Forbidden (65 page)

"It fits," Daisy murmured, casting a smile over her shoulder at him.

The Duc made a neat bow at the base.

"And Doucet doesn't have my measurements." The proportion from hip to breast was perfect, the lace cups designed to display the extravagance of her breasts.

"I've a good memory," the Duc said, cupping her jutting breasts in the palms of his hands and smiling at her in the mirror. "And Doucet understood my description." His fingers moved upward to tease the peaked crests of her nipples. "It's designed for pleasure." The lace fabric was so delicate, the corset wasn't meant for practical use. The half-shells supporting Daisy's breasts only lifted their mounded weight, baring them, offering them for pleasure, and the ribboned, flounced lace at the bottom of the corset was designed to accent the juncture between a woman's legs.

Daisy leaned back into his body, her head lying against his shoulder, and she watched herself in the mirror being petted and fondled, the black silk stockings on her slender legs and the white lace corset framing the bounteous femaleness of her anatomy. She felt in the utter bliss of her abandon as hot desire flared through her senses, like a fertility goddess from ages past, flaunting her nourishing breasts and fertile womb.

Like the Bonnard prints and Cassatt painting, she was a combination of passionate wanton and fecund female. And both personas only wanted the tall dark man pleasuring them to consummate their passion. Turning, she faced him, her mounded breasts warm on his chest, the lower half of her body enticing him with the gentle swaying rhythm of her hips.

"One more package," Etienne murmured.

And when Daisy moaned in opposition, he lifted her into his arms, walked the short distance to the bed, and sitting down with her in his lap, turned her so she was facing him. Raising her enough so she could straddle his thighs, he lowered her deftly onto his rampant erection. "Is that what you wanted?" he softly asked as Daisy clung to him, waiting for the dizzy waves of pleasure to reach manageable proportions. "Is that better?" And he thrust fractionally upwards at the same time he exerted a downward pressure on Daisy's hips with his hands.

"Don't go away," he said, his husky voice teasing, all Daisy's quivering senses tuned to the rigid hard length of him filling her, impaling her like an offering to erotic pleasure. The world retreated, only sensation mattered, only her throbbing need, the focus of the universe momentarily centered in the hot, pulsing sweetness between her thighs.

Reaching for the large Doucet box, the Duc tore the ribbons away, tossed aside the cover, and pulled out a sunshine-yellow diaphanous robe, as though he were unaware of Daisy's ravenous delirium. He put her arms into the lace-drenched sleeves, gently dressing her like a child, pulling the flowing gauze garment up on her shoulders in a whisper of scented silk. Layers of creme lace ornamented the yoke and voluminous sleeves, fell in ruffled splendor down the open front.

"Etienne, I'm dying…" Daisy's voice was a heated whisper, the tight corset seeming to accentuate the sensitivity of feeling in her breasts and in the melting hot center of her being. She could feel him as he moved gently inside her and began lifting herself to augment the sensual rhythm.

"Wait…" His hands stilled her hips.

"No." She fought the pressure of his hands.

"Just a minute more." His voice was calm, as though he wasn't stiff and hard inside her, as though she weren't flushed and panting across his thighs, as though he knew how much better it would be if she waited.

She couldn't move with his hands hard on her hips and she shut her eyes as the splendor of her arousal heated her body like the hot sun in August.

He moved his hands a pulsebeat later, slowly… waiting to see if she'd remain quiet, and when she did, he tied the frothy taffeta bow at her neck with a meticulous precision. The robe fell open around her, framing her white lace corset and upthrust breasts, sliding over the soft flesh of her thighs, over the Duc's bare legs and feet.

"Do you like it?" He lightly caressed her nipples as he asked, forcing her wider with a slow upward movement, his legs flexing beneath her as he lifted her weight.

Her yes was muffled by a throaty sob of pleasure.

