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  The Duc related the highlights of the match as they walked back through the garden to his carriage, their conversation over dinner lightheartedly centered on the events of the afternoon. His team's retention of the trophy for the third year was unprecedented, the excited glow of triumph coloring the mood of their evening.

  Much later that night, when Etienne slept, Daisy eased herself carefully from his arms and, leaving the bed, walked to the opened windows overlooking the Seine. Standing nude and unselfconscious in the moonlight, she reflected on the brevity of her time with Etienne. Three weeks, she thought, restless and unsettled. And then she must leave.

  It wasn't possible for her to remain in Paris for all the long duration of Etienne's contested divorce. In any event the circumstances would be too unpleasant even if the procedure were mercifully swift. She found herself fainthearted, dreading the intense bitter fight Isabelle would mount, knowing Etienne's wife would never prove amenable to compromise.

  Her spirits too had spoken when she'd asked for guidance.

  She believed in the sanctity of their presence. They had always shown her the way.

  * * *

  The following days were a time fashioned from a lover's dream. Daisy and the Duc lived in the apartment on the Seine, together for the first time, in love and loved and happy. They went to the races with Etienne's mother, avoiding the crowds, watching Etienne's black win from the privacy of the Duc's box. Adelaide and Valentin came over for dinner and accompanied them one day to Colsec for a picnic. On seeing Colsec for the first time, Valentin realized how private a man his friend was. Twenty years, he thought, and I never knew.

  Daisy and Etienne dined out at the Cafe de Madrid and the Maison Anglaise, smart restaurants filled with the grand monde, and at serious old places like the Tour d'Argent and Père La Thuille's in Montmartre, where the gilt and tinsel were missing but the cuisine was perfect and the wine very old. They appeared at some of the small theatres like the Theatre de la Robiniere and the Grand Guignol. They took in some of the frivolous romantic comedies at the Comédie Française, and the new showings at the galleries.

  They spent lazy mornings in bed testing the pleasurable limits of love and affection, touching and smiling and agreeing these moments were their own garden of delights. In the afternoons when the Duc played polo, Daisy would accompany him occasionally and watch the heated matches—the Duc's cavalier disregard for the club rule barring women from the practice field overlooked by his teammates as well.

  Love in such manifest rapture couldn't be obstructed.

  Several afternoons, Daisy took time to oversee the final depositions required for adding Solange's name to Empress's properties. Sometimes she stayed at home simply to rest. She lived each day for its pleasure, consciously storing away the happy memories against a sadder time to come. During the buffalo days of her first twelve years, she'd lived the nomadic life of her tribe, unparalleled training in the acceptance of natural cycles. She understood how the patterns of life ebbed and flowed, how the sunshine and plenty of summer gave way to the storms and deprivations of winter. And she understood the necessity of laying up reserves against the future. She wasn't without her moments of melancholy; on those afternoons when she was alone, or sometimes at night when she couldn't sleep, she'd wonder if she'd heard the spirits and seen the signs properly. But the rational, the pragmatic part of her nature—the portion of her personality more typical than the sybaritic, blissful woman in love or the reader of spirit signs, reminded her of the problems. A mild word for Isabelle's intentions, a mild word for the liabilities she represented in the continuity of Etienne's life. Too lenient a word for the impossibility of joining their totally disparate lives.

  And she counted the days.

  "Get up," Etienne said one sunny morning, bending over to kiss Daisy awake, "I'm taking you shopping."

  "Don't want to…" Daisy mumbled, burrowing deeper into the covers. She hadn't his energy or the stamina to stay up late into the night and be up at dawn, cheerful.

  "Worth's is having a sale." Sitting on the edge of the bed, he smiled down at Daisy. He was dressed, having already met with Bourges that morning.

  "Not either…" Her eyes were shut again. Worth's never had sales.

  "Some people are pretty grumpy this morning." His voice was full of cheer.

  "It can't be morning. Go away."

  "I've made an appointment with Jean-Philippe."

  "I've too many gowns already." She'd half buried her face in the pillow to shut out the light, so her words were muffled. They'd been to Worth's before. Etienne was a generous man.

  "He has a dress, I'm told by a reliable source, made from the ivory silk you admired at Guillet's Gallery last week."

