Forbidden Susan Johnson (english love story books txt) 📖

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 passing, 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 deVec 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