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  "Perhaps," Daisy replied, more aware than Isabelle of the duration of her relationship with the Duc. In all likelihood, she would be on board a steamship this time next week.

  "You females never do."

  "Is there a point to this?" Daisy wasn't interested in being insulted by the Duchesse de Vec. If she had come merely to cast derision, further discussion was unnecessary.

  "This is the point." Drawing an envelope from the deep pocket of her skirt, she tossed it on the table beside Daisy's chair, her smile smugly malicious.

  Opening the envelope, Daisy took out the two sheets of scented paper and looked at them both. On each page were twin columns of names—women's names—written in lavender ink. She began mentally to count them, but found the list too long to quickly calculate. Gazing up at Isabelle, she said, "Obviously these mean something."

  "They're a partial list of the women Etienne's amused himself with. I thought you might be interested. Naturally… those in the brothels are unknown to me."

  Daisy was unable to repress the sinking feeling of revelation. She had known, of course, of the Duc's reputation, but—she'd never fully realized the extent. "Why did you… allow this?" she murmured, unable to speak in a normal tone with the suffocating weight filling her chest.

  "Etienne isn't a man noted for obedience. Surely, you're aware of this. I begged him," she lied, "especially when the children were young, to have more respect for his duty as husband and father. He was rarely home."

  Daisy was rational enough to recognize Isabelle's attempt at melodrama; aware of Etienne's devotion to his children and grandchild—in terms of duty, he couldn't be faulted. The women, of course, were entirely different. She found herself dreadfully tired suddenly, of Isabelle and the confrontational nature of Etienne's marriage, of the disastrous vicious divorce in which she'd be involved whether she wished to or not. She was tired too, of pale-faced, supercilious women who found in a succession of wardrobe changes each day their raison d'etre. "Thank you for the list," Daisy said, rising from her chair, leaving the papers on the table, no longer able to even pretend politesse. "I'm sure its compilation took some effort. If you'll excuse me now." Without waiting for a reply, Daisy began walking from the room.

  "He receives billets-doux everyday," Isabelle proclaimed, her voice cheerful, having driven her rival from the field, as it were. "Have you seen them?" she called after Daisy's retreating form. "Ask Burns, ask Louis, ask Valentin!"

  Daisy had almost reached the doors to the entrance hall when they opened and Etienne stood in the threshold, his gloved hands grasping the twin door-handles. Streaked with dust, sweaty and disheveled, his white jersey clung damply to his body. His eyes met Daisy's briefly then moved past her to rest on his wife. "You're not welcome here, Isabelle. Do I need a court order?"

  "I'm leaving, Etienne," his wife pleasantly said. "I hope your game was exhilarating." All cool, pale placidity, the Duchesse de Vec ignored her husband's harsh tone.

  Her mission must have been successful, he decided, with her smugness so palpable.

  Daisy had come to a halt just short of him, for he was blocking her exit from the room.

  "Don't believe her," he said, seeing the wounded look in Daisy's dark eyes. Whatever Isabelle had said could be explained; whatever form of slander had brought his wife here when she knew he was on the polo fields, apparently wouldn't withstand his presence in the conversation.

  "It's all right, Etienne… really," Daisy softly replied. "She didn't tell me anything I didn't already know." Daisy tried to smile but found she couldn't. "I'd like to get… out of this room," she added in a hushed undertone, "… if you'd move."

  He moved swiftly. "I'm sorry you had to deal with—"

  "Your wife?" Daisy quietly offered, her voice touched with sarcasm.

  There was no excuse, no palatable answer. "I'm sorry," he repeated, the scent of her familiar and sweet, wild rose freshness he'd recognize blindfolded.

  She didn't answer but brushed by him and walked away, her fragrance lingering in his nostrils.

  "Was it something I said?" Isabelle sardonically inquired, picking up the wide-brimmed hat she'd discarded on a small settee, as though she had the right to make herself at home.

  "If there's any justice in this world, Isabelle," the Duc replied with a brusque kind of weariness, "you'll drown in your own poison someday."

