Forbidden Page 32

  Hazard's grin was boyish. "Well, there's Sandhurst training and then there's the Absarokee way. What can I say?"

  "So you don't mind going?" Blaze wouldn't have pressured her husband even for Daisy had he been strongly opposed. Her first concern had always been Hazard's happiness as was his for her. Friends, lovers, confidants, a sustaining empathy served as basis for their enduring love.

  "No," he quietly said, "I don't mind. And if it'll help Daisy, we'll go."

  * * *

  The Duc de Vec opened his latest telegram from Jolie—the daily missive she'd warned him against.

  When are you coming to visit? the familiar message inquired, as had the ten previous ones, and he glanced at the calendar on his desk this time with a purposeful gaze. Justin had informed him yesterday, the polo club was putting together an extra team to send over to the informal matches in Newport and if he'd play, everyone would be eternally grateful, because Centrelle's team was bound to lose with their excessive interest in drinking.

  The auxiliary team would operate in an unofficial capacity, but in the event Centrelle couldn't play or others of his hard-drinking team succumbed to their excesses, the auxiliary team could serve as replacements. As head steward of the polo club, Centrelle, of course, had the right to assemble his own team, and he had. It was a touchy situation.

  Etienne hadn't committed himself yesterday, but with Jolie's telegram in his hand and his trip to Samarkand coming up next month, perhaps, he should consider a short visit to America. Seated on his first pony, Hector smiled at him from the framed photo on his desk. The Duc believed in his shaman gods; that smile looked real. Jolie, Henri, and Hector would be in Newport for the polo matches.

  He'd go.

  Trey noticed Etienne first, when the French team cantered onto the field. He was substituting for Centrelle at second.

  "There's de Vec," Trey said to his father, "at Centrelle's position. I didn't know he was here."

  Hazard's head swiveled around and he half turned in his saddle, his dark eyes dwelling consideringly on the man who had caused his daughter so much heartache. "Centrelle was tight as a mink yesterday; he mustn't have been up for play. Both he and Daudet have preferred the bar at the clubhouse." He squinted against the sun, his eyes taking on a calculating expression. "The French won't be so easy to beat today."

  "Saint-Joris is playing too." Trey lounged in his saddle, his hands resting on the pommel, a light breeze from the ocean ruffling his dark hair.

  "For Daudet. Someone finally had the good sense to take him and Centrelle off the team. De Vec and Saint-Joris must have both come in recently." Hazard unconsciously touched his gold cougar charm at his wrist, a contemplative expression visible on his face.

  "Have you seen him play?"

  Hazard turned an inquiring look on his son, as though brought back suddenly from some inner reverie.

  "Have you seen De Vec play?"

  "Once, years ago at Trouville," Hazard said, his tone still half musing. "He plays a rough-and-tumble style of polo, learned, I was told, in Chitral in northwest India during some of his travels. They play there in the streets without rules."

  "Like the Absarokee riding games," Trey said with a faint smile.

  "Except we don't have streets." Hazard's small shrug seemed to indicate dismissal of the concept of rules altogether. The Absarokee played literally for blood.

  "And you're playing second too," Trey noted, his gaze on the positioning of the French team.

  "How convenient," Hazard replied, his voice chilling to ice, turning his pony with a nudge of his knees, vengeance strong enough to taste in his mouth. "Shall we get into position?"

  The big polo field near Morton Park was curried until the grass was smooth as a carpet. Rolled lengthwise in opposite directions, broad stripes of light and darker green alternated down its length, giving an illusion of artificiality. Under a clear blue sky, bright sunshine shone down on the ranks of splendid carriages filled with well-dressed gentlemen and elaborately gowned ladies, the ladies' great cartwheel hats adorned with sumptuous silk flowers, ribbons, and feathers like a showy garden bordering the field.

  The teams were lined up at opposite ends of the field waiting for play to begin, keenly watching the umpire about to roll the ball out to the center of the field. According to the rules currently in vogue, once the ball was dropped, both number-one players raced for it in a mad charge, their teammates close behind. Horses sidled, impatient to be off, players slid their reins once more carefully into place, readjusted their grip on their mallets, their eyes on the official.