  Daisy's eyes flashed open. "The ivory silk over-embroidered with tulips?" Delight infused her voice as she rolled over.

  "Exactly." She had a childlike enthusiasm he adored; it nurtured his humanity, mitigated his streak of cynicism, made him believe again in magical concepts like unlimited joy.

  "You had it made."

  "Come try it on." He didn't deny her assertion.

  "The fabric wasn't for sale at Guillet's. That special length was promised to the Musée Historique des Tissues at Lyon."

  "Guillet's a reasonable man." Actually he was an unreasonable man but they'd eventually agreed on a price for the exhibition-quality design.

  "You shouldn't have."

  Her smile made him very glad he did. "Come see if it fits."

  They were greeted at Worth's by Gaston Worth himself, who had seen the Duc's carriage arrive and rushed downstairs to waylay them. None of the couture house subordinates could safely handle the potentially combustible situation with the Duchesse de Vec in their special dressing room accompanied by one of the young priests she customarily retained as escort. With his brother Jean-Philippe and several female shop assistants in attendance of course. But the Duchesse's young priests always took a curiously personal interest in her toilette… making decisions for her on style and detail… familiar, it seemed, with the Duchesse taste in gowns, at ease with the Duchesse in her lingerie. He'd prefer the two parties didn't meet.

  "Good morning, Monsieur le Duc," Gaston breathlessly declared, having run down two flights of stairs to stop the Duc from going up to the first-floor dressing rooms. "And Miss Black. What an honor so early in the morning."

  "Jean-Philippe was expecting us," Etienne quietly said, aware of Gaston's skittish nerves. Gaston rarely undertook to greet customers; he was the house business manager.

  "Papa will see you directly. Would you like tea?"

  "You needn't bother your father." The Duc knew Charles-Frederick Worth took little part in the day-to-day activities of the house since his health had declined. "Jean-Philippe designed a gown for Miss Black. Would you like tea, dear?"

  "Yes," Daisy said, and Gaston exhaled an audible sigh of relief.

  "Let me have tea brought to you in our private salon. Denys," he ordered, actually snapping his fingers in his agitation, "show Miss Black and the Duc de Vec into the primrose salon."

  The young man standing at attention near the door reacted like a trained soldier, although his smile was gracious.

  "I'll have Jean-Philippe bring Miss Black her gown immediately," Gaston promised, briskly signaling for another subordinate to send off with the message.

  "There's no special rush," the Duc pleasantly replied, struck by Gaston's disquietude. What was alarming him so? If he didn't know better he'd consider Gaston's nervousness had to do with the irregularity of his and Daisy's union. But since the House of Worth made a considerable portion of their profits from men buying gowns for their paramours, that possibility was unlikely.

  "How kind, Your Grace." Gaston nodded toward the salon. "Denys. He's at your disposal, Your Grace. I'll order the tea myself. A few moments of your patience, Miss Black," Gaston murmured and with a flawless bow, he swiftly took his departure.

  Tea was elaborate, the primrose salon on the
ground floor more so, the young man—left, the Duc suspected, to see that they stayed in the pale yellow salon—the soul of courtesy. And when Jean-Philippe rushed in a short time later, full of apologies and breathless, followed by two assistants bearing Daisy's gown, the Duc was bemused. "No need to apologize, Jean-Philippe. Denys has seen to our every comfort," he said, lounging in a down-cushioned fauteuil sturdy enough to hold even his weight. "Are we early?"

  "No, no… Monsieur le Duc. Half past eleven, you said, I know, but Papa… had a slight spell," Jean-Philippe improvised quickly. "Nothing serious," he swiftly added, seeing the expres-sion of concern on the Duc's face. "He's resting comfortably upstairs."

  Odd… Etienne thought, Gaston had suggested their Papa help them with the fitting no more than five minutes ago. Ever courteous, the Duc kept his reservations to himself. "Someone else can help Miss Black with her fitting if it's inconvenient for you."

  "No… No… Papa's fine now. I'm completely at your service," Jean-Philippe declared, his breathing almost restored to normal. "Papa insists on eating sausage in the morning when he knows it doesn't agree with his stomach. A small rest and he'll be recovered. Do you like it?" he inquired with a smile, gesturing to the magnificent ivory gown held by his two assistants.

