very fortunate, Monsieur le Duc, for us all." "Daisy tells me you'd agreed to stay on." Etienne held Daisy's hand in his, the covers pulled up to her shoulders. Undeterred by his own nudity, he reclined against the pillows, partially covered by a sheet. "I was pleased to, sir." "I'm glad. We need you, Louis. Soon you'll have another de Vec to raise up properly." Louis had been Etienne's father's valet until his death and took charge of Etienne when he became Duc. Louis had taught him much. "I'm looking forward, sir, to the undertaking." "And Daisy tells me she has plans to burden you with further charges as well, so be forewarned." Far from being embarrassed with Etienne's teasing familiarity, Daisy experienced a warm glow of contentment knowing he was pleased enough to speak openly about their plans for a family. "Whatever Miss Daisy wishes, sir," Louis replied with a quiet formality. "I am at her service. For you, Miss Daisy," he said, placing the small silver tray with the pot of warm almond milk and cookies on the nightstand. "I thought you might need some fortification after your ordeal. Would you like some too, sir? The milk will strengthen and soothe after your hardships. It's very healthy, as you know." Glancing at Daisy, Etienne noted her eyes were sparkling with laughter. "You can't have mine," she said. The Duc struggled to keep his voice steady. "I'll require some of my own then, Louis." Only the supremest act of will kept his mouth from twitching into a grin. "Very good, sir." Ten generations of ducal valets echoed in the tranquility of Louis's voice. "Would you like macaroons as well?" "Yes, Louis, macaroons too." There was pleasure in making decisions of such a trivial nature.

In the interim, while Louis prepared the Duc's glass of almond milk, Daisy called her parents. Hazard and Trey had just received the news on their return to the mine. "You owe us drinks at Skala's," Trey sportively reminded the Duc when he got on the phone to detail his survival. Blaze and Empress were ecstatic. A miracle had occurred, they all agreed. And when Louis returned with Etienne's milk, he was directed to take any further calls. "We don't wish to be disturbed," Etienne said. "Would you like dinner later, sir?" "Much later." "Yes, sir." Cook was informed without inflection or insinuation that the Duc and Miss Daisy would be dining very late that evening. "I suggest you take a nap, Mrs. Devisment, now while you can." No one understood the subtleties of Etienne's moods better than Louis. The merits of warm almond milk were tested in a variety of spontaneous revelations that afternoon. Nonscientific experiments. But gratifying. An empirical demonstration of almond milk's potential as an aphrodisiac. The Doucet at-home gowns were taken from their boxes and used for the purpose for which they'd been designed—shameless and brazen adjuncts to heated ion. The Duc's leather chair was tested for both its design possibilities and its palpably sleek texture on naked skin. The velvet couch had been purchased for a variety of reasons, one of which was self-evident and conspicuous for its comfort. Even a man as large as the Duc was easily accommodated in an unreserved variety of carnal positions. And much, much later, lying in each other's arms in the shambles of the bed, they contemplated the rich intensity of their feelings. Heated, sweat-sheened, their breath still irregular, their hearts warm with contentment, they smiled at each other in silent communication. The white silk coverlet trailed on the floor, the sheets were in tangled disarray at the foot of the bed, the cadence of their breathing fitful and erratic, the only sound in the fire-lit silence of the room. "You haven't… lost your touch," Daisy panted, finding enough breath to speak first, gazing up at Etienne from where she lay in the curve of his arm, her dark hair like a black river of silk in the moonlight. Half turning so his lean muscled body touched hers down its long length, he smiled from very close range, his celebrated smile sending tingles down her spine. "Well, thank you, ma'am," he said, still breathing hard, his heated body sleek with sweat, his smile angelic. "We… try."

