Forbidden Susan Johnson (english love story books txt) 📖

fine now. I'm completely at your service," Jean-Philippe declared, his breathing almost restored to normal. "Papa insists on eating sausage in the morning when he knows it doesn't agree with his stomach. A small rest and he'll be recovered. Do you like it?" he inquired with a smile, gesturing to the magnificent ivory gown held by his two assistants.

It was a botanical celebration, Daisy thought: fireworks of tulips in vibrant reds and golds with soft mossy green foliage on pale silk. There was no question why the textile had garnered a grand prix for Maison Gourd at the Exposition Universelle. Tulipes Hollandaise was resplendent. "It's unbelievably beautiful." Turning to Etienne, she softly said, "Thank you."

For the winsome look of appreciation on her face, the Duc would have gladly bought out the looms of Lyon—although Guillet had realized enough profit from his reluctant sale to capitalize a small textile factory of his own. "Let me see the tulips," the Duc quietly said, "next to your skin. And you can show off your gown tonight."

"Are we going somewhere?" Her face was alight like a young girl's.

"I thought you might like to be seen in that at the Opéra."

"La Traviata! You're taking me to La Traviata!"

"Was it worth getting up this early?" His voice was lightly teasing.

"Oh, yes," she exuberantly breathed, sobering for a moment when she considered how few days she had left to hear his teasing voice. Or wake in his bed… or take pleasure in his pleasure at pleasing her. "Yes," she repeated in a reflective sigh. "Absolutely."

Jean-Philippe's two assistants helped Daisy undress to the fragile laciness of her lingerie while the Duc watched with obvious enjoyment. While other women needed corsets, Daisy's slender waist needed no restraint nor did her high abundant breasts require added support. The graceful curve of her hips offered perfect lyrical symmetry to the eye, her nipples, visible beneath the white sheer lace of her chemise, provocatively drew the Duc's fascinated gaze.

He smiled faintly, his heavy-lidded eyes appreciative when he raised them to catch Daisy's glance over the heads of the women fitting her with petticoats, and Daisy felt a tingle of response in the very tips of her nipples, as though he'd reached out and touched them. Embarrassed at her ready susceptibility to the most casual display of his interest, she quickly dropped her lashes, her fluster of shyness as intoxicating, the Duc reflected, as her irrepressible sensuality. He was an extremely lucky man.

Jean-Philippe fussed and hovered on the perimeters of the dressing women, giving small orders and murmuring comments as his assistants hooked Daisy into the splendid silk gown. When she stood at last in the rich beauty of the embroidered fabric designed by Jean-Philippe into a sumptuous work of art, he pronounced, "Perfection!" with neither modesty nor reserve. "Don't you agree?" he said, turning to survey the Duc.

"Utter perfection," the Duc softly murmured, visibly moved by the dramatic contradiction of ritualized adornment and primordial beauty. The exquisite shade of golden ivory served as lyric foil to Daisy's dark skin, the crimson and gold tulips, accent for the fire of her passion. Even the restless rhythm of the wind-tossed tulip design echoed the intensity of her spirit. The feminine froth of ivory lace and tulle framing her shoulders and high-mounded breasts, pressed upward by tightly hooked stays, served to dramatize her sensuous appeal, the decorative silk tulips disposed in the waves of lace, lying against the satin of her flesh, ornament to her classic beauty. "Come here," he quietly commanded, needing to touch her in an anachronistic act of possession, as though he must put his mark of ownership on her.

And she went to him because she wished in her own convoluted way to belong to him. When she knew she couldn't. When she knew that their time together was severely limited… when she knew her heart would break when she left him.

He moved from his casual sprawl as she approached, sitting upright to take her hand in his. Pulling her between his legs, he released her hand, placing both his around her slender waist. His fingers, almost circling her waist, were warm on the silk of the gown, as firm in their grasp as the staunch boning constricting her waist, offering her breasts in ostentatious display. His grip tightened slightly and his gaze lifted to hers. "I have this overwhelming need to own you," he murmured. "It unnerves me."

"I know."

"I don't even feel the necessary courtesy of asking your permission." His voice was very low, a half-whispered gruffness.

"I know."

His brows rose in mild inquiry. Daisy was rarely so docile. "I want to leave or ask them to leave and lock the door."

Daisy moved the merest fraction under his hands, a small sensuous response. "Shall we test the limits of ownership at your house?" she murmured, her smile enchanting. "I'd prefer the privacy."

The Duc's hands dropped away and he stood in a swift abrupt movement. "A cloak for the lady, Jean-Philippe. She'll wear the gown."

There was no mistaking the brevity and command in the Duc's tone. A wrap was found in record time, orders surreptitiously given to the staff in the Duchesse's dressing room to keep her busy for at least another ten minutes while the Duc's carriage was brought up to the door. And the Duc and Miss Black were shown out of the House of Worth a short time later in a billow of costly embroidered silk.

With a dramatic sense of having escaped disaster by only a hairsbreadth, Jean-Philippe stood on the curb as the Duc's carriage rolled away, wiping the sweat from his brow.

"No, Etienne… wait until we get home. This gown's worth a fortune." Daisy's murmured protest was accompanied by a playful slap at the Duc's hands.

No one was more aware of the fact than he, but Etienne's casual disregard for half a million francs had much to do at the moment with his libido. "We'll send it back to Worth later for pressing." And he brushed aside