Forbidden Susan Johnson (english love story books txt) 📖

"Saint-Joris is playing too." Trey lounged in his saddle, his hands resting on the pommel, a light breeze from the ocean ruffling his dark hair.

"For Daudet. Someone finally had the good sense to take him and Centrelle off the team. De Vec and Saint-Joris must have both come in recently." Hazard unconsciously touched his gold cougar charm at his wrist, a contemplative expression visible on his face.

"Have you seen him play?"

Hazard turned an inquiring look on his son, as though brought back suddenly from some inner reverie.

"Have you seen De Vec play?"

"Once, years ago at Trouville," Hazard said, his tone still half musing. "He plays a rough-and-tumble style of polo, learned, I was told, in Chitral in northwest India during some of his travels. They play there in the streets without rules."

"Like the Absarokee riding games," Trey said with a faint smile.

"Except we don't have streets." Hazard's small shrug seemed to indicate dismissal of the concept of rules altogether. The Absarokee played literally for blood.

"And you're playing second too," Trey noted, his gaze on the positioning of the French team.

"How convenient," Hazard replied, his voice chilling to ice, turning his pony with a nudge of his knees, vengeance strong enough to taste in his mouth. "Shall we get into position?"

The big polo field near Morton Park was curried until the grass was smooth as a carpet. Rolled lengthwise in opposite directions, broad stripes of light and darker green alternated down its length, giving an illusion of artificiality. Under a clear blue sky, bright sunshine shone down on the ranks of splendid carriages filled with well-dressed gentlemen and elaborately gowned ladies, the ladies' great cartwheel hats adorned with sumptuous silk flowers, ribbons, and feathers like a showy garden bordering the field.

The teams were lined up at opposite ends of the field waiting for play to begin, keenly watching the umpire about to roll the ball out to the center of the field. According to the rules currently in vogue, once the ball was dropped, both number-one players raced for it in a mad charge, their teammates close behind. Horses sidled, impatient to be off, players slid their reins once more carefully into place, readjusted their grip on their mallets, their eyes on the official.

A moment later the ball dropped.

And the large crowd of spectators in carriages three deep around the field sat in dead silence as the galloping horses raced headlong down the field. At the moment of impact when the teams clashed, they all groaned in unison as the Duc de Vec was unhorsed. He held onto his reins and vaulted back into the saddle before the astonished referee could stop play, but in that flashing instant, the Americans had taken possession of the ball and were charging down toward the French goal with the disorganized French team flying after them. Trey had a clear shot for a goal and he scored.

On the next swiftly executed play the tables were promptly reversed. The French back hit off a tremendous wallop to Etienne, who, with a punishing backhand, that had both loft and length, dropped the ball neatly in front of the American goal for Henri to knock through.

"Good shot," Hazard grudgingly said, as the teams took position for the next play. De Vec played like a wild man, his pony trained to the inch. One had to admire his skill.

"The last time I was unhorsed, I was eight. Good shot yourself," the Duc acknowledged. Hazard's checking had been deliberately rough, but recognizing Trey, Etienne had identified his attacker as Daisy's father, and understood. No father would appreciate his daughter being coupled by gossip with a married man. His resentment was natural.

Their ponies sidled and jostled each other as they stood at the ready.

"Stay out of my way and it won't happen again," Hazard murmured, watching the referee confer with an official on the sidelines.

"It won't happen again," the Duc softly said, his gaze too sharply focused on the field. Expecting conservative polo, he hadn't been prepared, but he wouldn't be taken by surprise again.

At the quiet defiance, Hazard turned to glance at the Duc briefly, his gaze immediately returning to the ball being placed in position. "I'd watch out if I were you," he warned, his body alert, intent on the movement of the other players, his eyes staring straight ahead. "She's unhappy; you made her unhappy."

"She left me." It wasn't necessary for either of them to define "she." "And before you try to run me over with your pony again, we should clarify that point."

"How's your divorce progressing?" Hazard's voice was sardonic. Of course Daisy would leave him under the circumstances; the man had no intention of getting a divorce.

"Held up in court."

"Convenient." Sarcasm blended with Hazard's growl.

"How's her new boyfriend?" The coolness of the Duc's tone enhanced the effect of his British accent. If Daisy's irate father was out to kill him on the polo field, Etienne thought, he might as well understand who had left whom and for what.

The ball skitted across the field, in play once again, abruptly curtailing their conversation.

As they both raced forward, Hazard risked a moment to look at the Duc's face. New boyfriend? Was the man serious? All Daisy had done since her return was mope over her loss. The Duc's attention was concentrated on the ball, his mallet already swinging back for a hit. Bloody cool bastard. Was he trying to say Daisy was at fault? Damn him! He was the bounder, toying with Daisy's affections. Leaning forward in his saddle, Hazard urged his pony to more speed, overtaking Etienne, racing neck and neck with the Duc for possession of the ball. Drawing his left foot completely out of the stirrup as he came within range, Hazard twisted downward, stretching out for a jab shot. Both men galloped full-out toward the French goal, the roar of the crowd, their teammates cries a distant clamor. The Duc moved his pony recklessly