A hot rush of remembered pleasure flooded her body.
“You are awake.” Stepping out from the shadows between a mahogany armoire and a plush red-velvet-upholstered armchair, Muhamed threw the drapes open.
Gasping, blinking at the abrupt change of darkness to light, Elizabeth jerked the covers over her breasts. “What do you want?”
“From you, Mrs. Petre? Nothing. I am a eunuch; I cannot harm a woman. Nor can I be harmed by one.”
Elizabeth studied the man who she had once thought was an Arab. He was older than Ramiel, but while she knew that he and the countess had been sold in Arabia together, he did not look the fifty plus years of age that he must be. His skin was olive like Johnny’s rather than the dusky tan that Ramiel had inherited from his Arab father.
The countess had alluded to the fact that Muhamed’s abuse in Arabia had made him hostile toward women. Elizabeth could not even begin to imagine the pain he experienced, either when he had been made into a eunuch as a youth or the emotional trauma that came of being a man now but unable to love a woman. She could not hold his rudeness against him.
“Do not pity me, Mrs.. Petre. I will not tolerate it,” Muhamed barked. His black eyes glittered malevolently.
Elizabeth drew her shoulders back, belatedly realized that she wore nothing but a sheet and a comforter. Neither of which covered her bare shoulders. “I do not pity you, Muhamed.” The man glaring at her incited fear, not pity. “Where is Lord Safyre?”
“I am to watch over you. El Ibn said you would need a bath. It awaits you through that door.” He briefly nodded in the direction of a door at the left end of the rectangular bedroom.
It was not the way she and Ramiel had come up from the Turkish bath last night.
“Thank you. I would like a bath, but I have been advised not to do so alone. Would you please send Lucy to accompany me?”
“It is an English bath that awaits you, Mrs. Petre. You do not need Lucy. I have been assigned to assist you.”
Fighting a tide of crimson heat, Elizabeth stiffened her spine. “I assure you I am used to bathing alone, so there is no need to assist me.”
“It is El Ibn’s instructions.”
Her eyes widened incredulously. Surely not. She clutched the covers more tightly over her breasts. “To watch me bathe?”
“I am to watch over you,” he repeated unemotionally.
“You are trying to intimidate me,” Elizabeth determined shrewdly. “You do not want me in this house.”
His black eyes glittered, the only sign of life in his otherwise blank face. “I do not.”
The countess had said Muhamed had looked after Ramiel in Arabia like the son he would never have. Elizabeth would not take kindly to a woman who blackmailed one of her sons either. “I will not hurt Lord Safyre, Muhamed. I would never have hurt him.”
“In Arabia you would be stoned to death. El Ibn deserves better than the likes of you.”
Embarrassment turned to bright anger. She would not be judged. Nor would she allow him to demean the beauty she had shared with Ramiel.
“This is not Arabia. My father threatened to kill me, my husband threatened to commit me, and yesterday one or the other tried to gas me, but they did not succeed and you are not going to succeed in intimidating me now. Furthermore, it is for Lord Safyre to decide what he deserves or does not deserve. If you wish to watch me bathe, then so be it.”
Elizabeth, still holding the covers clutched to her breasts, wriggled to the edge of the bed. She stuck her legs out from underneath the silk sheet and over the edge of the mattress. Her naked feet dangled above the Oriental carpet below.
Hazel eyes locked with black ones.
It was Muhamed’s choice now. Elizabeth only hoped he had as little desire to see her body as she did to show it to him, but whatever the outcome of this confrontation she would not back down.
Taking a deep breath, Elizabeth slid off the bed, dragging with her the silk sheet and satin comforter. Taking an even deeper breath, she released the covers.
Muhamed turned in a swirl of white cotton. “Do not leave the house without me unless you are accompanied by El Ibn. Those are his orders. Lucy will be here in exactly twenty minutes to take you to breakfast.”
The door to the bedroom opened and closed with equal silence. Frigid air swirled about Elizabeth’s naked body.
What if the servant had not backed down? What if, even now, he stood there and stared at her nakedness?
