Robin Schone

by The Lady's Tutor

  “She tried to seduce her husband.”

  “Allah akbar, Mother!” Ramiel fought to contain his jealousy, that Elizabeth would confide in his mother but not him. “Did she tell you everything over a cup of English tea?”

  “She did not have to. I asked her if you had been successful as a teacher. She said that perhaps some women were meant to be companions and mothers as opposed to lovers.”

  Ramiel grimly stared at the red and yellow silk pillows piled high on the built-in seat underneath the drawing room windows. Dusky night streaked the gray sky.

  He remembered the feel of Elizabeth’s waist beneath his hand at the charity ball, her flesh cruelly constrained by a corset. He remembered her nipples stabbing her gray velvet dress as she held the artificial phallus in her hand.

  He remembered her words, He does not want me so you should be satisfied.

  “She’s wrong,” he murmured, not even aware that he spoke out loud.

  “I agree that Elizabeth Petre is not meant to be merely a companion and a mother. I am still not certain about some women.”

  “I will not let him hurt her.”

  “Spoken like the son of a sheikh.”

  Ramiel’s head snapped back. “You mean spoken like the Bastard Sheikh.”

  “You are a good man, ibnee.”

  The countess’s gray eyes were too penetrating. Ramiel sometimes thought that he fought a useless battle, protecting her from the truth. At times like this he felt she already knew.

  “How was Elizabeth?” He leapt up from the plush velvet divan. Restlessly, he strode toward the fireplace, leaned against the mantel, and stared at the fire instead of the encroaching darkness. “Did she ask about me?”

  “She is terrified of you.”

  He pivoted, facing the countess. The fire behind him roared with heat. “I would never hurt her.”

  The countess scrutinized his face in the flickering firelight. Satisfaction shone in her eyes. “No, you would not. I told her my door would always be open for her.”

  The significance of the countess’s offer was not lost on Ramiel. “You are offering her your friendship?”

  “I already have.”

  “Do you accept her as a daughter?”

  An expertly darkened eyebrow arched. “Did you offer her marriage?”

  “Even in Arabia a woman is allowed only one husband at a time,” Ramiel returned wryly.

  “Her mother is the daughter of a bishop, you know.” The countess relayed the information as if it bore some significance.

  “No, I did not know.”

  “That is initially how Andrew Walters was elected to Parliament, because of her father’s connections.”

  “How do you know so much about Elizabeth’s family?”

  A shadow dimmed the countess’s gray eyes. “Rebecca Walters took it as a personal affront that I had survived being kidnapped and sold to a sheikh. And having survived it, that I had the temerity to come back to England.”

  With a bastard son in tow.

  Ramiel sometimes forgot what his mother must have endured. In England he had been the darling of the nursery while she fought dragons.

  “I learned a lot about that young lady,” the countess added ruefully.

  “But she could not best you,” Ramiel said gently.

  The countess smiled a smile filled with cynicism, irony, and a certain ruthless satisfaction. “No, she could not. I was not respectable, but because of my title and my money, I was fashionable. The more viciously Rebecca slandered me, the more fashionable I became. Whereas the opposite is true of Rebecca. People who live in glass houses should not throw stones. I heard certain rumors . . . so I in turn passed them on. Your mother is a very wicked woman.”

  Ramiel couldn’t help but laugh. The sound echoed in the drawing room.

  Women like the marchioness, who waylaid him so that she could rut with a bastard Arab, were wicked. His mother was the kindest, most intelligent person he had ever met. To hear her compare herself with women who had never had an unselfish thought in their small, greedy lives was absurd.

  His turquoise eyes glittered. “Let us hope that Elizabeth soon finds her own wickedness, Ummee.”

  The shadow disappeared from the countess’s eyes. “I think she already has, ibnee. And I am going to help you.”

  A sharp well of emotion rose inside Ramiel.

  When he had first returned to England nine years earlier she had hugged him, fixed him a cup of hot chocolate, and sent him off to bed, just as she had done when he was twelve years old. Not once in the intervening years had she asked him why he had left Arabia.