  "If there's any justice in this world, Etienne, darling, you'll remember whom you're married to," she sharply replied. "And if you have trouble remembering, several years in court might serve to remind you!"

  "I'm divorcing you, if it takes my entire lifetime. I hope that's clear."

  Since Charles had delivered into her hands yesterday the outstanding notes of each of the magistrates likely to be involved in the legal proceedings, Isabelle spoke from a position of strength. "It will, darling. I hope that's clear."

  "Look," Etienne said, beginning to strip his gloves from his hands, "regardless of the divorce proceedings… and I concede, it may be a protracted affair"—his voice took on an authority�"Daisy is to be preserved from your venom. Understood?" He would not compromise in his protection of her.

  An unnatural light appeared in Isabelle's eyes.

  "As is Hector," he added, his hands arrested momentarily. "Neither point is negotiable. I hope that's perfectly plain. I'll come for you, Isabelle, if you harm either one of them." He didn't worry about Justin or Jolie; familiar with their mother, they could handle themselves. His gaze held his wife's for several taut moments.

  "We'll see," she murmured, her smile chilling.

  "No, we won't," he harshly retorted, stripping his fingers fully free of his gloves and tossing them aside. "There'll be goddamned war, Isabelle, if you come within fifty meters of either one of them again." He didn't trust her; she had a vicious streak he knew was dangerous.

  "My, my, we're defensive," she cooed.

  "Always a prudent position to assume in your presence."

  "Keep it in mind," she murmured.

  "Don't worry, Isabelle. After twenty years, it's automatic with me anytime you get within speaking distance."

  "Your droll sense of humor was always amusing."

  "I live to amuse you," he ironically replied. "But take my warning to heart. No closer than fifty meters… ever."

  "I tremble, darling," she said with a mocking smile.

  What made him wary was the very real knowledge her mockery was genuine. It was pointless, he decided in disgust, to listen—pointless and useless. He should know better after all this time. "You can find your way out, I'm sure." Turning abruptly, he left, angry and frustrated. And disheartened at the lengthy ordeal that lay ahead.

  He found Daisy on the balcony outside his bedroom, seated on the willow couch where they watched the sunsets. Looking up at him when he stepped through the opened doorway she smiled, a rueful small quirk of her mouth.

  "What did she say?" he asked, his voice and expression resigned. The sooner he heard, the sooner he could deal with Isabelle's malice.

  "She brought over some lists."

  "Lists?"

  "Of women's names. Women you've been involved with," Daisy added in response to his enigmatic look. "She wrote them herself… in lavender ink," Daisy went on as if the additional explanation would clear the turmoil from her mind. "They're downstairs."

  The Duc left without speaking, returning short moments later without the scented pages.

  "Did you recognize the names?" She couldn't help herself, although she'd told herself a dozen times since she'd escaped Isabelle's presence a discussion of the women in Etienne's past was fruitless. What could possibly be accomplished except to add to the bitterness?

  Sitting down at the small table, he gazed out on the river for a brief moment wondering how to respond to the misrepresentations on Isabelle's perfumed stationery. "Some of them," he carefully said.

  "Some of them?" A woman's affront colored her query despite the particular circumstances in which she shou
ld have been pleased the answer hadn't been more inclusive. "Is that a casual disclaimer or did Isabelle become overzealous with her lavender ink?"

  The Duc debated for a moment on how honest to be. "I don't remember some of the names, to be perfectly frank."

  "Because there have been so many?" Daisy couldn't keep the resentment from her voice.

  He didn't answer for some time. "I don't know," he said. "Maybe. Some are fabrications… others—" He shrugged. "I really don't know." His uncertainty was irrelevant to his love for Daisy, he thought, but he wouldn't be able to make her understand that. "I can't erase the last twenty years," he quietly added, "even if I wished to."

  "Maybe you don't wish to, you're saying." Her dark eyes were trained on him as though he were lunch for a hungry predator.

  "I don't want to make excuses," he very softly said, "but you didn't live my life. And whether you believe it or not, many of those women extended the—invitation."

  That she believed.

