Forbidden Susan Johnson (english love story books txt) 📖

"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 passionate 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 passion, 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