Robin Schone

by The Lady's Tutor

  Edward was waiting downstairs for her, dressed for dinner. He surveyed her thoroughly, as if she were a horse for sale. Or a slave on an auction block.

  Taking her cloak, he draped it about her shoulders while Beadles solemnly watched. Inside the coach she and Edward were enclosed in darkness and a distance that had nothing to do with the leather seat that separated their bodies and everything to do with the needs that divided their lives.

  “I talked to my mother today, Edward.”

  There. Relief mingled with dread.

  “Of course. It’s Tuesday.”

  The sudden acceleration of Elizabeth’s heartbeat drowned out the clip-clop of the horses’ hooves and the bump and grind of the carriage wheels.

  “I told her that I wanted a divorce.”

  “And you expect your mother to influence your father on your behalf.”

  He did not sound surprised. His voice was calm, reasonable, slightly sympathetic. The same voice that had spoken to her in his darkened bedroom, telling her things she would rather not hear.

  She strove to restrain a surge of desperation. “You have a mistress, Edward.”

  “I have told you that I do not.”

  “I do not think the courts will believe you.”

  “Elizabeth, you are incredibly naive. If you were to have a lover, then most certainly I could sue you for a divorce. The most you, a woman, could ever hope to obtain if you proved that I kept a mistress is to sue for separation.

  Elizabeth was stunned. “I don’t believe you.”

  The Bible had clearly stated that adultery was grounds for divorce . . . if the woman was adulterous. It had said nothing about a man’s infidelity.

  “If you could prove that I beat you outside the realms of ‘ordinary chastisement,’ then perhaps the courts would feel different. But I don’t beat you, Elizabeth. You have everything a woman could possibly want. A home, children, a substantial allowance. If you stand up in front of a court and claim that you want a divorce because I do not frequent your bed, I will not be able to protect you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The court would see you as a nymphomaniac, a disturbed woman who needs the help of a doctor. There are many asylums that specialize in the treatment of mentally deranged women. They could recommend that you be committed to one.”

  Elizabeth’s lips were suddenly dryer than tinder. “And you would let them.”

  “You would leave me no choice.”

  “Then I will sue for separation.”

  “I would rather see you in an asylum. It would garner more public sympathy.”

  It was becoming increasingly harder to remain calm. “Edward, you do not love me.”

  “No, I do not.”

  “Why continue with this farce of a marriage?”

  “Because my voters do not think it is a farce.”

  Fog pressed against the window; a dim light proved to be a streetlamp. Hours earlier it had been a golden orb; now it was a dingy circle of light.

  A rustle of clothes sounded in the heavy darkness, followed by a creak of springs. Elizabeth’s clenched hands were suddenly clasped.

  Gasping, she turned toward Edward. A week ago she would have taken this unexpected contact as a promising sign. Now she uselessly jerked her hands to free them.

  Edward was surprisingly strong. “Elizabeth, I do not understand what has happened to you. A week ago you were content. There are things far more important than sharing a man’s bed. We have two sons; you have been an invaluable asset to my career. It is demanding, but there are rewards. You are one of the most respected women in England. I know you love Richard and Phillip. You must know that a woman who sues for divorce or separation does not receive custody of her children. A father is a child’s lawful guardian; a father has the right to protect that child until he is eighteen. If the father deems that the mother threatens his child’s welfare, he has the right to remove the child from the mother’s influence. Do you know what that means?”

  She ceased struggling.

  Oh, yes, she knew what that meant.

  Not only would she lose her children if she was granted a divorce or separation, she would lose them now if she did not continue as they had carried on for the past sixteen years.

  “I understand, Edward.” Her voice was hollow.

  He released her hands and patted her cheek. “I thought you would.” Another rustle of cloth and a squeak of springs signaled he returned to the other side of the carriage. “I have been meaning to tell you. You are looking decidedly dowdy. While your gowns must be tasteful, of course, there is no need to look like a frump. Hammond’s wife, now, is quite charming. Perhaps you should ask for the name of her modiste.

