The Lady's Tutor (48 page)

A flood of
remembered pleasure washed over her body.

He had
cried out when she had taken him into her mouth and suckled him like he had
suckled her breasts, suckling and suckling until his entire body tensed and he
grabbed her head to hold her still while he spasmed with ecstasy.
Bahebbik,
he
had repeated in an oddly hoarse voice when she swirled her tongue around his
deflating crown in search of more of the salty fluid that had shot into the
back of her throat.

Elizabeth
licked her lips, tasting him, tasting her, tasting their combined essence.
Overlying the salty, musky flavor was the fizzling effervescence of champagne.

Muscles she
had not known she possessed rudely presented themselves at the impact of cold
wool carpeting and hard wood flooring. She wondered if a man also ached and
throbbed after a night of strenuous sex.

Her
reticule lay on top of the nightstand by the tin stamped with Queen Victoria’s
portrait. Silently, determinedly, with reticule in hand, she padded across the
Oriental carpet to the wardrobe. The twin doors were closed. Boxes were piled
high between the red velvet-upholstered armchair and the massive mahogany wardrobe.
They had not been there last night. Had Muhamed come into Ramiel’s bedroom
while they slept?

Immediately,
she berated herself for the hot blood that flooded her face. Muhamed had seen
more than her sleeping body bundled under the covers. Furthermore, he had saved
her life, the countess had said, by pouring an emetic down her throat. It was
ridiculous to get embarrassed because he had seen her sleeping in bed with
Ramiel, when yesterday he had held her head over a chamber pot.

Grabbing
the royal blue skirt and bodice Ramiel had purchased for her—oh, no, there were
no underclothes save for the frilled bustle—ah, there were her shoes. She
tiptoed to the water closet. Some minutes later, after hurriedly brushing her
teeth, washing, and dressing, she stealthily opened the door.

Ramiel was
still asleep; his breathing was a soft rasp in the murky silence. Smiling anew,
she wondered if he ever snored. Her smile turned into a frown. Did
she
snore?

Gently
closing the bedroom door behind her, Elizabeth realized that she was ravenous.
Other than a light repast that had been washed down with champagne that first
night she had spent with Ramiel, she had not had much to eat in over two days.

She
gingerly descended the curved mahogany staircase with its bright Oriental
runner. Dancing slippers were not meant to be worn without stockings. Nor was a
bustle meant to lie next to bare skin. Any more than were a heavily lined
bodice and skirt. The sensitive flesh between her legs throbbed in agreement.

Stepping
onto the landing, she turned in the direction of the breakfast room. A swirl of
white robes stepped out from behind a man-sized vase.

Curtailing
a scream, she focused on enigmatic black eyes.
“Sabah el kheer,
Muhamed.
I would like breakfast, please.”

The
servant stood his ground. “Where is
El Ibn?”

“Asleep.”
Elizabeth mutinously lifted her chin. “I do not wish him to be disturbed. He
had a tiring night.”

She closed
her eyes as the full import of her words registered inside her brain.
El Ibn
had had a tiring night because he had brought her to orgasm over a dozen
times to ease the burning of the poison. A side effect that Muhamed must know
about.

“Come.”
Muhamed’s voice was as emotionless as it had been yesterday. “I will serve you.”

Elizabeth
opened her eyes and stared at the folds of the white robe about his unlined
neck. “I also seem to be without undergarments. Perhaps they have been
laundered. If you would be so good as to ... check upon them.”

“Very
well. Follow me to the breakfast room.”

She did
not have the courage to look up and see if Muhamed was as discomfited as she
was. The breakfast room shone with sunlight, sparkling glass, and polished
wood. Bacon, eggs, kippers, roast beef, grilled mushrooms, fried tomatoes,
sliced fruit, and freshly baked rolls scented the air. Elizabeth allowed
Muhamed to seat her at the round table so that she looked out the windows onto
a garden green with exotically shaped shrubbery.

“What
would you have, Mrs. Petre?”

She
resigned herself to the fact that her appetite now, as it had been the previous
night, was one of pure gluttony. “Everything, please.”

Avidly
listening to the clang of dishes and utensils behind her, she poured herself a
cup of coffee. No sooner did she raise it to her lips than two heaping plates
of food were deposited in front of her.

“I trust
that will keep you occupied while I see to your undergarments.”

Elizabeth
fought back a fresh wave of crimson embarrassment. “Yes, thank you.”

He swirled
to go, creating a brisk breeze.

“Muhamed.”

“Yes?”

The coffee
was pitch black. A coffee ground floated on the surface. Like ground-up beetle.
She set the cup down. “Thank you for saving my life yesterday.”

“Some
would claim that it was I who administered the poison.”

A chill
swept down her spine.

Yes, she
had suspected that he might be spying for Edward. Nor did she doubt now that he
had the knowledge and/or the opportunity to have administered the cantharidin.
Yet—

“If you
had poisoned the picnic, I do not think you would have saved me. Nor do I think
you would harm innocent children.”

But she
spoke to empty air.

By the
time the Arab that was no Arab returned, she had finished one plate of food and
started on the other.

“You do
not drink the coffee.”

“No.” She
put down her fork and knife. “It is ... black.”

Nausea
rose in her throat.
The ground-up beetles had been crunchy, like nuts.

The rustle
of robes behind her alerted her of the servant’s proximity. Suddenly, a dark
hand appeared in front of her face. Muhamed poured cream into the coffee.

“Drink.
You need fluids.”

Like
master, like servant, she thought resentfully. Ramiel had sounded just like
Muhamed when he told her to drink the glass of water last night.

Remembering
the outcome of her rebellion, she drank.