  A moment later the ball dropped.

  And the large crowd of spectators in carriages three deep around the field sat in dead silence as the galloping horses raced headlong down the field. At the moment of impact when the teams clashed, they all groaned in unison as the Duc de Vec was unhorsed. He held onto his reins and vaulted back into the saddle before the astonished referee could stop play, but in that flashing instant, the Americans had taken possession of the ball and were charging down toward the French goal with the disorganized French team flying after them. Trey had a clear shot for a goal and he scored.

  On the next swiftly executed play the tables were promptly reversed. The French back hit off a tremendous wallop to Etienne, who, with a punishing backhand, that had both loft and length, dropped the ball neatly in front of the American goal for Henri to knock through.

  "Good shot," Hazard grudgingly said, as the teams took position for the next play. De Vec played like a wild man, his pony trained to the inch. One had to admire his skill.

  "The last time I was unhorsed, I was eight. Good shot yourself," the Duc acknowledged. Hazard's checking had been deliberately rough, but recognizing Trey, Etienne had identified his attacker as Daisy's father, and understood. No father would appreciate his daughter being coupled by gossip with a married man. His resentment was natural.

  Their ponies sidled and jostled each other as they stood at the ready.

  "Stay out of my way and it won't happen again," Hazard murmured, watching the referee confer with an official on the sidelines.

  "It won't happen again," the Duc softly said, his gaze too sharply focused on the field. Expecting conservative polo, he hadn't been prepared, but he wouldn't be taken by surprise again.

  At the quiet defiance, Hazard turned to glance at the Duc briefly, his gaze immediately returning to the ball being placed in position. "I'd watch out if I were you," he warned, his body alert, intent on the movement of the other players, his eyes staring straight ahead. "She's unhappy; you made her unhappy."

  "She left me." It wasn't necessary for either of them to define "she." "And before you try to run me over with your pony again, we should clarify that point."

  "How's your divorce progressing?" Hazard's voice was sardonic. Of course Daisy would leave him under the circumstances; the man had no intention of getting a divorce.

  "Held up in court."

  "Convenient." Sarcasm blended with Hazard's growl.

  "How's her new boyfriend?" The coolness of the Duc's tone enhanced the effect of his British accent. If Daisy's irate father was out to kill him on the polo field, Etienne thought, he might as well understand who had left whom and for what.

  The ball skitted across the field, in play once again, abruptly curtailing their conversation.

  As they both raced forward, Hazard risked a moment to look at the Duc's face. New boyfriend? Was the man serious? All Daisy had done since her return was mope over her loss. The Duc's attention was concentrated on the ball, his mallet already swinging back for a hit. Bloody cool bastard. Was he trying to say Daisy was at fault? Damn him! He was the bounder, toying with Daisy's affections. Leaning forward in his saddle, Hazard urged his pony to more speed, overtaking Etienne, racing neck and neck with the Duc for possession of the ball. Drawing his left foot completely out of the stirrup as he came within range, Hazard twisted downward, stretching out for a jab shot. Both men galloped full-out toward the Fr
ench goal, the roar of the crowd, their teammates cries a distant clamor. The Duc moved his pony recklessly near Hazard's galloping mount, his mallet sweeping the grass, his body half out of the saddle, stretching for the ball sitting directly in line with the goal. Hazard shifted his mallet to his fingertips, his reach exceeding Etienne's by a scant breathless half-inch, and he sent the ball clear.

  His damn pony was oversize, Etienne fumed, that extra advantage giving Daisy's father that hairsbreadth more he'd needed to reach the ball. With his eye on the ball sailing out of range, Etienne wrenched his mount into a speeding, dangerous forehand turn, pursuing Hazard. Galloping close on his near quarter, Etienne shouted over the uproarious cries of the spectators, "Your pony's bigger than fifteen hands, dammit!"

  "It measures fifteen hands," Hazard returned with a grin, knowing his Indian pony measured smaller with the right preparation, preferring a bigger mount than those currently prescribed.

  "Like hell!"

