Forbidden Susan Johnson (english love story books txt) 📖

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 admirers. 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 remembered… 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 remembered. 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