  “Why?” he asked now, the heat that had previously pricked the tips of his ears burning his eyes.

  “Because I am your mother and because I love you. Elizabeth is like you in some respects. She runs from her passion and you run from your past. Perhaps together the two of you can stop running.”

  Chapter 15

  Elizabeth distractedly stared at a middle-aged man with bristly muttonchops. Unaware of her regard, he pulled back a chair so that his lady friend could rise from the table directly in front of the one Elizabeth and Rebecca occupied. His black Prince Albert coat swung at the backs of his knees.

  One week.

  It had been exactly one week this Tuesday since Elizabeth and Ramiel had had their first lesson. It seemed like a year, like a hundred years ago. And no matter how she pretended otherwise, she knew that she could not go back and be the woman she had been before.

  “Elizabeth, you are not listening to a thing I am saying. I was telling you that you will be attending the marchioness’s ball. While she is rather unsavory, she does have royal connections.”

  “I’m sorry, Mother.” The apology came automatically. Focusing on Rebecca, Elizabeth lifted her cup to her lips and sipped cold, weak tea. The sudden desire for hot Turkish coffee was almost overwhelming.

  “You and Edward are having dinner with the Hammonds tonight.”

  I will not put myself through the trouble of bedding you again just so that you can lie with a man.

  Nausea rose in Elizabeth’s throat at the memory of Edward’s words that, no matter how hard she tried, she could not forget. Carefully, she set her cup back inside the saucer. “Mother, I want a divorce.”

  Glass exploded—Rebecca’s teacup. The saucer lay on the dark red carpet where it had fallen. It overflowed with tea and fragments of delicately painted porcelain.

  A great hush fell over the restaurant as men and women turned in their seats to see what had happened. At the same time, a footman rushed forward to clean up the mishap. Elizabeth was acutely aware of the staring eyes. She was even more acutely aware of Rebecca’s frozen face.

  Suddenly the baldheaded maître d’ was bending over Rebecca and placing another cup and saucer in front of her. “Clumsy footman,” he said, as if the man kneeling on the floor were responsible for the broken cup. “Please forgive us, madam. It will not happen again. May I get you a little something extra, at no charge, of course . . .”

  “My daughter and I do not need anything more, thank you.” Rebecca did not once glance at the maitre d’. Her emerald eyes were fixed on Elizabeth. “You may leave us.”

  “Very good, madam.”

  The maître d’ bowed several times; splinters of light reflected off his shiny pate. The footman quickly collected the broken porcelain and wiped up the spilled tea. The staring eyes, finding nothing of major import to sustain their interest, turned away, leaving Elizabeth and Rebecca alone once more.

  Rebecca calmly reached for the porcelain teapot and filled her cup. “We will forget what you said, Elizabeth.”

  Elizabeth worked to swallow past the knot in her throat. “I am a woman, Mother, not a child. I will not be ignored.”

  Rebecca pursed her lips and daintily blew on her tea before taking a small sip. “Does Edward beat you, Elizabeth?”

  Elizabeth’s fingers tightened spasmodically around her cup. “No, of course not.” />
  “Then I see no reason for a divorce.”

  She took a deep breath, agonizing over her next words, but then there was no need to because try as she might, she could not hold them back. “He has not been to my bed in over twelve years.”

  Rebecca returned her cup to the saucer with a sharp click. The sound was repeated a dozen times in the restaurant, from behind Elizabeth, to her side, in front of her. “Decent wives would thank God every morning and evening for your good fortune.”

  Elizabeth winced at the implication she was not “decent.” She resolutely raised her chin. “Nevertheless, I want a divorce.”

  “You will ruin what your father and husband have worked so hard to achieve.”

  Anger warred with the guilt her mother’s words incurred. “What about me, Mother? Do I not deserve anything? He refuses to come to my bed, yet he keeps a mistress. I . . . he is hardly ever at home.”

  “Men will do what men will do. You have two sons—what more could you possibly want?”

  A man!

  A man who loved her.

