The Lady's Tutor (24 page)

The applause was thunderous. Edward lightly jumped up onto the
dais beside Andrew and threw both arms up into the air.

Elizabeth had never seen him so handsome. His pale face was
flushed; his eyes glowed. It was as if the events of the morning had never
happened.

“My father-in-law is precipitate. He will be prime minister for
many more years yet. However, it is my greatest ambition to follow in his
footsteps. When the time comes, God willing, I only hope I will be worthy of
being your prime minister.”

More applause, Edward skillfully leading it, building it, quieting
it.

“And now I would like to thank the two women in my life. One gave
me my wife and the other gave me two sons, whom I will train to follow in my
footsteps as Andrew Walters has trained me to follow in his. Ladies and
gentlemen, I give you Mrs. Rebecca Walters, my mother-in-law, and Mrs.
Elizabeth Petre, my wife. Without their hard work and devotion, the auction
today and the forthcoming dance would not be possible!”

Elizabeth’s stomach churned. Edward was a liar and a hypocrite—he
cared nothing for his two sons. She could not do it.
He could not expect her
to get up there and speak on his behalf after what he had said to her.

But in the end she had no choice. Well-meaning hands pushed her
forward. Rebecca stepped up to Andrew’s left; Elizabeth reluctantly stepped up
between Andrew and Edward, every word, every move, masterminded to gain
political support.

Rebecca delivered her speech, the meaning the same with the words
slightly altered for greater spontaneity, that her greatest pleasure was
derived from being her husband’s helpmate and that she looked forward to many
more years of community service. Polite applause obligingly followed.

Elizabeth licked lips suddenly more dry than rice powder and
glanced down at the hundred or so pairs of eyes expectantly staring up at her.
Every line she had rehearsed faded from her memory. She laughed, a brittle,
nervous laugh that could not be mistaken for anything but what it was. “Well. .
. my family is a difficult act to follow.”

A few guffaws, then a few titters.

“I am not certain that my two sons are aware of their appointed
status as future prime ministers, but I will certainly tell them. Perhaps the
dean will be more lenient when next they do poorly on an exam, knowing that he
is harboring England’s future.”

More guffaws, even more titters, scattered applause. Elizabeth
could feel warning waves of disapproval emanating from her father and her
husband. Or perhaps it was heat emanating from the blazing chandeliers.

She should say that she thought Edward will make a wonderful prime
minister when the time came and that it was her greatest pleasure being his
helpmate. She could not. “Thank you for your support. And thank you for your
generous contributions.”

Edward’s fingers, covered in a white silk glove, closed painfully
around Elizabeth’s right hand. Her father’s fingers, equally cold through his
glove, trapped her left hand. Her mother’s right hand, she knew from experience
rather than from sight, would be clasped in Andrew’s left hand, a family united
in the eyes of the voting public. Elizabeth and Rebecca curtsied; Edward and
Andrew bowed.

She wondered what the voters would say if they knew their trusted
Chancellor of the Exchequer had cold-bloodedly begat a family for their
benefit. She wondered if her parents had begat her for the same reason. And did
not doubt for one second that they had done so.

Straightening,
she realized this was the first time she had curtsied to a crowd and not feared
she would trip on the hem of her gown. The small sense of satisfaction that the
thought gave her froze beneath the steady regard of turquoise eyes.

Panic thudded to life inside her chest. Panic . . . and the memory
of a hard leather phallus cupped in strong, tanned fingers.

Elizabeth did what she had always feared she would do, held off
balance with either hand clasped: She stumbled. Immediately, the chain of hands
snapped; the prime minister stepped down the dais to shake hands with the
applauding voters while Edward unobtrusively righted Elizabeth.

Her clumsiness had been so gracefully camouflaged that the whole
thing might have been deliberately choreographed. No one knew that she had
stumbled save for her father, her husband .. . and the Bastard Sheikh.

“Are you all right, Elizabeth?” Edward’s voice was warmly
solicitous; his brown eyes were the color of the Thames River frozen
mid-current.

Elizabeth stepped away from him. “Fine, thank you, Edward. Please
do not let me keep you from your voters.”

He smiled. “I won’t.”

The musicians behind her restlessly shuffled; they were eager to
start the music and get the evening over with. So was Elizabeth. Holding the
hem of her gown out of danger’s way, she stepped off the small wooden platform.

The crowd of middle-class voters surged away from the dais. The
Bastard Sheikh was nowhere to be seen.

Had she imagined him?

“I expected better from you, Elizabeth.”

The sound of a tuning violin sliced across her bare shoulders.
Elizabeth whirled around.

The Bastard Sheikh stood so close, her breasts brushed against the
lapels of his black dress jacket.

Heat raced through her blood. “What are you doing here?”

Hot breath fanned her upturned face. The dark face above hers was
shuttered, the gold of his hair a shining halo. “I came for you.”

Elizabeth’s breath caught in her chest. This morning he had said
that he had not had a woman in six days.

For a second he sounded as if—

Nonsense. Her
own husband
did not want her.

“I take it you received my package. If I damaged the book in any
way, I will be happy to reimburse you.”

The turquoise eyes were as hard as the stone they took their color
from. “What did you do to your husband?”

A scale of piano keys introduced a popular waltz. A tide of heat
surged behind her, men and women taking their positions on the dance floor.

He could not know what had happened between her and Edward.
No one knew of her humiliation save for
her. . . and her husband.

Her lips were cold and stiff. “Whatever do you mean?”