What was she becoming?
Knees trembling, she walked the distance to the door where an English bath awaited her. Hot, aromatic steam filled the mosaic-tiled room. The tub, a large porcelain one encased in mahogany, was filled with water and . . . orange blossoms.
A sharp pang filled her chest.
Ramiel had remembered that she could not wear perfume and had given her fragrant flowers instead. To be crushed underneath her breasts and between her thighs.
A washcloth was draped over the side of the tub. A variety of soaps and shampoos were laid out for her selection.
She stepped into the tub and gingerly sank down. The water was very hot. Whoever had filled it must have run scalding water in it and left it to cool naturally so that it would keep warm for a longer period of time. The ploy had succeeded. It took several seconds for Elizabeth to adjust to the heat.
Soaping a rag, she carefully ran it over her breasts. And remembered Ramiel’s hands soaping her breasts after she had ridden him like a stallion. Then he had carried her upstairs to his bedroom and presented her with a condom-filled tin stamped with Queen Victoria’s portrait. It had been strangely comforting to think that the queen inadvertently made respectable the very acts that Mrs. Josephine Butler of the Ladies National Association had decried: If they really do enable men to sin without having to suffer for it, we shall only oppose them all the more.
The flesh between her legs was almost as hot as was the bathwater. Abandoning the washcloth, she rubbed flower petals into her skin, underneath her breasts, her arms. Daring the forbidden, wanting to know the changes Ramiel had made inside her body as well as outside, she stood up on her knees and touched the delicate flesh that he had stretched and fondled and kissed and licked and then stretched even more. She was tender, the opening pouted, and inside—
A soft knock reverberated inside the bathroom. “Mrs. Petre?”
Elizabeth jerked her hand away from her body, heart pounding. “Yes?”
“I’m Lucy, ma’am, and I’ve brought you your clothes. Shall I come in and assist you?”
“Thank you, that is not necessary. I am just finishing. Lay the clothes out on the bed, please. I will be there directly.”
“Very good, ma’am.”
Elizabeth quickly sluiced off the flower petals and stood up in the water, face flaming hot. Reaching for a towel, she briskly dried off and wrapped it about her body. Wet hair clumped on her bare shoulders and down her back.
She needed to take care of her teeth....
A toothbrush lay on the sink cabinet. Beside it sat a tin of tooth powder. She vigorously brushed her teeth and rinsed her mouth. Half afraid that the maid would come into the bathroom, either on the orders of El Ibn or Muhamed, she perched on the wooden toilet seat and hurriedly relieved herself. A roll of tissue on the wall beside the toilet left no doubt as to its purpose. Most English homes hid such paper in boxes.
She paused with her hand on the door. No doubt the entire staff was aware that the Bastard Sheikh and Mrs. Petre, the wife of the Chancellor of the Exchequer, were lovers.
No regrets, Elizabeth.
Bracing herself, she opened the bathroom door. Lucy stood by the four-poster. She had straightened the covers. A royal blue silk and wool blend skirt with a matching bodice were spread across the crimson comforter along with an array of lingerie.
They did not belong to Elizabeth.
Lucy held up a pair of transparent silk drawers edged with blue satin ribbons and smiled, as if it were commonplace to assist a ma
rried woman in her master’s bedchamber. As no doubt it was. “Ain’t these pretty?”
Indeed they were. Elizabeth had never seen anything quite like them. They would hide—absolutely nothing.
“They be for you, ma’am.”
Elizabeth should not feel hurt that Ramiel would outfit her in his former mistress’s clothes. But she did.
“I would prefer my own clothes, Lucy.”
“M’lord said you was to wear these, ma’am. I don’t rightly know where any other clothes are.”
Ramiel’s bedroom did not contain a dressing screen. Acutely aware of her swollen breasts, Elizabeth took the drawers, a chemise that was just as transparent, and a pair of black silk stockings into the bathroom and firmly shut the door in Lucy’s face. When she exited, covered if not concealed, she found Lucy holding up what looked like a ruffled apron.
