Forbidden Susan Johnson (english love story books txt) 📖

won!" he said as he neared, elation in his voice. "We won the club trophy for the third year in a row!"

He hadn't told her how important his game was this afternoon; he would have missed it had she wished him to. And a kind of small sadness was added to the aggregate of her uncertainty. Why did he feel he had to give up so much for her? She didn't want to be the cause of great sacrifice for him. He was already disrupting the entire tenor of his life with his divorce. Surely she shouldn't be the cause of him losing the simple mundane pleasures of his life as well. A stabbing melancholy suddenly overwhelmed her and their future seemed an impossibility. Just as a signpost at a crossroads stands significant and obvious, a flash of memory struck her with equal force. Her return steamship tickets—conservatively scheduled when she'd left Montana—were dated three weeks hence. Three weeks, said the signpost of her memory. Three weeks.

It was the answer she'd asked the spirits to send her.

"What are you doing out here in the dark?" the Duc asked, helping her to her feet. One of the unseen army of Chantel servants had seen Daisy enter the garden and given her direction to the Duc.

"Enjoying the stars," Daisy said, the strength of his hand enfolding hers.

He looked up briefly, glanced back down at her, and said with a smile, "How poetical." As if reading her mind, he added, "They're not the same, are they?"

"No… but I've a good imagination. Why didn't you tell me you were playing for the club championship this afternoon?" she asked then because she had no wish to talk about her stargazing.

"It wasn't that important." His smile was achingly beautiful.

"You should have told me. I'm not a petulant child."

"Darling, I'd gladly give up polo for you. The happiness you've brought me is beyond price." His voice was low, the pressure of his fingers added emphasis to his words.

"Don't give things up for me. I don't want you to give up anything for me. It makes me feel—" she hesitated, searching for the proper word, "sad."

"In that case, don't expect to see me in the afternoon until July thirteenth when the season ends," the Duc facetiously replied. "I won't have it said I made a woman sad." His grin shone in the dimness. "My reputation's at stake."

"Are we talking an unbroken string of cheerful women?" Daisy's tone was sportive; she was determined to be an adult in mastering her feelings.

"Cheerful women are my specialty—were my specialty," he added with a new softness in his voice. "We're talking singular noun from now on."

"I like the sound of that," Daisy said. His declaration was in fact enormously poignant for a man unfamiliar with devotion. "Now tell me about the match this afternoon. Did you score? How many ponies did you use?" She had to change the subject immediately or she'd embarrass herself and burst into tears. Her feelings were too close to the surface, too out of control, too intense. She loved him too much.

The Duc related the highlights of the match as they walked back through the garden to his carriage, their conversation over dinner lightheartedly centered on the events of the afternoon. His team's retention of the trophy for the third year was unprecedented, the excited glow of triumph coloring the mood of their evening.

Much later that night, when Etienne slept, Daisy eased herself carefully from his arms and, leaving the bed, walked to the opened windows overlooking the Seine. Standing nude and unselfconscious in the moonlight, she reflected on the brevity of her time with Etienne. Three weeks, she thought, restless and unsettled. And then she must leave.

It wasn't possible for her to remain in Paris for all the long duration of Etienne's contested divorce. In any event the circumstances would be too unpleasant even if the procedure were mercifully swift. She found herself fainthearted, dreading the intense bitter fight Isabelle would mount, knowing Etienne's wife would never prove amenable to compromise.

Her spirits too had spoken when she'd asked for guidance.

She believed in the sanctity of their presence. They had always shown her the way.

The following days were a time fashioned from a lover's dream. Daisy and the Duc lived in the apartment on the Seine, together for the first time, in love and loved and happy. They went to the races with Etienne's mother, avoiding the crowds, watching Etienne's black win from the privacy of the Duc's box. Adelaide and Valentin came over for dinner and accompanied them one day to Colsec for a picnic. On seeing Colsec for the first time, Valentin realized how private a man his friend was. Twenty years, he thought, and I never knew.

Daisy and Etienne dined out at the Cafe de Madrid and the Maison Anglaise, smart restaurants filled with the grand monde, and at serious old places like the Tour d'Argent and Père La Thuille's in Montmartre, where the gilt and tinsel were missing but the cuisine was perfect and the wine very old. They appeared at some of the small theatres like the Theatre de la Robiniere and the Grand Guignol. They took in some of the frivolous romantic comedies at the Comédie Française, and the new showings at the galleries.

They spent lazy mornings in bed testing the pleasurable limits of love and affection, touching and smiling and agreeing these moments were their own garden of delights. In the afternoons when the Duc played polo, Daisy would accompany him occasionally and watch the heated matches—the Duc's cavalier disregard for the club rule barring women from the practice field overlooked by his teammates as well.

Love in such manifest rapture couldn't be obstructed.

Several afternoons, Daisy took time to oversee the final depositions required for adding Solange's name to Empress's properties. Sometimes she stayed at home simply to rest. She lived each day for its pleasure, consciously storing away the happy memories against a sadder