Forbidden Susan Johnson (english love story books txt) 📖

learned to cook as a child," he incidently noted between mouthfuls. "Do the Absarokee have a variation on Hunters' Pheasant? It's equally good cooked out of doors."

Daisy was resting against her chairback, ten-course meals normally eight courses too lengthy for her appetite. "We prepare a pheasant dish with native vegetables, although the flavor is quite different and… yes, I once did cook, although my skills are all but forgotten now, I'm afraid." His hands were extremely large and tanned. He must not use gloves riding. "The summer camps used to offer me some opportunities to refresh my memory," she went on, unconsciously admiring the strong line of his jaw, "but I find myself with less and less time to spend long weeks up in the mountains."

"A shame," he said, turning to her,"… about the mountains, I mean. Cooking, of course—" he shrugged, "isn't a requirement in a beautiful woman's repertoire."

She felt curiously for a moment as though she'd heard a touch of regret in his voice. She couldn't have, she decided in the next instant—surely in his class, women hadn't been within calling distance of a kitchen for centuries. And as she digested the substance of his statement concerning repertoires, she was certain she'd grossly misinterpreted. His remark was pure lordly arrogance. "Do you feel there are actually requirements!" she very softly inquired. The notion that women had repertoires and for what purpose seemed the height of chauvinist crassness.

Hearing the prickly asperity in her soft voice, he knew he'd touched a nerve. As an American woman, she was automatically in the vanguard of independent women; as an Indian woman who'd accomplished the remarkable feat of becoming a lawyer, she rose distinctly above the norm. She was rare. And since he wanted that rarity, he decided to challenge her, since he suspected heated controversy and debate might intrigue her more than the conventional protocol of seduction. His was an intuitive assessment based more on personal experience with women in general than experience with specific Absarokee female lawyers, but he surmised what fascinated her most, as it did him, was a challenge. She, of course, would enjoy winning. As would he. But at that point in the contest all pretense at equality ended. He intended to win. Both the lady and her passion. "There are basic requirements of course," he pleasantly said, pushing his empty plate aside so he could concentrate on the lovely flush of anger suffusing her face.

"Such as?" she coolly inquired, her golden skin pinked by her annoyance.

"We're assuming beauty, I presume," he casually replied, not waiting for her affirmation—he took the snapping heat in her eyes as acknowledgment. "Geniality, I think, is important. And if a woman rides and dances well, it never hurts."

"From your description, Monsieur le Duc," Daisy said with a crispness indicating enormous self-control over her temper, "I'd venture to say the only quality you neglected to mention in this brief catalogue is availability."

"I didn't think it necessary to mention. All women are available."

Daisy clenched her hands together to keep from striking him for his smugness. "You're married, of course."

"Yes."

"Does your wife practice this 'availability' as well?" She hoped to wound his pride.

"I'm afraid I've never noticed," he mildly replied. His pride had never been related in any way to his wife. Their marriage was a dynastic one, arranged when he and Isabelle were still very young. The practice of aligning powerful families through marriage was age-old and practical. Theirs was not a love match, and his friends knew it.

He had at one time, long ago, been less blas� about his marriage, envying those of his friends who'd found love in their marriages of convenience. His youthful feelings of regret had passed, as had his youth, some time ago, and he and Isabelle existed in the acceptable fashion of most aristocratic unions. He saw to the estates, she to their homes, they spoke occasionally on a rare evening together at home. He would have liked to say she'd raised the children but in reality the nannies and governesses and tutors had. And while he'd always felt their marriage had never been cause for joy, he was grateful to Isabelle for having given him two children he adored. The twins had been born exactly nine months after their marriage day, at which point Isabelle had made it plain her conjugal duties as wife were over. So his answer to Daisy's question, while appearing ungallant, was essentially true. There was no reason, after Isabelle's position was made clear, why he should concern himself with futile speculation of who was available to whom.

"Look," he said, his mood abruptly altered as it often was at mention of his wife, "I'm sorry I angered you. My attempt at teasing was juvenile. I apologize."

His tone as well as his expression was so suddenly changed, so unusual and out of character, Daisy scrutinized his handsome face to discern further evidence of ridicule. His eyes seemed darker beneath his heavy brows as though shadowed by some elusive pain.

"Friends?" he softly inquired, his bronzed hand before her suddenly in peace. "You're a beautiful, intelligent, supremely confident young woman and I'm sure your family is very proud of you."

Hesitating briefly, Daisy absorbed the odd compliment, at-tempting to gauge the sincerity of his tone. Then, shyly smiling, she took his hand.

She looked momentarily like a very young girl with the tentative innocence of her smile until she subtly modulated the upturning of her lush pink lips, adding a hint of sensuousness. And Etienne Martel, 27th Duc de Vec, felt a startling, unprecedented, intense emotion.

Immediately aware of the profound impact of Daisy's smile and too long a product of his class and gender, the Duc immediately began rationalizing his sensations. She was of flawless beauty. Naturally he was attracted. He was already aware of his attraction, had, in fact, maneuvered himself into her company tonight for that exact reason. Additionally, she was an uncommon woman—a rare combination of beauty and intelligence. Naturally she'd induce more than his