  "Lose out on that last strike?" Hazard's long hair was flying in the wind, his smile smug, taking satisfaction in thwarting the man who'd made his daughter so unhappy.

  Etienne's answer blistered the air.

  The game took on a serious edge after that, a hard-riding, high, wide, and handsome game of grim competition, Trey and Henri battling at first, their teammates playing as fiercely. At the end of the third heated fifteen-minute period, the teams were even. Then in the final chukker, the weariness of both ponies and men began to show. The mounts were lathered, their speed slowed, a stumbling gait evident on the speed turns. Fatigue was equally apparent on the tight-lipped players. The sun slipped low in the sky as they fought up and down the shadowy long field with never a foul or safety to change the score. The sun set, twilight shadows appeared, the light dimmed as dark crept in, but they played on until at last only night itself put an end to the game.

  "We'll see you at the play-off," Hazard growled at the Duc, every muscle in his body aching after the savagely contested game, his breath coming in short hard gasps.

  "Fuck you," the Duc muttered, nursing the two fingers he'd sprained when Hazard's mallet hooked his—intentionally, he was sure. Damn, they hurt; they'd already swollen twice their size.

  "I don't think so," Hazard said, drawing air into his aching lungs. "But then I'm harder to fuck than most. Keep it in mind." He turned his pony, then, without using his reins, the merest pressure of one foot signal for his paint to move. And he rode off toward Trey who was conferring with the officials.

  * * *

  As Etienne rode away with his teammate Fallon, the French team's hostess, Nadine Belmont, waved them over to her carriage. A society hostess of note, she'd offered her recently built eleven-million-dollar "cottage" at Newport as guest quarters for the team, and with the Duc de Vec's arrival, she found added interest in pursuing warm French-American relations.

  The sky was the lilac-gray of evening, the mist from the ocean beginning to cool the air as they cantered slowly across the playing field. So many carriages still rimmed the perimeter of the turf—few spectators indifferent to the excitement of the fiercely fought match—the Duc wouldn't have noticed Daisy in the press of the crowd had Fallon not stopped to visit with Empress at their calash.

  "Etienne, you remember Empress," Fallon said, turning slightly in his saddle to include the Duc in the conversation. "We grew up together. She could outride me in those days."

  "He doesn't say we were eight then," Empress re-turned with a charming smile, looking elegant in maize georgette and a flower-bedecked straw hat, "and Papa had put me on a pony when I was two. You looked very skilled out there today, David." And moving her gaze to the Duc, Empress said, "How are you Etienne?"

  "Tired and slightly maimed," he said with a small smile, holding up his swollen hand. "How are you?" His query lapsed into an inattentive courtesy as he suddenly noticed Daisy seated slightly behind her sister-in-law and a flood of acute and conflicting feelings bombarded his mind. Surprise dominated, although he should have suspected she'd be here, watching her father and brother play—she'd watched him often enough.

  "I'm well," Empress said. The Duc's eyes were on Daisy, dressed with utter simplicity in white linen, a plain boater tipped gracefully over one eye. "Have you met my mother-in-law, Mrs. Braddock-Black?"

  Fallon nudged him. "I don't know whether we've actually ever met," Etienne quickly replied, his eyes swiveling to Blaze seated across from Daisy, "although I've seen you several times at Esme's." He smiled in apology for his preoccupation, and introductions were exchanged between the men and Blaze, between Fallon and Daisy. "You know each other, don't you?" Empress casually went on when it was Daisy's turn to be introduced to the Duc.

  "Good evening, Miss Black," the Duc said, circumspect and precise, as if they had been no more than incidental friends, aware all parties to the conversation were watching them. "I thought you'd be in Montana."

  "I didn't know you were with the team."

  Their statements were spontaneous, unguarded, their critical thoughts impossible to contain, both too conscious of what had passed between them, too expectant, too taut with a riveting, familiar heat.

  How large he looked and seductive in his white polo jersey and twill jodhpurs, his hair damp with sweat, and curling.

  "I wasn't officially until this morning," he carefully said, training his voice to an emotionless tone. "My decision to come was belated." And had he known she was in Newport, would he have chosen otherwise?

