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Was he asking so much, he wearily thought, sprawled in his carriage as his driver took him through the rain-wet streets to the palace that had been home to the de Vecs for five centuries. Was his freedom from a marriage devoid of everything but malice such an enormous favor in the eyes of the fates? Had he no right to happiness like others on this planet?

In desperation he was traveling to see a woman who had shown him no compassion or charity in two decades to ask of her a boon. It was an outrageous act of hope.

Many of the old de Vec retainers had gone with the Duc when he'd set up separate quarters at his apartment, and Isabelle's new butler didn't recognize him until he announced his name.

The new majordomo didn't know whether Madame le Duchesse was in, he told Etienne, but if the Duc would wait in the green drawing room, he would have the Duc's card brought up to Madame's quarters.

Motioning to a footman standing at attention near his shoulder, the butler said, "Charbeau, take His Grace's card upstairs." Bourges's man had no choice but to obey. Bringing another footman over with a wave of his hand, the new steward of Isabelle's home directed, "Picard, show Monsieur le Duc to the green drawing room."

Handing his gloves to the butler, Etienne followed the footman down the corridor he'd walked through a thousand times in the past, a small stab of nostalgia gripping him as the familiar interior reminded him of happier days, of his children, and his childhood.

As they approached the drawing-room doors, the young footman turned, smiled, and said, "She won't see you, Your Grace."

"She won't?" While the possibility wasn't entirely unexpected, this young man plainly telling him was.

"Orders, sir. You're not allowed upstairs."

"The Duchesse is there now?"

The footman nodded. "You didn't hear it from me, sir."

"You're Douet's grandson, aren't you?" Etienne recognized the tall broad-shouldered frame and the shock of flaxen hair. Douet's family had come originally from one of his grandfather's estates in Normandy and their size and coloring traced back to some long-ago Viking ancestor.

"Yes, sir, I have to leave, sir. Montrose will come looking for me."

"Why didn't you come with your father when he left the Duchesse's employ?"

"Well, sir, the morning parlor maid was newly hired and would be staying… so…"

"So you stayed," the Duc said with a smile. "You're both welcome in my household, should you wish… and thank you for your information."

"Thank
you
, sir. Marguerite would be happy to be away… the Duchesse frightens her, Your Grace."

"Being your things and Marguerite, too, to your father. You know the way?"

"Oh, yes, sir, Your Grace, sir," the young man stammered, backing away and bowing. "Thank you, sir, Your Grace."

If Isabelle wouldn't receive him, he'd have to find his way to her though less formal channels, the Duc thought, deciding to take the conservatory stairway to avoid Montrose.

The conservatory dominated the eastern courtyard, the three-story glass structure housing a collection of exotic trees and plants brought home by generations of travel-prone de Vecs. Fragrant flowering plants and shrubbery perfumed the entire east wing of the hotel, the open stairway added by a de Vec enamored of the tropical climes he'd visited in his youth.

The staircase was rarely used, for its distance from the family and public rooms made it inconvenient. So Etienne paused on the second-floor landing for a brief time to admire the enclosed garden he'd nurtured through his years as master of this house. He drew in the smell of damp earth, of lily and jasmine and island grasses, inundated suddenly by a sense of melancholy as the familiar smells assailed him.

He had not perhaps a profound veneration for his ancestors—since his father's role had been so detached even on the rare occasions he was in residence, and his mother's friendship had come to him in his adulthood—but there was a certain sense of continuity in this beautiful old building. If his attachments weren't based on familial emotions, they were devoted to a fidelity of place; he had spent his entire adult life caring for the de Vec estates, improving them, expanding them, restoring those his father had neglected. Like this hotel.

With a conscious effort he shook away the nostalgia, reminding himself no amount of satisfaction in estate management compared with the deep happiness he'd found with Daisy. And if he must sacrifice in his lifetime all the de Vec monuments to the past, he would.

Leaving the landing, he strode down the carpeted hallway toward those rooms Isabelle occupied. It was quiet this time of day between drowsy afternoon and teatime, the rain outside casting the interior into an orchid shade. He must hurry, he realized, increasing his stride, for his time was limited to that interval between his card being brought up and returned to the majordomo downstairs. He then would be sought out in the drawing room to be given his refusal.

There was a new gold screen inside Isabelle's reception-room door, and as Etienne crossed the threshold into the room, he saw through the crack between two of its folds, his wife and the young blond priest from the Bonnard show sitting side by side on the sofa by the fire. He hesitated for a second with the knob still in his hand, mesmerized by the scene, and then he realized that the young priest was gazing devouringly into Isabelle's eyes and holding her hands in both of his.

The carpet was so thick and the latch so well oiled his entrance hadn't made a sound.

In a rich throaty tone he'd never heard before, Isabelle caressingly said, "Roger, darling, you understand me so well."

"It's always special when it's raining, isn't it, heart of mine… since that first afternoon…"

"… at Charles's reception."

Lifting her hands, he slipped them inside the opened front of his cassock, and Etienne heard the pounding of his own heart in his ears as Isabelle slipped the black garment from the young man's shoulders.

Etienne stealthily closed the door behind him, thinking belatedly, how would Charbeau know he was inside? But if all transpired in its normal course as appeared likely from the events taking place before his eyes, in a few minutes more, he'd make his presence known, open the door, ring for the servants, and then sit down on one of Isabelle's cushioned rococo fauteuils and calmly wait until a witness appeared.