  "Also… Isabelle could have expanded the list for effect." He sighed. "But it doesn't really matter, does it, as far as your feelings are concerned, whether there are twenty names more or less?"

  "No."

  "I didn't think so."

  "I'm going back to Montana next week," Daisy quietly said.

  "Because of this?" His green eyes were half lidded and wary.

  Daisy shook her head in a small economical movement. "My tickets are scheduled for the Tuesday sailing."

  "You could change them."

  "Your divorce isn't going to be expeditious… not with Isabelle in her current frame of mind. And I've commitments for my family, some of which—court hearings and the like—I shouldn't miss."

  "Perhaps not staying's for the best," Etienne replied, worried for Daisy's safety after Isabelle's visit. His concern wasn't keenly acute, only a general unease predicated on Isabelle's mocking poise. Having Daisy out of harm's way might be prudent. "You have commitments… until this divorce is settled…" His voice trailed off as he grimaced slightly. God only knew how long that would be.

  Daisy was surprised at Etienne's mild acceptance; she'd thought he'd be more distressed at her leaving. Was Isabelle right, after all, about her position in Etienne's life? Was she simply another transient relationship as easily discarded as all the others? "I suppose you're right," she said, a noticeable coolness in her voice.

  "Isabelle's a factor too," he added, feeling some acknowledgement of her menace necessary. "Lord knows, I don't want you to go, but Isabelle could be a threat to your safety."

  Daisy's brows shot up. "Seriously?" The notion was almost inconceivable.

  The Duc raised his hands in an open gesture of uncertainty, shook his head briefly, and sighed. "Maybe seriously… so your leaving might be prudent."

  After her recent discussion with Isabelle, Daisy's immediate reaction was a small uncomfortable doubt. Surely she was in no danger in Paris from a jealous wife; how would Isabelle hurt her? With her diamond-studded parasol handle? Or the business end of her ivory and feather fan? Perhaps this was convenient for the Duc, this idea of a threat. Since she'd already planned to leave, no argument was necessary. "If you think so, I'm sure you know better than I."

  Her unemotional response disconcerted the Duc. Daisy was rarely so docile; he corrected himself—she was never docile. Was she leaving because she no longer cared? he wondered, touched with a novel insecurity when it came to Daisy. Or was she simply being practical now that his divorce had been orchestrated into a major calamity. "Isabelle's temper over the divorce should moderate with time. And Bourges tells me he may be able to change the venue to the Colsec district since I've lived there for almost twenty years. I'll come for you when the preliminaries point to success." He smiled. "You can show me your mountain lodge."

  Isabelle's unexpected appearance and unnerving list served to hinder her unconditional acceptance of Etienne's statements. Where she may have taken his words to heart in the past, Daisy scrutinized them now with suspicion. How easy for him to make promises. Perhaps he ended all his relationships on those friendly terms. Such leave-takings certainly saved tears and recriminations. And if this was a timeworn custom, she could certainly be as blas�. "If Bourges proves successful, I'd be happy to."

  "You don't sound optimistic."

  Looking across the small balcony at the Duc from under half-lowered lashes, she answered frankly, her thoughts a melange of melancholy and suspicion underlaid with her perennial logic. "You're not just fighting Isabelle's defiance," she said with the smallest of sighs, "your petition for divorce is a threat to those of your class with values and norms antipathetic to yours.10 Remember, they condemn not only the ease of divorce, but the act itself. And they're as utterly committed to their conceptions of normal behavior as we are to our individuality." She lifted her dark lashes fully, looking at him with open candor, wondering if he was being as frank with her. "No, I'm not optimistic," she honestly said, Isabelle's visit too recent and upsetting to overlook. "Our lives are fragile and society can be oppressive. I should know. My people are victims of that system." Isabelle's visit today was a reminder, in a way, of the sad capacity for exploitation and cruelty so casually directed at anyone considered weaker.

  The Duc understood how her own experience with prejudice could color her thoughts, but his own life had been one of such privilege, he couldn't agree with her more pessimistic view. He'd never had to fight for any of the prerogatives he took for granted. But he'd been in struggles for advantage in business, and he understood if you gave up, you never won. "Bourges will find a way," he said.

