Forbidden Susan Johnson (english love story books txt) 📖

he'd be smiling from satisfaction over his game and from his pleasure in seeing her. And she wanted to be there first, waiting for him, welcoming him as though she'd always been there when he came home, as though she always would. She was humming in anticipation when she entered the foyer, her friendly smile for Burns prompted by her blissful daydreams.

Burns didn't smile back or give his usual friendly greeting; he seemed instead strangely agitated, his brow knotted in a frown.

"Is the Duc back early?" Daisy asked, thinking perhaps Etienne was waiting for her.

"No, Mademoiselle, but I've sent for him."

Clearly something was wrong. A flustered Burns was extraordinary; he was never disconcerted. A figure of cool British reserve and poise, Burns served as the paradigm for haughty stewardship. "Someone's hurt," she quickly said, "Is it Hector?"

"No… no… Mademoiselle," he assured her, "no one's hurt… but it might be best if you… returned to the Princess de Chantel's until Monsieur le Duc—"

"I've been waiting for you," a cool familiar voice interjected. Someone else apparently was conscious of Etienne's polo schedule.

When Daisy swung around to the sound of the same disparaging voice she'd heard at the Opéra, Isabelle was standing in the doorway of the rosewood salon looking as though she owned the Bernini-designed residence. Dressed in Watteau pink chartreuse, silk apple blossoms at her sashed waist, she was a vision of femininity. Even her blonde hair seemed blonder in the half shadows of the gilded interior. And the de Vec diamonds sparkled in her ears. Above the dictates of fashion requiring lesser jewels for daytime, she wore her diamonds with regal assurance.

"I'm sorry, Mademoiselle," Burns softly said.

He'd been powerless to deny his master's wife entrance, Daisy understood, and she touched his arm in silent recognition of his apology. "I'm fine, Burns." She smiled, then turning to Isabelle said in a calm, level voice she frequently used when arguing the finer points of reservation borders to infringing cattlemen in court, "We can talk in the rosewood room. Would you like some refreshments?"

"This isn't a social visit." Isabelle deliberately neglected addressing her by name.

"I'll have tea, Burns," Daisy said. "And some of those madeleines, the chocolate ones." It was impossible to publicly intimidate Daisy; Absarokee training taught one self-possession. Walking across the green travertine entrance hall, she passed Isabelle to enter the salon.

By the time Isabelle followed her in, she'd seated herself. "You may prefer to stand," Daisy said to the woman she both en-vied and despised, "since this isn't a social visit." She wished she might have been the one to share the last twenty years with Etienne instead of this cool disdainful aristocrat. "Please state your business."

Isabelle bristled noticeably. "Someone should teach you manners. You're speaking to a Duchesse."

"Then I outrank you, for my father is a King among his people," Daisy quietly replied. "If you've come to see me, kindly state your business," Daisy repeated. "Etienne has been sent for," she added, feeling that information might prompt Isabelle to speak quickly.

"You won't last, you know." Isabelle's eyes were cold like those of the yellow eyes contemplating the theft of Indian lands. Daisy recognized the hatred.

"Perhaps," Daisy replied, more aware than Isabelle of the duration of her relationship with the Duc. In all likelihood, she would be on board a steamship this time next week.

"You females never do."

"Is there a point to this?" Daisy wasn't interested in being insulted by the Duchesse de Vec. If she had come merely to cast derision, further discussion was unnecessary.

"This is the point." Drawing an envelope from the deep pocket of her skirt, she tossed it on the table beside Daisy's chair, her smile smugly malicious.

Opening the envelope, Daisy took out the two sheets of scented paper and looked at them both. On each page were twin columns of names—women's names—written in lavender ink. She began mentally to count them, but found the list too long to quickly calculate. Gazing up at Isabelle, she said, "Obviously these mean something."

"They're a partial list of the women Etienne's amused himself with. I thought you might be interested. Naturally… those in the brothels are unknown to me."

Daisy was unable to repress the sinking feeling of revelation. She had known, of course, of the Duc's reputation, but—she'd never fully realized the extent. "Why did you… allow this?" she murmured, unable to speak in a normal tone with the suffocating weight filling her chest.

"Etienne isn't a man noted for obedience. Surely, you're aware of this. I begged him," she lied, "especially when the children were young, to have more respect for his duty as husband and father. He was rarely home."

Daisy was rational enough to recognize Isabelle's attempt at melodrama; aware of Etienne's devotion to his children and grandchild—in terms of duty, he couldn't be faulted. The women, of course, were entirely different. She found herself dreadfully tired suddenly, of Isabelle and the confrontational nature of Etienne's marriage, of the disastrous vicious divorce in which she'd be involved whether she wished to or not. She was tired too, of pale-faced, supercilious women who found in a succession of wardrobe changes each day their raison d'etre. "Thank you for the list," Daisy said, rising from her chair, leaving the papers on the table, no longer able to even pretend politesse. "I'm sure its compilation took some effort. If you'll excuse me now." Without waiting for a reply, Daisy began walking from the room.

"He receives billets-doux everyday," Isabelle proclaimed, her voice cheerful, having driven her rival from the field, as it were. "Have you seen them?" she called after Daisy's retreating form. "Ask Burns, ask Louis, ask Valentin!"

Daisy had almost reached the doors to the entrance hall when they opened and Etienne stood in the threshold, his gloved hands grasping the twin door-handles. Streaked with dust, sweaty and disheveled, his white jersey clung damply to his body. His eyes met Daisy's briefly then moved past her to rest on his wife. "You're not welcome here, Isabelle. Do I need a court