Robin Schone

by The Lady's Tutor

  Her eyes snapped open. “Remember your place, old Bess, and I will endeavor to do the same,” she whispered to the nervous horse.

  Her arm was jerked up into the air. The harness jingled wildly while Elizabeth fought to bring the horse’s head down.

  “Ready, Mrs. Petre?”

  She inhaled sulfuric coal smoke, the sustenance of yellow London fog; it burned all the way down. “Ready, Will.”

  A clicking sound shot over her head; the horse instantly sprang to life, dragging Elizabeth with it.

  It was like walking inside a foul-smelling, bitter-tasting cloud. Her only link with reality was the bite of a leather harness, the animal heat of the horse’s body, the cold, damp fog that swirled about her like a living entity, and her own voice, calling out what she hoped were intersecting streets and not dead-end alleys.

  Elizabeth was too busy protecting her feet and her head to savor the full complement of terror the situation warranted. After being stepped on twice and running headfirst into a lamppost, she realized that the farther away they got from the river, the less dense the fog became.

  “Who—aa!”

  She came to an abrupt halt, as if she and the horse were one. A yellow ball of fire glowed on the side of the coach—the lantern, now visible. Another yellow ball hovered over her head—a gas lamppost.

  “Ye can git in the coach, Mrs. Petre. Me an’ old Bess an’ Gertrude here can make it on our own now.”

  Exhilaration anesthetized the sharp throb radiating from her instep and the bump on her forehead. She had done it, she who had never done anything more hazardous than give speeches and take tea and issue sympathy; she had led them safely out of danger. “Thank you, Will.”

  Once inside the coach, the aftermath of terror washed over her. She clamped her mouth shut to hold back a tide of nausea. And experienced a totally ludicrous desire to tell the coachman to take her to the Bastard Sheikh and a home where she could say whatever she wished.

  The coach had no sooner pulled up in front of the Petre town house than the carriage door flew open. Beadles beamed up into Elizabeth’s startled face. “Welcome home, madam! Welcome home!”

  Elizabeth was taken aback. The butler seemed genuinely glad to see her. She allowed him to assist her down. “Thank you, Beadles.”

  “Take care of that head, Mrs. Petre.” The gruff voice drifting down from the coach was sympathetic. “It be a nasty bump you got there, I’m thinkin’. Could hear the crack of yer skull agin that pole all the way up here in the box.”

  Hot color flooded Elizabeth’s face. She had not thought the coachman had noticed her encounter with the lamppost. “Thank you, Will. I’m sure it is nothing.”

  Beadles followed her up the steps. “Mr. Petre is in the drawing room, madam. He rang up the constable. He was afraid something had befallen you.”

  Elizabeth reached beneath her bonnet and gently probed the skin under her hair—there was indeed a bump there. It was the size of a pigeon’s egg. “Who was afraid that something had befallen me, Beadles—my husband or the constable?”

  Beadles pulled his shoulders back. “Mr. Petre, madam. Shall I ring up the doctor?”

  Elizabeth surprised herself with her response. “What do you think, Beadles?”

  The butler’s stiff shoulders relaxed into a semblance of normalcy. “I should go with an ice pack, madam.”

  “Then I will do so.”

  “Elizabeth, you’re late.” Edward stood inside the drawing room doorway; his hair gleamed like black oil against the pallor of his skin. “You should have been home hours ago. You have caused me a great deal of worry.”

  She felt a rush of gratitude at his concern. It was followed by a vague sense of guilt.

  He had come home to eat with her during the dinner break at Parliament . . . and she had not been there.

  “I am sorry, Edward. The meeting ran over and then we got trapped in the fog.”

  Edward glanced at Beadles, who stood politely at attention beside Elizabeth. “Beadles, tell Emma to prepare a bath for Mrs. Petre. She will be up directly.”

  Elizabeth stared at Edward in astonishment. He had not been this solicitous of her welfare since . . . she could not remember when.

  “Thank you, Edward, but there is no need to send Beadles.” She stank of fog, and her head and foot throbbed. “I am going upstairs now.”

