The Lady's Tutor (16 page)

“Then I will do so.”

“Elizabeth, you’re late.” Edward stood inside the drawing room
doorway; his hair gleamed like black oil against the pallor of his skin. “You
should have been home hours ago. You have caused me a great deal of worry.”

She felt a rush of gratitude at his concern. It was followed by a
vague sense of guilt.

He had come home to eat with her during the dinner break at
Parliament. . . and she had not been there.

“I am sorry, Edward. The meeting ran over and then we got trapped
in the fog.”

Edward glanced at Beadles, who stood politely at attention beside
Elizabeth. “Beadles, tell Emma to prepare a bath for Mrs. Petre. She will be up
directly.”

Elizabeth stared at Edward in astonishment. He had not been this
solicitous of her welfare since . . . she could not remember when.

“Thank you, Edward, but there is no need to send Beadles.” She
stank of fog, and her head and foot throbbed. “I am going upstairs now.”

“Take Mrs. Petre’s things, Beadles, then run along and do as you
are told.”

The butler bowed and silently did as bid. Elizabeth reluctantly
gave up her reticule, then peeled off her gloves and laid them in his waiting
hand, freckles genteelly covered with white gloves. Sighing, she removed her
bonnet; that, too, was taken from her. Bowing again, Beadles pivoted toward the
stairs.

Edward offered Elizabeth his arm. “The constable is here. Let us
put his mind to rest that you are unharmed.”

She wanted a hot bath, a cold compress, and ten hours of sleep.
She did not want to play hostess. Furthermore, Edward’s gallantry after his
recent inattentiveness was—disconcerting. By accepting it, she felt slightly
traitorous, as if she wronged her husband ... or the Bastard Sheikh.

“Why did you telephone the constable, Edward?”

“I told you. You were late. I was worried.”

“There was no need to bother the constable.”

“You are not the type of woman who incommodes her husband because
of a little fog, Elizabeth. Naturally, I assumed the worst. Come inside now and
have a cup of tea while Emma runs your bath.”

Incommode her husband?
Because of a “little” fog?

The fog could hardly be called “little,” and why would she
incommode Edward’s dinner, especially since she had not known he was going to
take it with her?

Elizabeth placed her fingertips on the sleeve of his black dinner
jacket. The muscles underneath it were firm as opposed to corded, relaxed
rather than taut.

A big man with gray muttonchops rose from the floral-patterned
divan in the drawing room. “Mrs. Petre. I’m so glad to see you safe and sound.”

Elizabeth ignored the pain in her head and plastered a smile onto
her face. She held out her hand. It trembled ever so slightly. “Constable
Stone. As I was telling my husband, there was no need for anyone to worry.
Everyone is late on a night like this.”

The constable’s palm was hot and sweaty; she pulled her fingers
back as quickly as good manners allowed. “Please, sit down.”

He kept standing until she sat down across from him. “Your husband
says you have an important engagement tonight, so I will not take up your time.
His concern is understandable.”

The Hansons’ dinner party.

Edward had been concerned . . . because she had been late for a
dinner party. He had not ordered her bath out of courtesy but out of
expeditiousness.

The building custodian had mistaken her for a prostitute and
threatened to shoot her. She could have been raped, robbed, or killed, but her
husband telephoned the constable
because she had upset his plans.

“I apologize for the inconvenience you have been put to, Constable
Stone.” Her voice was disembodied, as if it did not belong to her. “The fog
descended while I was in the Women’s Auxiliary meeting. When the meeting ended,
Will, our coachman, and I made it home as quickly as possible. No doubt my
inexperience delayed us further.”

“How so?”

The hair on the back of her neck prickled. Constable Stone acted
as if she were guilty of a crime far worse than missing a dinner.

“I walked the horses so that we would not find our way into the
Thames.”

The constable was surprised.

Edward frowned. “That is why we have a groom.”

“Tommie was not there. He took ill while waiting for me, so Will
sent him home.”

“Where was this meeting, Mrs. Petre?”

Elizabeth told the burly constable.

He stared at her in disapproval. “Are you telling me you were in
that district with only a coachman in attendance?”

“I have repeatedly told Elizabeth to hire herself a secretary.
Then she would have a companion so that she need not attend these events on her
own.” Edward picked up his cup of tea and smiled deprecatingly at the
constable. “But you know how women are. They never think about their safety
until it is too late.”

Elizabeth felt a coldness seeping into her body that had nothing
whatsoever to do with the winter fog she had trudged through.

Edward had had no reason to summon the constable unless he
possessed foreknowledge of the drunken custodian. A person who would perhaps do
damage to her knowing full well that she was not a prostitute ...

She abruptly stood up. “If you will excuse me, Constable Stone,
Edward, I would like to retire now. It has been an exhausting evening.”

Edward and the constable simultaneously stood up. It was the
constable who spoke. “Of course, Mrs. Petre. I will see myself out.”

The closure of the drawing room door was a soft click. Edward and
Elizabeth stared at each other over the tea cart.

She mentally braced herself. “It is too late to go to the dinner
party, Edward.”

“Andrew expects us to be there in his stead, Elizabeth. We will
go.”

“No, Edward, I will not go.” Dull pain radiated from her temple.
It throbbed in time to her heartbeat. “Not tonight.”

“Very well,” he surprised her by saying. “The important thing is
that you are safe. You must have endured quite an ordeal.”

“Yes.” Why could she not bring herself to tell him about the
custodian and his threat to kill her? “I hit my head on a lamppost.”