FOOTNOTES 1. Lyda Burton Conley, of Kansas City, was the first Native American woman lawyer in the United States. itted to the Kansas bar in 1910, she'd begun studying law in 1904 in order to represent herself and the Wyandotte tribe in a lawsuit against the United States government. The Wyandotte tribe had settled in Kansas in the midnineteenth century and were nearly wiped out by a smallpox epidemic that killed Conley's mother and three hundred others in 1844. The victims were interred at Huron Park in separate burial grounds that the U.S. Secretary of the Interior had authorized razed in 1904 to make way for a commercial development project. Lyda and her sister Lena, outraged that the sanctity of the burial grounds would be violated in such a cavalier manner, built a hut on the grounds, close to the graves of their parents, loaded their guns and sent word out that the first man to turn a sod over one of the graves would either turn another for the Conley sisters or have some other person perform a like service for himself. Armed with a musket and standing watch in the shack, Lyda Burton Conley studied for the bar examinations and prepared research for her litigation. For nearly six years, the rightful ownership of the cemetery remained in doubt. The case eventually went to the U.S. Supreme Court where not unexpectedly, the Court refused to interfere with the decision of Congress and the Department of the Interior. But while the Con-ley sisters lost the case, they won the battle, for their actions had brought so much attention to the proposed land deal that in 1912, the House Indian Affairs Committee reported a bill prohibiting removal of the cemetery.

2. There actually was a Judge Nott who expressed this sentiment to Belva A. Lockwood, a Washington, D.C. attorney during the Raines case in c. 1875 when she was attempting to plead a case in a federal court. She was denied ittance, the substitute male lawyer lost the case, allowing her the opportunity to appeal and argue the case before the United States Supreme Court. She was however also denied the right to practice in the Supreme Court.

The opinion of the Supreme Court in the Lockwood denial is typical of the arguments used at the time to bar women from the courts: "By the uniform practice of the court, from its organization to the present time, and by the fair construction of its rule, none but men are itted to practice before it as attorneys and counselors. This is in accordance with immemorial usage in England, and the law and practice in all the States until within a recent period; and the Court does not feel called upon to make a change, until such change is required by statute, or a more extended practice in the highest courts of the States… As this Court knows no English precedent for the ission of women to the bar, it declines to it, unless there shall be a more extended public opinion or special legislation." As for the argument made by the Court that women in England could not practice law, Myra Bradwell, an Illinois woman trained as a lawyer who published the Chicago Legal News, noted in one of her editorials: "According to our Canadian and English brothers it would be cruel to allow a woman to 'embark upon the rough and troubled sea of actual legal practice,' but not to allow her to govern all England with Canada and other dependencies thrown in. Our brothers will get used to it and then it will not seem any worse to them to have women practicing in the courts than it does to have a queen rule over them." (Queen Victoria reigned 1837-1901.) Realizing federal legislation would be required, Belva Lock-wood drafted a bill specifically providing for ission of women to the federal courts and persuaded Representative Benjamin F. Butler to submit it. The first and second bills she drafted never got to the floor of the House, but in 1878, the House ed Bill No. 1077, which gave women attorneys access to the federal courts. After another year of buttonholing senators in the corridors of the Capitol, the "Lockwood" bill ed the Senate in 1879 after three years of extensive lobbying, and President Rutherford B. Hayes signed it into law.

3. This speech is excerpted from a longer opinion of a Judge Edward Ryan of the Wisconsin Supreme Court in 1875 in denying Lavinia Goodell ission to the state bar. Since law practice on the county level often didn't require ission to a state or territorial bar, women lawyers were able to practice locally. But the ission of women to state bars became a state-by-state struggle. Belle Babb Mansfield has the distinction of being the first woman in the United States to be formally itted to the bar. In June 1869, Iowa allowed her ittance. The following year the Iowa State Legislature ensured the ission of women to the profession by removing the restrictive gender language in its issions statute. Over the next five decades, women were slowly allowed equal rights to practice as attorneys, Delaware having the dubious distinction of being the last state to it women to its bar in 1923. Montana's first woman lawyer, Ella Knowles Haskell, was itted to the bar in 1889. Many opinions denying women ission to state and federal courts were couched in patronizing distinctions of sex and divine, irrefutable law. Judge Ryan additionally notes: "The peculiar qualities of womanhood, its gentle graces, its quick sensibility, its tender susceptibility, its purity, its delicacy, its emotional impulses, its subordination of hard reason to sympathetic feeling, are surely not qualifications for forensic strife. Nature has tempered women as little for the judicial conflicts of the court-room as for the physical conflicts of the battle-field. Womanhood is modeled for gentler and better things…" The U.S. Supreme Court in its 1873 decision ruling against Myra Bradwell, used the same hypocritical arguments at a time when women were settling the frontier, working twelve-hour days in mills, practicing as doctors and lawyers, toiling in sweatshops and sculleries: "The civil law, as well as nature herself, has

always recognized a wide difference in the respective spheres and destinies of man and woman. Man is, or should be, woman's protector and defender. The natural and proper timidity and delicacy which belongs to the female sex evidently unfits it for many of the occupations of civil life. The constitution of the family organization which is founded in the divine ordinance, as well as in the nature of things, indicates the domestic sphere as that which properly belongs to the domain and functions of womanhood. The paramount destiny and mission of women are to fulfill the noble and benign offices of wife and mother. This is the law of the Creator…"