  “By the bye, Elizabeth. You will not admit Countess Devington into my home ever again.”

  Chapter 16

  Elizabeth stared at the groom’s gloved hand, then at the ornate knocker that was clearly engraved with COUNTESS DEVINGTON. The brittle staccato sound of brass banging brass cut through the sickly pale sunshine.

  The town house was Edward’s home; she would abide by his dictates inside the house, but she would not bow down to his will like a child. She would visit whom she liked . . . and today she would visit with the countess.

  It had nothing whatsoever to do with the countess’s offer that if she ever needed to talk, her door would be open. Elizabeth could not talk with her own mother. She certainly would not burden the Bastard Sheikh’s mother.

  The white door swung open. A butler stared impassively first at the groom and then at Elizabeth.

  She gave him her card, the corner folded down. “I would like to see Countess Devington, please.”

  The butler bowed, revealing a full head of short, curly black hair. “I will see if her ladyship is at home.”

  Elizabeth nodded her head at the groom in dismissal. “Tommie, you may wait by the carriage.”

  Tommie, the young boy of nineteen who had gotten sick before the fog unexpectedly descended five nights ago, doffed his wool knit hat. “Very good, ma’am.”

  She watched weak rays of sunshine play on the brass knocker. Dark, angry, frightened thoughts clouded her mind.

  Edward had threatened to take her sons. Then he had threatened to commit her to an asylum.

  She could not live like this.

  Scarce minutes passed before the butler returned. He bowed again. “If you will follow me, Mrs. Petre.”

  She followed behind him, heels muffled on the Oriental runner that lined the floor of the oak-paneled hallway. Light filtered through skylight windows, danced across gleaming wood. At the end of the corridor the butler opened a door, revealing a stairwell. It, too, was lighted by a skylight.

  He silently walked down the steps in front of her, back ramrod straight—Beadles would be envious of his posture. Abruptly stopping, bowing, he opened the door at the end of the staircase and stepped back.

  Hot, heavy, moist steam billowed out into the stairwell. Elizabeth curiously stepped through the doorway.

  She had heard of steam rooms, but she had never seen one. Nor, she realized with shock as her eyes adjusted to the dim lighting, was she seeing one now.

  The countess leisurely swam toward Elizabeth in a bath the size of a pond. And she was not wearing a bathing suit. The pale lines of her naked body reflected beneath the steam and the water.

  Elizabeth had never seen a naked woman other than herself.

  “Countess Devington,” she stammered. “I beg your pardon, I did not mean to intrude. The butler—I will call another time, when it is more convenient.”

  Soft laughter drifted up from the water. It was as uninhibited as was the Bastard Sheikh’s. “Elizabeth, my dear, don’t be silly.”

  “But you—you’re—” She sucked in thick, heavy steam.

  “Bathing.” The countess possessed none of Elizabeth’s modesty. “I thought you might be curious to find out about life in Arabia. Bathing is very important to the Arab people, both to the men and
to the women. I grew quite fond of the Turkish bath, so I installed one here when I returned to England.”

  She lifted slender arms out of the water and clapped her hands. It afforded Elizabeth a perfect view of her breasts. They were round and firm, not at all what one would expect in a fifty-seven-year-old woman.

  Elizabeth quickly averted her eyes.

  This was absurd. She had handled an artificial phallus; surely she could overcome her embarrassment at seeing another woman’s naked body. But no matter how hard she tried, she could not gaze at the countess.

  “Joseffa, take Mrs. Petre behind the screen and help her disrobe. She is not yet used to our ways.”

  A tiny, wrinkled woman wearing a gown that could only be described as a roll of silk wrapped about her body, purposefully stepped toward Elizabeth.

  Elizabeth stiffened with alarm. She was English, not Arabic, and she was not about to expose her udder breasts and flabby hips. “I really do not think—”

  “In Arabia, the women in the harem bathe together. It is a time to laugh and talk and relax without the interference of men.” The countess’s voice was wistful. “I am sorry if this embarrasses you. I thought perhaps you might enjoy one of the more pleasurable Arab customs, but I see that I was wrong. . . .”

