The Lady's Tutor (8 page)

Every time Muhamed called him
El Ibn,
Ramiel remembered.

Sometimes he forgot ... when he had sex. Elizabeth Petre made him
forget by words alone.

How long had it been since Ramiel lusted for a woman ... and not
for forgetfulness?

How long had it been since he had laughed?

“I have not forgotten, eunuch,” Ramiel countered coldly,
deliberately.

Muhamed’s head snapped backward.

Ramiel instantly regretted his words. Muhamed had not asked for
his burden any more than Ramiel had asked for his.

He wondered how the servant survived, unable to escape his past,
however briefly, inside a woman’s body. Ramiel, at least, had that luxury.
Entire minutes where nothing mattered but the sound of wet, pounding flesh and
the silky heat of a woman’s flesh gripping him, milking him until she took the
pain and left only the memories.

Praise Allah and please God, let him find a woman who could accept
what he could not.

“Go,” Ramiel commanded softly, reining in the ever-prevalent anger
and self-disgust. “Hire whomever you need. I don’t care how much it costs. I
want to know everything that Edward Petre does. Every place that he visits.
Every person he talks to. Every woman he’s ever fucked. If he pisses, I want to
know about it. And I do not expect you to fail me again.”

Body as taut as the scimitar that he carried underneath the loose
folds of the cloak and his
thobs,
Muhamed bowed out of the library.

Ramiel glanced down at the empty cup by his elbow, then at the
full cup of black brew that Elizabeth Petre had hastily set down after sipping
the scalding Turkish coffee.

Muhamed was right. A woman like Elizabeth Petre could cause a man
like him a great deal of trouble.

Here, in England, he would be prepared.

“Muhamed.”

The Cornishman froze at the sound of Ramiel’s voice, hand reaching
to close the library door.

“I do not repeat the mistakes I have made in the past.”

he jarring clang of silver hitting silver jerked Elizabeth out
from underneath the Bastard Sheikh’s naked body. A thick, cloying aroma invaded
the air.

What
do
you
care for, Lord Safyre?

A woman, Mrs. Petre. A warm, wet, wanton woman who is not afraid
of her sexuality or ashamed of satisfying her needs.

Elizabeth’s eyes snapped open.

Emma’s round, pleasant face was wreathed in steam; she bent over
the nightstand by the bed, stirring a silver spoon around and around in a
porcelain cup. A small silver pot sat beside the cup and saucer on a silver
tray.

The cloying aroma filling the air was not the sugary smell of
Turkish coffee, Elizabeth vaguely realized. It was the sweet smell of
chocolate.

“If you are ill, Elizabeth, you should have sent a note around to
my house.”

Elizabeth blinked.

Her mother’s face stepped into view. It was framed by a black silk
bonnet. Emerald-green eyes berated Elizabeth as they had when she was a child
and failed to meet her parents’ expectations.

Elizabeth came fully awake, heart pounding.

She knows about the Bastard Sheikh
was her first thought. It was immediately
followed by
How could she?

The previous morning had been awkward, but this morning Elizabeth
had arrived back home at five thirty-five, a quarter of an hour before the
servants arose. No one could possibly know about her two visits with the
Bastard Sheikh.

But why else would her mother be here unless—

You should have sent a note around to my house
pierced the fog of sleep and the
mind-numbing start of fear.

Elizabeth’s gaze flew to the window.

Today was Tuesday.

Her mother and she always went shopping on Tuesday mornings. Then
they took lunch.

Judging by the gray winter light streaming through the curtains,
it was fast approaching noon.

Hot blood flooded Elizabeth’s cheeks.

Emma and her mother had stood over her and watched her while she
dreamed that the Bastard Sheikh worked her body as if his virile member were
indeed a pestle and she was a stubborn herb that needed to be thoroughly
pounded and ground into submission.

Hez, taalibba,
he had whispered, alternately thrusting hard and deep then side to
side.
Swing your hips for me. . .

She squeezed her eyelids together, acutely aware of the harsh
flavor of the Turkish coffee that lingered in her mouth and the frustrated
desire that continued to pulse deep inside her.
If only Emma had delayed
pouring the hot chocolate.

A surge of resentment flared up inside Elizabeth. Her mother did
not belong in her bedroom any more than the Bastard Sheikh belonged in her
dreams.

Opening her eyes, she rolled over onto her back and summoned a
smile. “Good morning, Mother. I am afraid I have overslept. If you will wait in
the drawing room, I will dress and join you. Emma, please escort my mother
downstairs and ring for tea.”

“Very good, ma’am.”

Her abigail stepped backward; her mother stepped forward.

“Your cheeks are flushed, daughter. If you are ill, there is no
need
to
get up. I apologize if I intrude on your rest, but I was
worried. Monday you canceled all of your appointments, and now this. You know
that your father is grooming Edward to stand for prime minister when he
retires. You have to seed the ground for him, just as I do for your father.”

The smile froze on Elizabeth’s face. Rebecca Walters was worried .
. . because Elizabeth had failed to fulfill her obligations.

The only memories that stood out in Elizabeth’s childhood were of
her mother “seeding” the ground for her father. Every spare moment, every spark
of energy, every deed of charity, had been dedicated to a political cause.

“Do you never get tired, Mother?”

The emerald-green eyes snapped with impatience. “Of course I do.
So does your father. And so does your husband, I might add. Is that what this
is about”—she gestured toward Elizabeth in bed— “you lying abed ... because you
are tired?”

Yes,
that
was exactly what it was about, Elizabeth thought with a spark of anger. She
was
tired ... tired of coming fourth place with her husband. Edward had his
politics, his mistress, his children, and then there was his wife. Just for
once in her life she would like to come first.

