Forbidden Susan Johnson (english love story books txt) 📖

miscalculated the degree of affection Daisy Black engendered. He watched the delicate sweep of Etienne's braided quirt move his custard tart out of reach, wondering whether Etienne's control would survive their conversation. He'd seen him lose his temper only on rare occasions, but the effect had always been detrimental to his opponents. And from his present position, Etienne appeared a towering presence.

"I'm willing to endure the lengthy persecution Isabelle envisions," Etienne said, his voice so soft Charles had to strain to hear it. "I'm also willing to tolerate uninvited visits from your damnable cousin the Archbishop, and your"—there was the minutest pause in place of his preferred adjective—"mother, giving me ultimatums about church doctrine. I'm even willing to suffer public spectacles like that at the Opéra, but I will not allow Isabelle to interfere with Daisy." Etienne's hands were planted palmdown on the table over his riding whip, his eyes so dark the green was muted, and his shoulders under his white jersey seemed the width of the table to Charles's speculative gaze. "So what you'll do, Charles, if you value your health, is honor your promise to complete the property transfers. Do we understand each other?"

Charles hesitated, trying to gauge the level of negotiation possible under the circumstances. Miss Black was obviously considerably more important than he'd perceived; Etienne's anger just short of explosive. What Isabelle didn't know wouldn't hurt him, he decided, since he was being seriously threatened. And only a minimum of legal work remained on Miss Black's agenda anyway. This was not, he recognized from a vantage point only inches away from Etienne's quirt, a good time for negotiations. He had to swallow once to insure his voice didn't break when he said, "I understand."

The Duc stood upright in a swift decisive movement. His scowl disappeared, his fingers on his quirt relaxed. "Thank you, Charles," he said sardonically, "for your good judgment."

It took a full five minutes after the Duc left before Charles's heartbeat returned to normal, before the color returned to his face. And another five minutes before he felt sufficiently restored to call in his secretary.

But visions of the men Etienne had shot in duels continued to haunt him throughout the day and he found himself starting at every footfall. No one was safe from Etienne's wrath when his temper was up and he congratulated himself on coming out of their confrontation unscathed.

Damn Isabelle. He'd almost taken a beating for a few trifling legal procedures. That quirt had been way the hell too close for comfort.

"Charles changed his mind," the Duc said when he returned to the apartment much later that afternoon. "I thought he would."

Daisy was in the garden, lounging on a chaise, reading, when Etienne entered the small walled enclosure. Her eyebrows rose in query as Etienne dropped onto the grass in a comfortable sprawl.

"Why? You're asking me, I presume—with that look," he said with a grin, and crossing his arms beneath his head, he looked up at her with a benign expression of innocence. "Because he reconsidered, and after having reconsidered, decided it was damned silly to have sent the note in the first place. Everything is en train once again. Empress's daughter will not be deprived of a single meter of property. You're welcome."

Had she not been so deeply attached to her own sense of independence, and had she not been so disturbed about the price the Duc was paying for her friendship and love, she would have been pleased he'd coerced his brother-in-law into changing his mind. Because forced he'd been, she was sure. Although the exact manner of extortion was unclear. "Thank you," she said, "although I wish you hadn't. I feel too guilty already for coming between you and your wife… and her family."

Sitting up, Etienne stared at her for a moment as if his scrutiny would bring some revelation. "You don't mean it," he said then, his expression vaguely perplexed.

"I do appreciate your efforts, really."

"No, I mean about feeling guilty."

"Well, of course I do. Look, I'd have to have the hide of an elephant to ignore the slurs and looks and avid curiosity. Regardless of how you feel, I'm viewed by many as the cause of your divorce. I feel guilty."

"No!" he said with almost a kind of violence, "don't ever say that. You're twenty years too late to shoulder the burden of guilt. And anyone who knows me, understands. Even those Isabelle considers friends, understand. If there's any assessment of blame, you're the last one touched by it."

"You're not realistic, Etienne," Daisy softly said. "If I hadn't met you that night at Adelaide's, your life would have proceeded uninterrupted… your marriage would have continued."

"I'm not looking for a martyr," the Duc said as softly as she. "You needn't be noble on my account. I'm too cynical to embrace either of those concepts as relevant in this world. But if I believe in anything, I believe in the shaman gods who looked down on me with kindness that night." He grinned then, touching the toe of her white kid slipper. "Don't become serious, chou-chou, about the divorce or Charles or anything else Isabelle might orchestrate. I'll take care of you. I'll take care of everything."

How often, she wondered, would he have to take care of things for her? How many times in the coming years would he have to threaten someone for what they might say about her as the femme fatale who destroyed his twenty-year marriage? At what price could he continue to live in the society of his birth? Would he eventually tire of the burden? Etienne was a man familiar with a life of ease, of adoration and favor. How long would it be before he wearied of championing both his marriage and his foreign wife?

"I don't really want to be taken care of," Daisy said, her words only a whisper of sound.

It stopped him for a moment—the very novel concept—before he remembered she was an American woman. "I