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Probably upstairs sleeping. Oliver Belmont maintained an eccentric regimen of exercise, diet, and rest, waking at sunrise and retiring very early. Since Nadine often danced until dawn and slept until afternoon, perhaps the brevity of their hours together accounted for the preservation of their marriage.

Oliver was tolerant, too, everyone knew, of his young wife's escapades.

And it looked like Nadine's newest playmate was the Duc de Vec.

Why did it bother her so?

Since this afternoon, when she'd first recognized his reckless style of play on the polo ground and then spoken to him, Daisy had asked herself that question countless times. Her answers were muddled and incomplete, logic battling the power of her emotions. On seeing him again, she'd felt as though a hot sun were beating down on her naked body, desire so overwhelming a sensation. But the practical voice so dominant in her personality had won the struggle for supremacy over the last few hours, its influence more persevering and tenacious. She'd made the right decision considering all the serious problems explicit in their relationship, she kept reminding herself. She and Etienne could never have solved all the numerous and fundamental discrepancies in their lives. So grow up, she silently admonished, get a grip on yourself. And keep Nadine in mind. As usual, Etienne had found a cordial woman eager to amuse him. Typical. Normal. Habitual. He'd never change.

When the waltz concluded with a flourish of violins, half a room separated Daisy and the Duc.

Discussion immediately broke out as conversational groups drifted together to exchange the latest gossip concerning Newport's "cottagers." While Daisy and Beau joined a group of his friends, Nadine and Etienne were surrounded by guests offering congratulations or advice on the afternoon's tied match. As high scorer, Etienne modestly accepted the accolades, politely acknowledged advice from the polo cognoscenti, but he was restless, his glance straying frequently to Daisy, talking with friends near the terrace doors. Vaguely detached from the exchange of comment swirling around him, he found himself automatically agreeing with something Nadine said, only to discover later, when one of the men launched into a long recital of the many ships wrecked on Barkley lighthouse shoals, that he'd promised to accompany a picnic excursion to the seashore the following day.

He could plead a polo match or practice later, he decided, to avoid the outing, his gaze drifting again to the group surrounding Daisy. She seemed to be making her adieus, for men were bowing to her. Gently lifting Nadine's hand from his arm, he, too, made his excuses. "I promised Durham a game of billiards." His smile encompassed those in their conversational group, falling last on his hostess's cool, suspicious expression.

"I'll go with you," she said.

"You can bring me luck," he pleasantly replied, knowing the billiard room, a male bastion of cigar smoke and masculine ribaldry, was uncongenial to a lady's comfort. But he was saved, instead, from delay in his pursuit of Daisy or an unpleasant scene with his hostess, when a lackey approached her. Nadine's husband, it seemed, was threatening to fly into a rage if his new shipment of ginseng root wasn't immediately located. Oliver Belmont wanted his evening elixir, he wanted the latest delivery, and he wanted it immediately.

"Very well. Tell him I'll see to it." With raised eyebrows Nadine turned back to her guests. "Oliver will sulk if he doesn't have the freshest ginseng, although I can't see how it matters when it takes two weeks to be brought over the sea, but—" Her shrug was a delicate indication of sufferance. Touching Etienne's arm lightly, she murmured, "Don't go away… I'll see you later."

Having been delayed by several acquaintances as she made her way down the corridor in the direction of the powder room, Daisy was still in sight when Etienne exited the ballroom. But only barely… a flash of cloth of gold and one bare shoulder disappeared into a doorway.

Since several other ladies followed in her wake, Etienne recognized the withdrawing room set aside for female guests. Taking up a position a short distance away, he was able to observe the entrance without being obvious. Leaning against the wall in the shadow of one of the numerous malachite columns decorating the corridor, he waited for the woman who had been constantly in his mind, the woman who'd passionately declared her love for him, the same one who'd written only short weeks later refusing his offer of marriage.