Muhamed
refilled her cup with coffee and cream. “Your underclothes are in the library.
You may finish dressing there when you complete your breakfast.”

“Thank
you.” Elizabeth toyed with the handle of the cup. It was azure blue, edged in
silver. “Please order a carriage to be brought around within the hour.”

“You will
not leave the house until
El Ibn
rises.”

The butler’s
response was not unexpected.

“Very
well,” she lied. Pushing back the second plate of food, she tossed her linen
napkin onto the table. “I cannot eat any more. Thank you for serving me.
Breakfast was quite delicious.”

Elizabeth
allowed Muhamed to pull back her chair and escort her to the library. Silk and
fine lawn underclothing were neatly draped over the large mahogany desk where
Ramiel had conducted the five lessons.
But not the sixth.

She cupped
her stomach through the heavy skirt, remembering . . .
everything.
He
had felt her womb contract, both inside and outside.

Gold
glinted from the wall of books; everywhere she looked there was the beauty of
Arabia. The credenza inlaid with mother-of-pearl. The silk screens on the
walls. The floor-to-ceiling bay windows with the yellow silk drapes and the
curved brass curtain rod.

Edward’s
den where her father had threatened to kill her was dark and ascetic. It
possessed no beauty or memories of pleasure.

Quickly,
efficiently, Elizabeth pulled on the transparent drawers and lawn petticoats.
She was not about to undress to slide into a chemise; she crumpled up the thin
silk shift and shoved it into a bottom desk drawer.

An odd
surge of tenderness overcame her at sight of a leather ledger. It reminded her
that Ramiel, for all of his exotic looks and background, was no different from
any other Englishman. He ate. He slept. He was responsible for the normal
day-to-day tasks involved in overseeing a household and managing his finances.

His chair
was all wood with a back that tilted and coasters that sprang into action when
she sat down—she grabbed the edge of the desk to prevent herself from shooting
into the wall. Hurriedly, she pulled on black silk stockings.

Muhamed
waited for her outside the library door.

Her plan
was not going to work if the servant dogged her every move.

“This is a
large house, Muhamed. I did not fully explore it yesterday.”

Elizabeth
swept by Muhamed. Muhamed followed.

She
abruptly stopped, back turned to the servant. “Muhamed. I am not a child that
you need fear will pilfer in drawers. There is no need to oversee my every
move.”

“I will
not fail
El Ibn
again.”

“You did
not fail him yesterday. Rather than blame yourself for what happened, you
should be grateful. If I had not ingested the poison, then my two sons would
have. And they would not have had you to save them. Because of that incident, I
know what to expect of my husband. I will not let him harm me or my children.
Please accord me the courtesy of being private with my thoughts.”

“As you
will.”

Elizabeth
breathed a sigh of relief. Keeping a lookout for Muhamed, she idly explored the
third floor of guest bedchambers. When she was certain that he no longer
followed her, she sneaked down the servants’ stairs.

He did not
jump out from behind a vase. Nor, when she opened the coat closet by the foyer,
did he jump out of that. Snatching up her cloak, bonnet, and gloves, she
escaped the house. Apprehension gnawed at her stomach. She felt like she
betrayed Ramiel by sneaking out of his home. Yet she felt compelled to protect
herself and her sons.

She walked
blocks and blocks. Dancing slippers were not meant to be so abused. They
pinched her toes in retaliation. Her first instinct, when she spotted a hack,
was to turn around and run back to Ramiel. He was no doubt still sleeping. She
could slip into bed and snuggle up against the warmth of his body. When he woke
up, they could engage in the seventh lesson.

She did
not want to return to the place where one man had threatened to kill her and
another man had attempted to carry out the threat.

Taking a
deep breath, she straightened her shoulders.
She was not a coward.
Raising
her hand, she stepped to the curb.

The hack
pulled over. “Where to, ma’am?”

Elizabeth
gave the cabbie the address to Edward’s town house.

The drive
was far too short. By the time the hack jerked to a halt, her body was wreathed
in sweat. Without a corset or even a chemise to absorb the moisture, it
trickled down between her breasts.

Stepping
out, she paid the cabbie the fare—and indulged in an attack of cravenness.

“Please
wait. I will need transportation back. If for whatever reason I do not return
within thirty minutes, I want you to go to Lord Safyre and tell him where I am.”
She gave him Ramiel’s address and a florin. “Will you do that?”

The cabbie
tipped his hat; he was old enough not to ask questions when it meant money. “Aye,
ma’am.”

Hands
shaking—her whole body shook—she walked up to the doorstep and rang the bell—a
recent installment—a modern button to replace an archaic knocker.

No one
answered her summons.

The
servants had a half-day off on Friday, starting at noon. It was not noon.
Someone
should be about.

Elizabeth
impulsively reached into her reticule. The key to the town house was there, as
it always was. Her fingers, she noted grimly, trembled. It required both hands
to fit the key into the lock.

Cracking
open the door, she poked her head inside. “Beadles?”

Beadles
echoed hollowly behind
the door.

Taking a
deep breath, she pushed the door all the way open and stepped inside. The foyer
was ominously dark after the bright sunshine.

Every
nerve in her body warned her to run. At the same time, common sense derided her
cowardliness.

Beadles
might spy on her, but he would not harm her. She needed to see Emma. The
abigail knew who had blown out the gas lamp. Quite possibly she also knew the
identity of Edward’s mistress. Edward, if at home, need never know that she
visited. She would take Emma driving or walking while they talked.

Shrill
laughter trilled down the stairs.

A woman
s laughter.

It did not
belong to any of the female servants. Had Edward, now that he did not have a
wife in residence, brought his mistress home?