  "Will you live in America then?" In the gloomy aftermath of Isabelle's visit, she might as well bring up another of the sizable obstacles to their future.

  "I hadn't considered the possibility. Could you not live here with me?"

  As she'd expected, he'd not envisioned changing his life, only hers. "Not permanently," Daisy replied.

  Swiftly recovering from the surprise of her reply, he said, "We can work out the logistics, Daisy, believe me."

  She didn't have the heart to tell him Parisian society was of little interest to her, apart from the few friends she had… and him of course. "So we'll work things out," she murmured with a smile that was teasing, weary suddenly of the extended misery in the contemplation of their future. She had five more days with him; five more days to love him and talk to him, to share his laughter and his life. And she intended to have pleasure in those few days, a last chapter, as it were, in her book of memories.

  The Duc's grin was instantaneous, receptive to her altered mood. "We've always been very good," he agreed, his voice suddenly husky, his green eyes insinuating, "at… working things out."

  "Does an afternoon bath interest you, for instance?" Daisy said, her voice suggestive.

  Raking a hand through his long black hair, dusty and still damp from his heated play and swift ride home, he murmured, "Very much."

  "I could help." It was a promise of pleasure.

  "Or join me." The Duc's bath was royal in propoitions, the sunken tub a tribute to Bernini's taste for mythological Roman fountains.

  "If I can wash your hair."

  His brows rose a very small distance, a subtle promise of his own. "You have my permission to wash anything at all," he said very softly, rising then to reach out and take her hand.

  "I dislike the word permission."

  His darling Daisy was back in form. He grinned. "Invitation then, my spirited lady—does that suit your independent status better?"

  "If I had more time, I might rid you of your stereotyping of my sex." Her voice was teasing provocation, her dark eyes alive with mischief.

  "Make no mistake, darling, you are a rare, headstrong exception." He spoke with the conviction of much experience.

  "But then the women you're familiar with are no more than ornaments to some man's life. The world beyond the narrow confines of Paris nobility offers a wider array of female accomplishments."


  The Duc had no intention of arguing with his darling Daisy now that the specter of Isabelle's visit had been obliterated. And while Daisy was right in relegating the society women of his class to ornaments, in his journeys around the globe, he'd found women of Daisy's accomplishments were highly uncommon. "You're absolutely right," he said with a smile, "as always."

  "I dislike patronizing men." Her smile matched his.

  "In that case, I shall be rude and objectionable… a much easier posture to assume. Then you can be righteously offended."

  "Like a sweet and pink young miss… the kind you offend no doubt with great regularity."

  Offend wasn't quite the proper word; the Duc de Vec in fact tantalized all the timid sweet and pink young misses with his disreputable dark good looks. And had they dared—and had he been interested in sweet and pink young misses—he could have had any one of them.

  During Bernini's aborted mission to rebuild the Louvre, he'd left artisans behind and architectural drawings, as well, for those nobles wealthy enough to afford his fees. Temperamental as a prima donna, he'd designed his glorious palaces with no concession to French climate or the function of the rooms. His de Vec patron had pragmatically adapted Bernini's genius for creating theatrical effects in architecture to the reality of daily living, his green-tiled grotto bath, an example. Hot water pipes maintained a compatible temperature year round—the skylights were reinforced with ornate metal bracket frames, the enormous pool and waterworks were heated.

  Amidst Bernini's frolicking dolphins, cavorting putti, and gushing spigots, Daisy washed the Duc's hair as he lay on the stepped cascade, taking his ease after a strenuous afternoon of polo. Like a harem houri she served her master, and like a sultan of a seraglio, he accepted her homage.

  "You're spoiling me," he murmured, half asleep under the warm water coursing over his lean, bronzed body.

  Running her fingers through his sleek black hair, she rinsed away the last remnants of soap. "And you spoil me," she softly replied, wanting suddenly to protect him from the malicious presumption of his wife, wanting to care for him in the mundane intimacies of everyday life, wanting also to make love to him in endless devotion—to preserve as loving memories against her bleak future.