Forbidden Susan Johnson (english love story books txt) 📖

in the end, with something that could only be called violence, they found a common melting point in paradise.

They swam in the river to cool off as he'd promised and then lay in the damaged golden bed, damp and refreshed, drinking the champagne François had left. They spoke of mundane things, the fishing at Poilly, the Duc's gardener, the village school he supported, Daisy's friendship with Adelaide, the style of horse best suited for hunting. And when the sun's shadows began lengthening, he carried her back to his cottage through the willow grove and flower gardens up the curved staircase to his austere bedroom so different from the sumptuous ornament of the river barge.

"I've redone the cottage," Etienne said when Daisy mentioned the stark difference in decor. "Accumulating my own preferences for comfort. The original interior relied rather heavily on eyelet-lace and pink." He smiled at her seated Indian fashion in the middle of his bed, dressed only again in his white shirt, her hair hanging loose on her shoulders, the picture of natural beauty. "You wouldn't have liked it. Are you tired?"

She shook her head no. "Happiness must be an antidote to fatigue."

"You must stay," he said very simply.

She didn't pretend not to understand. She only said, "Yes, I know," as simply.

They lay in bed while the sun gave way to twilight, holding each other, kissing and smiling and agreeing the world was the best of all possible worlds.

"Marry me," Etienne quietly said, tracing the silky curve of Daisy's brow with his fingertip.

"I surely would if you didn't already have a wife." Daisy was so ecstatically happy no dark cloud, however real, intruded.

He wanted her like this always—beside him and smiling, making him whole, giving him joyful reason to think of his future. "Don't joke, I'm serious. I'll see my lawyer tomorrow. For enough money, Isabelle will be practical. Good God, our entire marriage has been practical."

"Are you sure?" Daisy wasn't referring to Isabelle exclusively. Was he sure of permanence with her, this man known for fickleness? His answer wouldn't matter though. Regardless of his reply, magnanimous in her utter love, she would allow him anything.

Etienne didn't want her to be blas� or even practical because, for the first time in his life, he wasn't. He wanted her to feel as totally committed as he. "Would you share me?"

"If I had to."

"I won't share you. I won't," he repeated, his voice a low growl.

"Nor would I," she softly said. "If you must know."

He smiled. "Good."

She smiled back. "I was trying, I thought I could, I wanted to, I would take you for five fleeting minutes a week, I thought, if I must. If that was all I could have. But I would have made impossible demands ultimately, I suppose. I'm not the passive type."

"I noticed," he said with a lavish grin.

They made plans, joyful plans for their future.

Etienne Mattel, Duc de Vec, had never been so happy in his life.

And Daisy Black understood the nature of bliss.

"You must be joking."

Isabelle said the next afternoon, seated behind a silver tea service in her private drawing room, cool as the ice blue of her gown.

"Believe me, I've never been more serious in my life. I want a divorce."

Full of his plans, happy, the Duc had gone to see her directly when she returned from Deauville. He was determined to present his case in an objective, open way. Determined also, to pay Isabelle handsomely for his freedom.

She could initiate the divorce; he would take full blame; whatever grounds she chose to cite, he would not contest. She had simply to name her price.

"There has never been a divorce in our families. I won't hear of it."

"The world is changing, Isabelle. Even the Church lost its power to restrict divorce in France. The law was passed seven years ago because the population demanded it."

"Which is precisely what is wrong with politics in this country today. The rabble are allowed a voice. And you see what happens. No, Etienne, there has never been a divorce in the Montigny family and there never will. Milk or lemon?"

The Duc took a calming breath, gazed for a moment at the pattern of the parquet floor beneath his feet and said, "Lemon."

"Charles asked for you at Deauville." His wife handed him the cup of tea. "I told him he should remember you dislike salt air." She said it with a sense of propriety and her usual rudeness.

"I don't dislike salt air. I was busy."

"With this new paramour of yours?"

"I intend to have this divorce, Isabelle," he said, ignoring her question. "If you won't institute it, I will."

"She must be very special, this one." Her smile was gelid. "Tell her, though, I have no intention of divorcing you. Furthermore," she went on, her voice rising slightly in pitch when she considered the whispers and humiliation divorce proceedings would entail, "if you proceed with this madness of yours, I'll fight you in court... forever!"

"Can't we be reasonable about this, Isabelle? Our marriage hasn't been"—he stumbled over the wording in his attempt to maintain a degree of courtesy—"friendly in years."

"Two of the oldest families in France were united in our marriage, Etienne. That was the basis of our marriage and it will remain the raison d'être of our union. I don't recall the nuptial vows requiring 'friendship.'"

"Perhaps I require friendship."

"And surely that hasn't been lacking in your life." Her pale brows rose quizzically. "Or do you call that something else?"

"I'm determined, Isabelle." He set his teacup down untouched.

"No, you're just made for a young woman again," she spat out. "Do you know how many times I've seen that light in your eyes? Do you realize how many there have been?" Her voice was shrill on the inflections. "I've lost count, you've lost count, but they're invariably young and pretty and available." Her indignation mottled the whiteness of her skin, set the Montigny diamonds bobbing emphatically. "You're infatuated again! You don't need a divorce.