Forbidden by Susan Johnson (best feel good books txt) 📗

ever, Isabelle," he courteously added. Standing, he rested his fingertips lightly on the desktop, waiting for her to leave, feeling the vast melancholy overcome him, the familiar sense of emptiness.

He'd go to the club. The hour was too late to ride.

The celebration of the King's birthday was the social event of the season in the aristocratic world of old pedigrees, new titles, and varying ages of money. Although exiled in England, Louis Philippe, Comte de Paris, Pretender to the throne, known in royalist circles as Philip VII, was the rallying point for conservatives of all persuasions: monarchists, clerics, the Army, discontented Republicans, Bonapartists. All hoped, for their own reasons, to overthrow the Republic. And Louis Philippe, still asserting his right to the throne twenty years after the proclamation of the Republic, served as catalyst for these factions.

The Duc de Vec, while distant politically from the reactionary right, was not only obliged because of familial connections, but had consented to attend.

Adelaide coaxed Daisy to go. "If you've never seen the Pretender's court, you'll enjoy the spectacle. The gowns if nothing else are breathtaking and," she added, "the strange assortment of political bedfellows makes for fascinating intrigue. After the Boulanger fiasco a year ago, new alliances are being sorted out. Some of the Ministers might be of help to you."

Daisy considered not going despite the allure of pomp and circumstance, worth seeing at least once, Adelaide was insisting. Although she'd been a frequent visitor to Europe since she'd begun living with her father Hazard, their trips abroad were family affairs. Daisy had always been more loath than other members of her family to participate in the glittering world of society, her disposition preferring less brittle fellowship. But today perhaps Adelaide's coaxing alone hadn't drawn her to agree to attend the birthday occasion. Perhaps she hoped to see the Duc.

How infantile, she thought, even as she adjusted the baroque pearls in her ears, as if she would be able to see him in the crush of people Adelaide predicted would attend this event. As if, she speculated with a touch of censure, she should be behaving like an adolescent hoping for a glimpse of her lover. She was acting infatuated, thoroughly out of character for her, disastrous in any event with a man like the Duc, known for his insensitivity toward infatuated women. He had only said thank you when they parted—nothing more.

But she went.

Scanning the crowd with impatient disquietude…

Not hoping as most, for a glimpse of the Pretender's fat son and heir.

The man she was looking for was lean and muscled.

And utter perfection in bed.

The weather couldn't have been more splendid, the temperature ideal, the sun gently warm, a light breeze wafting bonnet ribbons as though on cue. The gardens of the Palais Orleans were abloom with color and fragrance, the vivid display of blossoming trees, shrubs, and flowers dominating the setting, the air charged with attar of roses and jasmine's heady scent, with the sweet bouquet of lilac, muguet, and magnolia.

Pretty pastel tents had been set up with lavish presentations of food and cool refreshing drinks for the guests. An army of servants also moved through the crowd offering chilled champagne. Consciously denying her nervousness—it was merely warm and she enjoyed chilled champagne—Daisy had begun her third glass when a fanfare announced the royal family. She, along with Adelaide, Valentin, and several of their friends, turned toward the sound.

Daisy watched the mass of guests part, making way for the royal procession moving toward a low flower-decked dais situated in the center of a formal rose garden. A murmur of comment followed the promenade of royal blood, glasses were raised in salute, impromptu cheers broke out as the regal court passed by. But all Daisy could see over the press of people was the gliding progress of the procession.

She was holding a champagne glass to her lips when a large woman in front of her attempting to improve her own view moved away, leaving Daisy's prospect unimpeded. Suddenly the man for whom she'd attended this affair was before her eyes.

The Duc was taller than anyone on the dais, taller than the pudgy, bourgeois-looking Duc d'Orléans by more than a head. Dressed in uniform with medals and orders draped across his broad chest, Etienne was flanked by a small blonde woman and a dark-haired girl. Beside the girl were two men, one unmistakably her twin, taller though, like his father. Jolie and Justin. Daisy knew immediately. Their photographs had been scattered across the walls of Etienne's bedroom at Colsec. The pale-haired man must be Jolie's husband.

And in the Duc's arms was his grandson, as fair as the Duc was dark, the young boy's white page-suit in sharp contrast to Etienne's black uniform tunic. A more incongruous sight couldn't be imagined—not only in the distinction of their coloring, but . also in the contrast between the gold and pink innocence of the plump toddler and the Duc's saturnine disreputable elegance. She realized, too, Hector was the only child present in the royal tableau—a concession no doubt to Etienne's inclinations.

The petite blond woman, Isabelle apparently, turned and, reaching up, placed her hand on her husband's shoulder while she whispered something in his ear. She smiled when she finished. The Duc only nodded slightly.

At least he didn't smile back, Daisy thought, apropos of nothing that made sense in the world, as though she could make him smile and his wife couldn't, as though it were a contest. It wasn't, of course; she was a fugitive entertainment to the Duc, someone to idle away a warm spring day with. Suddenly she felt immensely sad. .

But then the Duc smiled at something his grandson was saying to him, Hector's small hand tracing a path along the Duc's bronzed jaw as he spoke in a gesture so intimate and companion-able Daisy ached with envy. Etienne laughed aloud and kissed Hector's soft rosy cheek.

The Duc d'Qrléans turned to look.

The crowd was already looking because Etienne