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"If I were more temperate," Daisy replied, her smile matching his, "I'd make you wait. But nine weeks is…" she ran a gentle hand down his bare chest to the buckle of his belt, "a critical factor."

  The smooth leather slipped from the gold buckle a moment later and the Duc drew in a quick breath as Daisy pulled his belt free. "Out of curiosity," he murmured, attuned to her fingers, unbuttoning his trousers, "how exactly would you have made me wait?"

  "You say that as if you doubt I could."

  "Perceptive of you," he gently said, sliding her chemise strap over her shoulder.

  "Size and strength isn't everything in these matters."

  "Really. There is additionally?"

  "Pain… if necessary."

  "Maybe I should do that myself," he said with a grin, taking her hands in his.

  Her answering smile was angelic. "In your case, I'm more than willing. Rest easy."

  He looked at her for a moment from under half-lowered lashes. "After that threat, I may never rest easy again, darling," he teased. "What a formidable woman for the mother of my child."

  "You're obsessed with babies."

  "Only with you." Lifting her hands to his lips, he kissed her fingertips delicately, one at a time. "You even taste like the mother of my child," he said a moment later, laughter in the undercurrent of his voice.

  "I'm glad." And in those plain words Daisy relinquished all her doubts and fears, her happiness spilling over to drown all the fragmented debris of uncertainty. She was strong and Etienne viewed the world as his own personal domain. They could together solve each problem in the continuum of their love. She was too miserable without him. Work wasn't enough nor was duty comfort at night in the solitary emptiness of her bed. She gave in at last to the glowing tumult of love.

  They undressed each other leisurely while the storm raged around them, the rhythm of their movements congruous only with their private insulated world. And they lay together on their rough bed oblivious to its rusticity. It was soft and scented, the crushed moss pungent in their nostrils, the artesian well cooling their fevered bodies as they played at love.

  They had missed the passion of their union too much in the past weeks to rush, and with adolescent slowness they seduced their senses.

  The rain cooled the air but they didn't notice, their bodies summer-hot and oblivious to the dropping temperatures outside. They made love as if each sensation were new, as if they'd never kissed each other or tasted each other or felt their skin touch… or felt the slow invasion and penetration that made the world drop away.

  It was different, too, in that poetic way captured by erudite lovers through the millennia in lyric, meter, and tune.

  Unique. Exquisite. Eager. Intemperate… Magic.

  "Making babies is exhausting," Etienne murmured, a sweet and passionate interval later, Daisy nestled against his chest, his arms holding her gently close.

  "Arrogant man," she murmured. "How can you be sure?"

  "I heard the shaman drums," he said in a teasing whisper.

  "Or your heart," she softly replied, the powerful rhythm of his heartbeat strong beneath her ear.

  "Or yours."

  "Or mine," she agreed, so tired suddenly she could sleep a month.

  "You pick a name."

  "Mmmmm," she drowsily murmured, sated and content and already half-asleep.

  "Maybe I should pick one," he said with a grin, "unless that's a favorite Absarokee name."

  Daisy was sleeping already, fatigued from their passion and her restive night past. Secure in her love. Reconciled and happy.

  The Duc lay awake, holding—he reflected with unlimited joy—the mother of his child in his arms. Secure in his love. Reconciled and happy.

  * * *

  Etienne cradled Daisy in his arms on their ride back to Newport, their conversation the carefree, glowing kind in which the future offers endless joyful possibility.

  He would come back to Montana with her, he said, and look into railroad building out West. He'd planned on going with Georges's expedition anyway, so his business managers could do without him for a few weeks.

  Daisy smiled and he kissed her for the hundredth time that day, his need for kisses unquenchable.

  "I could come to Paris after this next stage in our court battle with Hanna is concluded." She beamed up at him. "Say in three months."

  "With Jolie and her family in Kentucky, maybe I could talk Justin into coming back with us to the States for Christmas. The crossing's only six days in my yacht."