In the seclusion of the dim hallway he tried to be more accepting of her refusal, to understand Daisy's reasons with a benign detachment. A certain peacefulness prevailed in the cool shadows away from the brightly lit ballroom and brittle party chatter. The cloistered marble vault should have helped soothe his more savage impulses. But images of Beau Rutherford reappeared in his mind, initiating an ungovernable rush of anger.

In all the weeks of their separation, he'd rationally considered the possibility of other men with Daisy. But faced with the reality, all rationale disappeared. Emotion alone impelled him… and uncontrollable jealousy. And perhaps pride, too, incited his temper… he'd never asked a woman to marry him before.

Did Daisy's egalitarian principles allow caprice in her relationships as inconstant as had been all his previous liaisons? Had all her talk of love been no more than playful frolic? Too familiar himself with sensual indulgence as amusement, he chafingly realized that same impulse may have influenced Daisy.

And now the fickle adventuress preferred being friends.

As if in repudiation, his sprained fingers throbbed in pulsing dissent. Lightly splintered together by one of Nadine's servants to ease the discomfort movement caused, he lifted them briefly above his head to relieve the flow of blood and the sudden pain. Damn her and damn her father and brother, too, he moodily maligned in blanket affront, considering himself fortunate to have no more than sprained fingers. He wanted some answers to the chaos in his mind. He wanted an explanation that made sense. He wanted to know why she'd left him.

He wanted more too. Regardless of her answers, he wanted more. He wanted her.

With the pretense of adjusting her garters, Daisy had found refuge behind an ornate dressing-screen in the powder room and after waving away a maid's offer of assistance, she'd collapsed on the small damask chaise, indifferent to the fragile jeweled butterflies embroidered on her gown.

How would she last the entire evening, she despaired, with Etienne constantly before her eyes—with Nadine possessively at his side. She shut her eyes for a moment as if to blot out the wretched image, only to find it etched permanently in her memory. Abruptly sitting upright, she trained her gaze on the decorative fabric of the screen, visually tracing the depiction of Greek fretwork and acanthus leaves, forcing her thoughts away from the unhappy vision of Etienne and Nadine. Damn him and damn his memory and most of all damn his limitless charm. While she'd been suffering heartache in Montana, he'd been conducting his life in his familiar licentious pattern.

He'd practically looked right through her this afternoon on the polo field, and when Nadine had called, he'd gone to her without a backward glance. She felt suddenly utterly naive, like an artless young maid who actually believes cavalier protestations of love.

Straightening her shoulders, then her spine, she consciously braced herself, hardening her defenses against her own awkward longing and the continuing ordeal of the evening ahead.

How early could she graciously leave?

She came out some time later in the wake of an elderly lady, perhaps ten steps behind her, moving back down the
torchière-
lit hallway toward the gilded ballroom.

Pushing away from the wall, Etienne followed her. She walked the way he remembered, with a light fluid grace, the motion of her hips fleetingly suggested beneath the shimmering gold of her skirt, her bare shoulders and slender neck erect as if the heavy silken coils of her dark hair were weighty, requiring a dancer's balance. He smelled her rose fragrance first as he neared, and then moving closer, distinguished the precise arrangement of jeweled pins holding her hair, the subtle shadow beneath her ear, the clasp of her diamond earrings, the sleek dip of her spine as it flowed downward to the low-cut back of her dress.

She may have smelled his familiar cologne, too, or perhaps heard his tread, for she turned her head slightly as he reached out to grasp her wrist.

"You!" she said in surprise, her breath caught halfway up her throat so the word was hushed and trembling. No matter how she'd prepared for the possibility of their meeting again, she was unprepared.

"Hello," he said simply, as he might have a lifetime ago when he was young and gauche, long before Ursalina, in the days when women were mothers and madonnas and convent-bred cousins. "How are you?"

"I'm… fine. Fine." Daisy repeated in what she hoped was a normal voice. His fingers on her wrist were scorching her skin, he was too close, his hair longer, she thought apropos nothing, his shoulders wide like she remembered, his green eyes gazing down at her like a hundred hoped-for springtimes, alluring and enchant-ing. "I saw you earlier," she said, her comment both spontaneous and prosaic, as if the tumble and turmoil of her thoughts could be concealed by her insipid statement.