"Will you make me do penance for this sin, Roger, darling?" Isabelle whispered. "I know lust is sinful. What penance will you have me do?" She had stripped his cassock away and he wore only black silk underwear, monogrammed with his family crest at his thigh. He had not yet apparently, the Duc dryly observed, cast off all the luxuries of the world. Or its decadence… he reflected, as Isabelle's small hands stroked the curve of the youthful clergyman's shoulders.

"First you must undress for me, my child," the young man said, his voice mock gruff, his cadence that of the confessional. "Cast your clothing away so I may see you as God intended."

"Naked, Your Worship?" Isabelle whispered, a sultry resonance to her voice.

"As Magdalene was before her Lord."

"Are you my Lord, Your Holiness?"

"In all things, my dear."

The young priest's erection lifted the soft black silk of his underwear into peaked prominence, an attraction Isabelle couldn't resist. She paused in the process of untying the ribbons of her pale blue mousseline-de-soie reception dress to unbutton the waistband of his undergarment so his arousal was free.

"I like to see it," she murmured, "lift its impatient head." She stroked the rampant crest of his erection and the young priest shut his eyes momentarily against his shuddering desire.

"No more," he said short seconds later, having composed himself, his hand deliberately setting Isabelle's stroking fingers aside, "until you expose your nakedness to me."

"Must I?" she said in feigned apprehension, even as her fin-gers resumed undoing the bows holding her flowing silk gown together.

How much had he paid for that reception gown? the Duc wondered, the magnificence of its fabric and lacework stunning tribute to Doucet's sense of luxury. Isabelle's "at home" gown, loose-fitting and worn without the discomfort of corsets and stays, incorporated dozens of yards of euchre lace and embroidered diaphanous mousseline. He would have to stop and order some as beautiful for Daisy before he left tomorrow.

Isabelle's gown slid to the carpet in a soft whisper of silk a moment later, and the Duc saw his wife's body for the first time in nearly two decades. Isabelle had always prided herself on maintaining her weight by playing tennis every day, and it showed. She'd changed very little.

Standing now before the fair-haired priest, her blonde hair loose on her shoulders, her back to the door, she was waiting apparently for the next procedure in a game seemingly familiar to its players.

"Have you been good, my dear, and not committed any sins?"

"No, Your Worship."

"You have sinned?"

"I have lusted, Your Worship."

"You must be punished, my dear, you realize."

"I know."

"Put your hands behind your back and bend forward, my dear," the young man intoned with mock sternness, "so I can administer justice."

She did so willingly, and the priest gazed at her for some moments as she bowed before him, her breasts suspended within reach. Leaning forward leisurely, he grasped them both in his hands, pulling her closer until her nipples, squeezed into prominence by the pressure of his fingers, were within inches of his mouth.

"I'm doing this for your own good, you know," he murmured, seeming to wait for an answer.

"Yes, sir," Isabelle whispered on cue.

And he took one jewel-hard nipple into his mouth and suckled it with such force, the Duc heard Isabelle gasp loudly enough to carry the distance to his position by the door. Despite the priest's roughness, which he democratically portioned out to each breast, Isabelle seemed to be enjoying the sensations, for her hips began moving in a rhythm of arousal.

After some time, the young man asked, "Are you cleansed of your lustful thoughts now, my dear?"

"Not completely, Your Holiness."

"Let me see." He released her breasts, leaving behind vivid red fingermarks where he'd savagely grasped her flesh, and his hands moved to the juncture of her thighs. Without comment or hesitation or preliminaries, he roughly slid two fingers deep inside Isabelle. Isabelle moaned in luxurious response, her hips moving to capture the full extent of the young man's manipulation. How far should he let them go? the Duc wondered, and then decided it would be useful for legal reasons to have the young man's sperm on Isabelle's thighs.

He would wait for their divine climax… unless, of course, this game was devised for saintly penitents who stopped just short of consummation—for conscience's sake. Since he had no religious neurosis or perversions to call on for counsel or guidance…

He would have to wait and see.

Did Isabelle reach orgasm? he wondered.

She did, he saw a moment later, as she sensationally expired from the priest's harsh manipulation. She fell in a delicate swoon, her head in the young priest's lap.

He could immediately see where the diversion was leading next and he hoped Charbeau was taking his time getting back to Montrose, or the staff was going to be sent out soon in search of him. They wouldn't dare come into this room, though, unless invited, so he was safe. But the alarm would be sounded in the rest of the hotel.

Perhaps that would be an asset after all. A full complement of servants in the corridors ready for his call would be useful.

The young man initiated the next activity in their divine drama of carnal transgression. Lifting Isabelle's head from his lap, he bent to kiss her gently on the forehead, his tenderness startling contrast to his former domination. "You have made progress, my dear, in controlling your lustful thoughts. You didn't cry out at your climax. I commend your restraint." He kissed her again, his fingers holding her chin tilted upward so their eyes met, their lips joining this time in a long heated caress.

"Thank you, Your Worship," Isabelle murmured, when he freed her from his grasp. "Will I be rewarded now for my restraint?" Kneeling at his feet, she arched her back so her breasts jutted upward, offering herself to him.

"Naughty girl," he chastised, moving his hands from the curve of her shoulders to her upthrust breasts. "Are you trying to tempt me into your sinful ways?" Taking her nipples between his thumb and forefinger he squeezed and lifted, forcing her to rise higher until their faces were almost touching. "Are you?" He squeezed harder.

"No, I would never try to tempt you, Your Worship," she murmured, smothering a small moan, her mouth almost pressed to his. "I'm your handmaiden only…" she whispered, "to serve you in all things."

"Will you bathe me?" He held her still in his steely grasp, forcing her breasts prominently high.

She nodded.

"And bring me my food?"

"Yes, my lord."

"And bear me children?"

"Yes," she whispered.