  "I didn't know you had a yacht."

  "There's a lot of things you don't know about me."

  "Our life should be interesting."

  "Plan on it."

  Unalloyed bliss wreathed their lives and emotions.

  Their plans were accommodating to each other's schedules, to the inflexible portions of their agendas, to their families and the seasons.

  Daisy was wrapped in the Duc's leather jacket against the chill of the evening air while the fog creeping in from the sea shrouded their journey down Bellevue Avenue from the curious.

  "I'll bring you to the Rutherfords', speak to your mother and father with you, go to Nadine's to change for dinner, and come back for you at nine." Licking her earlobe with the warm tip of his tongue, he added, "Where do you want to go tonight?" He was looking forward to being with Daisy again, like his personal Eden recaptured.

  "Lily's having a dance," she sweetly said.

  He groaned.

  "Empress said the Gardners are putting on amateur theatricals tonight."

  "Good, I can steal a kiss when the lights go down. The Gardners are my choice."

  "Nadine's entertaining again, a string quartet from London."

  "No."

  She was pleased to hear the gruffness in his tone. "We'll go to the Gardners then. You can participate if you wish. Ella is always looking for promising thespians."

  "The only acting I'll be doing tonight is playing the gentleman when I'd much prefer letting my carnal passions take over."

  "Later," Daisy whispered.

  "Where? Not at Nadine's. Someone pounding on the door is hell on my concentration."

  "Why don't you stay at the annex again tonight? I'll have Trey find you a room with a terrace door outside and I can come to you later."

  "This international polo tournament has definitely taken on a new and fascinating charm. I'll win the play-off game for you tomorrow."

  "That means father and Trey would lose." Her loyalties were clearly divided.

  "I'll lose the play-off game for you tomorrow," Etienne said with a grin. A man in love, he was willing to give his darling her heart's desire..

  * * *

  As it turned out, Etienne never participated in the play-off game because an urgent telegram from his steward was waiting for him when he returned to Nadine's. His business partners had combined with Isabelle and were trying to take over the railroad lines he controlled as majority stockholder.

  He returned to the Rutherfords' within the hour, attired not in evening dress but casually in a light sweater and slacks, his belongings having already been transferred to his yacht.

  When Daisy came down and saw him, she immediately said, "You're going back." She could tell from his grim face and restless stance.

  "I have to. Come with me."

  "What happened?"

  And when he told her, she felt a great sadness. "Have you heard from Bourges?"

  "I have different attorneys for business. He's not involved in this. Although I'll be dealing with him on the divorce as usual."

  "Talk to him, Etienne. The nobility use him for divorce, but his major work is merchant banking. He knows the players. He can help."

  "Come with me. Talk to him if you like." He wanted her with him; he didn't want to be away from her so long again. Although he was planning on bypassing the law courts on this venture. He'd already sent a telegram to both his partners before coming to see Daisy.

  Gentlemen: You've undertaken to chea
t me. I won't sue you, for the law is too slow. I'll ruin you. Yours truly, de Vec

  Included in that threat, now, was Isabelle. From the beginning, Bourges had wanted to conduct a no-holds-barred kind of fight, but Etienne had been reluctant. As a gentleman he'd resisted the street-mentality combat Bourges recommended. No longer. As soon as he reached Paris he intended to have detectives hired to observe Isabelle.

  "You can't come with me, though, can you?" he said, Daisy's expression as melancholy as his. "I understand," he added, trying earnestly to live up to his words.

  "I'm sorry," Daisy softly said. "I've been working on this case for almost six months. It's not new, these litigations over the ore veins, but there's a great deal of money involved. Like your railroads." She took his hand in hers and placed it around her waist, moving into the circle of his arms. "Come back as soon as you can." Her smile was a half smile, both rueful and wistful. "See how understanding I can be?"

  The Duc held her very tight, thinking how much misery Isabelle had caused him over the years. "I'm having trouble being understanding about damn near everything at the moment. But I love you. That at least is absolutely clear. Give me a kiss now and I'm off. My crew fired up the engines an hour ago."