“It be a bustle. Ain’t never seen anything like it. Here’s your petticoats, ma’am.”
Elizabeth stepped into two fine lawn petticoats and firmly secured them around her waist. Lucy did not seem surprised that there was no corset. Loath to give up the ruffled bustle, she tied it over the bands of the petticoats, then tossed the skirt over Elizabeth’s head. When she finished dressing Elizabeth, she stood back and surveyed her handiwork. “Royal blue be a good color for you, ma’am. It goes ever so nice with your red hair. I’m not a lady’s maid, but I can brush it out and put it up on top of your head for you.”
Elizabeth forced a smile. “Thank you, Lucy.”
Damp hair pinned to her head—her pins, she did not want to know who had rescued them or the gossip it had instigated—she slipped into black patent slippers—hers, again—and followed Lucy down to breakfast.
Ramiel sat at a round oak table in an elegant glass-enclosed breakfast room filled with late-morning sunshine. His golden head was bent over a newspaper. He wore a morning frock coat, so very English, yet surely no Englishman would do the things he had done to her last night.
Every touch, every word spoken between them, flooded her memory. She turned first cold and then hot, afraid of drawing attention to herself lest she be ridiculed, even more afraid that their time together had meant nothing more to him than an easy conquest. And she had been easy. She had held nothing back from him.
Ramiel suddenly raised his head. He stared at her for a long while, as if he, too, remembered every touch, every word. A slow smile lit up his dark face. “Sabah el kheer, taalibba.”
Sunshine flooded Elizabeth’s body. “Sabah el kheer.”
Laying down the paper, Ramiel gracefully stood and pulled out the open-armed yellow silk-upholstered chair beside his. “Actually, the correct response is sabah e-noor.”
“I beg your pardon. Sabah e-noor, Lord Safyre.”
He cocked his head, his turquoise eyes knowing. “You are feeling shy.”
Heat pulsed in her body. “Yes.”
“Are you sore?”
She tilted her chin. “A little. I think, perhaps, I would be more so if not for the bubbles.”
Heat that owed nothing to sunshine shimmered in the air. “I would not mind a champagne breakfast.”
“And I would rather have my own clothes back,” she replied evenly. “I do not relish the idea of wearing your mistress’s castoffs.”
He stilled. “Those are your clothes, taalibba, designed by Madame Tusseau.”
Madame Tusseau was the premier modiste in London. She dressed the richest of the aristocrats . . . and courtesans.
“Indeed. How did she know my measurements?” she asked.
“I took her the dress you wore yesterday.”
“And she just happened to have ready-made clothing in my size,” she said flatly.
“Let us say that she appropriated clothing from several of her clients, one whose chest approximated yours and another whose hips did.”
“How is it that Madame Tusseau holds you in such high regard that she will open her establishment to you in the early hours of the morning?” Elizabeth inwardly cringed. She sounded exactly like what she was, a jealous, insecure woman who had long passed her prime but for this man wanted to regain it.
“My mother is her client,” Ramiel said quietly. “Also I have given her clients in the past. I have never brought another woman into my home, Elizabeth. Do not cheapen our relationship by comparing yourself to my past mistresses.”
“Others will.”
“Yes.”
She did not want to care what other people thought. But it was difficult. Especially when she did not understand why one man would want her while another would kill her.
“The lingerie is quite—clever. Did you pick it out?”
A smile displaced the hardness that had settled over his features. “Everything you have on I picked out. You are a beautiful, sensuous woman, Elizabeth; you deserve beautiful, sensuous clothes. Why don’t you sit down here beside me and show me your lingerie?”
Her breath quickened. No one had ever called her beautiful. Even knowing it for the lie that it was, he made her feel beautiful. “The servants—”
“Will not disturb us. I have instructed them that we will serve ourselves.” He held out his hand—long, tanned fingers that had penetrated her body and shown her a special place that she had never known existed. He had splayed those fingers inside her and licked her essence from between them. “Come to me, taalibba.”
She went to him . . . only to be seated while he remained standing.