"I saw you too." No insipidness distinguished the Duc's declaration. His voice took on a sharp, crisp enunciation suddenly, underscored with umbrage. "Is Rutherford your new lover?"

His grip on her wrist turned steely.

He had no right was her first thought. Not after all these months. Not after the undeniable intimacy between himself and Nadine. "Is Nadine yours?" she coolly inquired, attempting to wrench her hand free.

"No."

"Liar."

"Answer my question."

"I don't have to." She spoke as a chieftain's daughter would.

Jealousy impelled their sharp pointed repartee… and insidious desire and accusing tempests of faithlessness aimed at each other.

"Let me go."

"Answer me," he growled, undeterred by either her demand or her attempt to withdraw.

A trio of women emerged suddenly from the powder room, chatting, adjusting the bracelets on their wrists, taking that last look at each other's décolletage, agreeing with smiling accord that each was suitably provocative without being vulgar.

"You have to let me go now," Daisy whispered angrily.

"Is Beau waiting for you?" His sarcasm was a soft whisper.

He didn't release his crushing grasp until the very last moment, and did only then out of necessity when the ladies stopped to visit. With flirtatious banter, fluttering eyelashes, and suggestive smiles, congratulations were offered the Duc for his expertise on the polo field. They preened like harem candidates for the Sultan's nightly favors, and Daisy watched, her heated temper escalating at each giddy laugh as Etienne accepted their compliments with an effortless charm.

"Will you be visiting more often now that your daughter is living here?" one of the ladies inquired, her keen interest in his answer apparent in her breath-held stance.

"I'm hoping to. American hospitality is an added enticement." Etienne's deep voice held an exceptional sincerity as though he were speaking to each of them individually, and Daisy could literally see their adulation blossom. By tomorrow after-noon, she thought, Etienne would have three more invitations to dinner… and more.

"Do you find the Viennese musicians enjoyable?" Lily Winthrop was plainly angling for a dance partner.

"Nadine outdid herself. Perhaps later when this throbbing hand improves," he said, raising his splintered fingers, "I could take advantage of the music again."

"Please do," Bea Kissam breathed, offering in both tone and expression, the Duc take advantage in any way he chose.

"Would you like our doctor to look at your hand?" Bea's cousin Clara inquired, hope expectant in her sultry eyes. Since her husband's business was keeping him in New York, she was alone in Newport. Plainly her invitation included breakfast.

"Perhaps later," Etienne politely said, bowing slightly to Clara, his smile pleasant.

"You won't be playing tomorrow, will you?" Lily asked. "With your injured hand? Come for lunch," she went on in a breathless rush, "or tea or dinner. I could show you the Cliff Walk if—"

"Thank you, but I'm committed to the French team with Centrelle gone," he graciously refused. "I've only a small sprain anyway. A few hours on Bradley's electrical-force machine should help." He did in fact have to find time for the therapy or he wouldn't be able to hold his stick. His discomfort level was damn high.

"Don't you know some herbal cures, Daisy?" Lily's bright blue eyes turned on Daisy.

"No. Not for sprains," she quickly added when she saw Lily was about to contradict her.

"A shame," Etienne mildly said, his amused gaze on Daisy's flustered expression. "For a moment, I thought you might be able to help me."

"You must have something for pain at least, Daisy," little Bea Kissam implored, her small frown delicately creasing her milk-white brow. "Holding a mallet is going to be agonizing."

You'd think Bea was personally feeling the torment from the sound of her voice, Daisy thought, annoyed and irritated that every woman Etienne met wanted to pet and coddle him. A constant, no doubt in his life, from his skilled parrying of their avid interest. Confused, jealous, and angry in the presence of the fawning ladies, Daisy was reminded of similar sensations experienced in Paris. Etienne had always been too much a disruptive force in her life, blowing apart the serenity of her existence, muddying the clarity of her future goals.