"I'm glad," he murmured. "Would you like to climax now?" he whispered, lifting her so she glided up his erection, sliding her down again, setting a slow rhythm of withdrawal and penetration.

She was past speech at the moment, but he understood her sighing exhalation and her fingers lacing into the silk of his hair. He sucked on her nipples when she raised herself up so she lingered for long moments each time on her knees. And he held her on the downstroke keeping her impaled for measured seconds more until she trembled. And expired like a
jeune fille
in sobbing release.

The Duc stroked her hair and kissed her, his hands gentle, soothing, conscious her insatiable need might last for several hours more.

It was, he knew, partly circumstances. For a sensuous woman like Daisy, weeks of celibacy were an inducement to greedy pleasure. But the almond milk was often strangely aphrodiasic. He'd been surprised the first time Louis had given it to him for fatigue.

But other times he'd drunk it, the milk had only soothed. And he'd not done enough scientific sampling to know conclusively, his previous partners in amour never the recipients of his valet's concern.

"I love you," Daisy said in a dissolving whisper, her words muffled against his shoulder.

"And I love you," the Duc said, the words he'd spent half a lifetime avoiding simply uttered. His paradise on earth was represented, he mused, by one beautiful dark-haired woman who'd captured his heart. "I'll make you happy."

She raised her head and smiled. "You have already…" She felt at that moment so suffused by love she wanted rose-covered cottages and swarms of bouncing babies by this man she loved to distraction. She wanted a lifetime of his teasing smile and gentleness and his magical passion too. Would his captivating smile be reproduced in his child, or the distinctive obliqueness of his dark brows—would he mind a girl? Some men did. "Do you want a boy or a girl?" she asked, wishing she could please him.

"What do you want?" he queried, lifting her from him and laying her against the pillows.

"Both."

"That's easy then. You're bound to be pleased either way. And you can always have another later."

"I'm going to lock you away so you can't leave me and go back to Paris," Daisy softly said, lying in a froth of pale yellow silk. "So you can give me more children."

He lay beside her, untying the bow at her neck, and bending low, kissed the softness of her mouth. "Come back with me sometime and we'll make babies in Paris too. But I like Montana so far," he quickly added, cognizant of the sudden anxiety in her eyes.

"You haven't seen much, but thank you," Daisy replied with a grateful smile, knowing he was allaying her fears.

"You're here. That's enough. And Justin can learn some of the business so I'll be more available to be locked away for your pleasure."

"A fascinating concept. Would you do my bidding?"

He grinned. "Probably."

She remembered the wrecked harem bed and smiled back. "Probably not, you mean."

"I'm being diplomatic on our first night together in months. Newport doesn't count." His grin widened. "We didn't do much talking."

And they talked that night between the playfulness and love-making. They curled up on the couch before the fire or lay on the large rumpled bed and discussed their future, their child, their hopes and dreams and the irrepressible wonder of their love. Both practical people at base, even cynical at times about the extent of goodness in the world, they agreed that the spirits or shamans or unknown gods had taken a benevolent hand in their meeting that night at Adelaide's.

"I didn't like you when I met you," Daisy said, lying on the solid strength of his muscled body, her face only inches from his, her warmth reminding him of childhood security—and his nanny's sunrises from the nursery window. He'd loved ancient chubby Rennie McLeod with the same unconditional delight.

"I didn't like you either," Etienne said, lounging with his arms under his head, his grin roguish, "but then I wasn't looking for a friend. In other ways, of course, I found you fascinating."

"We have your lust, then, to thank for our fateful meeting." Her teasing glance was close and coquettish.

"That's about it." He nodded in a brief small movement. "And the Baron Arras's broken leg on the polo field. Although Valentin's persistence should be added to the catalogue. I'd turned him down three times before I finally capitulated. I didn't dine out often in those days."

"Why?"

She stirred on him slightly, her soft voluptuous form distracting him momentarily. He wanted her again. Not again, he drolly thought… but always.

