Forbidden Susan Johnson (english love story books txt) 📖

only met two weeks ago. Without reason or logic, the need assailed him.

For that he would be married.

"I'll talk to Charles. He can perhaps control her."

Daisy glanced up at him, her disbelief vivid in her eyes.

He smiled. "I should know better, you mean."

"You should know better after twenty years," she said with a small smile.

They talked of more pleasant things then, walking hand in hand down the Avenue de l'Opéra, letting the beauty of the spring night restore their spirits, distancing themselves from the incident at the Opera both in range and mood. And some time later they found themselves on the Quai du Louvre where the Duc's flat faced the river.

"My present home," he said, indicating the expanse of Renaissance architecture a few feet from the Seine. A long-ago de Vec had taken advantage of Bernini's talent when he came north from Italy to redesign the Louvre for Louis XIV. The de Vec palace was small in relation to Bernini's monumental works for Kings and Popes, and more graceful, the baroque exuberance touched with a refined elegance, the large window-wall facing the Seine a delicate structure light as air. "I was going to act the gentleman and take you back to Adelaide's tonight," the Duc said, "but stay with me instead."

"This is bigger than my lodge on the prairie," Daisy said in subliminal reserve, struck by the size and beauty of Etienne's home, another symbol of their disparate lives. The Braddock-Black wealth had not the monuments of history like these, she thought, taking in the block-long structure, the solid bulwark of ancient generations as reminder of one's duty. Her past incorporated more freedom of spirit, as did her future, the Absarokee traditions nurturing an individualism of opportunity and ability. In her tribe, a chieftainship was won and maintained by courage and competence while the landed families of France were expected to simply duplicate and affirm the patterns of the past generations.

"I only use a few rooms," Etienne said, as if sensing the disposition of her thoughts. "Would you rather go back to Adelaide's? I can call for my carriage," he offered, indicating the vehicle that had been slowly following them as they walked. He didn't blame her if she was disturbed; he'd like to obliterate the awful events at the Opéra and take back the last twenty years if he could to make her happy.

"I'm hungry," Daisy said in answer to none of his questions. The gentle illumination of the street lamps bathed her form in velvety shadow and shimmering radiance, the silk poppies framing her décolletage, ethereal, translucent, floating petals in shades of crimson and gold.

"And I'm sure I have some food," the Duc replied with a smile, responding to the noncontroversial content of her statement. Later they could once again face the diverse dilemmas. "I know I have several chefs."

"You have no sense of proportion." Quiet disapproving words underscored with teasing.

He knew the discrepancies in their lives and he couldn't alter his background to please her, although had it been possible, he would. "I can feed you, though," he answered, his smile so warm she could feel the heat in the shadowed night. "Deal?"

"Deal," she said, without deliberation or thought. In the harsh and practical reality of life they were so diametrically opposed, the half world separating their lives was apt. But in love, where practicality met defeat and reality dissolved, they were in accord.

"Do you suppose your kitchen might have Baba au Rhum?" Daisy asked as they entered Etienne's home. "I've an urge for some."

"We can find out soon enough," Etienne said, removing Daisy's mantle himself before handing it to a footman. "I'll send for the chef."

She touched him lightly on the arm in restraint. "It's so late. Can't we just go down and see?" Babas were generally made in a large-enough size to act as a grosse piece and remained on the sideboard for several days.

Although Etienne had never entered his kitchen, he readily rose to the occasion. "Of course. Let me see…" He paused for a swift survey of the directions available.

"You don't know where your kitchen is," Daisy cheerfully accused, watching his critical assessment of the options.

"Ah—well—" Etienne grinned. "Don't look so smug. Louis takes care of all that, but I'd made a guess and say—" he nodded in the direction of a functional-looking corridor, "that way."

His young footman concurred when asked, and a short time later, after traversing several additional corridors in the wake of the helpful young man, Daisy and the Duc found themselves belowstairs in the kitchen.

Their appearance in the doorway of an enormous room patterned quaintly after the Regent's kitchen at Brighton caused as much of a stir as their attendance at the Opéra. Although in contrast, after the first startled, awed reaction, their reception was supremely cordial. The chefs, of whom Etienne discovered he had four, weren't asleep but still up in the event they were needed after the opera.

"How prophetic," the Duc murmured with a smile for the lady at his side.

Prophecy had less to do with it than Louis's understanding of his master's proclivities. An adequate portion of the staff was gathered round a cozy table drinking tea while waiting for the Duc's return from the Opéra—Louis and Burns among them.

A baba would be happily supplied for the Duc's lady, the pastry chef promised, beaming to be so notably singled out. The baba would be brought up in record time. It had only to be heated and a fresh sauce prepared. Did the lady prefer eau de Tanaisie in her sauce as King Leczinski did when prepared by the master Careme, or Malaga wine alone? The baba itself, he assured her, was made the authentic way with Hungarian wine.

Daisy graciously agreed to try the eau de Tanaisie; the pastry chef was beside himself with praise for her palate and was only kept from weeping with joy by the Duc's gentle reminder that the lady was also extremely hungry. The chef's emotions curtailed by the immediate