Forbidden Read online

  "And their wealth has insulated them from that necessity." Bourges's voice was touched lightly with sarcasm. "In any event, I'll attempt to make an appointment, Monsieur le Duc."

  Felicien had dealt with nobles of Isabelle's reactionary persuasion before so his request for an appointment with the Duchesse de Vec was made with her secretary, his motive discreetly veiled with a charity function the Duchesse was known to lend her name to.

  She was standing at her desk when he was shown into her reception room two mornings later, an imperious figure despite her petite dimensions. "I didn't realize, Monsieur Bourges, the Convent of the Carmelites had retained you." Her inflection implied they'd better have a cogent reason for doing so, as must he for presuming to bother her. "I'm not here for the Dames Carmelites." While she was reaching for the bell-pull, he added, "Monsieur le Duc has authorized me to offer you your choice of his properties."

  Avarice stayed her hand. "I already have his properties."

  "Not precisely, Madame le Duchesse. Not in legal terms." By law the Duc was sole administrator of his property as well as the Duchesse's dotal property. Felicien moved a step closer to the desk; they were separated by a dozen feet now and each took the other's measure.

  His tailor was Kriegck. Apparently he was wealthy from defending the merchants of Paris. He wore his hair long like an actor, and then, with the presumption of her class, her eyes fell to his fingernails.

  "No dirt, Madame," Felicien said with a control developed after years of being scrutinized by wealthy people intellectually inferior to him. "It was all left behind at Loire-et-See. And my valet is meticulous." He had never been this close to her before, although they occasionally frequented the same social gatherings. She seemed smaller at close range, extremely well-kept, and with the eyes of a predator.

  "The dirt is never left behind, Monsieur Bourges." All his successes and hard work dismissed by her in one brief statement. "You may inform the Duc your visit was wasted. The Montignys do not divorce." This time she pulled on the bell-rope with vigor.

  The Duchesse de Vec was the paradigm for all he found most reprehensible in the aristocracy. Arrogant, rude, with a disrespect for those born outside the rarefied enclaves of ancien regime families bred into them from the cradle; they truly believed in divine rights for themselves and their class.

  "I suggest you obtain counsel, Madame le Duchesse." His gaze swept the gilded room, decorated as her intimate reception salon, large enough in reality to house a dozen families. "In order," he added with a cool smile, "to insure you retain at least this property." He knew how to bow; he'd paid for the best instructors in all forms of social graces, but he didn't bow to the Duc's wife. In fact, for the first time in years he allowed his anger to show. "The Duc is most anxious to divorce," he said, a rage he'd thought long vanished prompting him, "so tell Letheve we will be proceeding with dispatch."

  Isabelle had seated herself at her desk, her interest focused on writing as though Bourges no longer existed. If she'd heard him she didn't respond; she seemed actually not to have heard him at all.

  How had the Duc tolerated the woman for so long, Felicien wondered, turning at a small sound, to see a footman holding the door open for his departure. She seemed without charitable qualities.

  His anger remained, an odd and residual survivor from his long-ago past, well beyond his morning call. Even late that night, after hours of diversion in the intricate legalities he found so satisfying, after dinner and the theater, the skeleton of memory remained. She had made him feel desperately poor again. Unequal. Beneath her notice.

  The Duchesse de Vec had made an ardent enemy.

  * * *

  Two days later the Duc received a visit from his brother-in-law Charles. It wasn't unexpected; Bourges had initiated the petition with both dispatch and zeal.

  The Duc welcomed Charles into his study at the Quai du Louvre apartment, offered him a cognac, and when they'd both been served and the footman departed, their casual conversation came to an end.

  "Speak up, Charles," Etienne said, his smile pleasant. "We've know each other long enough to be frank."

  "You presented your petition to the President this morning."

  It was the first step in bringing the action before the court. Etienne had presented his petition in person, unaccompanied even by his lawyer. Presumably, the theory being the President of the Court in chambers would endeavor to bring about a reconciliation without the bias of counsel. "De Goux gave me a lecture. You knew that, of course."