"Tell me," she prompted, wanting to know more of the man who had become her world.

She looked so innocent at times, like a young girl in the openness of her expression, in her artless curiosity. It made him more careful in his choice of words, as though the cynicism of his life before meeting her might sully that wide-eyed eagerness. Dining out was too tame for him in those days; he preferred more direct seduction without the hours of flirtatious conversation over twenty courses at table as prelude. Although Daisy had fascinated him enough to alter his longstanding prejudice against society dining.

"I had an excellent chef," he said, stating the truth and evading the pointed reasons, "my clubs had very good wine cellars and," he added in explanation, "dinner conversation bored me. It invariably centered on society gossip."

"Did you eat alone?" She pictured him in solitary hermitage at a yards-long table.

"Not usually," he evasively replied, finding himself going deeper into prevarication. He usually dined in one of the private rooms the fashionable restaurants offered, in company with his friends and several beautiful, willing ladies.

"Well?"

"Don't ask, darling," the Duc said, genuinely uncomfortable. "It was a long time ago."

"Oh." Daisy suddenly realized her pensive image was incorrect. "But you love me madly now," she said, secure and expansive in understanding.

"Madly," he whispered, unfolding his arms from under his head and sliding his hands down her spine. "Oceans-deep madly. Young-love madly. So madly you could ask me to give up polo and I would."

His smile warmed her with its candor. His hands resting at the base of her spine held her close in a gentle possession she understood because her spirit walked the same path as his. "Until the pines turn yellow…" she whispered, stroking his dark hair lying in waves on the pillow.

"Until then," he softly promised.

Hearing the door open and shut, Daisy lazily opened her eyes. "What time is it?" she said drowsily, the room in half darkness with the heavy drapes pulled shut, Etienne only dimly seen as he stood by the door. "You're dressed."

"It's eleven."

"Have you been up long?" Daisy stretched luxuriously, the weight of the down comforter pleasant on her bare skin, the pillows soft beneath her head, her memories of last night heated and lush.

"Not too long," Etienne pleasantly said, walking nearer the bed. "You look rested." Standing beside her, he looked country-morning fresh in a white shirt and chamois jodhpurs, his riding boots lightly coated with dust. He bent to kiss her, a sweet, chaste brushing of his lips on hers.

"Ummm… I haven't slept this late—"

"Since Paris?" His grin was sweet.

She smiled, lifting a tumble of hair from her forehead. "You always keep me up too late."

"As I recall," he said in a roguish undertone, "You were the one saying—just once more."

She was, there was no denying. "I didn't hear you complaining," she said in a pouty, small girl voice, gazing at him from under half-lowered lashes.

"No one's ever accused me of stupidity," he said, his eyes amused.

"Should I apologize?"

"Hardly. You have my profound gratitude."

"Then maybe you won't mind me asking you a… small question."

He quirked a brow. "Ask away."

"Are we going to be busy today doing some of that redecorating Louis wants help with and maybe some shopping?"

"That's your question?"

"It's part of it."

"I suppose we will. And?"

"Do you think you could make love to me… then… before… all that?"

"I've a feeling," the Duc said with a smile, beginning to unbutton his shirt, "production levels are going to be rather low around here."

"Some production levels," she corrected him. "
I'm
doing my best making your baby."

"Some production levels then," he softly agreed, his smile indulgent. "I'll have to get
my
work done while you're sleeping." He tossed his shirt on the footboard of the bed.

"So you can entertain me when I'm awake."

Seated on the bed, bending over to remove his riding boots, he looked back at her over his shoulder. "You might just want to stay in bed and I'll check in occasionally to see if you're ready—" he smiled, "—to be entertained."

"It's a thought," Daisy whispered, shocked at the possibility she might be tempted to allow herself that indulgence. For a woman whose life had centered around her career, she found her ready acquiescence to the role of passionate concubine staggering. But her body was less intellectual in its response. Her body was pulsing already, throbbing, receptive, waiting.