  “Take Mrs. Petre’s things, Beadles, then run along and do as you are told.”

  The butler bowed and silently did as bid. Elizabeth reluctantly gave up her reticule, then peeled off her gloves and laid them in his waiting hand, freckles genteelly covered with white gloves. Sighing, she removed her bonnet; that, too, was taken from her. Bowing again, Beadles pivoted toward the stairs.

  Edward offered Elizabeth his arm. “The constable is here. Let us put his mind to rest that you are unharmed.”

  She wanted a hot bath, a cold compress, and ten hours of sleep. She did not want to play hostess. Furthermore, Edward’s gallantry after his recent inattentiveness was—disconcerting. By accepting it, she felt slightly traitorous, as if she wronged her husband . . . or the Bastard Sheikh.

  “Why did you telephone the constable, Edward?”

  “I told you. You were late. I was worried.”

  “There was no need to bother the constable.”

  “You are not the type of woman who incommodes her husband because of a little fog, Elizabeth. Naturally, I assumed the worst. Come inside now and have a cup of tea while Emma runs your bath.”

  Incommode her husband? Because of a “little” fog?

  The fog could hardly be called “little,” and why would she incommode Edward’s dinner, especially since she had not known he was going to take it with her?

  Elizabeth placed her fingertips on the sleeve of his black dinner jacket. The muscles underneath it were firm as opposed to corded, relaxed rather than taut.

  A big man with gray muttonchops rose from the floral-patterned divan in the drawing room. “Mrs. Petre. I’m so glad to see you safe and sound.”

  Elizabeth ignored the pain in her head and plastered a smile onto her face. She held out her hand. It trembled ever so slightly. “Constable Stone. As I was telling my husband, there was no need for anyone to worry. Everyone is late on a night like this.”

  The constable’s palm was hot and sweaty; she pulled her fingers back as quickly as good manners allowed. “Please, sit down.”

  He kept standing until she sat down across from him. “Your husband says you have an important engagement tonight, so I will not take up your time. His concern is understandable.”

  The Hansons’ dinner party.

  Edward had been concerned . . . because she had been late for a dinner party. He had not ordered her bath out of courtesy but out of expeditiousness.

  The building custodian had mistaken her for a prostitute and threatened to shoot her. She could have been raped, robbed, or killed, but her husband telephoned the constable because she had upset his plans.

  “I apologize for the inconvenience you have been put to, Constable Stone.” Her voice was disembodied, as if it did not belong to her. “The fog descended while I was in the Women’s Auxiliary meeting. When the meeting ended, Will, our coachman, and I made it home as quickly as possible. No doubt my inexperience delayed us further.”

  “How so?”

  The hair on the back of her neck prickled. Constable Stone acted as if she were guilty of a crime far worse than missing a dinner.

  “I walked the horses so that we would not find our way into the Thames.”

  The constable was surprised.

  Edward frowned. “That is why we have a groom.”

  “Tommie was not there. He took ill while waiting for me, so Will sent him home.”

  “Where was this meeting, Mrs. Petre?”

  Elizabeth told the burly constable.

  He stared at her in disapproval. “Are you telling me you were in that district with only a coachman in attendance?”

 
“I have repeatedly told Elizabeth to hire herself a secretary. Then she would have a companion so that she need not attend these events on her own.” Edward picked up his cup of tea and smiled deprecatingly at the constable. “But you know how women are. They never think about their safety until it is too late.”

  Elizabeth felt a coldness seeping into her body that had nothing whatsoever to do with the winter fog she had trudged through.

  Edward had had no reason to summon the constable unless he possessed foreknowledge of the drunken custodian. A person who would perhaps do damage to her knowing full well that she was not a prostitute . . .

  She abruptly stood up. “If you will excuse me, Constable Stone, Edward, I would like to retire now. It has been an exhausting evening.”

  Edward and the constable simultaneously stood up. It was the constable who spoke. “Of course, Mrs. Petre. I will see myself out.”