4. In Pretty Shield's memoirs, she describes the practice: "… we were given a reservation, a fine one, long ago. We had many, many horses, and even cattle that the Government had given us. We might have managed to get along if the White Chief in Washington had not leased our lands to white stockmen. These men, some of them, shot down our horses on our own lands, because they wanted all the grass for themselves… these white men shot down our horses so that their cows and sheep might have the grass. They even paid three dollars for each pair of horse's ears, to get our horses killed. I wonder if the lease money that is paid to the Government in Washington by the white stockmen will be given to my grandchildren when it is paid in, or if they will have to wear out their moccasins going to the Agency office to ask for it, as I do."

5. The bark of the pussy willow (salix discolor) contains tannin and salinigrin, a glucoside with tonic, sedative, and aphrodisiac properties. Mrs. Grieve's Modern Herbal recommends half a teaspoon of the fluid extract.

6. During the nineteenth century there was considerable debate in by those concerned with banquets and formal dinners on the respective merits of service à la française and service à la russe. The former method involved placing on the tables all the dishes that were to be served in each service. Guests were thus allowed the pleasure of viewing the food in all its decorative splendor. The dishes would then be taken away to be carved or otherwise prepared for distribution. In the time elapsed before serving, many dishes suffered. Service à la russe was introduced about 1860. This style of serving had the carving and preparation done in advance so the food was brought in in relays, ready for immediate distribution. Food intended to be eaten hot was hot, dishes which needed to be served as soon as they came from the oven, such as souffles, were properly served, and ices didn't melt beforetime.

7. According to Alexandre Dumas père's Grand Dictionnaire de Cuisine, the baba in originated with King Stanislas Leczinski, father-in-law to Louis XV. When babas were served in his household, they were always accompanied by a sauceboat that contained sweet Malaga wine mixed with a sixth part of eau de tanaisie, the oil obtained by distillation from the tansy plant. Stanislas's Polish court had been transferred to Lunéville in after his defeat in the War of Polish Succession in 1735. Stanislas adored The Thousand and One Nights; hence the name. The other dishes served by the Duc de Vec's chefs that night after the opera were all taken from Dumas's cookbook, a fascinating assortment of recipes, anecdotes, personal experiences, and miscellaneous information he'd gathered during a Gulliverian and peripatetic lifetime.

8. Until the Standing Bear decision in May 1879, the U.S. policy concerning citizenship for Native Americans had been handled on a case-by-case basis either by treaty, individual legislation, or in conjunction with land allotment. Theory, too, apropos Indian rights, had fluctuated often in the course of the previous two hundred years with equal-nation status, assimilation, segregation, and paternalism utilized in a variety of forms. All unfortunately, in the end, exploitive of native cultures. In 1879 with the U.S. district court's judgment in the Standing Bear case pronouncing, "Means should be devised by which an Indian, when he has attained the necessary degree of civilization, shall be released from the arbitrary control of the Indian Bureau and allowed all the rights and immunities of a free man," the legal basis for confining tribes to reservations and forcing "civilization" on them was dealt a severe blow. Additionally, Standing Bear's extensive tour of the East Coast (although not the first instance of a Native American leader arguing his case before crowds of eastern sympathizers) galvanized criticism of the government's programs, and Indian policy reform became a national issue. Politically powerful reform groups rose articulating the assimilation argument. Thus the central issue of the 1880s was not whether the reservations system would be changed, but when and how. The popular total assimilation policy was also conveniently advantageous to a wide range of political and economic factions interested in the development of the West. Self-interest opportunely meshed with idealism and between 1880 and 1896, tribes were dispossessed of sixty percent of their remaining land. The Dawes Act of 1887, the first federal program encoming all Native Americans, while offering the promise of citizenship and a pathway to social integration, proved more often to be a means of encroaching further on Indian lands. The successful disfranchisement of blacks in the South (upheld by the Supreme Court decisions in civil rights cases and Plessy v. Ferguson) during the 1890s confirmed the power of the state authorities to control access to the voting booth. And if individual states were as eager to exclude Indians from the polls as they were to exclude blacks, they were legally capable of accomplishing their objective. Every state with a significant Indian population had voting regulations that limited Native American participation in elections. With the initiation of the "Jim Crow" laws, by 1919 it was estimated that only 25,000 of the nation's 336,000 Indians cast ballots. In the case of Montana, the sole restriction to voting was that the elector be a citizen. However, in contrast to tribes like the Oregon Umatillas and the Omahas of Nebraska who had been itted to citizenship en masse when their reservations were allotted, most Indians in Montana remained on undivided reservations or were allotted after the Burke Act of 1906 had delayed the granting of citizenship. When Louis Reale attempted to organize the Montana Metis in 1883-84 for the purpose of voting, a Republican judge at Fort Benton jailed him in order to keep him out of the field during the election. When the Metis attempted to vote, many were turned away at the polls, and those who were allowed to vote in certain localities found their votes disqualified by the Secretary of the Territory. ed by the Democrats who would benefit by the Metis vote, Reale's case was moved to a more amenable Democratic judge in Helena who freed him. Shortly after, however, the Canadian authorities transported Reale back to Canada.