  Their kiss was hasty and insufficient, touched with the gloom of their coming battles. At the door, the Duc turned back for a last look at the woman he loved, then changing his mind, strode swiftly back to Daisy, and lifting her in his arms, held her close for a moment more. Placing her back on her feet, he touched her lips gently. "I'm not looking back this time," he murmured, his breath warm on her lips, a faint wry smile curling his mouth. "Because I'm facing ruin in Paris and wondering if I even care." He grinned. "Is love this kind of insanity for everyone?" He'd never understood before—never. His form of love was only passion and amour, silky smooth pleasure, an intensity that flared and burned away. The kind one remembered fondly but not often.

  "You're asking the wrong person," Daisy softly said. "You've changed every thought and vision and precept I've ever known. You've destroyed my serenity and reason."

  "I love you too," the Duc said, his smile lush.

  "We're moon-mad."

  "And miserable." He was smiling, though, when he said it.

  With tears brimming over, Daisy held his face in the palms of her hands. "Don't forget me," she whispered, her heart in her eyes. She was afraid, suddenly, despite his teasing, afraid that he'd leave and Isabelle would claim him somehow. Not for herself. She knew better. But claim his soul, somehow, in this black and wretched scheme of hers and make it impossible for… their love to survive.

  * * *

  In his six-day journey across the Atlantic, the Duc had considerable time to determine his course of action, and immediately upon stepping ashore at Le Havre, he contacted Bourges. From subsequent telegrams received aboard his yacht, he understood Isabelle had contracted as a public trader (marchande publique) for the purposes of trade. It allowed her to enter into contracts concerning their community property without his consent.

  His fortune was in enormous danger.

  Bourges was waiting for him at his apartment in Paris when he arrived three hours later, several files spread out on the desk in Etienne's study.

  "Thank you for coming," the Duc said, striding across the paneled room. "This attack was unexpected… even from Isabelle."

  "Your crossing was—"

  "—swift." He took Bourges's outstretched hand, his smile pleasant. "Now then, tell me about your detectives."

  For the next half hour the men went over the extent of the damage possible if Isabelle exercised her option with their estate as a public trader, the directives necessary for those men being put on Isabelle's trail, which markers the Duc should call in from those of his friends placed on the various boards of directors where he had investments she might attempt to sell.

  "I'll be closing out my bank accounts in the next few days and transferring the money either to London or Amsterdam for safekeeping," Etienne said when they'd decided on their immediate plan of action with Isabelle. "I'll transfer those of my stocks other than the railroad capital to a trust independent from our community property. My estates are separate from our common property in our marriage settlement, as are hers, so they're protected. Are you willing to involve yourself with the rest of my legal staff on this and the railroad takeover too? Everything has to be taken care of quickly. I don't know how much she has plans to sell… other than the railroad stock."

  "Would Charles have been the one to advise her to contract as a public trader?"

  "I don't know. Does it matter?"

  "It could. If this ends up in court in a lawsuit. The magistrates have wide discretionary powers."

  "By tomorrow I want everything I own transferred out of the country or out of Isabelle's reach. Discreetly. Then we can concentrate on the fight for my railroads. I don't intend to go to court. I haven't the time."

  "And the divorce?"

  "Find something on her… then we'll turn the screws. I should have taken your advice about the detectives a long time ago."

  "It's rare to find a completely virtuous woman," Bourges calmly said.

  "Well, Isabelle sure as hell wasn't sleeping with me. Although coming from her pious family, and convent-bred background, together with her propensity to socialize with priests, it's probable her vices are confined to other mortal sins."

  "Perhaps." Having seen so much of aristocrats' private lives, Bourges was more cynical than most. Priests, he thought. Interesting. "How old are these priests?" he asked, a casual remark uttered without expression.

