The Lady's Tutor (31 page)

Warm laughter riffled the steam. “Do not judge people by size. The
small are often strong. And now we must quit the water or we will both become
wrinkled. Joseffa!”

Joseffa magically appeared holding two towels. Elizabeth started;
she had not heard her return from the errand the countess had sent her on.

“I
will show you another popular pastime in the harem. And then we will take
coffee.”

Short
steps led up out of the pool. Elizabeth averted her eyes while the countess
uninhibitedly dried off. She chose the shelter of the lacquered screen.

Her clothes were gone! In their place was a green silk robe.

Elizabeth hurriedly dried and shrugged into it. It was four inches
too long and snug through the chest.

The countess, wearing a dark blue silk robe with a towel turbaned
around her head, correctly interpreted Elizabeth’s expression when she marched
out from behind the screen. “It is very damp down here. Joseffa took your
clothes upstairs and spread them out by the fire so they will dry.”

Having no choice, Elizabeth hiked up the robe and padded barefoot
after the countess up the stairs, past the second landing, up to the third.
Hoping that no servants were peeking—the silk clung to her body like wet
skin—she stepped into a hallway covered with pale rose carpeting.

The countess’s sitting room was decorated in pale rose and leaf
green with an Oriental wool carpet woven in various shades of matching rose and
green. English with a distinct Arabic touch. A feminine version of Ramiel’s
home.

“Come, sit.” The countess patted the sofa beside her. Reaching
over
,
she plucked an odd, carafe-shaped object off a teak side table. A
long, thin hose curled away from its slender brass neck; it was tipped with a
brass bit.

Taking the bit between her lips, the countess lit a match and
placed it against the bowl atop the exotic object. A thin stream of smoke
plumed up, as if from a pipe. A matching plume of smoke curled out of the
countess’s mouth.

The countess offered Elizabeth the hose. “There is nothing like a
good smoke after bathing.”

The Bastard Sheikh had offered her a smoke. She had rejected it
because it was another act that a respectable woman did not indulge in. Had he
thought she was rejecting his culture?

“What is this called ... in Arabic?”

“It’s called a hookah. There is water inside it; the smoke is
drawn through it to purify it.”

As if it were a snake that could strike her at any moment,
Elizabeth accepted the hose and brought the brass bit up to her lips. “What do
I do?”

The countess leaned forward; her gray eyes were bright with
camaraderie. Elizabeth suddenly felt like the young girl she had never been,
playing truant with a school friend. “Suck on it... gently .. . take the smoke
into your mouth but not your—”

Raw fire erupted inside Elizabeth’s lungs. She choked, she
coughed, and suddenly she was laughing with the countess while she tried to
draw the tobacco smoke into her mouth instead of her lungs.

“Ummee,
you
do not make a very good tutor.”

Elizabeth sucked in more smoke, a little fire instead of a blazing
conflagration. The countess gently patted her on the back while turquoise eyes
blazed at her from across the expanse of the sitting room.

Abruptly, agonizingly aware of the damp silk robe clinging to her
naked body and the wreath of smoke capping her head, she thrust the rubber hose
at the countess. “I have to go—”

With lightning motion the Bastard Sheikh stepped forward as if he
would prevent her from rising from the sofa. At the same time, the countess
held up an authoritative hand. “If my son’s presence disturbs you that greatly,
Elizabeth, then he will leave.”

Those beautiful turquoise eyes—they were stark with pain.

Elizabeth sucked in a breath of smoke-filled air—held it inside
her lungs until they ached.

If she rejected him here, now, in front of his mother, she would
never see him again. She would not dance with him again. She would never hear
the intimate drawl of his voice when he called her
taalibba.

Her breath escaped in a sigh. “There is no need for that.”

Between one blink and another Joseffa was there before her,
bearing a large brass tray. A wrinkled lid drooped in a wink.

Elizabeth stared.

Ramiel relieved the old Arab woman of the heavy coffee tray and
set it down on the table beside the countess. Joseffa spat out a volley of
Arabic. Turquoise gaze settling on Elizabeth’s breasts, he responded in her
native language.

“English, please,” the countess reprimanded. “Ramiel, you may sit.”

Ramiel sat on the carpet near their feet, legs bonelessly crossed—
a sheikh in brown wool trousers and tweed jacket. Elizabeth adjusted her robe,
almost slipped off the sofa onto his lap. Silk on silk was more slippery than a
two-year-old child.

Joseffa took away the hookah while the countess poured coffee. The
aroma of the strong, sugary beverage mingled with the acrid incense of tobacco.

Elizabeth blurted out the question that had puzzled her since she
had first met the countess. “Do you have your father’s eyes?”

An identical smile blossomed on the two disparate faces, the one
so dark, the other so pale. The twin smiles rumbled into shared laughter. The
timbre in their laughter was identical, one softened by femininity, the other
roughened by masculinity.

Elizabeth stiffened. She did not enjoy being the butt of a joke, no
matter how delightful the sound of a person’s laughter.

“Please forgive my curiosity—”

“Please forgive
our
rudeness.” The countess held out a
delicate gold-rimmed demitasse cup and saucer to Elizabeth. “We still have not
been able to figure out which side of the family contributed to Ramiel’s eyes.
It certainly did not come from mine, but on the other hand, there is no one on
his father’s side who possesses that particular eye color either. They are
Ramiel’s eyes and no others.”

Yes, Elizabeth had thought that when first she had seen him.

Ramiel extended a plate of sticky-looking pastries to Elizabeth. “It
is baklava, a confection of pastry and nuts soaked in honey. Joseffa makes the
best in the East or the West.”

“It is Ramiel’s favorite,” the countess added softly.

Had the countess sent for her son while they were bathing? And did
the thought anger Elizabeth ... or did it please her?