  The closure of the drawing room door was a soft click. Edward and Elizabeth stared at each other over the tea cart.

  She mentally braced herself. “It is too late to go to the dinner party, Edward.”

  “Andrew expects us to be there in his stead, Elizabeth. We will go.”

  “No, Edward, I will not go.” Dull pain radiated from her temple. It throbbed in time to her heartbeat. “Not tonight.”

  “Very well,” he surprised her by saying. “The important thing is that you are safe. You must have endured quite an ordeal.”

  “Yes.” Why could she not bring herself to tell him about the custodian and his threat to kill her? “I hit my head on a lamppost.”

  “Shall I ring up the doctor?”

  “No, thank you, Edward; you have done quite enough.”

  “Good night, Elizabeth. Take care of your head.”

  Elizabeth bit her lip. She was cold, she hurt, she was still frightened, and she did not know why. The incident with the custodian had been pure mischance. She was safe in the Petre household. “Are you leaving?”

  “I am expected at the Hansons.”

  And she had let him down.

  “Will you be back”—no, she could not ask that, if he would spend the night with his mistress after the parliamentary meeting ended or if he was coming back home—“in time for the House session?”

  “It will not matter if I am a few minutes late. You had best hurry. Your bath will get cold.”

  Perversely, Elizabeth wanted to go with Edward.

  He turned and walked to the twin doors. Bowing, he held one open for her. “Good night, Elizabeth.”

  Elizabeth tried to remember the feel of his body on top of her, inside her. Had he been as cold and controlled then as he was now?

  Had Edward changed . . . or had she?

  “Good night, Edward.”

  Emma, in her calm, methodical fashion, quickly saw to it that Elizabeth had her bath and was tucked into bed with an ice pack on her head. Elizabeth was too exhausted to think. Besides, her thoughts were utter nonsense, the product of cold, pain, and fatigue.

  But the thoughts refused to stop.

  I have repeatedly told Elizabeth to hire herself a secretary. Then she would have a companion so that she need not attend these events on her own.

  A woman in Arabia has certain rights over her husband. Among them is her right to sexual union.

  You are not the type of woman who incommodes her husband because of a little fog, Elizabeth.

  Look to your husband. When you see what he is and not what you want him to be, you will have your truth.

  What truth did the Bastard Sheikh refer to?

  Had he lied? Did he know who Edward’s mistress was and thought that Elizabeth did not stand a chance of winning the attentions of her husband, regardless of her erotic tutelage?

  Mrs. Petre, there are certain things that a man can do with a full-breasted woman that he cannot do with a less generously endowed one.

  Elizabeth cupped her breasts through her cotton nightgown. They spilled over her fingers—full, yes, but still firm.

  What type of figure did Edward’s mistress have?

  You love your children but you know nothing about your husband . . . or yourself.

  Her nipples tightened underneath her fingers. She jerked her hands away.

  No doubt Edward’s mistress was flat-chested with slender hips. Everything that Elizabeth was not.

  The ice pack had slipped and succeeded in numbing her ear while her head steadily throbbed. Rolling over, she turned up the flame in the gas lamp beside her bed.

  Chapter Six.

  She had yet to read her lesson in The Perfumed Garden.

  The book was where she had hid it, buried in her desk drawer. Pulling out paper and pen, she proceeded to take notes as she read “Concerning Everything That Is Favorable to the Act of Coition.”

  The ache in her head and the residual trembling of her hands traveled lower and settled between her thighs until she stopped writing altogether and merely read.

  The ways of doing it to women are numerous and variable. And now is the time to make known to you the different positions which are usual.

  Dear Lord, she had never dreamed . . . that there could be such variety in an act that all of her life had been referred to as “a woman’s duty to her husband.”

  It listed everything, every possible position that a man and a woman could engage coitus in. Lebeuss el djoureb, a man sitting between a woman’s outstretched legs and rubbing his member against her vulva until she grew moist from the alternate friction and shallow probes; el kebachi, a woman kneeling on her hands and knees like the beasts in the fields; dok el arz, belly pressed to belly, mouth glued to mouth.