“You left my home in heat. And you went to your husband to satisfy
your desire. How far did you go before he turned you away?”

Udders.
Heat.

Edward likened her to a cow, and the Bastard Sheikh talked of her
passion as if she were a dog.

That morning with her husband had been a tragic farce. This was a
nightmare. Not only did the Bastard Sheikh realize how strong had been her
passion when she handled the artificial phallus, but he knew that her husband
had rejected her because of that passion.

She smiled as if they talked about the auction, the dance, the
music, anything but the animal he had compared her to and which Edward had made
her feel. “I do not know what you are talking about, Lord Safyre. If you will
excuse me, I really must see if the buffet needs to be replenished.”

She turned away, still smiling.

He turned with her. “Then I will accompany you. And you will tell
me which of the things I taught you that you tried out on your husband.”

Elizabeth kept walking, smiling at a large contributor there,
making certain not to discriminate against the less wealthy couple who could
not afford large donations.

“Did you kiss him?”

“Excuse me,” she murmured as she pressed through an elderly couple
who smelled of mothballs.

“Did you take his tongue inside your mouth?”

She wondered how much longer she could continue smiling.

“Did you pump and squeeze his manhood?”

“Hello, Mr. Bidley, Mrs. Bidley.”

The middle-aged couple, no less conservative than the elderly
couple who smelled of mothballs, did not hear Elizabeth over the music.
Elizabeth wished she could share their deafness.

Moist heat feathered the top of her head. “Did you take his
manhood into your mouth?”

As
if by their own will, her feet came to an abrupt halt. She closed her eyes
against the images and sensations that his words conjured: a man’s tongue
inside her mouth, the Bastard Sheikh’s member, plum-shaped head crying for a
kiss.

She had not known that a man grew moist with arousal—just like a
woman. Edward had not.

“How do you know that my husband rejected me, Lord Safyre?”

“Your note, Elizabeth.”

Edward pronounced her name with distant courtesy.

Rebecca pronounced her name with cold authority.

The Bastard Sheikh pronounced her name as if they had shared
physical as well as verbal intimacies.

“I did not give you leave to address me by my given name.” Tears
pricked the back of her eyelids. “I did not ask to be treated with disrespect.”

“I have never treated you with disrespect.”

She blinked back the tears and met his turquoise gaze. “What do
you call it, Lord Safyre, when you hunt me down to question me about my sexual
activities with my husband?”

His hard, relentless gaze did
not waver. “Just answer my question.”

“No, I did not kiss my husband. I did not pump and squeeze his
manhood. I did not take his tongue or anything else into my mouth. He does not
want me, so you should be satisfied. My humiliation is complete. Isn’t that
what you wanted, to humiliate me for blackmailing my way into your home? Well,
you have succeeded. I wish you happy, sir.”

Pain. For a second it was mirrored in his eyes.

She did not stand around to see if it was an illusion. Her own
pain was real enough for the both of them.

The Bastard Sheikh did not follow her this time.

Men and women were milling around the buffet tables, talking over
iced shrimp, laughing over caviar, content with rich food and sexless morality.
Elizabeth smiled, greeted, talked, but could not remember one single thing that
was said.

Her mother conferred with the caterer—they stood together, Rebecca
regal in royal blue velvet, the harried caterer in serviceable brown silk. When
Rebecca caught sight of Elizabeth, she waved her over. Elizabeth turned and
blindly smiled at the person nearest her.

Her smile froze.

“Dance with me.”

Refusal sprang to her lips.

He was a bastard. An exotic, dark-skinned, golden-haired peacock
surrounded by that most unforgiving breed, the middle class. Their association
might be overlooked among the
ton.
It would not at a charity ball.

She could feel icy green eyes watching her, judging her, and did
not have to turn around to identify the watcher as her mother.

The Bastard Sheikh’s turquoise gaze was guarded; he expected her
to reject him. To judge and condemn him like Lord Inchcape had done. Like
Rebecca Walters would do.

Would you dance with me again?

“I would be honored, Lord Safyre.”

Blue flame flickered in the turquoise eyes. He, too, remembered
the lessons, the shared confessions. Silently, he led her onto the dance floor.
Just as silently she reached up, up, up and laid her left hand on his shoulder.

The heat of his gloved hand burned through her own glove. He held
her far closer than the regulated eighteen inches, and it felt
good.

Warm
breath gusted in her ear. That felt good too. Hot, intimate, all the things she
would never experience.

I
will
not put myself through the trouble of bedding you again just so that you can
lie with a man.

Oh,
God. How could she live another sixteen years with Edward?

“No matter what happens, I want you to promise me something.”

A
man’s and a woman’s stiff elbows gouged into Elizabeth’s shoulder. The Bastard
Sheikh expertly twirled her aside.

“You are creaking, Mrs. Petre.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Your corset. How can you breathe with it laced that tightly?”

Her lips tightened. Emma, under Elizabeth’s instructions, had
laced her corset tighter than usual.
To contain her udder breasts and flabby
hips.

“How can you dance so well if you do not attend balls?”

A low laugh rumbled in his chest. “There are balls,
taalibba,
and
there are balls.”

“Where women dance bare-breasted?” she asked bitingly.

“Some of them,” he murmured lazily.

He sounded as if the idea of her dancing with her naked breasts
brushing his jacket appealed to him.

Impossible.
Edward
had made it clear that a full-breasted woman did not appeal to a man.

“What do you want me to promise?” she asked curtly.