She remembered her mother’s disapproval. The memory was replaced
by the countess’s honesty.

I
cannot
cast stones, Elizabeth, because I would not trade one single moment I spent
with my sheikh for a lifetime of English virtue.

Elizabeth solemnly chose a golden, bite-sized pastry sprinkled
with almonds.

Ramiel next extended the plate to the countess. She, too, solemnly
chose a piece of the baklava. Lastly, he himself took one. As if synchronized,
they bit into the delicate pastries.

Elizabeth felt as if they exchanged vows. As if, inexplicably,
they had become a family.

Edward was an orphan. She had never had a mother-in-law.

She had never had a husband.

She swallowed. “These are delicious. What other foods do the Arabs
enjoy?”

“Lamb.” The countess delicately licked her fingers clean of honey.
“Rice pilaff.”

Ramiel held Elizabeth’s gaze. “The heart of a dove prepared in
wine and spices.”

“The Arab people must have a plentiful supply of doves,” Elizabeth
countered briskly. “Or very small appetites.”

Ramiel’s eyes glinted turquoise fire. He stared at her as if he
were a hungry man, and she were a very savory woman. “The Arabs are renowned
for their appetites. As well as for their meritoriousness.”

Elizabeth could not help it—she laughed. And realized that she
would never think of him as the Bastard Sheikh again. He was, simply, a man.

lizabeth felt drugged on tobacco, coffee and the affectionate love
between a disreputable countess and her outcast bastard son. She gave Beadles
one of her rare smiles, free of artifice and pretense. “Please send Emma up to
my room.”

“Mr. Petre is in his study, Mrs. Petre.” Beadles stared over her
head. “He requested that you join him the moment you came home.”

Cold reality replaced the lingering warmth of the hot swimming
bath. Elizabeth allowed Beadles to take her cloak, her bonnet, her gloves. They
smelled of steam.

It was ridiculous, of course, but she was suddenly, terribly
afraid. She gripped her reticule between her fingers. “I am not a coward,” she
said softly, bracingly.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Thank you, Beadles. Tell Emma I will be dressing for dinner
shortly. I need her to press my burgundy satin ball gown for tonight.”

“Very good, ma’am.”

Johnny stood by the study doors. His easygoing face was
expressionless. It made him look older.. . and less like a footman than ever
before. Bowing, he opened the door for her.

The gesture should gratify her: Obviously, his footman skills were
improving. But all she felt was that cold, unreasonable fear.

She stepped into the study—and froze with shocked surprise. Her
father sat at the long walnut table Edward used when other Members of
Parliament dropped by to talk. Her husband and her mother sat on either side of
him. The expression on the three faces was identical.

The door closed behind her softly, irrevocably.

A dark cloud seemed to envelop the study. Perhaps it was the
approaching dusk that was unrelieved by artificial light; perhaps it was the
walnut paneling that absorbed the sun’s dying rays. All Elizabeth knew was that
it required every ounce of her willpower not to turn and run.

“Sit down, Elizabeth,” Andrew Walters curtly ordered.

Mentally bracing herself, Elizabeth crossed the dark crimson
carpet and sat down opposite her father. “Hello, Father. Edward. Mother.”

A rose-patterned china cup neatly ensconced in a matching saucer
sat before each of them. Elizabeth automatically searched the study for the tea
tray. Silver glinted in the fading light.

Of course. Her mother would be given the honor of pouring, so the
tea cart would naturally be by her.

Rebecca did not offer Elizabeth tea.

“You are speaking tonight, Father. Is there anything wrong?” she
asked, knowing what was wrong, dread knotting her stomach.
Please don’t let
this meeting be about what she knew it would be.

Andrew’s eyes bulged in fury.

Elizabeth had seen displeasure on his face; she had seen
condescension. She had never seen his face contorted with rage.

“You have twice danced with a man who is a disgrace to society.
You have entertained the bastard’s whore of a mother in your home and now you
flaunt your husband’s orders and spend the day with the most bloody bitch in
England. Have you no respect for your husband?”

“Edward
did not forbid me to visit Countess Devington,” Elizabeth returned calmly.
Underneath the cover of the table she
gripped the reticule so tightly a fingernail pierced the
lined silk.
Her father had never sworn at her.
“All he said was that I
was not to receive her here, in his home.”

“You
will not dance with the bastard or talk to the whore ever again.” Andrew’s
voice bounced off the dark walnut panels. “Is that specific enough?”

Elizabeth studied her father’s hazel eyes, so like hers, yet she
could not see anything of herself in him. “I am thirty-three years old, Father.
I will not be treated like I am seventeen. I have done nothing wrong.”

She focused on her husband’s brown eyes, and could not see
anything there of the last sixteen years that they had spent together. “You
have a mistress, Edward. How many nights a week—a month—do you sleep with her?
Why do you not tell my father about that? How dare you sit there when you
behave with far more impropriety than I ever have!”

“I
have told you I do not have a mistress.”

Elizabeth’s
gaze, contemptuous in its own right, swept over the three of them, her father,
her mother, her husband. “And I am telling you that I have done nothing wrong.
But that is not what this meeting is about, is it, Father?”

“Elizabeth!”
Rebecca warned sharply.

Elizabeth ignored the mother who for so long had ignored her. “Mother
told you that I want a divorce.
That
is what this is about. Isn’t it,
Father?”

Andrew sat as if turned to a pale, silvery-auburn-haired statue.
Only his eyes were alive. They burned with murky amber fire. “A man’s
reputation lies in his family. If he cannot keep his family together, no man will
trust him to keep his country together.”

Reckless anger outweighed common sense. “Does that mean you will
not use your influence as prime minister to intercede on my behalf?”