  Lying on the back, the stomach, the sides, sitting, standing, it was all there in detailed format, like a child’s workbook. Positions, the mutual movements of a man and a woman once penetration was engaged . . .

  He who seeks the pleasure a woman can give must satisfy her amorous desire for hot caresses, as described. He will see her swooning with lust, her vulva will get moist, her womb will stretch forward, and the two sperms will come together.

  Feeling as if she were drugged, Elizabeth dragged her gaze up from the closing paragraph and stared at the pen clutched between her fingers, unwittingly comparing it to the sheikh’s description of a man’s member, “big as a virgin’s arm . . . with a round head . . . Measuring in length a span and a half.”

  The practical brass pen wasn’t nearly as thick as was the Bastard Sheikh’s precious gold pen. For a heart-stopping moment she thought of how it might be used to ease moist need and empty flesh.

  Revolted, she tossed the brass pen away from her. It slammed into the back of the secretary and bounced onto the blue carpet.

  Sleep.

  She had been through an ordeal. Sleep would regain her some much-needed control.

  She turned off the gas lamp and burrowed underneath the bedcovers against the ice pack. But the ice had melted and the rhythmical throbbing inside her body persisted.

  Rolling onto her stomach, she experimentally rotated her hips.

  The dull pulsations between her legs sharpened, deepened.

  She could have died tonight . . .

  Why had not Edward stayed home with her, comforted her? Why did he go to his mistress when she ached for him to be with her?

  If a man is repulsed by a woman’s sexuality, taalibba, then he is not a man.

  Her hips independently pushed and rubbed against the mattress.

  Hez, taalibba.

  The mattress became a man who counteracted the swaying of her hips by grinding up inside her body until her vulva dripped with moisture and her womb stretched forward.

  Love is hard work.

  Elizabeth rubbed faster, harder, wanting, needing . . . her nipples to be suckled and bitten. A man to throw her legs over his shoulders, thrusting inside her so deeply that her womb contracted around his manhood.

  The soft internal explosion brought tears to her eyes. She buried her face into her pillow.

/>   How would she be able to face the Bastard Sheikh, knowing what she now knew?

  Chapter 9

  Elizabeth stared at the dark gleam of mahogany wood, at the hot steam that rose from the demitasse cup with its delicate blue veining, at anything but those knowing turquoise eyes.

  “You practiced rubbing your pelvis against the mattress.”

  It was not a question.

  She turned up her cup and gulped bittersweet Turkish coffee. The scalding liquid traveling down her throat did nothing to counteract the scorching heat infusing her face. She placed the empty cup on the saucer and with careful precision set it on top of the massive desk. Resolutely, she raised her head and met his gaze. “I did.”

  The Bastard Sheikh’s eyes glinted in the gas lamp. “The pleasure is far greater when a woman is with a man.”

  She refused to give in to her shame. “How do you know that, Lord Safyre?”

  “Because the pleasure is greater when a man is with a woman.”

  “Do men practice rotating their hips on a mattress, then?” she asked politely.

  “No, taalibba. Men practice with their hands.”

  The breath caught in her throat. Surely he could not mean what she thought he meant. Surely a man like him would have no need to—

  “Do you?”

  The question popped out before she could stop it.

  He did not pretend to misunderstand her. “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Loneliness. Need. We all want to be touched, even if it is by our own hand.”

  “But you can have any woman you want, anytime you want her. You do not have to rely upon—” Her jaws snapped together.

  “Remember what I said, taalibba,” he murmured softly. “Here, in my home, you may say what you will.”

  Elizabeth had said quite enough. Yet . . . Instead of squirming with embarrassment, she felt strangely unburdened. This man knew more about her than any other person . . . and he did not condemn her for her needs. Perhaps, even, he shared her needs, wanting to touch, to be touched....

  Impossible. A woman like her had nothing in common with a man like him. She wanted, she studied. He wanted, he took.

  Elizabeth jumped onto the most innocuous subject matter contained in the sixth chapter. “The sheikh places a great deal of importance on kissing.”