And when Etienne lifted the covers aside a moment later, gently lowered his body over hers and murmured, "It's morning, Miss Black, and I'm here to wake you," she no longer questioned her motives. She only felt herself melt around him, felt the world drift away, felt a shimmering, heated bliss seep into every breath and pulsebeat, and shuddering nerve.

He was an addiction and she was consumed with desire.

Throwing the drapes open afterward to let in the sunshine, the Duc ordered Daisy breakfast in bed. He drank coffee while she ate, his own breakfast eaten hours earlier. When she'd finished, he helped her wash and dress with clothes he'd brought out from her home in Helena.

"You've been into town already?" Daisy said when she saw her gowns hanging in the armoire. "Did you sleep at all?"

"I had to bring my horses out," he answered, taking a wool jacket from the armoire, not replying directly to her question about sleep. He hadn't had time to sleep. "Put this on now and I'll take you riding."

Daisy was sitting on the bed, dressed in leather riding pants and a warm sweater, her bare feet swinging idly. "How did you bring your horses?"

"The usual way, darling, in their stalls on my yacht."

"No, I mean out here so quickly."

"In a boxcar on the railroad. We unloaded them and boarded them at Dale's Livery. But I didn't want to leave them there too long. They're used to being pampered."

She grinned. "Like me."

He was holding out her jacket and his smile was wolfish. "Not exactly."

Sliding her arms into the jacket sleeves, she inquired, "Are you going to get tired of my demands?" Her question was asked with frankness, concern, and her own patent audacity.

"I'll let you know," Etienne said, buttoning the large red buttons, "if I do."

"I love you too much," Daisy declared, throwing her arms around him as he stood before her, her world having abruptly diminished in scope to the immediacy of Etienne's essential presence, his touch, his smile, his wanting her. His child growing inside her augmented the enormity of her love, as if she were a receptacle for his passion, a repository for the issue of that love, a replete and sated woman only in his arms.

"You belong to me," he quietly said, her hair soft under his chin, his arms holding her close, "and I to you. And I'll love you… always."

"It unnerves me, Etienne," Daisy said, gazing up at him, "to be so consumed with need for you."

"I'm obsessed with you as well, darling. I don't understand it—" he smiled, "—but we're astonishingly lucky."

"And you really like Montana?" It was her world and she wanted his assurance.

"Montana's beautiful—like you. And since I now own six thousand acres
¹³
that came with the house, why don't you show some of it to me?"

They rode out on the horses the Duc had brought from Paris, a beautiful gray barb mare for Daisy and his own favorite black who'd helped him score most of his goals this past year. With Daisy as guide, they traveled the length of the valley and up into the foothills rimming the open country.

He'd never seen her on a horse before because she'd disdained riding in the Bois as too tame and sedate. She was a skilled rider, as he'd expected, coming from her background, sitting comfortably and at ease on an unfamiliar mount, holding her reins with a casualness only the best riders developed.

Dressed in leather pants, moccasins, and red-plaid jacket, her long black hair loose on her shoulders, Daisy seemed in harmony with the natural beauty of the country. She knew the terrain intimately, indicating features of interest of him, showing him those boundary markers that were close, even pointing out the original survey markers now obscured and overgrown by underbrush. All the section lines and subdivisions were familiar to her, and when he marveled at her wealth of pertinent information, Daisy said, "We've been fighting to retain our land for almost thirty years. I've been personally involved for the last ten, so I know the plat maps as well as I know my name. As well as I know mining law. Probably," she added with a faint smile, "as well as you know railroad development."

"I should take advantage then of your"—his green gaze was sportive—"expertise."

"I certainly have enjoyed yours." Her tone was playful. "After last night, I feel I owe you. What do you want to know?"

And they discussed at length the possibility of developing new mining properties, the locations of the newest deposits, the profits available from copper mining, both short-term and extended, the new coal bodies being exploited, the labor organizations coming into existence.