  A man who would share her bed and be a father to her children before they were too old to need one or care if they had one.

  “Edward came to my bed when he thought Richard was dying.” Elizabeth tried to keep the horror and disgust out of her voice, and failed. “He did not give me a child, Mother, or you a grandchild—he gave his voters a family.”

  Rebecca raised her napkin, blotted her mouth. “It matters little why your husband gave you children, Elizabeth. The fact is that you have two healthy sons who are well provided for. How do you think your decision will affect them? They will suffer. The society they have taken for granted will outcast them. Their lives will be ruined.”

  Elizabeth remembered Phillip’s black eye; Richard’s gauntness; the countess’s words: I did not send my son to Arabia out of convenience, but out of love.

  “They already suffer.”

  “We make the best of what we have, Elizabeth. That is all a woman can do.”

  No, that was not all a woman could do. A woman did not deserve to have her body and her desires ridiculed.

  A woman owed it to herself to demand fidelity.

  “Perhaps some women. Will Father help me? Or should I get a lawyer?”

  “I will discuss it with Andrew when he has the time.”

  As if Elizabeth’s needs were inconsequential to the needs of the country.

  All of her life she had taken second place! Just once—

  Elizabeth took a deep breath. “Thank you, Mother. That is all I can ask.”

  “We really must swing by the milliner’s.” Rebecca dropped her napkin onto the table beside her cup and saucer and scooted her chair back slightly. “I want a new hat for your father’s speech this Wednesday.”

  Instantly, the maître d’ was there to pull back Rebecca’s chair. She tugged her gloves on while Elizabeth awkwardly rose, impeded rather than aided by the maître d’.

  Elizabeth watched Rebecca calmly smooth the wrinkles out of her gloves as if it were the most important thing in the world. More important than a daughter. More important than a divorce.

  “Would you change anything in your life, Mother?”

  Did Father ever give you one single moment of ecstasy that you would not trade for all the days of your life?

  But Elizabeth already knew the answer. The same answer she herself would give if asked.

  Rebecca paused infinitesimally in her grooming. “The past cannot be changed.” She lifted her hands, deftly readjusted the tilt of her hat. “When you accept that, you will be content.”

  “Then perhaps, Mother, it is best that women not be content.” Elizabeth’s voice was unaccustomedly brittle. “Otherwise, we would not have the likes of Mrs. Butler, who is even now changing English law.”

  Rebecca walked out of the restaurant. Elizabeth followed, pulling on her gloves as she went.

  Divorce was not mentioned again. Not in between short rides to various shops. Not during the longer ride to Rebecca’s house.

  The coach turned a corner. Elizabeth grabbed the carriage handle.

  Rebecca’s face in the darkening gloom was ghostly white. “Shall you come in for tea, Elizabeth?”

  “No, thank you, Mother. I need to get home so I can dress for dinner.”

  “Ted Hammond is an ambitious young man. He will be very beneficial to Edward.”

  “Yes.”

  “Elizabeth.”

  Elizabeth’s fingers tightened about the carriage handle. “Yes?”

  “Your decision does not have anything to do with Lord Safyre, does it?”

  Did it?

  Was she asking for a divorce because of the Bastard Sheikh . . . or because of Edward? Because she had learned that a woman was not sexually depraved for wanting fulfillment . . . or because she lusted after her tutor?

  She could feel her mother’s eyes in the darkness . . . and remembered how they had glared when she danced with the Bastard Sheikh. “You said that a man such as he would not be interested in a woman like me, Mother.”

  “You also said that you found him attractive.”

  “And so I do. Edward is a very attractive man too.”

  And if her handsome husband would not sleep with her, why would the Bastard Sheikh?

  Elizabeth winced. Especially if he saw her naked.

  “I will not have a man like him jeopardizing the careers of your father and husband.”

  The coach pulled to a halt. “Lord Safyre has nothing to do with Edward’s or Father’s careers.”

  That, at least, was true.

  The carriage door opened. Cold air and gathering mist flooded the interior.

  “I have packages in the boot, Wilson.”