  It was a botanical celebration, Daisy thought: fireworks of tulips in vibrant reds and golds with soft mossy green foliage on pale silk. There was no question why the textile had garnered a grand prix for Maison Gourd at the Exposition Universelle. Tulipes Hollandaise was resplendent. "It's unbelievably beautiful." Turning to Etienne, she softly said, "Thank you."

  For the winsome look of appreciation on her face, the Duc would have gladly bought out the looms of Lyon—although Guillet had realized enough profit from his reluctant sale to capitalize a small textile factory of his own. "Let me see the tulips," the Duc quietly said, "next to your skin. And you can show off your gown tonight."

  "Are we going somewhere?" Her face was alight like a young girl's.

  "I thought you might like to be seen in that at the Opéra."

  "La Traviata! You're taking me to La Traviata!"

  "Was it worth getting up this early?" His voice was lightly teasing.

  "Oh, yes," she exuberantly breathed, sobering for a moment when she considered how few days she had left to hear his teasing voice. Or wake in his bed… or take pleasure in his pleasure at pleasing her. "Yes," she repeated in a reflective sigh. "Absolutely."

  Jean-Philippe's two assistants helped Daisy undress to the fragile laciness of her lingerie while the Duc watched with obvious enjoyment. While other women needed corsets, Daisy's slender waist needed no restraint nor did her high abundant breasts require added support. The graceful curve of her hips offered perfect lyrical symmetry to the eye, her nipples, visible beneath the white sheer lace of her chemise, provocatively drew the Duc's fascinated gaze.

  He smiled faintly, his heavy-lidded eyes appreciative when he raised them to catch Daisy's glance over the heads of the women fitting her with petticoats, and Daisy felt a tingle of response in the very tips of her nipples, as though he'd reached out and touched them. Embarrassed at her ready susceptibility to the most casual display of his interest, she quickly dropped her lashes, her fluster of shyness as intoxicating, the Duc reflected, as her irrepressible sensuality. He was an extremely lucky man.

  Jean-Philippe fussed and hovered on the perimeters of the dressing women, giving small orders and murmuring comments as his assistants hooked Daisy into the splendid silk gown. When she stood at last in the rich beauty of the embroidered fabric designed by Jean-Philippe into a sumptuous work of art, he pronounced, "Perfection!" with neither modesty nor reserve. "Don't you agree?" he said, turning to survey the Duc.

  "Utter perfection," the Duc softly murmured, visibly moved by the dramatic contradiction of ritualized adornment and primordial beauty. The exquisite shade of golden ivory served as lyric foil to Daisy's dark skin, the crimson and gold tulips, accent for the fire of her passion. Even the restless rhythm of the wind-tossed tulip design echoed the intensity of her spirit. The feminine froth of ivory lace and tulle framing her shoulders and high-mounded breasts, pressed upward by tightly hooked stays, served to dramatize her sensuous appeal, the decorative silk tulips disposed in the waves of lace, lying against the satin of her flesh, ornament to her classic beauty. "Come here," he quietly commanded, needing to touch her in an anachronistic act of possession, as though he must put his mark of ownership on her.

  And she went to him because she wished in her own convoluted way to belong to him. When she knew she couldn't. When she knew that their time together was severely limited… when she knew her heart would break when she left him.

  He moved from his casual sprawl as she approached, sitting upright to take her hand in his. Pulling her between his legs, he released her hand, placing both his around her slender waist. His fingers, almost circling her waist, were warm on the silk of the gown, as firm in their grasp as the staunch boning constricting her waist, offering her breasts in ostentatious display. His grip tightened slightly and his gaze lifted to hers. "I have this overwhelming need to own you," he murmured. "It unnerves me."

  "I know."

  "I don't even feel the necessary courtesy of asking your permission." His voice was very low, a half-whispered gruffness.

  "I know."

  His brows rose in mild inquiry. Daisy was rarely so docile. "I want to leave or ask them to leave and lock the door."