“What would you have for breakfast? Eggs? Kidneys? Kippers? Toast? Ham? Mushrooms? Fruit?”
“A champagne breakfast, please,” she said primly.
A low chuckle filled the sunlit room. “First you must eat something.”
Elizabeth turned her head and stared at the jointure of his legs only inches away from her face. She had taken him into her mouth and suckled him. He had tasted—hot and salty.
She threw her head back and stared up at him. “I would like tongue, if you have it. And then I would like a fresh ripe plum.”
His eyes gleamed with appreciation. Bending, he took her chin between this thumb and forefinger. He gave her his tongue and she gladly took it, breath catching in her throat at the simple intimacy that was a man’s kiss. She had known him for less than two weeks, yet they were closer than she was with the man she had been married to for sixteen years. Delicately nibbling and licking and sucking as he had taught her, she took her time sampling the taste and texture of him—dark, rich coffee and slick heat. When he stood, the front of his gray wool trousers were tented.
“You will pay for that, taalibba.”
“How?” she asked breathlessly. “How will you make me pay?”
Her demand yesterday to know exactly how deeply he filled her echoed between them.
His eyes crinkled in silent laughter. “By not telling you what I specially plan to do to you. Pour us coffee while I serve Madame.”
Caught up in the play—she could not remember ever teasing or being teased by another adult—she reached for the silver coffeepot in the middle of the table. And stared dumbfounded at the newspaper Ramiel had discarded.
WIFE OF THE CHANCELLOR OF THE EXCHEQUER NEAR DEATH boldly marched across the front page.
She grabbed it, feverishly perused the story. A gas leak . . . one of hundreds . . . Parliament to look into ways of subsidizing electricity . . .
A plate filled with scrambled eggs, ham, and grilled mushrooms slid in front of her. A small bowl of strawberries drenched with cream was placed beside it.
“It was Edward,” she whispered. “Why did he contact the newspapers?”
“You are a highly visible woman.” The voice above her was curiously dispassionate. “Your absence would be noted. He needed a way to explain your disappearance.”
“And to counter a murder charge.”
“Yes.”
Even in this, Edward would garner public favor.
She grimly folded the newspaper. “I want to visit my sons. They are bound to hear someth
ing. They will be worried.”
“We will go together.”
“I do not think now is a good time for them to make your acquaintance.”
Ramiel sat down beside her and plucked the newspaper from between her hands. “You are ashamed of being seen with me.”
She flushed guiltily. “That is ridiculous.”
“Then you are ashamed of sleeping with the Bastard Sheikh.”
When his flesh was locked inside her flesh . . . no.
“I have to explain to Richard and Phillip that I have left their father, Ramiel. If you are with me, they will think that I have disgraced my family merely to be with you.”
“And of course we both know that is not the case.”
There was bitterness in Ramiel’s voice; his turquoise eyes were bleak.
Elizabeth remembered Rebecca’s statement that all men were selfish in general and that a man like Lord Safyre in particular would not allow sons—especially sons who were not his—to interfere with his pleasures.
“My sons must come first.”
“I have no desire for you to abandon your sons, Elizabeth. All I want is that the time you spend with me not be marred with shame or regret.”
Shame. Regret. She would use many words to describe what had transpired between them last night, but she would not use those.
“Three events will always stand out in my memory: the birth of Richard, the birth of Phillip, and what we shared yesterday. I have no regrets, nor do I feel shame. But now I must go to my sons and I hope you can understand that. Someday soon I hope you will meet them . . . and like them. But that day is not today.”
“And when will that day be, Elizabeth?”
How would her sons react to a man who was neither Eastern nor Western? How would they feel upon learning that she had thrown their future away on a bastard who had no claims to respectability or desire to acquire it?
“I do not know.”
“You wanted to bond with a bastard, taalibba. This is part of it. I accede, today. As long as you realize that I fully intend upon meeting them soon. I will not be kept apart from your life.”
A frisson of apprehension raced down her spine. It suddenly dawned on her that she knew very little about this man who was suddenly making demands on her life.
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