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

as the dust on the banks of the Powder River. "Say you're right." He stopped her comment with a raised hand. "Just say Daisy still loves him. What then? The man's married. He can't or won't get a divorce."

"Say it's can't."

"Say it's won't." He was less romantic than his wife.

"Would it hurt to give them a chance to talk?"

"Am I keeping them from talking?" he said with distinct violence in his tone.

"Your attempt at mortal injury this afternoon on the polo field might have given him the impression you don't like him."

"He wasn't concerned whether I liked him this summer when he cast his libertine eye at Daisy. Why do I have to like him?"

"For Daisy."

Hazard stared at his wife for a lengthy moment and then exhaled in frustration. "Tell me how she looked," he softly said.

And when Blaze described Daisy's defensive posture so distinct from the poignant hurt in her eyes and the way her gaze had lingered on the Duc as he conversed with Nadine Belmont, Hazard said with grudging reluctance, "You're sure?"

"I like to think I'm a good judge of people. I married you, didn't I?"

"Flattery won't get you anywhere tonight, bia. I'm pissed." His scowl while not bristling was one of displeasure.

"Think of Daisy, Jon," Blaze quietly admonished. "Not yourself."

She was right, he had to honestly admit. Whether he took issue with the Duc's methods was irrelevant to his daughter's happiness. "Oh, hell," he grumbled, "if she wants him, I suppose I can be pleasant to the damn fellow." He grinned. "He does play one hell of a game of polo. He can't be all bad."

"If anyone should understand libertine men, darling…" Blaze suggestively declared.

"That was a long time ago," he said in reference to his past. "De Vec's escapades, on the other hand, are too damn recent for comfort," he complained.

"I'm only suggesting you might have a bit of Christian charity considering the adventures of your youth."

"I'm not a Christian, bia," he said with a small smile, "and," he went on, his tone collected and temperate, knowing she was referring to his children born before he married her, "our culture permits a different style of liaison than the yellow-eyes."

"Does that include Lucy Attenborough, Cornelia Jennings, et al.?"

"All before you, sweetheart, keep in mind." He sighed then. "But I see your point. I'll be civil to the man."

"That's all I ask."

"That's all you'll get," he muttered.

"What was that darling?"

"I said, wear the green flowered silk. It does you justice." He grinned. "And you'll owe me."

"I'll try and think of some way to repay you," she said with a wink.

Belcourt was the largest of the Newport "cottages," the most elegant, extravagant, and opulent of the summer residences built for America's haut monde. Designed by Richard Morris Hunt and freely copied from Marie Antoinette's Petit Trianon, the ultimate example of the Newport play palaces was ablaze with gas and electric lights—a breathtaking sight rising out of the dense and oppressive fog.

Flanked by her parents and the Rutherfords, Daisy walked into the mirrored-and-gilded ballroom on the arm of Beau Rutherford. Not trusting her emotions after meeting the Duc that afternoon on the polo field, she considered Beau's escort necessary protection and defense. He'd long been in pursuit of her in any event. Their families also looked on the possibility of a match between them with great favor, so when Beau had suggested at dinner, with a teasing earnestness she'd come to recognize as his own offhand style of courtship, he accompany her to the dance, she'd accepted.

He was very blond, very tall, and tanned from sailing.

He was also bending low, whispering into Daisy's ear when the Duc first looked up at the announcement of the three couples.

She could have been alone on the threshold of the ballroom, for his gaze focused only on her as she stood framed by enormous palms, liveried footmen, her parents, and their friends. Defenseless at the sight of her, fierce desire swept over him with the force of the pounding surf on the cliff shore outside. And when she smiled, then laughed outright at something Beau Rutherford whispered, the Duc de Vec abruptly excused himself from the group discussing the afternoon's polo match.

Without reason or thought, impelled by a jealousy so intense he felt the heat of it to the tips of his fingers, he precipitously moved through the heavy crush of guests toward Daisy.

He had no idea what he'd do when he reached her—that wasn't precisely true, he recognized a moment later, as visions of making her prisoner on one of his remote estates crossed his mind—'and he cautioned himself to some semblance of civility. A struggle soon lost, as hot, wrathful discontent overcame him no more than four strides later.

A dozen feet from Daisy, Nadine Belmont put herself directly in his path and as he heedlessly began to move around her, she took his hand in hers, forcing him to stop. She hadn't made her way from a seamstress's cottage in Louisville to her Newport cottage and profitable marriage on her looks alone, but the smile she turned up to him was gracious. "I think you owe me a dance, darling," she said, aware of Daisy's arrival, conscious of the rumors concerning the relationship between Daisy and the Duc, not disposed to let her newest amorous quarry escape. "Actually, I know you owe me a dance, because I'm your hostess and my husband Oliver rules on eligibility for the polo teams."

The Duc had to smile despite himself at her audacity. "Are you threatening me if I don't dance with you, Nadine?"

"Do I look like I have to threaten, Etienne?" Bringing her fan up in a practiced languorous movement so the lacy arc rested on the black lace verges of her splendid décolletage, she smiled, her kohled eyes seductive.

He could refuse and risk a scene.

He could refuse and risk disqualification, her implication of her husband's stewardship not necessarily benign. Charitable impulse hadn't brought Nadine to her present position in