Just for once in her life she would like to lie abed, free of
social and political commitments, with a man who loved her.

Her face blanched. Not with “a” man, she harshly corrected
herself. She wanted to lie abed with her husband.

“No, Mother, I am not tired. I had the migraine last night and
took laudanum to ease the pain,” Elizabeth lied, acutely aware of Emma, who
hovered by the door and who must know that she lied. “Perhaps I overdid the
dosage.”

“And Monday?”

Elizabeth forced a smile. And added another lie. “The dean rang
up. He wanted to see me immediately, so—”

“What has Phillip done now?”

It should have been amusing, her mother repeating the words Elizabeth
herself had asked the dean. It was not. Whereas Elizabeth viewed her younger
son’s antics with tolerant amusement, her mother vociferously disapproved of
Phillip’s innocent pranks.

“It was nothing,” Elizabeth said hurriedly. “He was involved in a
dispute with another schoolboy. If I do not get dressed soon, Mother, we shall be
too late to take lunch. Emma . . .”

Elizabeth was mildly amazed at the way Emma gently but firmly
propelled Rebecca Walters out of her bedroom. The abigail had not blinked an
eye at Elizabeth’s lies.

Perhaps Edward had “seeded” the household for deceit, she thought
cynically.

Flipping back the covers, she dragged her legs over the edge of
the bed.

They were pale legs with neat if not dainty ankles. The rub of her
thighs as she scooted across the mattress created warm, moist friction.

Do you know what a climax is, Mrs. Petre?

“Shall I run a bath for you, ma’am?”

Elizabeth gripped the sheet in both hands to anchor herself to the
bed.

Emma stood in the doorway, blandly watching Elizabeth and the
nightgown that had ridden over her knees.

She jerked down the hem of the shapeless white cotton gown and
slid off the bed, heart thumping. “Yes, please. That was rather quick. I
thought you were going to escort my mother downstairs.”

“Mrs. Walters did not want my escort, ma’am. She said that you more
urgently needed my assistance to dress.”

Elizabeth bit her bottom lip to keep from snapping that Emma was
her
abigail and
that here,
in this house, the wife of the Chancellor of
the Exchequer outranked the wife of the prime minister. Instead, she said, “Then
I had better hurry. You should not have let me sleep so late.”

“My apologies. I thought you might need the rest.”

Elizabeth’s heart seemed to do a somersault inside her chest.
Did
the servants know?. . .

Her lips were cold and stiff. “Why did you think that, Emma?”

“You have a very demanding schedule, ma’am. I sometimes think that
you work harder than Mr. Petre does.”

The abigail’s words were too enigmatic to be reassuring.

Did she mean that Elizabeth worked hard at “seeding” the political
grounds for her husband? Or did she mean that Elizabeth had a very demanding
schedule now with early-morning rendezvous?

The hot bath did not thaw Elizabeth’s unease.

She should stop the lessons now, before suspicion became fact. If
rumors spread that she was meeting the Bastard Sheikh, her marriage would be
over. As would her husband’s career.

But even as she contemplated giving up the dangerous tutelage,
thoughts of
The Perfumed Garden
crowded aside reason. What had the
sheikh written in the second chapter?

She rubbed a bar of soap underneath her breasts. And wondered if
the Bastard Sheikh had ever rubbed flower petals against a woman’s flesh where
she now rubbed the soap.

Emma waited in Elizabeth’s bedchamber with a pile of clothing.
Stepping behind a white enameled dressing screen, Elizabeth donned cotton
drawers, wool stockings, and a linen chemise before rejoining Emma so that the
maid could help her with her corset—

Elizabeth sucked in her breath to accommodate Emma’s
ministrations. She had worn a corset for twenty-three years. It should not feel
like a whaleboned prison. Nor had it until now.

The corset was rapidly followed by two petticoats. Elizabeth took
a tentative breath, inhaled the scent of starch and laundry soap.

What did Edward’s mistress smell like? she wondered.

Did Edward move like a pestle while his mistress swung her hips
side to side in lascivious accompaniment? Or were certain sexual motions
peculiar to Arabs?

Emma twitched a heavy navy wool dress over Elizabeth’s bustle. “If
you’ll step up to the dressing table, I’ll repair your hair, Mrs. Petre.”

The blood drained from Elizabeth’s face.

Emma had brushed out her hair the night before and braided it, as
she did every night before Elizabeth retired to bed. When
Elizabeth had later dressed
for her lesson she had twisted the braid up into a bun.

After so cleverly changing back into her nightgown and hanging up
her clothes that no one would know she had been outside the house,
she had
forgotten to take down her hair.

“Thank you, Emma,” she said through stiff lips.

Elizabeth’s face in the dressing table mirror was chalk white—the
same color as was the reflection of Emma’s apron. The abigail’s square,
competent hands moved deftly through the dark auburn strands, unpinning,
unbraiding, brushing, twisting, repinning.

Emma stepped back—a square chin and an attractively plump neck
appeared in the mirror above the white apron. “Would you like your jewelry box,
ma’am?”

“That won’t be necessary.”

“Very good, ma’am.”

Elizabeth realized that Emma was as much of an enigma now as she
had been sixteen years earlier.

“Have you ever been married, Emma?”

“No, ma’am. Employers do not encourage servants to marry.”

“I would not object.”

Emma turned, presenting a rather broad black backside to the
mirror, and then that, too, was gone and Elizabeth had no alternative but to
stand and face the abigail. She patiently held out a black cloak.

Elizabeth slipped first one arm and then another into the sleeves.
The wool was still damp from Elizabeth’s earlier outing.