The Lady's Tutor (25 page)

“I want you to promise me you will never forget that you have a
right to sexual gratification.”

Elizabeth stiffened. “This is not Arabia, Lord Safyre.”

“I want you to promise me that you will never forget that a man
trembles in his passion . .. just as a woman trembles in her passion.”

She tried to force their bodies into the regulated eighteen-inch
dance position that decency demanded but that the crowd of people prohibited.

“I want you to promise me that you will come to me when the pain
of being alone becomes too great.”

She quit struggling against him. “I will not commit adultery, Lord
Safyre.”

“Marriage is more than words spoken in a church. You cannot commit
adultery if you are not truly wed.”

“I have two children.”

“Your two sons will shortly be men. Whom will you have then,
taalibba?”

Pain twisted inside her chest. “Whom do you have, Lord Safyre?”
she sharply countered.

“No one. That is why I know that sometime soon the pain will
become too great for you to bear alone.”

It already was.
“You bear it alone well enough.”

“I bear it because I have to.”

“And now I have to.”

“No, you do not.

“So you expect me to come to you like a bitch in heat?”

Elizabeth had not thought she could shock herself anymore. She continually
proved herself wrong.

“I did not call you a bitch.”

She stared at the gold studs in his
shirt
. “You said I was in heat.”

“Sexual heat.”

She threw her head back and defiantly stared at him. “Is there a
difference?”

His turquoise eyes were flat. “There is a difference.”

“What?
What is the difference?”

He pulled her closer, silk on silk, breasts to chest. . . and that
felt good too. Proof of her wanton nature.

“A bitch takes without giving.”

His voice was harsh. All she could see of his face was the sharp
outline of his chin, the angular curve of his cheeks, and the slight hook of
his nose.

She remembered the bleakness in his eyes that Monday morning when
she had asked him to teach her how to give a man pleasure .. . and the clinging
aroma of a woman’s perfume.

“I take it you are familiar with that type of woman.”

“I am familiar with that type of woman,” he agreed flatly.

“But a man and a woman . . . there can be a bonding between them.
Can’t there?”

She
waited, hardly breathing, wanting him to tell her she knew not what,
no,
yes,
there was nothing more to be had in a marriage
but there must be.
Otherwise
she could not bear it.

“I believe so.”

“You do not know?”

“I know now. Yes,
taalibba,
a man and a woman can bond, two
bodies becoming one.”

“You know who his mistress is, don’t you.”

It was not a question.

Suddenly, her body was separate from his and they were once again
just a man and a woman waltzing together. Elizabeth did not want to see the
knowledge that would be there in his face. She squeezed her eyes shut.

The mistress must be very beautiful indeed for the Bastard Sheikh
to be so certain that her husband would not bother bedding his wife. A
beautiful, beautiful bitch.

He twirled Elizabeth around, a rush of overheated air and
billowing silk. Her eyes snapped open.

“Siba,
Elizabeth.”

He knew . . . and he would not tell her.

She could not keep the bitterness out of her voice. “I see no
honor in withholding information that might save a marriage.”

“Some things are believed only when they are seen,” he responded
cryptically, swirling her around and around until she was dizzy. “When you are
ready for the truth, you will see for yourself who your husband’s lover is.”

The music died with a crash of piano chords. The gas chandelier
and Ramiel’s dark face continued to spin. She clutched at him for support.

His lips twisted in a smile that did not reach his eyes. “I will
be waiting,
taalibba.
”

Gently, he disengaged her clutching fingers and stepped back. The
throng of dancers swallowed him up.

What did he mean, he would be waiting? Her note had been quite
explicit: There would be no more lessons. She had returned the book.
There
could be no more lessons.

Elizabeth stared at the place where the Bastard Sheikh had stood
but moments earlier. His voice reverberated inside her head.
When you are
ready for the truth, you will see for yourself who your husbands lover is.

She looked around wildly. Was her husband’s mistress someone she
knew, someone she trusted?

The crowd parted, surging toward the buffet to replenish the
energy dancing had drained. Edward stood with his head bent toward a young
woman—Elizabeth estimated her to be eighteen years old, a year older than she
had been when he had married her. The girl had blond hair and a wispy figure
that managed to look graceful in the cumbersome bustle that continued to grow
in both size and popularity.

Did Edward prefer “the flat chest and shapeless hips of a young
girl”?

A blond-haired man joined Edward. He bore a marked resemblance to
the young woman—no doubt the girl’s brother, older perhaps by a couple of
years. Edward raised his head and greeted the newcomer.

Elizabeth blinked at the
warmth of her husband’s smile.

“Mrs. Petre, we want to thank you for helping to organize such a
wonderful party. You can be sure that we support your father and husband.”

Elizabeth tore her gaze away from her husband and stared into
pale, protruding eyes. It took her a second to identify the tall, gaunt woman
and the short, squat man beside her.

“Mr. and Mrs. Frederik, thank you so much for joining us.”
Elizabeth smiled and took the woman’s hand into hers. “Your bid on the
porcelain figurine was very generous.”

“We don’t like to think of women and children going hungry, Mrs.
Petre.” This from Mr. Frederik. “Not when their menfolk died for our country.”

Elizabeth’s smile grew stilted. “There are women and children on
the streets who do not have husbands and fathers, Mr. Frederik. They need our
help too.”

Their
reproving expressions did not bode well for future donations.

