The Lady's Tutor (41 page)

“In Arabia
you would be stoned to death.
El Ibn
deserves better than the likes of
you.”

Embarrassment
turned to bright anger.
She would not be judged.
Nor would she allow him
to demean the beauty she had shared with Ramiel.

“This is
not Arabia. My father threatened to kill me, my husband threatened to commit
me, and yesterday one or the other tried to gas me, but they did not succeed
and you are not going to succeed in intimidating me now. Furthermore, it is for
Lord Safyre to decide what he deserves or does not deserve. If you wish to
watch me bathe, then so be it.”

Elizabeth,
still holding the covers clutched to her breasts, wriggled to the edge of the
bed. She stuck her legs out from underneath the silk sheet and over the edge of
the mattress. Her naked feet dangled above the Oriental carpet below.

Hazel eyes
locked with black ones.

It was
Muhamed’s choice now. Elizabeth only hoped he had as little desire to see her
body as she did to show it to him, but whatever the outcome of this
confrontation
she would not back down.

Taking a
deep breath, Elizabeth slid off the bed, dragging with her the silk sheet and
satin comforter. Taking an even deeper breath, she released the covers.

Muhamed
turned in a swirl of white cotton. “Do not leave the house without me unless
you are accompanied by
El Ibn.
Those are his orders. Lucy will be here
in exactly twenty minutes to take you to breakfast.”

The door
to the bedroom opened and closed with equal silence. Frigid air swirled about
Elizabeth’s naked body.

What if
the servant had not backed down? What if, even now, he stood there and stared
at her nakedness?

What
was she becoming?

Knees
trembling, she walked the distance to the door where an English bath awaited
her. Hot, aromatic steam filled the mosaic-tiled room. The tub, a large porcelain
one encased in mahogany, was filled with water and .. . orange blossoms.

A sharp
pang filled her chest.

Ramiel had
remembered that she could not wear perfume and had given her fragrant flowers
instead.
To be crushed underneath her breasts and between her thighs.

A
washcloth was draped over the side of the tub. A variety of soaps and shampoos
were laid out for her selection.

She
stepped into the tub and gingerly sank down. The water was very hot. Whoever
had filled it must have run scalding water in it and left it to cool naturally
so that it would keep warm for a longer period of time. The ploy had succeeded.
It took several seconds for Elizabeth to adjust to the heat.

Soaping a
rag, she carefully ran it over her breasts. And remembered Ramiel’s hands soaping
her breasts after she had ridden him like a stallion. Then he had carried her
upstairs to his bedroom and presented her with a condom-filled tin stamped with
Queen Victoria’s portrait. It had been strangely comforting to think that the
queen inadvertently made respectable the very acts that Mrs. Josephine Butler
of the Ladies National Association had decried:
If
they really do enable
men to sin without having to suffer for it, we shall only oppose them all the
more.

The flesh
between her legs was almost as hot as was the bathwater. Abandoning the
washcloth, she rubbed flower petals into her skin, underneath her breasts, her
arms. Daring the forbidden, wanting to know the changes Ramiel had made inside
her body as well as outside, she stood up on her knees and touched the delicate
flesh that he had stretched and fondled and kissed and licked and then
stretched even more. She was tender, the opening pouted, and inside—

A soft
knock reverberated inside the bathroom. “Mrs. Petre?”

Elizabeth
jerked her hand away from her body, heart pounding. “Yes?”

“I’m Lucy,
ma’am, and I’ve brought you your clothes. Shall I come in and assist you?”

“Thank
you, that is not necessary. I am just finishing. Lay the clothes out on the
bed, please. I will be there directly.”

“Very
good, ma’am.”

Elizabeth
quickly sluiced off the flower petals and stood up in the water, face flaming
hot. Reaching for a towel, she briskly dried off and wrapped it about her body.
Wet hair clumped on her bare shoulders and down her back.

She needed
to take care of her teeth.. . .

A
toothbrush lay on the sink cabinet. Beside it sat a tin of tooth powder. She
vigorously brushed her teeth and rinsed her mouth. Half afraid that the maid
would come into the bathroom, either on the orders of
El Ibn
or Muhamed,
she perched on the wooden toilet seat and hurriedly relieved herself. A roll of
tissue on the wall beside the toilet left no doubt as to its purpose. Most
English homes hid such paper in boxes.

She paused
with her hand on the door. No doubt the entire staff was aware that the Bastard
Sheikh and Mrs. Petre, the wife of the Chancellor of the Exchequer, were
lovers.

No
regrets, Elizabeth.

Bracing
herself, she opened the bathroom door. Lucy stood by the four-poster. She had
straightened the covers. A royal blue silk and wool blend skirt with a matching
bodice were spread across the crimson comforter along with an array of
lingerie.

They did
not belong to Elizabeth.

Lucy held
up a pair of transparent silk drawers edged with blue satin ribbons and smiled,
as if it were commonplace to assist a married woman in her master’s bedchamber.
As no doubt it was.
“Ain’t these pretty?”

Indeed
they were. Elizabeth had never seen anything quite like them. They would
hide—absolutely nothing.

“They be
for you, ma’am.”

Elizabeth
should not feel hurt that Ramiel would outfit her in his former mistress’s
clothes. But she did.

“I would
prefer my own clothes, Lucy.”

“M’lord
said you was to wear these, ma’am. I don’t rightly know where any other clothes
are.”

Ramiel’s
bedroom did not contain a dressing screen. Acutely aware of her swollen
breasts, Elizabeth took the drawers, a chemise that was just as transparent,
and a pair of black silk stockings into the bathroom and firmly shut the door
in Lucy’s face. When she exited, covered if not concealed, she found Lucy
holding up what looked like a ruffled apron.

