Forbidden (8 page)

"Imagine how hard your polo ponies labored, since they were carrying your weight as well."

They were circling a small table set for ten, looking for their place cards. "I find it charming you have a profession, Mademoiselle Black." Since he didn't take issue with her unusual choice of occupation, he saw no reason she should take exception to his apparent lack of occupation. "And my polo ponies are treated royally."

"By minions who hardly earn enough to support their families." Her voice was the carefully neutral one she'd used last night. He detected a slight smugness, as though she'd scored a point for her debate team or perhaps for her client in court.

He stopped. She thought at first because her critical statement had struck home, but he had instead found their seats. "Are you a socialist, Mademoiselle?" he mildly asked, motioning the footman away so he could seat her himself. "I understand radical politics is the newest intellectual pursuit."

"You don't have to be a socialist," she contradicted, lifting her skirt aside so he could slide her chair forward, "to be concerned with people's livelihoods."

. Her bare shoulders were within inches of his hands, enticing, smooth as silk, and he was inclined to say: If I were to become a socialist would you stay with me tonight? He was a man of great flexibility. Instead, he said, "How true," and offering her her napkin, took his place beside Daisy. To further enlighten the lady and perhaps ingratiate himself as well, he added, "Would it relieve you to know my estates have been cited as models by
Le Figaro
! Apparently over the centuries we've managed to evolve some form of communal government and profit sharing for the farms and workers. I believe the Utopian principles of my great-greatgrandfather are to blame."

"And you disagree." Her tone was very much the advocate, although like his it was one of practiced politesse.

"On the contrary—" he smiled, wishing he could kiss away her small frown. "I commend his foresight. My estates are extremely profitable. You no doubt are instrumental in the welfare of your—" He paused, not wanting to offend her with the wrong word.

"Tribe is the word, Monsieur le Duc."

A new touchiness infused her tone as though she'd spent a lifetime explaining herself to the world outside her race. "Yes, of course," he said, cautious of ruffling any cultural icons. "I understand from Empress your band is well situated. Your country is enviable."

She almost smiled, he noted, immediately recognizing the direction most conducive to conversation with the beautiful Mademoiselle Black from America. Her heart was very much back in Montana.

"I was raised in the mountains," she said, almost defiantly. He wondered how many times she'd endured the slurs and slanders; enough apparently to take a militant stance when questioned about her Absarokee background. "I had the good fortune to travel with a hunting party in the territory years ago and found the experience extraordinary."

Daisy knew what the Duc's kind of hunting party entailed; she'd seen them on many occasions: a dozen guides; three dozen horses; at least six wagons to carry all the provisions necessary to approximate a country manor out in the wild; and of course, the arsenal required for the requisite enormous slaughter of animals needed to bring pleasure to the wealthy hunters.

"I grew up in one of those small villages hunting parties like yours passed by. I lived in a lodge." Most of the rich hunters preferred keeping their distance from the villages, seeing the Indians as accoutrements to the landscape, picturesque noble savages or simply savages, but essentially nothing more than scenic details. She was surprised the disparaging indifference still annoyed her, having considered herself long ago immune to those senseless irritations.

"We were granted the pleasure of sleeping in a lodge, Mademoiselle," the Duc calmly said, ignoring her jibe, sincerely fond of his experiences out West. "There's nothing more beautiful than starlight above you when you sleep or the softness of fur bedding—"

His words brought pleasant memories pouring back. "Or the translucence of the sun through the lodge walls in the morning," she said.

Hearing the animation in her voice for the first time, he found himself curiously elated at his accomplishment. How trivial it was and yet how moving to bring a small sparkle to her eyes. Almost immediately he chastised himself, as she had earlier, to be less touched by her spirit and nearness.

While Daisy wished not to be affected by a charming seducer like the Duc, he too preferred the pattern of events follow a predictable course. He was interested only in amusement. He had no intention of involving his emotions.

They were both certain; faithful logic would prevail as it always had in their past.

