The Lady's Tutor (7 page)

Elizabeth’s eyes widened.

Impossible.
No
woman could accommodate fifteen inches.

“Well, Mrs. Petre?”

She sat back. “Either Arab men have extremely large members
or
they
have very small hands, Lord Safyre. Until we reach the chapter containing
recipes for increasing a man’s ‘meritoriousness,’ I suggest we go on to the
benefits of perfume.”

Reaching forward, she dipped the pen into the inkwell and prepared
to write. “What perfumes are used in a harem?”

Rich, masculine laughter filled the library.

Elizabeth had never before seen or heard an adult give way to
uninhibited laughter. Ladies tittered, gentlemen guffawed. Real laughter, she
discovered, was infectious.

The Bastard Sheikh possessed a perfect set of molars.

She bit her lips to keep from succumbing to a sense of the
ridiculous. For one unguarded moment her eyes locked with his, sharing with him
the absurdity of their circumstances.

“Touche, taalibba.
” His turquoise eyes continued to sparkle even after the laughter
died. “I bow to your superior wit. . . this morning. Amber, musk, rose, orange
flowers, jasmine—all those scents are popular among Arab women. What perfumes
do you use?”

His voice was husky, intimate. It was not the voice of a man
intent upon humiliating a woman.

Elizabeth’s head jerked back. “I regret to say that I am allergic
to perfume. What is it that you called me . . .
taalibba?”

The light in his eyes dulled, turning the color of polished
turquoise to raw, uncut stone.
“Taalibba
is the Arabic word for student,
Mrs. Petre.”

Absurdly, Elizabeth was filled with disappointment. Edward had
never called her by an endearment, not once in their three-month-long courtship
and sixteen years of marriage.

She made a pretense of jotting the Arabic word down on her notes. “Is
it necessary that a woman wear scent in order to ... attract a man?”

“What if I said that it was?”

A large blob of black ink spread across the paper. “Then I will
consult with the chemist to see if there is something that will stay my
allergies for the duration of time it takes to please my husband.”

“There is no need to sacrifice your health.” The warmth as well as
the laughter was gone from his voice. “A great sheikh, when giving his favorite
daughter up in marriage, counseled her that water makes the best of perfumes.
Are you allergic to flowers?”

“No.”

“Then crush flower petals against your skin—underneath your
breasts and in the triangle of hair between your thighs. The combined scent of
the flower and the wet heat of your body will be far more effective that
anything you buy in a bottle.”

Perspiration beaded underneath Elizabeth’s breasts. She busily
scribbled
crush flowers underneath . . .
The steel nib scratching across
the surface of the paper momentarily drowned out the popping of burning wood
and the hiss of flaming gas.

He had inferred that a man enjoyed the scent of a woman’s body.

She discreetly sniffed.

All she could smell was the benzene of her clean wool gown, the
thick aroma of coffee, and the smoke of burning wood.

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

Her determined scribbling stopped abruptly. Embarrassment turned
to shame, which in turn flared to bright red anger.

She would not let him humiliate her.

Elizabeth raised her head.

The turquoise eyes were waiting for hers.

“Yes, Lord Safyre, I know what a climax is.”

Eyes narrowed, he studied her as if she were an animal or an
insect that he had never before encountered. “What is it?”

What is it?

She was momentarily speechless with shock.

Patently, he did not believe she possessed such knowledge.

That he should ask her to describe such an intensely personal
experience was outrageous, but that he should think her a liar could not be
endured.

Her lips tightened. “It is a ... a peak of pleasure.”

“Have you experienced this peak of pleasure?”

She tilted her chin, and would have answered a resounding, defiant
yes
but for the sudden blaze of heat in his eyes.

“I hardly think that is any concern of yours.”

“You say you wish only to learn how to please your husband, Mrs.
Petre,” he said harshly. “Do you not also want to learn how to enhance your own
pleasure?”

Elizabeth was suddenly, fiercely glad that she had studied so
diligently. While she could not match his sexual knowledge, she could certainly
hold her own when it came to matching wits.

A small, triumphant smile stretched her lips. “Surely, Lord
Safyre, you cannot have forgotten the words of the sheikh. The parts of a woman
are not endowed ‘with any pleasurable or satisfactory feeling until the same
has been penetrated by the instrument of the male.’ Therefore by pleasing her
husband a woman must please herself.”

And Edward, she thought bleakly, was most pleased when she made no
demands on him at all.

He had not even bothered to crack open her bedroom door to check
on her when he had come home earlier that morning.

But she did not want to think about her past failure as a woman.

Satisfaction must exist in the marriage bed. All she had to do was
... learn how to obtain it.

“Do you become aroused by kisses, Lord Safyre?” she asked
impulsively.

“Does your husband?”

A coldness settled inside Elizabeth.

Edward had never kissed her.

No, that was not strictly true. After the minister had pronounced
them husband and wife, Edward had briefly pressed his lips against hers.

Elizabeth glanced down at the little silver watch pinned to the
bodice of her dress. It was ten minutes after five.

Leaning over, she laid the heavy gold pen onto his desk. “I will
not discuss my husband with you or anyone else, Lord Safyre.” With more haste
than grace, she rolled up the sheath of notes and thrust them into her
reticule. “I believe our lesson is over.”

And she had survived with her pride if not her modesty intact.

She should feel relieved. She did not.