  Elizabeth unaccountably felt stuffy . . . and childish. She uttered the first excuse that came to mind. “I do not know how to swim.”

  “The floor of the bath is graduated; the one end starts at three feet deep and goes to five feet at the farthest end. It is far more safe bathing here than in the ocean. But if you truly do not wish to join me, please don’t think I will be offended. It is not a European custom; many English people find it repugnant to bathe daily, let alone to bathe communally.”

  Elizabeth was not certain if she had been insulted or not. She bathed . . . daily.

  “It is not that I find it repugnant, Countess Devington, it is just . . .” She took a deep breath, almost choked on the thick steam. “I have never before been in a complete state of undress in front of anyone”—save for her husband, but that memory was better left alone—“Even the doctor did not see me when I gave birth to my two sons. . . .”

  “Then you are fortunate the doctor delivered a bouncing baby boy and not a pair of tonsils.”

  The countess’s cynical remark surprised a laugh out of Elizabeth. Caught off guard, she was ill prepared to fend off the surprinsingly strong hand that grabbed her arm and commenced dragging her toward the rear of the room.

  Elizabeth’s mouth dropped open in astonishment, closed, opened. The little old lady—an Arab lady, Elizabeth surmised by her dark skin, but then again, perhaps not. Muhamed was European and she had thought him an Arab—was like an ant relentlessly pulling twice its weight behind it.

  Muffled laughter swirled the steam—it came from the countess.

  Lips compressed, Elizabeth tried to pull free, then realized struggling was more undignified than being dragged. A large lacquered screen loomed out of the hot mist. Before Elizabeth could gather her bearing, the little old lady shoved her behind the screen and proceeded to snatch at her reticule, her cloak, her hat, her gloves. Hands were everywhere.

  This was too humiliating for words. Elizabeth had never been manhandled. As a child, a word of criticism had been enough to command obedience. She simply had no reference to compare this incident to.

  Suddenly, she was pivoted so that her back faced the old Arab woman. Elizabeth tripped, fell forward with hands outstretched. Only to slam into a moist enameled wall. Small, adept hands attacked the buttons lining the back of her dress.

  Elizabeth tried to turn around. “Please do not do that. I do not want—stop, please—” But despite her protests, the buttons were freed and the heavy wool dress was being peeled down over her shoulders.

  She forgot dignity; she forgot that English ladies do not raise their voices. “Countess Devington!”

  “Joseffa does not understand English when she does not want to,” the countess shouted back, her voice strangely choked. “It is not your time of month, is it?”

  Mortification singed Elizabeth’s skin. There were some things one did not mention, ever. Not even woman to woman.

  She twirled free of the marauding hands, clutched the bodice of her dress. “I said stop that!”

  Snorting, the little old woman stepped back with her hands on her hips. She let loose with a string of totally incomprehensible words.

  Arabic, Elizabeth presumed. But it certainly sounded nothing like what the Bastard Sheikh spoke. He sounded erotic, sensuous. This woman sounded . . . venomous.

  “That is quite enough, Joseffa!” The countess’s command pierced the steam.

  The old Arab woman glowered at Elizabeth in silence.

  Elizabeth pulled the dress more tightly against her chest. “What . . . what did she say?”

  “There is no need to translate.” The countess’s voice was closer—she had swum to the deeper end of the pool beside the screen.

  “Please.” Elizabeth defiantly tilted her chin at the old woman. “I would like to know.”

  “She said that you English ladies are all the same. That you despise her country and you insult her mistress.”

  “That is not so!” Elizabeth yelped indignantly. “I have a great respect for the Arabic culture! Why, I know some Arabic phrases! And if I meant to insult her mistress—you—I would not visit your home to do so!”

  More rude words escaped the Arab woman’s mouth. Uncannily bright eyes glittered at Elizabeth.

  “What did she say now?” Elizabeth called out more belligerently.