  The butler, an old family retainer, briefly bowed before offering up his hand to assist Rebecca. “Very good, madam.”

  “Good night, Mother.”

  “Elizabeth.” Rebecca paused in the doorway of the coach.

  Elizabeth tensed. “Yes?”

  “Men are selfish. They will not place the needs of a child before their own. That is a woman’s duty. A man like Lord Safyre would not want sons—especially sons that did not spring from his own loins—to interfere with his pleasures.”

  Rebecca stepped out of the coach with a harsh swish of wool; the door slammed behind her, leaving Elizabeth with the echo of her mother’s words ringing in her ears. Bracing herself against the jolt of the carriage, she lay back against the leather seat and watched the passing streets. Lamp boys scrambled to light the streetlamps for the coming night, leaving a trail of golden orbs in their wake.

  Had she known that it would come to this, she wondered, when she sought the Bastard Sheikh’s tutelage? Would she have had the courage to seek him out if she had known that her simple desire to learn how to give her husband pleasure would culminate in divorce?

  If she went through with it, she would truly be alone, without even the facade of a happy family. Was she strong enough to stand alone?

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

  Was she endangering Richard and Phillip’s future because she lusted after a man who was not her husband? A man who, according to Rebecca, would not tolerate her two sons?

  As soon as the coach pulled up in front of the Petre town house, Elizabeth wrenched open the carriage door and jumped out. Beadles stood on the bottom step, mouth gaping open at her impropriety.

  “Please send Emma up to my room, Beadles.”

  “Very good, ma’am.”

  Elizabeth lifted her skirts and raced up the steps, panting. The corset was too tight—she would pass out from lack of oxygen. Which was a far more comfortable sensation than the feel of lead that weighted down her stomach.

  The burgundy runner chasing the stairs seemed brighter. More inhospitable. It had lasted sixteen years and would probably see another sixteen.

  She dreaded the coming night, sitting at dinner, smi
ling and pretending. Or perhaps it was spending the evening with Edward that she dreaded.

  He had told her she had great udder breasts when she asked him to be intimate. What would he say when she asked him for a divorce?

  It’s not too late, the pounding of her heart drummed out. All she need do was run back downstairs and telephone her mother and say that of course she did not want a divorce, that the whole idea stemmed from the roast beef she had toyed with at lunch. No doubt, she could say, it had been spoiled and her request had stemmed from indigestion.

  Upstairs in her room, dark pink roses marched up the walls. She glanced at the heavy cherry bed in which she had spent her wedding night.

  The drapes had been drawn; there had been no warming fire in the fireplace. The chest drawers had contained her underwear and nightgowns and the wardrobe had been filled with her clothes, but it had seemed as if they were someone else’s clothes, someone else’s body that waited between cold, damp sheets.

  She had given birth to her two sons in that bed. How could she abandon it?

  A soft knock echoed inside the room. Elizabeth’s heart jumped into her throat.

  “Mrs. Petre. May I come in?”

  She swallowed; her heart settled back into her chest where it belonged. Emma. Of course. She had asked Beadles to send her up.

  Why would she think that her husband would come to her after so adamantly rejecting her advances? No doubt he was still at Parliament and would not be home for another hour or so.

  “Come in, Emma.”

  Emma’s round face was pleasantly familiar. “Shall I run a bath for you, ma’am?”

  “Yes, please.”

  Hot steam writhed above the tub. Elizabeth gratefully slipped into the hot water.

  What would the boys think about her decision?

  How would a divorce affect their lives at school?

  She leaned her head back against the copper tub. And wondered what kind of bathroom the Bastard Sheikh had. Immediately, a picture of the artificial phallus flashed behind her eyes.

  It had not been nearly as long as his two handbreadths had been.

  Elizabeth stood up in the tub in a cascade of water. She overrode her thoughts by brutally rubbing herself dry, replacing mental pain with physical pain. After Elizabeth donned her stockings, drawers, and chemise in lonely solitude, Emma silently dressed her, as if she sensed Elizabeth’s need for silence.