Forbidden

by Susan Johnson

  "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 blas� 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 France'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 passed 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 disjointed than my present state of mind… perhaps your words might register 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 passe!"

  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 terms 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 supported 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."