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"You've made Etienne very happy, my dear," Heloise pleasantly said, "and I thank you for it."

"You're entirely welcome," Daisy replied, thinking .how very easy it was to love her son. "I hope only… well… all will be reconciled."

"With the Montignys you mean. Thank God for the new divorce law. Didn't I tell you when it was first enacted to end it?" she said to her son. "He's too civil—he didn't."

"Mama's more impulsive." The Duc's smile was indulgent.

"You didn't know what love was, you mean." His mother's smile was discerning.

"And you do?" The Duchesse had for years amused herself in the same fashion as her son.

"I don't tell you everything. Consider yourself fortunate," she added in a quiet reflective tone. "Everyone's love is not so easily fulfilled."

"Secrets, Mama?" Etienne's query was at once teasing and sympathetic.

"Long before your time, my dear," his mother said, recovering her former spirits with a well-grounded discipline. "Now tell me what the Archbishop and that poker-faced mother-in-law of yours had to say this morning."

The Duc moved his head in an almost indistinguishable movement—cautioning his mother. "It was nothing… an empty gesture," he briefly replied. "I was hoping you might like to go to the races with us sometime. My black's been running well lately."

"The Archbishop and your mother-in-law?" Daisy inquired. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"There was nothing to tell." It was a masculine answer of avoidance.

His mother recognized the restraint in his voice and knowing the Montigny gracelessness after twenty years, understood the extent of her son's warning. "I'd love to see your black race, darling," she interposed into the small silence that had fallen.

The Duc's smile was swift. "Good. On Friday then. Would you like to dine with us tonight? Daisy has promised to join me for dinner."

"I'm committed to the Prince Cherevel this evening. I'm sorry. Would you care to join his party? Although I warn you, it's diplomatic with several of the embassies invited."

"And you're hostess for Philippe, charged with charming all the colonial attache's." Etienne's smile was affectionate. "Mama is Philippe's best ambassador," he said to Daisy. "Capable of convincing the most hotheaded foreign minister indignant with his treatment by the colonial office that at least Parisian women understand the dilemmas facing his country."

"They're all strongly committed men with legitimate grievances. My sympathy is genuine, darling, you know that."

"Mama has turned down more proposals of marriage to colonial ministers than one can count."

"How can I keep an eye on you if I leave Paris?" she replied with a teasing smile. "Etienne needs a great deal of care," she added, amusement rich in her voice.

"She first noticed me when I was sixteen," the Duc facetiously retorted, not immeasurably devastated apparently by his mother's lack of concern in his childhood.

"You had Rennie, dear, who was the best darling in the world. You know you preferred her to me anyway."

"She was special."

"Of course. She'd been
my
Rennie first. I was simply generous enough to share her with you."

"Yes," he simply said, knowing in an odd convoluted way, his mother's generosity had been sincerely maternal. Rennie had loved him unconditionally and he her, and not a day went by he didn't think of his childhood nanny—although she'd been dead now almost twenty years.

"I don't suppose your traditions include nannies," Heloise said to Daisy.

And the remainder of their visit centered on a curious conversation about children and child-rearing, a subject generally outside the perimeters of Etienne's social conversation. His mother noticed his unusual interest, was aware as well that Etienne never brought his lovers over for tea. With all her heart, she wished him happiness; Isabelle had taken too many years away from her son. He deserved more.

"Don't scowl at me," the Duc said as they settled into the soft carriage seats. "I don't want to argue."

"You don't have to protect me from the tumult."

"There's no point in rehashing irrelevancies. It's over. They're gone; they won't be back."

"I'd simply like to know what everyone else seems to know. I'm not a child or a simpering ingénue," Daisy quietly said.

"You don't want to know, believe me. The Montignys are stupid," he tersely added, a trenchant bite to his tone.

"About what?"

He hesitated for a small space of time. "About my children," he softly said,"… among other things."

"Can't I help?" He was clearly upset regardless of his gentle tone. "I've dealt with enough controversy in my life to have a well-developed ability to cope. Law school hardens one to discourtesy." She grinned. "I'm very tough."

His smile, genuine and suddenly relaxed, altered the stormy green of his eyes to a warmer shade. "I love you, darling, for your intelligence and understanding"—His brows rose in jest—"along with one or two other things, but coping mechanisms, no matter how well-developed, won't find a rational basis for dealing with the Montignys. They're profoundly insensitive to anything short of lethal threats, which I dispensed with an appropriate degree of sincerity. Now, can we please discuss something more pleasant… like the ravishing color of your lips or a honeymoon itinerary or the name of our firstborn?"

While teasing, he clearly didn't wish to discuss the Montignys and because she loved him, she said, "You win, Monsieur de Vec…
this
time." She smiled. "But only because humoring you has its advantages."

He laughed out loud at her smiling insinuation. Leaning back into the upholstered seat, he gazed across at her in a speculative way, his green eyes amused. "Are you expecting some
favor
in return for your humoring me? A performing kind of quid pro quo?" he added, his voice a lazy drawl.

"The thought crossed my mind. Nothing you can't handle, I'm sure." Her dark eyes held a sleepy, seductive allure.

Glancing at the carriage clock, the Duc made some mental calculations mat didn't work out, and thinking that with any other woman a stop at the jewelers would solve his problem, he said, "I don't suppose this is a good time to ask whether you'd mind if I play a game this afternoon."

Dressed in a ribbon silk in shades of olive, her hair loosely tied at her neck with pearl-embroidered gold braid, Daisy had the look of an odalisque in the shaded interior of his carriage, her pose as relaxed as his. "We're not talking about the same kind of game… are we?" Her voice was sleepy like her eyes, husky, redolent; her smile almost made him change his mind.