“Shall I ring up the doctor?”

“No, thank you, Edward; you have done quite enough.”

“Good night, Elizabeth. Take care of your head.”

Elizabeth bit her lip. She was cold, she hurt, she was still
frightened,
and she did not know why.
The incident with the custodian
had
been pure
mischance. She was safe in the Petre household. “Are you leaving?”

“I am expected at the Hansons.”

And she had let him down.

“Will you be back”—no, she could not ask that, if he would spend
the night with his mistress after the parliamentary meeting ended or if he was
coming back home—”in time for the House session?”

“It will not matter if I am a few minutes late. You had best
hurry. Your bath will get cold.”

Perversely, Elizabeth wanted to go with Edward.

He turned and walked to the twin doors. Bowing, he held one open
for her. “Good night, Elizabeth.”

Elizabeth tried to remember the feel of his body on top of her,
inside her. Had he been as cold and controlled then as he was now?

Had Edward changed ... or had she?

“Good night, Edward.”

Emma, in her calm, methodical fashion, quickly saw to it that
Elizabeth had her bath and was tucked into bed with an ice pack on her head.
Elizabeth was too exhausted to think. Besides, her thoughts were utter
nonsense, the product of cold, pain, and fatigue.

But the thoughts refused to stop.

I
have
repeatedly told Elizabeth to hire herself a secretary. Then she would have a
companion so that she need not attend these events on her own.

A woman in Arabia has certain rights over her husband. Among them
is her right to sexual union.

You are not the type of woman who incommodes her husband because
of a little fog, Elizabeth.

Look to your husband. When you see what he is and not what you
want him to be, you will have your truth.

What truth did the Bastard Sheikh refer to?

Had he lied? Did he know who Edward’s mistress was and thought
that Elizabeth did not
stand
a chance of winning the attentions of her
husband, regardless of her erotic tutelage?

Mrs. Petre, there are certain things that a man can do with a
full-breasted woman that he cannot do with a less generously endowed one.

Elizabeth cupped her breasts through her cotton nightgown. They
spilled over her fingers—full, yes, but still firm.

What type of figure did Edward’s mistress have?

You love your children but you know nothing about your husband. .
. or yourself.

Her nipples tightened underneath her fingers. She jerked her hands
away.

No doubt Edward’s mistress was flat-chested with slender hips.
Everything that Elizabeth was not.

The ice pack had slipped and succeeded in numbing her ear while
her head steadily throbbed. Rolling over, she turned up the flame in the gas
lamp beside her bed.

Chapter Six.

She had yet to read her lesson in
The Perfumed Garden.

The book was where she had hid it, buried in her desk drawer.
Pulling out paper and pen, she proceeded to take notes as she read “Concerning
Everything That Is Favorable to the Act of Coition.”

The ache in her head and the residual trembling of her hands
traveled lower and settled between her thighs until she stopped writing
altogether and merely read.

The ways of doing it to women are numerous and variable. And now
is the time to make known to you the different positions which are usual.

Dear Lord,
she had never dreamed. . .
that there could be
such variety in an act that all of her life had been referred to as “a woman’s
duty to her husband.”

It listed everything, every possible position that a man and a
woman could engage coitus in.
Lebeuss el djoureb,
a man sitting between
a woman’s outstretched legs and rubbing his member against her vulva until she
grew moist from the alternate friction and shallow probes;
el kebachi,
a
woman kneeling on her hands and knees like the beasts in the fields;
dok el
arz,
belly pressed to belly, mouth glued to mouth.

Lying on the back, the stomach, the sides, sitting,
standing,
it
was all there in detailed format, like a child’s workbook. Positions, the
mutual movements of a man and a woman once penetration was engaged . . .

He who seeks the pleasure a woman can give must satisfy her
amorous desire for hot caresses, as described. He will see her swooning with
lust, her vulva will get moist, her womb will stretch forward, and the two
sperms will come together.

Feeling as if she were drugged, Elizabeth dragged her gaze up from
the closing paragraph and stared at the pen clutched between her fingers,
unwittingly comparing it to the sheikh’s description of a man’s member,
“big
as a virgin’s arm . . . with a round head. . . Measuring in length a span and a
half.”

The practical brass pen wasn’t nearly as thick as was the Bastard
Sheikh’s precious gold pen. For a heart-stopping moment she thought of how it
might be used to ease moist need and empty flesh.

Revolted, she tossed the brass pen away from her. It slammed into
the back of the secretary and bounced onto the blue carpet.

Sleep.

She had been through an ordeal. Sleep would regain her some
much-needed control.

She turned off the gas lamp and burrowed underneath the bedcovers
against the ice pack. But the ice had melted and the rhythmical throbbing
inside her body persisted.

Rolling onto her stomach, she experimentally rotated her hips.

The dull pulsations between her legs sharpened, deepened.

She could have died tonight. . .

Why had not Edward stayed home with her, comforted her? Why did he
go to his mistress when she ached for him to be with her?

If a man is repulsed by a woman’s sexuality,
taalibba,
then he is not a man.

Her hips independently pushed and rubbed against the mattress.

Hez, taalibba.

The mattress became a man who counteracted the swaying of her hips
by grinding up inside her body until her vulva dripped with moisture and her
womb stretched forward.

Love is hard work.

Elizabeth rubbed faster, harder, wanting, needing . . . her
nipples to be suckled and bitten. A man to throw her legs over his shoulders, thrusting
inside her so deeply that her womb contracted around his manhood.