So that night, two people conversed over a sumptuous dinner and through several of Valentin's best vintages, feeling very much in control of their lives.

The Duc was slowly mitigating the Mademoiselle's most blatant prejudices toward himself and his class.

Daisy felt more assured as the time passed. The Duc was simply an ordinary man—granted, more dazzling in looks than most men, and undeniably charming. But she'd mastered her earlier inexplicable urges and sensual attraction. She was feeling very smug.

The Duc was feeling equally smug. He hadn't concealed all semblance of sexuality since adolescence. The masquerade was itself a curiously erotic experience, playing the celibate monk, the androgynous companion, offering only benign friendship. He felt at times very much like the Big Bad Wolf dressed like Grand-mama in
Little Red Riding Hood
.

They discussed the current unrest over seating Monsieur Lescalles in the Chamber of Deputies and agreed to disagree on the unusual work of Rousseau at the Society of Independent Artists Exhibition last week. He wasn't completely without intellect, Daisy discovered, readjusting a portion of her assessment concerning the idle Duc de Vec. The Duc for his part, found the Mademoiselle as erudite as he'd anticipated and yet—astonishingly pleasant.

Over sorbet before the game course, the Duc asked Daisy whether she'd seen Professor Mattel's private collection of nomadic anthropology housed nearby at the Hotel Soubise.

She looked up, the pale iced fruit about to touch her lips. He would have to feed her raspberry sorbet someday, he decided. The sight of her mouth slightly parted, only inches from the cool ice, taxed his efforts to remain uninvolved. She let the sorbet melt in her mouth before answering, and he wondered for a moment whether she was toying with him or was in reality that innocent. "No. I haven't," she said a short time later, "nor have I heard of Professor Martel."

With her dark brows raised becomingly, he questioned again whether she was acting the coquette or indeed refreshingly naive. "His research proves the migrations across an original land-bridge into Alaska by numerous tribes. Your ancestors, no doubt." He kept his voice neutral, as he had all evening.

She was intrigued, he could see, so he quickly went on. "Your ancestors and mine may have been related. My father's family has been traced linguistically back to the central plains of Asia. Although the tribes separated geographically several thousand years ago."

"We are not related, Monsieur," Daisy said, emphatic but polite, "no matter how many thousands of years have passed."

Thank God for that, Etienne thought, his gaze straying to her splendid bare shoulders and enticing cleavage. "In an anthropological sense only, Mademoiselle," he replied with a pleasant smile. "I realize our interests and backgrounds are very different. If you'd care to hear a definitive explanation though, I'd be happy to arrange a visit with Georges. The museum is private but he's my cousin."

So that explained it. Nomadic tribes and prehistoric anthropology hardly seemed parallel interests to the Duc's busy schedule of polo, hunting, and women. "Perhaps at some later date, Monsieur le Duc," Daisy replied, reserve once again in her voice. Although the subject interested her, she preferred as little contact with the Duc as possible. "At the moment my days are busy with Jordan business for Empress. Her daughter must be entered into the estate trusts, in addition to all the ordinary legal affairs that require handling for Empress and her family."

"Could I be of help?"

She looked at him with frank astonishment. How could he possibly be of help?

"The Minister of Justice is my brother-in-law," Etienne declared with a quiet assurance, knowing as well as Daisy the wheels of justice had nothing to do with justice. The smooth turning of the wheels of justice depended rather heavily on the unctuous lubricant of influence, power, and money.

"Are you related to everyone of consequence, Monsieur?" Daisy asked, the coolness in her voice like sparkling crystals of snow. His kinship with the royal pretender was well known as were his ties with the Archbishop of Paris. Now the Minister too… And her own dealings with the Minister had been nothing but obstructed. It galled her that the Duc's cavalier attitude and casual influence would probably be more effective than any of her legal expertise.