  "You're not really serious about marrying the young lady," his brother-in-law said then, his statement declara-tive rather than inquisitory. The divorce, while surprising, was not without cause. Etienne and Isabelle had lived separate lives for years, but marriage to the exotic Miss Black? Surely he need not marry her.

  "I'm very serious," the Duc said, causing Charles's eyebrows to rise into his hairline. "And don't give me a lecture on duty. I heard all I care to on the subject from De Goux." The presage of a scowl appeared. "I've given Isabelle twenty years of my life; I won't give her the rest."

  "I envy you, Etienne." Charles meant it sincerely, his own wife's primary interest centered on bridge. And while the saying, "All heiresses are beautiful," had merit, Marie-Louise's only beauty had been her dowry. "But…" He shrugged, the gesture conveying his necessary obedience to family.

  "I don't expect anything, Charles. She's your sister. I understand."

  "If you insist on going through with a divorce," Charles warned, "Isabelle can keep the proceedings in the courts for years." He sighed. "She'll do her best to see that Miss Black is named in the divorce. She's vindictive. We both know that. I'm sorry."

  "Don't be," the Duc pleasantly replied. "I've never been so happy and Isabelle will come around eventually. Money's always interested her."

  Setting his glass down, Charles leaned forward slightly. "I don't wish to be discouraging Etienne," he carefully said, "but she won't come around. She'd kill you if she could."

  For the first time, the Duc's optimism was shaken. Charles understood Isabelle better than anyone.

  The Duc was much too old, many in society said, to make a fool of himself by falling in love. And his wife would never agree to a divorce. Never. Their alliance had been a dynastic marriage from the start. Not unusual with two ancient families like the de Vecs and Montignys, and if Isabelle had chosen to overlook her husband's profligacies all these years, surely one more wouldn't matter. While civil law deemed adultery sufficient reason for divorce, criminal law still allowed a husband to be excused from killing his wife and her paramour. The wife conversely, was not. So the Duc's particular style of leisure activity was very much a man's prerogative.

  But the young woman he was enamored of was so dark, and also a foreigner without a title, and a lawyer. It was impossible with a family as old as de Vec's.

  So they may love each other (or think they do, or she may love him, the more cynical said… After watching Etienne for all these years many felt him unlikely to be "in love") but no one was foolish enough to anticipate wedding bells.

  Daisy found herself crying at odd moments and was unnerved.

  The Duc told himself there was nothing worse than an old fool. But she made him feel as if life mattered again. Not again. As if life mattered for the first time.

  He dried her tears with kisses. Kisses tender and grateful, like a young man's first love kisses.

  "I can't ask this of you, Etienne." Daisy would whisper, tears streaming, not restrained as the world had always seen her�never with Etienne—but open and vulnerable, a young girl's heart being broken.

  "I'll get a divorce if I have to give her everything," he said. Damn Isabelle, he angrily thought. As if it mattered after twenty cold years. As if it mattered that she remain the Duchesse de Vec. She had as much money as he. The children were grown… Jolie married with a child of her own.

  He thought then of Hector, so special to him, sunny and warm and bubbling with laughter. H
e wanted Daisy to meet him. He wanted… and the thought was at once ludicrous, disastrous, and wonderful—he wanted Daisy to have a child—his child. Fool, he thought, for the thousandth time that week, that day. Damned old fool.

  * * *

  Daisy wanted to talk to Bourges, so the Duc arranged an appointment. Felicien had been warned to make no mention of Isabelle's unyielding posture. And in truth he had every intention of winning the Duc's divorce, if not for the Duc, for his own satisfaction.

  After the amenities were covered, Daisy spoke to him in detail concerning the specifics.

  How soon would the second comparution take place? Would De Goux hear Isabelle's interview as well? Would the writ of summons be delayed by De Goux or Charles? Would Isabelle cross-petition?

  Bourges's answers were economical, to the point. Delays were expected; it wasn't certain yet whether Isabelle would simply contest or petition herself; De Goux was scheduled to hear Isabelle's interview in three weeks.

