Forbidden Susan Johnson (english love story books txt) 📖

to Charles is always weighted against their own private expediency. How even God can be overlooked if the price is right. Tell her, Valentin, that I can buy every damn one of them if need be." His head swiveled back to Daisy, his glance heated. "Listen to him," he said in a hushed, vehement voice. "He knows."

"Isabelle can delay and impede and postpone. But she can't ultimately win," Valentin concurred, glancing across at Isabelle's array of guests. "Etienne's right… every one of them has a price."

"Perhaps Isabelle most of all," Adelaide added.

"Emphatically, Isabelle, most of all," the Duc flatly said.

"I don't care how much it costs me, Charles," Isabelle was saying, her lorgnette raised to her eyes, Daisy centered in the dimond-framed lenses. "He'll never have her." Lowering her glass, she turned her gaze on her brother seated beside her and quietly, so her voice didn't carry beyond them, added, "Give me an accounting tomorrow of each magistrate's debts. As a prudent measure, I'll buy their notes."

"That's not necessary. We can be sure of most already." He smiled at de Goux over his sister's head. "With postponements, the proceedings will drag on indefinitely anyway. Etienne will tire of the lady… as he always does." Charles was less vindictive toward Etienne than his sister; he subscribed to the masculine privilege concerning mistresses. He felt certain his brother-in-law would ultimately discard the lovely Miss Black as he had all his previous lovers.

"Most isn't good enough, Charles. I want them all obedient to your wishes. An accounting, if you please; my money will be well spent." Etienne had never accompanied her to the 0péra and Isabelle's rage at his appearance tonight with the American woman was so consuming she was almost half serious when she said she didn't care how much it cost. She did, of course. Money was above all to be amassed and augmented with the capital never touched, while real property was expected to be similarly extended—the profit-motive tradition behind every noble alliance. Her marriage to Etienne had nicely maintained the integrity of her dowry settlement. By law she and Etienne shared a certain community property, yet despite his legal prerogative as administrator, Etienne had never touched her funds. Unlike many husbands who ruinously went through their wives' fortunes, decimating them, Etienne had actually added sizably to her assets. His wealth had maintained their homes and their way of life. She'd always thought him unnecessarily generous, but of course she would have been foolish to insist on spending her own money. So she could afford to see the magistrates were compliant—although she would resist spending a penny more than required.

Her brother sighed. Etienne's damned infatuation was going to cause him a great deal of tedious work. "If you insist, Isabelle, I'll have my secretary check into it tomorrow."

"What about the children? They're still underage, for a few months more. Could I demand custody? Etienne has set up valuable trust funds for them."

"Good God, Isabelle," Charles hissed. "They've been in control of their own funds for years. Not only would it annoy Etienne, it would annoy Jolie and Justin. Keep this in perspective for God's sake."

"I have it very much in perspective, Charles, and you needn't raise your voice," she coolly said. "I will not allow this divorce. It's as simple as that and I'd appreciate a bit more familial support."

"You have my support, Isabelle, just kindly consider some of the legalities occasionally. No magistrate, however beholden to us, would take away your children's trust funds after they've both been administering them competently for two years. And no magistrate, however tied to our patronage, is going to appreciate having to deal with your ruthless sense of vengeance."

"Vengeance?" Her hushed voice held a new degree of heat. "Shouldn't I be vengeful considering what he's doing to me?"

"People divorce, Isabelle." Although Charles thought Etienne was over-reacting when he could have the American woman without a divorce.

"People, perhaps," she said with a cool haughtiness, "but not a Montigny. She's a Red Indian, Charles. Can you imagine how that makes me feel? And she's not even young. Thérèse Chassemont.tells me she's thirty. He's leaving me for a common woman not much younger than myself. He's a fool, Charles, and perhaps five or ten years in court will help him come to that conclusion himself."

Charles began looking for some means of escape. He'd been listening to Isabelle's harangues for days now, and while he was willing to cooperate with the legalities of postponement in Etienne's divorce proceeding as a matter of family duty (his mother and cousin the Archbishop were also adamantly opposed to divorce), he was unable to sympathize with Isabelle's sense of affront. She had quite literally barred Etienne from her bed twenty years ago and as effectively withdrew from her duties of child-rearing. She had to expect some possible repercussions eventually from that detachment. As the curtain fell, he swiftly rose to his feet in applause.

"I want the list tomorrow," Isabelle said, joining him, a smile on her face, her eyes on the stage. When he didn't immediately answer, she touched his arm in apparent casualness. "Tomorrow," she repeated, low, terse, emphatic, her nails pressing through the fabric of his jacket sleeve.

He nodded, wary of a scene. Isabelle's temper was legend.

Her fingers relaxed and she turned to her cousin the Archbishop, seated slightly behind her. "Wasn't Onegin superb as Aïda tonight?" Her smile was consummate graciousness. "She has the voice of an angel."

Daisy had been made to feel somewhat better after listening to Valentin and Adelaide's assessment. She was comforted to know they all felt the magistrates were not immutably aligned with Isabelle. Etienne was after all, she had to agree, as influential as his wife, as wealthy, and while she didn't know Isabelle personally, perhaps as stubbornly committed to his ends as she was to hers.

The crowd exiting the Opéra bore a festive air, the resonance of conversation lightened with the frequent silvery tones of female laughter or punctuated with