9. Although women had been discouraged from pursuing a professional education well into the twentieth century, it's estimated that by 1870, more than 11,000 women were enrolled in some 582 institutions of higher learning. Most women were earning degrees in education, but the opening of law schools in the Midwest and West and in the major cities in the East gave women the opportunity to study law, even though opportunities to practice were severely limited. The prestigious Ivy League law schools, such as

Yale, Columbia, and Harvard, however, resisted enrolling women law students longer than most. Yale first itted women to their law school in 1918, Columbia in 1927, and Harvard not until 1950. Roscoe Pound, Dean of Harvard Law School from 1916-36, and a professor there well into the forties, is said to have greatly influenced attitudes at the law school. A graduate of the all-male Harvard Law School class of 1948 relates an anecdote significant of Pound's bias. "One morning in 1945, Pound was presiding over his first-year property class. Pound was quite old by then, a big husky man who in fifty years of New England weather never wore an overcoat, but always had on green eyeshades. His eyesight and hearing were failing but his mind was as sharp as ever. It was customary for students to invite friends to sit in on classes, and this day one of the men brought a girlfriend with him. They sat all the way in the back and probably would have gone unnoticed but her broad-brimmed hat gave her away. Pound stopped the class, squinted, then asked, 'Is that a woman back there?' The student answered, 'Yes, sir, this is my fiancee.' With that Pound thundered back, 'I don't permit women in my classes, get out.' " At Columbia's law school, Dean Harlan Fiske Stone had exerted similar influence to keep women out of the school. He was known to have promised women would be itted to Columbia over his dead body. When he left in 1925 to the U.S. Supreme Court, a motion was introduced the next year at Columbia to allow women applicants for the fall 1927 semester. Several women lawyers who had been denied ission to Columbia but had gone on to graduate from other law schools sent a telegram to Chief Justice Stone the day Columbia's first women took their seats in class, saying: "We suppose you are lying prone on the steps of the Court today."

10. Divorce in , first enacted by the Code Napoleon in 1804, was repealed in 1816 and reenacted by a law of July 27, 1884, completed and simplified by a law of April 20, 1886. Divorce by consent, the basis of Napoleon's code, which—according to the powerful religious and conservative factions in —aimed a blow at the very foundation of the institution of marriage, was no longer permitted under the new law of 1884-6. In of adultery, too, conservative principles held sway. Male rights were predominant as they had been through the centuries. The adultery of a wife was punishable upon the information of a husband by three months to two years imprisonment; that of the husband only by a fine of from one hundred to three thousand francs (at the time, twenty to six hundred American dollars), and then only in case the husband had harbored his concubine under the conjugal roof. Further, the murder of a wife and her paramour taken in flagrante delicto by a husband was excusable; not so the murder of a husband or his concubine by a wife under similar circumstances.

11. Miles City had the first phone exchange in Montana in 1881. Both Butte and Helena had central telephone exchanges in 1882 and long distance service between the two cities was operating by 1884. Crank phones were used for outlying areas with a range of up to thirty-five miles if the lines were well grounded. Electric street lights first appeared in use in Helena in August of 1882 with businesses swift to take advantage of the new technology.