  "Three weeks? He gave her the full time to reply?"

  "As expected. De Goux owes the Minister numerous favors. We're hoping to get Delamaye for the assignation and grant of provisional measures."

  "What possibility is there of that?"

  Bourges shrugged. "A possibility." The Duc's expression conveyed a silent message. Bourges smiled. "A very good possibility, I might add. Delamaye usually sits for the provisional measures hearings."

  Each of Bourges's replies suggested a mild equivocation, not serious in themselves, but together causing Daisy small niggling doubts. He was hedging in subtle ways, telling her certain procedural steps were uncertain, Isabelle's stance was uncertain. That at least should have been clear after Bourges had spoken to Letheve. She felt oddly aggressive after a dozen more queries, as though she might have overstepped her position, for Bourges was answering her with restraint. "Forgive me," she said at last, "I don't mean to be presumptuous. Your Civil Code is considerably different from ours in the States."

  It was Felicien's turn to apologize. The lovely Miss Black from America was not only exotically beautiful, she was very astute. She'd noted the discrepancies in his answers. "The Montignys are extremely well connected—politically," he said. "Which makes the particular sequence of our methodology… well—" he smiled, "a little more sensitive. But you needn't feel presumptuous. You're very welcome to participate. We can use your expertise."

  Daisy smiled. "In the state of Montana where I live, the territorial government enacted divorce laws the first week of the territorial legislative session. With so few women in the territory, the men's motives were purely selfish. Our divorce laws are individualized by state. My expertise, I'm afraid, is relatively useless here. But thank you."

  "Are we finished quibbling over the details?" the Duc interposed. He'd patiently listened, indifferent to the particulars, the fine points. He had confidence in Bourges. He had more confidence in his own ability to defeat Isabelle's resistance—one way or another. He was realistic however about the length of time required. Bourges was right—the settlement could take some time to negotiate.

  "Have we been quibbling?" Daisy asked, her smile pleasant.

  "Very definitely." A thousand years of authority was incorporated in the de Vec drawl.

  "He doesn't work for a living," Daisy said, having been the rare recipient of the Duc's full attention the past many days. She was unaware of his myriad business commitments. "He only plays polo." Her tone was tolerant, amused. "Have we bored you with all the legal drudgery?"

  Bourges looked to the Duc for his reaction. The lady from America was not patronizing the Duc's heritage and power.

  "When I'm on horseback for hours, you call it play; when your father and brothers are on horseback for hours training their young stock, it's work." Etienne's green eyes were sportive. "I fail to see the distinction."

  "They raise horses for a living."

  "Along with their gold, copper, and sapphire mines."

  That explained Mademoiselle's Worth gown and pigeon-egg sapphires, Felicien decided. He had thought them a gift from the Duc.

  "Thank you for your time, Bourges." The Duc rose from his chair.

  "His polo ponies are waiting," Daisy explained with a grin. "And they are sacrosanct."

  It was midway through the polo season, running from April 15 through July 13, and Etienne played each afternoon with Valentin and his friends, a practice of long standing. "Nothing is sacrosanct in my life, darling, save you. Would you like my company this afternoon?"

  "And watch you check your timepiece a dozen times, thank you, no." Daisy's smile was indulgent. She had experienced the Duc's company as escort one afternoon shopping; although polite, he'd been distinctly restless. And with good reason; his team had lost that day without him.

  The Duc was standing over her, his hand out to help her from her chair, his eyes bright with laughter. "I'm taking you to Aïda tonight and I deplore Verdi. You owe me my afternoon's play."

  Placing her hand in his, Daisy rose, linked her arm with a cozy familiarity in the Duc's, and, turning to Felicien, said, "Would you care to join us tonight? Contrary to what Etienne says, Verdi is quite spectacular."

  Etienne was clearly surprised. Despite the Duc's more liberal stance in relation to many in the aristocracy, his circle of friends was small and exclusive. America's more fluid society based on parvenu wealth of varying degrees had not infiltrated the arrondissements of old money in Paris. But he rose to the occasion. "It would be our pleasure," he said to the man he'd retained as counsel.