“Very well, Mrs. Petre.” The Bastard Sheikh stood up, eyes once
again mocking. “I will see you at four-thirty tomorrow morning.”

The breath caught in Elizabeth’s throat.

Striving to hide the sudden burst of gladness that there would be
another lesson, she slowly rose to her feet. “Four-thirty tomorrow morning.”

He picked up the small leather book from the desk and offered it
to her. “Chapter Two, Mrs. Petre.”

Nodding her head, she accepted the book and turned without comment
toward the door.

“Rule number two. Tomorrow morning and every morning thereafter
you will leave your bonnet at the front door—as you will leave your cloak.”

Anger rushed up her spine. She had obeyed the men in her life for
thirty-three years—she was not going to obey this stranger.

“And what if I do not?”

“Then our agreement is over.”

Her heart skipped a beat, kicked into a chest-thudding rhythm.

Which agreement was he referring to? The lessons ... or his word
as a gentleman of both the East and the West that he would not discuss them
with anyone?

“I take it you do not care for bonnets any more than you do
corsets,” she said frigidly.

The laughter was back in his voice. “You take it correctly.”

“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.”

The
smell of benzene lingered in the library.

Ramiel picked up the pen Elizabeth Petre had used to take her notes.
“Which of the two are you, Mrs. Petre?” he murmured, lightly stroking the soft,
body-warmed metal. “A woman who is afraid of her sexuality ... or a woman who
is ashamed of satisfying her needs?”

She had small hands. Clutched between her slender fingers, the
thick, heavy pen had looked like a primitive gold phallus. The wife of the
Chancellor of the Exchequer would need both hands to fully encompass a man of
Ramiel’s size.

Memory jolted his entire body.

I
do not
understand how a woman can move without hindering the actions of the man.

After her stark comments yesterday morning, he should have been
prepared for her honesty. He had not been. She had succeeded in surprising him
yet again.

How could such a naive woman generate so much sexual tension?

“El Ibn.”

Ramiel’s fingers convulsively clenched around the gold pen. Body
instinctively preparing for defense, he raised his head.

Muhamed stood behind the burgundy leather chair that Elizabeth
Petre had only moments earlier vacated. A black, hooded cloak covered the
butler’s turban and white cotton
thobs.

Turquoise eyes locked with eyes so dark, they appeared to be
black.

Cornish eyes.

A cynical smile curled Ramiel’s lips.

Muhamed looked Arab but in fact was not. Ramiel looked English but
in fact was not.

Elizabeth Petre, like so many of her people, saw only what she was
prepared to see.

“What is it, Muhamed?”

“The husband did not leave the house yesterday morning. Only the
woman—Mrs. Petre. She drove away in a carriage before ten. I do not know where.
Later that evening, while she was gone, the husband came home for dinner. He
left—”

“You said he did not leave the house,” Ramiel interrupted sharply.
“Yet you say he came home for dinner.”

Muhamed’s face, still strong and muscular at the age of
fifty-three, remained impassive. “I do not know the reason for this.”

Ramiel did.

Edward Petre had spent the night with his mistress. As no doubt
Elizabeth Petre had known he did.

Where had she gone yesterday morning, to leave her house before
the fashionable hour?

Shopping?

Visiting?

Running?

No, Elizabeth Petre would not run. Either from her husband’s
infidelity or from an agreement with a bastard sheikh.

“Where did the husband go after dinner?”

“The Parliament building. He stayed there until two in the
morning. Then he returned home. He is there now.”

As Elizabeth would shortly be.

Did she and her husband keep separate bedrooms ... or did they
share the same bed?

Immediately, Ramiel repulsed the idea of Elizabeth sharing a bed
with another man. She would not be able to sneak out of the house if she did.

But that did not mean she could not join her husband in his bed.

Anger fisted inside his gut.

Elizabeth Petre knew what a climax was.

Had she learned that from her husband? Did he penetrate her cold
English reserve underneath the covers of respectability and give her a “peak”
of pleasure?

“You did not discover the identity of Edward Petre’s mistress,”
Ramiel said flatly.

Muhamed’s black eyes glittered. “No.”

“Yet you have left his house unattended. I instructed you to
follow him until you discovered who the mistress is.”

“I thought it wise to return,
El Ibn.”

Ramiel was not fooled by Muhamed’s stoicism. Disapproval radiated
from his dark Cornish eyes.

“Explain.”

“Mrs. Petre is trouble.”

She had not looked like trouble, perched on the edge of the
burgundy chair awkwardly balancing her reticule, her gloves, and her notes. Her
pale face framed by the ugly black bonnet had been the picture of propriety.
Until he had explained that a man pounds and grinds his body into that of a
woman as if he were a “pestle.” Then her clear hazel eyes had blazed with fire.
Her full breasts had swelled inside the wool of her dress, sensitive, so
sensitive.

To words.

To the soft abrasion of clothing rubbing unfettered flesh.

With each breath she had drawn, her nipples had grown harder and
harder.

It was not her body that she attempted to restrain in whalebone.
It was her desires.

What kind of a man was Edward Petre, that he would forsake honest
passion for paid pleasure?

Ramiel steepled his hands underneath his chin, his thoughts and a
sudden rampant hunger hidden behind hard implacability. “Perhaps. But she is my
trouble.”

“Have you forgotten,
El Ibn?”