The Duc understood railroads, but Daisy's competence in every facet of mining was formidable. When they stopped in midafternoon to rest and eat the picnic lunch Louis had sent with them, they went into some of the specifics about possible partnerships with her family.

They ate the simple roast beef sandwiches and peach pie Cook had made, drinking from the clear cold water of the stream at the foot of the clearing. And when Daisy yawned for the third time in one sentence, the Duc suggested she nap before they start back.

"We were going to go shopping for baby clothes. Is it too late?" She had this overwhelming urge to purchase little lacy, embroidered baby things. Tiny booties and ribboned bonnets, silver rattles and engraved cups.

"It's half past three. We won't have time to ride back to the ranch, change, and drive into town. We'll go tomorrow… if you wake up early enough," he teased.

"I won't take full blame for my fatigue," Daisy protested with lazy good humor.

"Nor should you." His smile was warm, the well-house at Newport a favorite memory of his. "But since baby is still seven and a half months from needing a wardrobe, I'd say we could wait another day or so for our shopping trip. This week you're not allowed to work—only rest and take care of yourself."

"And you."

"And me," he softly agreed.

He made a bed for her from scented pine boughs, covered her with his jacket, and seated beside her, held her hand while she slept. For a man who'd never known contentment, he was content. For a man who'd never known the fulfillment of loving a woman, he was converted. And for a man who had always considered himself as de Vec, an integral element in his country's cultural past and tradition, he was now seated on newly purchased ground in a frontier country holding the warm hand of the woman who had brought him so far from home.

And brought him imminent fatherhood.

And probably too—a new understanding of priorities.

Bourges would have to become more active in his business affairs. He trusted him. Justin would have to begin assuming some responsibility too.

Once the baby was born and Daisy's current court cases concluded, they would have to negotiate for some semblance of equal time in Paris.

He smiled faintly.

Maybe.

It might be easier, he decided, to talk Bourges into being his business manager. He was too apt to let Daisy have her way.

The sun was slipping below the horizon in a flaming crimson display, hovering for sleek moments on the shadowed mountain-tops before disappearing in tattered remnants of magenta and gold.

The silence of the forest clearing seemed to deepen in the shadowed calm of evening, and when Daisy stirred, the rustle of pine boughs was distinct in the quiet twilight.

As if she felt the new absence of light, she opened her eyes, taking a lingering moment of conscious reckoning to remember where she was. "I'm sorry I slept so long," she murmured, her hand engulfed in Etienne's warm palm, his protection and solicitude tangible. "Are you getting cold?"

He shook his head. "The sun just went down."

"I suppose I have to get up…"

"I can carry you back."

He would, too, she realized and wondered for a moment whether she'd become spoiled for the real world in Etienne's indulgent care. She could do absolutely nothing for herself if she wished, a startling change from her former independent existence.

"Last night
was
enervating. I'll be more prudent tonight and let you sleep."

"You must be tired," Daisy said, sitting up.

"I'm fine." The Duc was used to a careless schedule of sleep. "Do you want to ride alone or with me?"

"Your black might complain."

"He won't; he knows better. Besides, today's excursion is like a rest cure compared to two periods of polo. He's on holiday."

But Daisy rode by herself after stretching and yawning and waking up more completely while Etienne saddled the horses. And when they returned to the ranch, he insisted Daisy go into the house while he take the horses to the stables.

"Get into something comfortable for dinner. Louis said our new cook is temperamental about dinnertime."

"You should have awakened me earlier. Are we late?"

"I can always hire another cook, darling. You… are irreplaceable. But I think we're in time to avoid a tantrum."

Dinner was very French with faint Creole overtones because the woman Louis had hired was a native of New Orleans.

The fish sauce was a subtle blend of an oyster and meunière sauce, so delicate in flavor it reminded Daisy of the scent of sweet basil after the fact. A hint and remembrance curiously combined.