Forbidden Susan Johnson (english love story books txt) 📖

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 terms 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 admitted. 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