How satisfying it would be to thaw the restrained young lady, Etienne decided. "As a matter of fact, I am," he replied with his lush and dazzling smile. "And I'd be honored to put my family quarterings at your disposal, Mademoiselle." Along with a few other things, he cheerfully thought. "If I can be of any service, please allow me the pleasure of assisting you."

"Thank you, but I'm managing adequately." Daisy was familiar with the resistance to women lawyers, the invisible or outright bar to entrance into male territory. So Parisian prejudices were a familiar hurdle. She'd eventually accomplish her tasks. Adelaide had offered Valentin's patronage, so the Duc wasn't the only offer to help she'd refused. "I wouldn't want you to neglect the polo fields," she added.

Shrugging her small sarcasm aside, he smiled. "Perhaps my overworked ponies would appreciate the respite." Knowing his brother-in-law Charles's strong antifemale views and his reactionary opinions on women's suffrage, he casually added, "If you change your mind, the offer's open." And then, as if women's rights in general and Daisy's probable struggles with Charles's ministry were incidental to his gustatory pleasure, he said, "Don't you care for the pheasant?"

The Duc had been eating with tangible appetite and obvious relish as they'd conversed. Daisy was beginning to wonder how he stayed so fit and lean.

"I've eaten too much already."

"You've hardly eaten."

She was surprised he'd noticed. "You've eaten enough for three men."

His brows rose momentarily. "Do you think so? I must burn it off." His faint smile was either suggestive or completely artless. Daisy wasn't sure, although in her more benign attitude toward the Duc, she decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. Etienne motioned with a slight movement of his knife. "Do you mind if I eat yours? It seems a shame to waste Armand's talented interpretation of Hunters' Pheasant. I think he may have prepared it for me. He knows this particular dish is my favorite."

"Help yourself," Daisy offered, glancing surreptitiously at the Duc's perfectly fitting white brocade waistcoat. Patently aware not an extra ounce of fat adhered to his lean muscled frame, she made another small adjustment in her previous judgment of the Duc as an idle aristocrat.

"You must have learned to cook as a child," he incidently noted between mouthfuls. "Do the Absarokee have a variation on Hunters' Pheasant? It's equally good cooked out of doors."

Daisy was resting against her chairback, ten-course meals normally eight courses too lengthy for her appetite. "We prepare a pheasant dish with native vegetables, although the flavor is quite different and… yes, I once did cook, although my skills are all but forgotten now, I'm afraid." His hands were extremely large and tanned. He must not use gloves riding. "The summer camps used to offer me some opportunities to refresh my memory," she went on, unconsciously admiring the strong line of his jaw, "but I find myself with less and less time to spend long weeks up in the mountains."

"A shame," he said, turning to her,"… about the mountains, I mean. Cooking, of course—" he shrugged, "isn't a requirement in a beautiful woman's repertoire."

She felt curiously for a moment as though she'd heard a touch of regret in his voice. She couldn't have, she decided in the next instant—surely in his class, women hadn't been within calling distance of a kitchen for centuries. And as she digested the substance of his statement concerning repertoires, she was certain she'd grossly misinterpreted. His remark was pure lordly arrogance. "Do you feel there are actually
requirements
!" she very softly inquired. The notion that women had repertoires and for what purpose seemed the height of chauvinist crassness.

Hearing the prickly asperity in her soft voice, he knew he'd touched a nerve. As an American woman, she was automatically in the vanguard of independent women; as an Indian woman who'd accomplished the remarkable feat of becoming a lawyer, she rose distinctly above the norm. She was rare. And since he wanted that rarity, he decided to challenge her, since he suspected heated controversy and debate might intrigue her more than the conventional protocol of seduction. His was an intuitive assessment based more on personal experience with women in general than experience with specific Absarokee female lawyers, but he surmised what fascinated her most, as it did him, was a challenge. She, of course, would enjoy winning. As would he. But at that point in the contest all pretense at equality ended. He intended to win. Both the lady and her passion. "There
are
basic requirements of course," he pleasantly said, pushing his empty plate aside so he could concentrate on the lovely flush of anger suffusing her face.