Forbidden by Susan Johnson (good books to read for teens .TXT) 📕

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 toFrench 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.

Bending down, she kissed him, the spilling water from the cascade running warm over the side of her breast, the sensation partly soothing, partly stimulating, oddly unsubstantial.

His lips were cool; she was warmer than he, a heartbreaking passion arousing her, prompted by her imminent farewell.

If she could, she would have stayed; if she could, she would have taken him with her. If she could, she would have set them both in another world, a secluded private realm where she would have willingly been his houri.

He rose on his elbows to follow her mouth upward when she moved away, his hand slipping behind her head to pull her back. "Stay," he whispered, drawing her body effortlessly atop him. They lay for long moments, his body cushioning hers, their mouths lightly touching, their breath mingling, the soft rise and fall of their chests tranquilizing as the rippling water and rising steam.

Small intimate paintings by Gérome adorned the walls, adding dimension to Daisy's strange mood of subordinate lassitude—the array of erotic portrayals of harem life, of slave markets and Arab interiors, like precious jewels on the cool green tile. The brilliant depictions, minutely detailed, indulged the artist's sense of exotic locale and his male sensibilities: Women lazily re-clined or bathed with servant girls; they stood passively before buyers or indulged in harem games; they beautified themselves for their master—ornamenting themselves with jewelry and paint and fragrant scents.

"Not mine," Etienne softly said, following the direction of Daisy's gaze. "My father's additions."

He had nothing here, Daisy thought, even the picture of him and his mother no doubt had been left by his father. And that was why there was no trace of women. Etienne didn't take them here. "Where's your bachelor apartment?" she asked then, not in condemnatory inquisition but in her currently diffident mood, almost meekly.

Immediately cognizant of her altered disposition, he didn't try to evade as he might have, but answered, "The Place de la Concorde."

"How nice."

His surprise at her answer must have shown.

"I'm enormously jealous."

He smiled, framing her face with the large palms of his hands, pleased he'd never brought any of his lovers here. "We perhaps have a corner on that market, and if our culture allowed, like an Arab man would, I'd buy you for my own."

"Without my permission?" She spoke in a curiously provocative way.

"Without anyone's permission, against armies of avenging angels or wrathful mullahs."

"And you'd keep me with your other harem women?"

"No," he softly replied, "I wouldn't. They'd poison you, for I'd have no more use for them."

"I must be losing my mind, for an elusive urge within me doesn't balk at such submission."

He smiled, his hands moving gently down her back. "It's the warm steam and this balmy hidden grotto and Gérôme's elegant illustrations that refine and glorify a distant culture. Bernini's design, compliments of Venice, owes much to the East too.