  "Damn lucky for us you arrived," Fallon interrupted. "Centrelle and Daudet couldn't sit a pony any longer."

  Two carriages down, their impatient hostess was signaling them, the silver and rose streamers on her large-brimmed hat trailing back and forth as she gestured with it, beckoning energetically. Her voice carried across the mauve twilight, unquiet and irrepressible.

  "Etienne, darling, do hurry! Etienne! Eti-ennnne!"

  "Excuse me," the Duc quietly said, beginning to gather his reins.

  "Will you be at Nadine's tonight?" Fallon quickly asked the carriage at large, preparing to leave with the Duc.

  "Yes," Empress said. "Later. We're dining with the Rutherfords first."

  David Ney, Marquis de Fallon, waved as he turned his pony's head. "Till then." He saluted with a casual wave, and kicking his pony into a canter, followed the Duc.

  "Are you all right?" Blaze asked Daisy, reaching out to touch her hand.

  "I'm fine, just fine." Her voice was crisp. "Nadine has a new darling," she added, curtly. "Somehow it doesn't surprise me."

  Empress and Blaze exchanged glances.

  "Nadine calls everyone darling," Empress said.

  "She calls every handsome man darling. Let's be specific."

  Daisy's gaze traveled down the line of carriages to the one holding the hostess of the French polo team who was at the moment smiling up into the Duc de Vec's laughing face. Nadine Belmont, second wife to the Chesapeake and Ohio Railroad Belmont, a man old enough to be her grandfather, was arching her back provocatively, showing her famous bosom to best advantage.

  "If the Duc hadn't gone to her, she'd still be screaming," Blaze declared. "It's not as though he had a choice."

  "You don't have to defend him to me. I know as well as you do, Etienne doesn't let others make his choices for him. If he didn't want to go, he wouldn't have. Now, can we change the subject because I don't care to be viewed with those consoling looks of sympathy. He and Nadine will get along swimmingly. She collects handsome men and Etienne holds the record for female acquisitions in this century. A match made in heaven."

  Daisy hadn't known what to expect on seeing Etienne again. She supposed with female vanity she'd expected him to show some feeling, indicate in some romantic way that he cared—he'd always care in some poetic eternal golden dream of unrequited love.

  She should have realized her sentimental fantasies were outside the scope of his emotions. Etienne Mattel didn't pine. By personality and inclination he rejected that sensibility.
He found another woman was what he did. And she'd seen Isabelle's staggering list to prove it.

  "Speaking of matches," Blaze said, segueing into a more palatable topic as requested, "they left blood on the field this afternoon. My word, that was a brutal game."

  "No more than those at the summer camp when everyone's betting their best horses on the outcome." Empress had been shocked at her initial introduction as spectator to the Absarokee warriors' notion of play. The riding game of choice on the northern plains was a cross between lacrosse and polo or more aptly between suicide and warfare, with no quarter given or requested. Played in minimum garb of leggings and moccasins, the first time she'd seen Trey ride off the field after a game covered with blood, she'd fainted.

  Since then she'd become accustomed to their masculine games where courage, bravery, and an undeniable audacity were prerequisites of competition.

  But in lieu of horses, she suspected the prize today was pride.

  Hazard and Trey rode up then, dust-covered, sweaty, exhausted, but cheerful. There was satisfaction in a hard-fought game where the teams were evenly matched and the play rough-and-tumble. Hazard's biggest complaint with Eastern polo was its conservative style. Coming from a culture and generation where warfare had been a way of life in his youth, he missed the bold intrepidity of attack. "We'll take them in the play-offs," Hazard said, his smile white in the gathering dusk.

  "No broken bones?" Blaze inquired with an answering smile.

  "A few bruises, that's all. Nothing to keep me from dancing with you tonight," Hazard gallantly replied. He knew how much Blaze enjoyed Eastern society where she had a vast network of friends from her past.

  "Nadine's birthday party promises to outshine Alva Vanderbilt's, I'm told on good authority. An orchestra from Vienna no less."