Elizabeth
pushed aside thoughts of the Bastard Sheikh and the desperately poor women and
diseased children who suffered because of people’s ignorance.  “Have you tried
the shrimp, Mr. Frederik? It is a specialty of the caterer, quite delicious. I
believe it is cooked in sherry. Mrs. Frederik, what a lovely gown. You must tell
me who your modiste is.”

Mr. Frederik was mollified by the food; Mrs. Frederik basked in
Elizabeth’s attention. It was a relief when Elizabeth was pulled aside by her
mother.

“What
was Lord Safyre doing here? Who invited him? And why did you dance with him?”

The smile on Elizabeth’s face faded. “I have no idea why he was
here. Perhaps he is a supporter of the Conservative Party.”

“He’s a Liberal. And a bastard. We do not associate with the likes
of him. Not even for contributions.”

That was a first. Elizabeth sometimes thought her mother would
consort with the devil himself to further the campaign.

“I am sorry, Mother. I have no idea why he came.”

1 came for you.

Hot blood flooded Elizabeth’s face.

“Why did you dance with him?”

Because I want to know what it is like for two bodies to become
one.

“Because he asked me to,” she said quietly.

“That is the second time you have danced with him, daughter. Even
you must be aware of his reputation.”

Elizabeth calmly met her mother’s eyes. “Do you think Lord Safyre
is trying to seduce me?”

Rebecca’s emerald-green eyes glittered. “Don’t be ridiculous.
Obviously, he is attempting to undermine our cause. He is fully aware that if
you are seen dancing with the likes of him, it will reflect badly on your
father and your husband. The Liberals do not want a Conservative for prime
minister.”

Elizabeth ignored the pain of her mother’s condescension. “Is it
so inconceivable that a man might dance with me because he finds me attractive?”

“Do
you
find
him
attractive?” Her mother’s voice was
razor sharp.

“Yes, I do. Don’t you?”

For
the first time in Elizabeth’s life she shocked her mother into silence.

The shock quickly wore off, to be replaced by distaste. “Are you
flirting with that man, Elizabeth?”

Ineffable weariness washed over Elizabeth as the excitement of the
Bastard Sheikh’s pursuit and the warmth he had imparted to her while they
danced evaporated.

“No. As you said, a man like him would not be interested in a
woman like me.”

It was farce at its most pure.

The man who should be solicitous of her needs refused to touch
her—while a man who could have any woman he wanted would take her out of pity.

emptation,” swelled over the heads of the congregation. The candles
lighting the wooden altar flickered; dark shadows danced on the gleaming wood.

Elizabeth sat in the front pew, wearing the black bonnet and veil
that she wore every Sunday. Edward, mustache waxed, sat on her right,
impeccably attired in his gray wool four-button cutaway suit. Rebecca, wearing
a black bonnet and veil, sat on Elizabeth’s left; she appeared to be transfixed
by the minister’s words. Elizabeth did not have to turn her head to know that
her father, who sat on Rebecca’s left, was equally attentive.

She had married Edward in this church. The minister who
proselytized now on the chapter of Matthew had pronounced them man and wife.

A wedding
breakfast had followed the ceremony. The bubbles in her allotted glass of
champagne had fizzed and fizzed.

How disappointed she had been that she was not to have a
honeymoon. How excited she had been at the prospect of having her own home. And
how full of expectation she had been on their wedding night.

Blindly, she glanced down at the open Bible lying across her lap.

Rebecca had decorated Edward’s town house; Rebecca had hired the
servants. The only claim Elizabeth had had on her new life was Edward. And the
only time he had spent with her had been those few minutes each night
underneath the bedcovers.

All to make her pregnant so that he could gain votes.

A riffling of paper filled the church. Beside Elizabeth, Rebecca
flipped to the next page in her Bible.

Elizabeth instinctively followed her mother’s lead. She looked at
the tiny black print through the tiny holes in her black veil. What was she
supposed to be following?

Bowing her head, she squinted at the text. The Beatitudes, the
Similitudes, murder,
divorce. . .

Divorce, according to Matthew, was forbidden unless fornication
could be proven.

Edward had a mistress.
Adultery was fornication.

I will be waiting,
taalibba.

Elizabeth’s head snapped back. Her heart thudded against the
tightly laced corset. The minister’s voice, raised so that he might reach the
parishioners at the rear of the church, cannonaded inside her head.

What was she thinking?
Respectable women did not sue for
divorce.

She concentrated on the minister, on the gleam of the wooden
altar, on the wax running down the candles, on the elaborate embroidery
decorating the minister’s vestments. Respectable things that respectable women
thought about.

“Elizabeth.”

Elizabeth dumbly looked up at her mother. The hollow echo of
shuffling feet reverberated inside the church.

The first pew was emptying out. Others waited impatiently for
their turn to exit—including her husband and her parents.

Flushing, she stood up. A loud thump sounded over the retreating
footsteps.

Her Bible.

Edward
quickly bent, retrieved it for her. An enigmatic expression flitted across his
face.

Elizabeth snatched the book from his hand. “Thank you.”

Sunshine spilled in the aisle, turned the crimson runner to blood red.
Elizabeth nodded and smiled at familiar faces as she passed the long rows of
pews. Outside, she took a deep breath of air.

“Elizabeth. Edward and your father are going to the club; we’ll
take luncheon together, shall we?”

Every Sunday after church, Edward and her father went to their
club; every Sunday Rebecca extended the same invitation. And every Sunday
Elizabeth accepted.