  "Thank you, but I've other plans," Bourges replied, in agreement with the Duc's opinion of Verdi, not inclined to be genuinely comfortable at the opera. He preferred the Comédie Française or the more tantalizing plays at the Theatre des Capucines.

  Miss Black was most unusual, he thought, after the door had closed behind them. One rarely met a woman of her beauty and accomplishments. He could see why the Duc was attracted.

  His chin resting on his steepled fingers, he contemplated the view out his window, sorting and re-sorting his ideés fixes apropos men like the Duc and his very public relationship with Miss Black. If Aïda had interested him more, he would have accepted the invitation to the Opéra. He would have enjoyed watching the reaction of the opera fans. Wasn't the Duchesse de Vec one of the Opéra's, major patrons?

  * * *

  An electrifying silence greeted the entrance of the Duc de Vec and Miss Daisy Black into the de Chantel box. With news of de Vec's divorce petition yesterday having spread like wildfire, everyone was fascinated to see the reason for his action. They were a spectacular couple: he in full evening rig, she in magnificent china silk scarlet as a blood ruby. Both were tall, dark, elegant, and seemingly unaware of the attention they were drawing. Had his wife noticed too? Every head swiveled directly across the large gilded hall to gauge the reaction of the Duchesse occupying her usual position in the de Vec loge.

  The Duchesse appeared cool as ever, supported by her cousin the Archbishop, by her brother the Minister of Justice, and his wife. She was wearing white tonight as she was in the habit of doing, white tulle, tinseled and berib-boned. With the de Vec diamonds sparkling on her ears and décolletage.

  Immediately a buzz of excited, calculating comment rose. . Would she get to keep, the diamonds in the divorce set-dement? Would he win his divorce at all? Gossip already had it de Vec had exited de Goux's chambers in a rage. He wasn't the sort of man who took kindly to admonishing lectures.

  The Duc appeared as calm as his wife—they had at least a certain self-possession in common… notwithstanding lectures from magistrates concerning the sanctity of family. And when the Duc turned to address a smiling comment to his darkly beautiful companion, then proceeded to brush a fallen tendril of her black hair from the nakedness of her shoulder, the entire audience sucked in a breathless titillated pant. For a man of his composure, the gesture had been tantamount to a public unveiling.

  American women of course were recognized for their
frank independence. On which point the fascinated viewers weren't disappointed. De Vec's lover touched his mouth with her fingertip and laughed at something he'd said. Had the opera goers known her background more intimately—although some few did—no one would have been surprised at Daisy's sang-froid. She'd lived her entire life as the cynosure of a curious society. She was familiar with surveillance. Her wealth insulated her from the worst of the detractors as did her own well-developed sense of self. It also never hurt to be descended from generations of chieftains. There was a certain inherent arrogance stemming from those bloodlines.

  Let them look, she thought, aware of the raised lorgnettes, the scrutiny, the whispered comment. She hadn't destroyed a loving marriage; there hadn't been a marriage with any intimacy from the very beginning.

  Aware of their prospective reception, the Duc had debated coming tonight. He knew Isabelle would be present. But he wasn't going to hide, he'd decided. He had no reason to. His concern had been primarily for Daisy. How perceptible would the rudeness be? How barefaced the curiosity? Would she mind the stares?

  "I hope your enjoyment of Verdi makes up for this burning interest we seem to be attracting. The houselights should be down soon."

  "You're speaking to the only female in my law-school class and needless to say, the only Absarokee. I'm immune to curiosity seekers. Do you want to leave, though? These are all your acquaintances." She touched his hand lightly. "I never meant to bring your life to this…" her gaze swept over the crowd whose interest was still centered on either Isabelle or them, "… ferocious extremity."

  For a moment his own glance took in the jeweled and glittering assemblage, pausing briefly on Isabelle and her party across the way. "We can't leave everywhere, darling. I intend to live my life in my usual way. Although Verdi," he said with a grin, "is a concession to you. I don't think I've been to an opera in years."