  "I don't know. They all look the same to me." Etienne was busy signing several of the papers Bourges had prepared in his absence, routine briefs required by law for the ongoing appeals in his divorce. Looking up suddenly, the Duc cast a look of query at Bourges as the implication of his barrister's question registered.

  "Really? Priests? And Isabelle?" He shook his head in the next second of contemplation. "You don't know Isabelle." Had he been a less courteous man he could have said Isabelle was the only women he knew, and he was speaking from vast knowledge, who was actually tight-lipped while engaged in intercourse. With Isabelle one didn't contemplate using the words, making love, to describe the experience. An experience that had caused his youthful ego some small amount of anxiety at the time. "Although it's certainly an interesting speculation." The Duc was infinitely less naive than he'd been all those years ago and no longer apt to discount any aberration purely out of hand.

  "We'll find out soon enough," Bourges said with a degree of conviction based on his previous successes. "I'm pleased you decided to…" he paused, knowing the Duc was still inclined to be private about his marriage.

  "—Take off the kid gloves?" Etienne finished for him.

  "Sometimes it's necessary. Often, it is," Bourges added.

  "I suppose when one's wife tries to reduce one to penury, it's time to discard courtesy." Etienne's smile was tight. "Can you join my legal staff after lunch? We're going to discuss all the ramifications of this bid to take them over."

  Bourges's agreement brought a genuine smile to Etienne's face.

  But when Bourges left a few moments later, Etienne sat at his desk, slumped low, his head thrown back, his arms lying slack on the deep green leather arms of his chair. He was tired. Physically fatigued after a rough sea-crossing, weary of the fight with Isabelle. Feeling a solitary desolation. Feeling alone. He was taking on the entire fabric of the small, insulated world he lived in, the world his parents and ancestors for a millennium had claimed as theirs. By seeking his own individual happiness, he'd alienated his wife, the Church, the aristocratic society in which the hypocrisy of separate lives passed for the union of marriage, and many of those people he'd previously called friends.

  Enormous changes had occurred in his complaisant life since he'd met Daisy. And while he never regretted loving her, there were moments, like now… when he was overwhelmed by the extent of those forc
es aligned against him.

  He supposed he should eat something before his phalanx of barristers arrived to help devise their campaign. He had every intention of winning—an inherent courage was well-grounded in his soul, but it took a certain girding of his motive power at times to vitalize his energy. He smiled suddenly. Maybe Daisy was right. Maybe his life had been too easy.

  But if it had been, he was paying for it now.

  Sitting up abruptly, he reached for the bell-pull.

  Lunch. And then the ruination of his two partners and Isabelle for dessert. At least there was pleasure in the prospect of dessert.

  * * *

  Etienne and his attorneys spent the next three weeks contacting every stockholder of consequence, explaining the situation, offering to buy their stock for more than Verlaine and Marveil. It was time-consuming drudgery and, of course, ultimately expensive to outbid his partners. He owed enormous favors on the Bourse before he was finished because Isabelle was claiming the stock as hers. The concept of public trader for a female may have been a legal principle in France at the time, but the men sitting on the board at the Bourse, preferred the traditional language of French law in which the husband had sole control of property. And there at least, Charles and his magistrates had no power. So his railroads were salvaged, bought at the inflated bidding price by a Monaco-based holding company which the Duc owned through an intricate and concealed layering of corporations. Isabelle no longer was a threat to his income. But the price was steep.

  To realize his vengeance on Verlaine and Marveil required a more complex scheme. The Duc wanted his money back from the sale of their magnified stock to his Monaco firm, so he made arrangements with friends in Amsterdam to interest his two ex-partners in a diamond mine in South Africa. Like setting up an elaborate ballet of deceit and potential profit, his Dutch allies, for a suitable price, slowly drew Verlaine and Marveil into the intrigue. With the lure of enormous profit temptingly seductive, his two ex-partners were currently traveling to Amsterdam to see gems extracted from the "mine"—which existed on paper alone.