12. In 1879 George Eastman invented a machine that could manufacture dry plates of uniform quality and eight years later he produced a flexible, transparent base for film to replace the rigid glass plate. His idea was to sell the film in rolls loaded in a holder that could be used with existing cameras, but photographers of that period weren't ready to give up their glass plates. So Eastman turned to

popularizing photography. In 1888 he introduced the Kodak, the world's first "snapshot" camera. It was loaded with enough film to record one hundred images. When all the images were exposed, the camera was returned to Rochester, N.Y. The film was processed and printed, the camera reloaded, and the prints were returned to the photographer.

13. So great was the influx of foreign capital on the northern range that by 1885, the territorial legislature of Montana ed restrictive legislation. The law denied the privilege of owning property in the territory to any corporation of foreigners, or to corporations of which more than twenty percent of the stock was owned by foreigners. After a report of the House Committee on Public Lands, submitted to Congress in 1886, purported to show that up to fifty million acres were already owned by foreigners, a federal law was ed prohibiting alien land ownership in the territories by individuals or corporations more than ten percent foreign controlled. (The railroad companies were thoughtfully ex-empted from the law so as to preserve their access to foreign money.) But neither the state nor federal laws were more than an annoyance to those foreigners possessed of the resources to evade them. The citizenship requirement was commonly avoided by having employees who were citizens make the necessary filings and then take title from them. Or—since the federal law allowed a noncitizen to simply signify his intention of becoming a naturalized citizen, a buyer could swear to that intention and file in his own name. The alien land law prohibition was more difficult to circumvent, but it was normally accomplished by having title taken in the name of a domestic entity (such as a corporation or trust), with the benefits flowing to the foreign beneficiary. Many foreign-owned cattle companies made their ranch manager president of the corporation to avoid the restriction. In a typical example of the circumvention prevalent at the time, one foreign-owned corporation simply reorganized, changing the corporation title from its foreign name to The Vermont Cattle Company. The same people and same money continued to operate the corporation.

Dear Reader,

I began my first story Blaze with no intention of writing any future books about Hazard Black's family. Without rational explanation, however, as I was finishing Blaze, Trey Braddock-Black appeared, very near death, in a stormy winter scene that figures in the early pages of Silver Flame, and I was impelled to tell his story. In a similar fashion, the Duc de Vec simply walked out of the anonymous crowd of men surrounding Empress in her drawing room in a late scene from Silver Flame. There was no logical reason; an anonymous crowd of suitors was perfectly acceptable to the scene, and with the exception of having numerous gypsy ancestors in my Finnish heritage, I don't know why he stepped forward or how he made his presence so powerfully known. Even then… I wasn't planning on writing a book about the Duc de Vec until I was adding the last few lines of my epilogue to Silver Flame. At that point, I saw Daisy in vivid, startling imagery, standing across from the Duc de Vec… their instant antipathy palpable. In writing the Braddock-Black books, beyond the portrayals of love and relationships, of emotion and feeling, I hope in some small way to indicate, through one family's evolution, the exceptional achievements of many others of Native American heritage. Like women's history, Native American history is essentially undocumented, but Native Americans, during the course of America's development, contributed doctors, lawyers, engineers, teachers, businessmen, sheriffs, stockmen, all manner of educated and successful pursuits to the advancement of not only their people but of this country. The Indian way of life has evoked sympathy and interest, fascinated scholars and laymen, inspired poets and roused reformers… and left a lasting imprint on our history. In the images of their spiritual, and at times, idyllic cultures, in their brave defense against overwhelming odds, in their concepts of man and nature as one, the Native American heritage remains so powerful and evocative that stories continue to be told… A salute from the Braddock-Blacks to you all. Best wishes,

P.S. I enjoy hearing from readers. If you have any questions or comments, I'd be pleased to answer them.

13499-400 Street North Branch, MN 55056

The magnificent Braddock dynasty from the national bestsellers BLAZE and SILVER FLAME returns in

Susan Johnson's next spectacular historical romance.

BRAZEN

Look for it in October 1995 from Bantam Books.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR Susan Johnson, award-winning author of nationally bestselling novels, lives in the country near North Branch, Minnesota. A former art historian, she considers the life of a writer the best of all possible worlds. Researching her novels takes her to past and distant places, and bringing characters to life allows her imagination full rein, while the creative process offers occasional fascinating glimpses into complicated machinery of the mind. But perhaps most important… writing stories is fun.