If she disapproved, he thought, he'd ignore his schedule; there would be other matches. But his teammates would sulk because they were currently in first place for the club championship. "It's not of great import,
chou-chou
. Valentin can find a substitute."

"You play second position, don't you?"

"Usually," the leading scorer in a decade modestly said.

"And you'd be harder to replace than a third or back."

"Theoretically… but an afternoon in bed with you prevails in fascination," he replied with an easy charm.

She weighed his asking against her own idleness, understood his commitment to his team because she had a father and brothers who played polo with the same seriousness. "Go," she said, "I'll take a nap at Adelaide's."

His satisfaction was apparent, like a young boy allowed out to play, she thought with pleasurable contentment, pleased she could make him happy.

"You're sure now?" His solicitiousness was as charming as his seductive talents and she almost said,
no, I changed my mind
, because she wanted him suddenly for all his sweetness and beauty. It required a moment more for practical reason to beat down her sensations of wanting. She could after all, make love to him tonight.

So she said politely, "I'm sure. I'm also very tired." In fact the idea of having to participate in a polo match would have been beyond her strength. They'd been up a great deal of the night playing at love.

"You're an angel." Leaning over, he kissed her lightly on the cheek.

"Where do you get your energy?" Thoughts of an afternoon nap insinuated themselves more prominently in her mind.

The Duc didn't say he was familiar with sleepless nights for the inference would be displeasing, so he said instead, "My chef's idea of breakfast coffee can sustain one for days. You didn't drink any." His smile was benign.

Daisy had, in fact, taken one sip, said, "this would bring a corpse to life," and opted for tea. "If you like, we could cancel tonight. You're going to be exhausted."

"No, I'll be fine. I'll come to fetch you at nine."

Adelaide had been watching the courtyard windows since she'd risen that morning, determined to lend comfort and support to Daisy after Isabelle's despicable behavior at the
Opéra
.

Her pacing set the mood for her household, already alerted by news of the Montignys' early morning visit to the Duc—common knowledge belowstairs hours before the story reached the aristocrats of Paris with their morning coffee.

Which news had only increased Adelaide's agitation.

When the Duc's carriage rolled into the courtyard, Adelaide raced with unladylike haste to the entrance hall, arriving breathless to greet Daisy when she came in.

"Would you like tea?" she asked. "Or a late luncheon?" she added, reminded by the chiming hall clock of the hour. "Are you all right? I'm so sorry, did you sleep? You couldn't have, you must be exhausted."

"I'm tired," Daisy said with a faint smile, answering one of Adelaide's rush of queries. "But not overly exhausted," she quickly went on at the sudden concern appearing on her hostess's face. "And tea would be wonderful," she added, politely postponing her nap.

"I'm so sorry about the scene at the
Opéra
," Adelaide immediately reiterated after they were seated in a small drawing room with tea astonishingly ready for pouring. How difficult had it been to maintain the tea table at the ready against her unknown arrival, Daisy wondered. "You must be furious and distrait and wishing every Montigny to the devil."

Daisy had taken a chair near the windows overlooking the garden, the sunlight behind her casting her face in shadow, concealing her transient grimace at Adelaide's frank assessment. "I would have preferred a less public battleground," she admitted, shrugging in a lazy negligent gesture—a reflection of her experience with bigotry. "Since anger doesn't help, however, I've learned a long time ago to ignore scenes like that at the
Opéra
."

"Despite your merciful indulgence, it still was dreadful of Isabelle," Adelaide murmured. "But typical of her malice. There's always a certain portion of society one must apologize for… endlessly. The faction to which the Montignys belong is the most rabid of Monarchists, the most conservative, and I'm afraid… the most reactionary."

"It surprises me how Etienne could relate to the very disparate spirit of his wife. He seems the antithesis of a Monarchist." "They've always led separate lives—distinctly separate lives. Isabelle devoted herself to her dressmaker and milliner, to her afternoon teas, her daily drive through the Bois, social calls, dinners, followed by the theater or some soiree. With the customary minimum of four changes of gowns, her days were filled."

"I can see how terribly busy Isabelle could be," Daisy sardonically replied, always astonished at the sheer idleness of the aristocratic way of life.

"Etienne's interests have always been more diverse."

"More than women, you mean," Daisy tranquilly noted.

"You haven't known him long enough," Adelaide pointed out, pouring Daisy a cup of tea. "While polo and his racing stable are significant in his life, he's also the major shareholder in three railways and active in management of the
Bourse
."

"He seems not to attend to business—are you sure?" she softly queried, taking the delicate cup and saucer from Adelaide. How could he be "active," as Adelaide suggested, when he spent all his time with her?

Adelaide smiled. "He's indulging you, to the frustration, Valentin says, of his business manager, who no longer has Etienne's full attention. Nor do any of his other activities, Valentin informs me. You know he's somewhat of an authority on Asian cartograph—his maps are considered a requisite for passage across the vastness of Asia. His agricultural estates are models for efficient profitable farming, and he spends an enormous amount of time with his children. They've always been his first priority."

Daisy knew of his devotion to his children, but with his altered schedule, she hadn't been fully aware of the magnitude of his other interests. "I hadn't realized… he apparently—" An added distress overcame her, hearing the full litany of Etienne's interests "has sufficiently filled his days as well as Isabelle."

"And his nights. Although I think he's been a very lonely man for all his activities. He's very different with you."

While Daisy was pleased in the jealous way of lovers to hear his life had been lived virtually apart from his wife, she was disconcerted to realize how fully his life was centered in Parisian society. How would their relationship be affected if she didn't wish to remain in France? And she didn't. She was committed to her tribe and family in much the same way Etienne was devoted to his businesses and children. He would very likely prefer
not
living in Montana. In all the joy and bliss of their love, they'd failed to come to terms with the physical distance separating their lives. Had he assumed she'd live with him?