“It be a
bustle. Ain’t never seen anything like it. Here’s your petticoats, ma’am.”

Elizabeth
stepped into two fine lawn petticoats and firmly secured them around her waist.
Lucy did not seem surprised that there was no corset. Loath to give up the
ruffled bustle, she tied it over the bands of the petticoats, then tossed the
skirt over Elizabeth’s head. When she finished dressing Elizabeth, she stood
back and surveyed her handiwork. “Royal blue be a good color for you, ma’am. It
goes ever so nice with your red hair. I’m not a lady’s maid, but I can brush it
out and put it up on top of your head for you.”

Elizabeth
forced a smile. “Thank you, Lucy.”

Damp hair
pinned to her head—her pins, she did not want to know who had rescued them or
the gossip it had instigated—she slipped into black patent slippers—hers,
again—and followed Lucy down to breakfast.

Ramiel sat
at a round oak table in an elegant glass-enclosed breakfast room filled with
late-morning sunshine. His golden head was bent over a newspaper. He wore a
morning frock coat, so very English, yet surely no Englishman would do the
things he had done to her last night.

Every
touch, every word spoken between them, flooded her memory. She turned first
cold and then hot, afraid of drawing attention to herself lest she be
ridiculed, even more afraid that their time together had meant nothing more to
him than an easy conquest. And she had been easy. She had held
nothing
back
from him.

Ramiel
suddenly raised his head. He stared at her for a long while, as if he, too,
remembered every touch, every word. A slow smile lit up his dark face.
“Sabah
el kheer, taalibba.”

Sunshine
flooded Elizabeth’s body.
“Sabah el kheer.”

Laying down
the paper, Ramiel gracefully stood and pulled out the open-armed yellow
silk-upholstered chair beside his. “Actually, the correct response is
sabah
e-noor.”

“I beg
your pardon.
Sabah e-noor,
Lord Safyre.”

He cocked
his head, his turquoise eyes knowing. “You are feeling shy.”

Heat
pulsed in her body. “Yes.”

“Are you
sore?”

She tilted
her chin. “A little. I think, perhaps, I would be more so if not for the
bubbles.”

Heat that
owed nothing to sunshine shimmered in the air. “I would not mind a champagne
breakfast.”

“And I
would rather have my own clothes back,” she replied evenly. “I do not relish
the idea of wearing your mistress’s castoffs.”

He
stilled. “Those are your clothes,
taalibba,
designed by Madame Tusseau.”

Madame
Tusseau was the premier modiste in London. She dressed the richest of the
aristocrats . . . and courtesans.

“Indeed.
How did she know my measurements?” she asked. I took her the dress you wore
yesterday.”

And she
just happened to have ready-made clothing in my size,” she said flatly.

“Let us
say that she appropriated clothing from several of her clients, one whose chest
approximated yours and another whose hips did.”

“How is it
that Madame Tusseau holds you in such high regard that she will open her
establishment to you in the early hours of the morning?” Elizabeth inwardly
cringed.
She sounded exactly like what she was,
a jealous, insecure
woman who had long passed her prime but for this man wanted to regain it.

“My mother
is her client,” Ramiel said quietly. “Also I have given her clients in the
past. I have never brought another woman into my home, Elizabeth. Do not
cheapen our relationship by comparing yourself to my past mistresses.”

“Others
will.”

“Yes.”

She did
not want to care what other people thought. But it was difficult. Especially
when she did not understand why one man would want her while another would kill
her.

“The
lingerie is quite—clever. Did you pick it out?”

A smile
displaced the hardness that had settled over his features. “Everything you have
on I picked out. You are a beautiful, sensuous woman, Elizabeth; you deserve
beautiful, sensuous clothes. Why don’t you sit down here beside me and show me
your lingerie?”

Her breath
quickened. No one had ever called her beautiful. Even knowing it for the lie
that it was,
he made her feel beautiful.
“The servants—”

“Will not
disturb us. I have instructed them that we will serve ourselves.” He held out
his hand—long, tanned fingers that had penetrated her body and shown her a
special place that she had never known existed. He had splayed those fingers
inside her and licked her essence from between them. “Come to me,
taalibba.”

She went
to him ... only to be seated while he remained standing.

“What
would you have for breakfast? Eggs? Kidneys? Kippers? Toast? Ham? Mushrooms?
Fruit?”

“A
champagne breakfast, please,” she said primly.

A low
chuckle filled the sunlit room. “First you must eat something.”

Elizabeth
turned her head and stared at the jointure of his legs only inches away from
her face. She had taken him into her mouth and suckled him. He had tasted—hot
and salty.

She threw
her head back and stared up at him. “I would like tongue, if you have it. And
then I would like a fresh ripe plum.”

His eyes
gleamed with appreciation. Bending, he took her chin between this thumb and
forefinger. He gave her his tongue and she gladly took it, breath catching in
her throat at the simple intimacy that was a man’s kiss.
She had known him
for less than two weeks, yet they were closer than she was with the man she had
been married to for sixteen years.
Delicately nibbling and licking and
sucking as he had taught her, she took her time sampling the taste and texture
of him—dark, rich coffee and slick heat. When he stood, the front of his gray
wool trousers were tented.

“You will
pay for that,
taalibba.
”

“How?” she
asked breathlessly. “How will you make me pay?”

Her demand
yesterday to know exactly how deeply he filled her echoed between them.

His eyes
crinkled in silent laughter. “By not telling you what I specially plan to do to
you. Pour us coffee while I serve Madame.”

Caught up
in the play—she could not remember ever teasing or being teased by another
adult—she reached for the silver coffeepot in the middle of the table. And
stared dumbfounded at the newspaper Ramiel had discarded.

WIFE OF
THE CHANCELLOR OF THE EXCHEQUER NEAR DEATH
boldly marched across the front page.