  “She said she does not believe that you know any Arabic. That Englishwomen lie because they do not know how to tell the truth.”

  Elizabeth stiffened her spine, unable to pass up the challenge. “Ma’e e-salemma,” she said clearly, loud enough for the countess to hear. Taalibba—no, that was between her and the Bastard Sheikh. “Sabah el kheer.” And then, just for the Arab woman’s ears, “El besiss mostahi,” the impudent, shamefaced one. Or at least she hoped that the rather insulting phrases were not used in a purely sexual connotation.

  The old Arab woman stabbed a finger at Elizabeth and uttered a volley of vituperative Arabic.

  The countess did not wait to be asked to translate. “Joseffa said you speak her tongue with the finesse of a camel and that you still mock her culture and insult her mistress by not sharing the bath. But she forgives you, because you are English and Englishwomen are puny cowards.”

  The thick, suffocating steam rose directly to Elizabeth’s head. She jerked the heavy wool bodice over her arms and down her hips. “I am not a coward,” she said through gritted teeth, untying the horsehair-padded bustle from around her waist. A dull thud, the impacting fall, was absorbed by the steam.

  Elizabeth stared at the old woman, needing to further prove herself, doing so by untying the tape of the first petticoat.

  She had asked the Bastard Sheikh to teach her how to please a man.

  Elizabeth untied the tape of her second petticoat. It dropped in a heap of dampening cotton.

  She had asked her husband for a divorce and had been threatened with the loss of her two sons.

  “I . . . am not . . . a coward,” she repeated, standing in her corset, chemise, and drawers, daring her to repeat the offending remark.

  Joseffa made a circling motion with her right hand for Elizabeth to turn around while her bright eyes dared her to do so.

  Elizabeth thought of her husband’s brutal appraisal . . . and knew that true or not, the old Arab woman would respect her more for courage than beauty. She turned around.

  Moisture collected between her breasts, itched a path down her abdomen. Shedding the corset was a luxury. But that was as far as she was going to go . . . now.

  Folding her arms over her breasts, Elizabeth faced the old woman and nodded toward the screen . . . then breathed a sigh of relief when she left. Muted murmurs drifted through the steam. Elizabeth decided she
did not want to know what comments Joseffa might be relaying about her body.

  Without the direct challenge the old woman represented, Elizabeth felt her courage dwindling. It simply was not done; she could not bathe naked with the countess....

  Yes, she could.

  Elizabeth had no sooner removed her shoes and peeled down her drawers and stockings than the old woman stepped back around the screen.

  She stifled a gasp, too startled to cover anything. But not for long. The old woman held out a large, thick towel; Elizabeth gratefully accepted it. Folding it around her body, she padded out from behind the screen, the old woman at her heels. Elizabeth did a little dance; the wooden floor was hot.

  When she reached the edge of the pool, the old woman grabbed the edge of the towel and yanked. Elizabeth jumped into the water.

  It was—

  Incredible.

  Crouching down so that her breasts were submerged, she spread her arms out to retain her balance. The water caressed every inch of her skin, her breasts, her hips, her thighs. Elizabeth had never felt so—liberated.

  “Are you all right?”

  Elizabeth swirled around. “This is . . . quite remarkable.”

  The countess smiled; blond strands of hair stuck to her face. “I am so glad you enjoy it. Were this a true Turkish bath, there would be three pools; a hot bath, a lukewarm bath, and a cold one. I find the heated one best suits the English climate.”

  Tendrils of hair slithered free of Elizabeth’s bun. They clung to her wet neck and back. “Lord Safyre . . . does he have a Turkish bath?”

  “Yes. Ramiel has retained many Arab customs.”

  Elizabeth wanted to ask the countess to enumerate, but thought better of it. Perhaps he kept an entire harem locked away in his house.

  But why would he come home in the early hours of morning drenched in a woman’s perfume if he had his own harem?

  A cold chill raced down her back. “My carriage—it is outside. I never planned—that is, I meant only to have a short visit—” To defy my husband.