  Daisy moved the merest fraction under his hands, a small sensuous response. "Shall we test the limits of ownership at your house?" she murmured, her smile enchanting. "I'd prefer the privacy."

  The Duc's hands dropped away and he stood in a swift abrupt movement. "A cloak for the lady, Jean-Philippe. She'll wear the gown."

  There was no mistaking the brevity and command in the Duc's tone. A wrap was found in record time, orders surreptitiously given to the staff in the Duchesse's dressing room to keep her busy for at least another ten minutes while the Duc's carriage was brought up to the door. And the Duc and Miss Black were shown out of the House of Worth a short time later in a billow of costly embroidered silk.

  With a dramatic sense of having escaped disaster by only a hairsbreadth, Jean-Philippe stood on the curb as the Duc's carriage rolled away, wiping the sweat from his brow.

  "No, Etienne… wait until we get home. This gown's worth a fortune." Daisy's murmured protest was accompanied by a playful slap at the Duc's hands.

  No one was more aware of the fact than he, but Etienne's casual disregard for half a million francs had much to do at the moment with his libido. "We'll send it back to Worth later for pressing." And he brushed aside the froth of lace lying on the warm curve of Daisy's breast.

  "You're irresponsible." She blocked the route of his fingers.

  "You're irresistible." He was of course stronger than she. "I enjoyed the sight of your peaked nipples while they were dressing you. Were you thinking of me?" His query was a low lazy murmur, his fingers sliding under her décolletage to touch the stiff tingling buds. "You were…" he added in a whisper, his smile very close and warm.

  "We shouldn't…" But her body was less prudent, Etienne's caresses bringing the focus of her world to the finite quickened object he held between his fingertips. An intoxicating pulsing raced downward to her impressionable sensual receptors, and she felt herself open as though he'd commanded her.

  "You've too many petticoats," he said, one hand moving down to push the impeding fabric aside.

  "I'm sorry…" she whispered, her dark eyes heated and teasing and seductive.

  "You won't be for long," he promised with a husky insinuating arrogance, his smile brushing her lips. "Kiss me."

  * * *

  The following Monday a note from Charles arrived for Daisy, brought over from Adelaide's by one of the servants. Daisy and the Duc were having breakfast on the balcony overlooking the river and even before Daisy finished reading it, the Duc could tell the message was unwelcome.


  "He says problems have arisen in the processing of the papers for Empress's estate."

  "What kind of problems?" The Duc's voice was extremely soft.

  "He doesn't say." Daisy folded the note, returned it to its envelope, and set it on the table with a precision masking the intensity of her feelings. She was familiar with elusive denials, those vague refusals without substance; the kind one couldn't counter. She was, after all, an Absarokee in a land which denied the majority of Indians the right to vote;8 she was a woman prohibited entrance to the more prestigious law schools.9 And without her father's wealth and influence, it was questionable whether she would have been admitted to the bar in Montana. "Charles's retraction of help was really just a matter of time, wasn't it?" she quietly said. "Although I'd hoped he might have forgotten… with other more pressing issues on his mind," she added with a rueful smile.

  "The two matters are not related. I thought Charles had more sense."

  "He can't interdict those property transfers already accomplished and actually—" Daisy shrugged away a familiar resentment too old to dwell on at length, "there's very little left to do. The remainder of the transfer process can be done later."

  "That's not the point," Etienne crisply said, protective of the woman he loved. How dare Charles involve Daisy's legal affairs in the struggle over his divorce.

  "The point is, darling," Daisy replied, "you've fallen in love with the wrong woman." She smiled to mitigate the stark truth. "And Charles is only acting defensively. You had to expect this."

  No, he hadn't expected it; he hadn't expected Charles to be so stupid; he hadn't expected Charles would risk trespassing on the extremely dangerous ground of his personal attachments. "Well, I didn't," he mildly said, already adjusting his afternoon schedule to accommodate a visit to his brother-in-law. "Charles is generally more prudent."

  Daisy recognized that tone in a man's voice. Coming from a family of expeditious men who operated on the principle of never backing down, she understood masculine aggression. "Please don't do anything foolish. Empress's business is relatively complete. In fact, since Charles's note came so late in the legal process, it's probably a token gesture. A matter of form to please Isabelle."