‘Tell me, then, what am I like, Cassie. As a man?’
Jamil had taken another step towards her. In fact, he was standing so close to her his knees were brushing her thigh. She could almost feel the anger pulsing from him, and something else burning there behind his tawny eyes that gave her goose bumps. ‘Jamil, stop this.’
‘Stop what, Cassie?’ He pulled her to her feet, holding her there, almost in his embrace, with his hands lightly on her waist. ‘Stop pretending that I don’t find you attractive? Stop pretending that I don’t think of you as I first saw you in the tent in the desert? Stop pretending that I don’t remember our kiss? Stop pretending that I don’t want to kiss you again? That every time I see you I see only an English governess? Why should I? Was it not you who told me I should acknowledge my feelings?’
‘I didn’t mean that. Please don’t do this.’
‘Why?’ He pulled her closer. She did not resist, nor did she comply. She dropped her gaze, closed her eyes. He didn’t want that. He gave her a tiny shake. ‘Look at me, Cassie. Tell me honestly that you don’t feel it, too. Tell me that you don’t think of these things. Tell me you don’t want me and I’ll let you be. Only, look at me when you say the words.’
For a long moment she did not move. Then, with a small sigh that could have been resignation, but might have been something quite different, she met his gaze, and all the secret thoughts, the shameful night-time dreams that she bundled up and held securely in the back of her mind during the day, tumbled forth as if the knot that held them had been untied. He knew. He saw it in her eyes. His gaze raked over her, her eyes, her mouth, her breasts, then her mouth again.
He was going to kiss her, unless she stopped him. He was going to kiss her and she couldn’t stop him. She wanted him to kiss her again, she had been wanting him to ever since that last unsatisfactory, cut-short kiss, though God knew she had tried not to.
‘Cassie.’ He pulled her close, his hands tight around her waist, pressing her hard against him. ‘Cassie, let us have no more of this pretence.’
She closed her eyes in an effort to try to regain some sort of hold on reality, but it was already too late. Too late for calm, rational thinking. Too late to release herself from his hold. Too late to think about how wrong, how utterly wrong, this would be. It couldn’t be wrong, not when it felt like this. Not when she had been wanting this, just this, for weeks now. There was no point in pretending any more that the pleasure she took in his company was for Linah’s sake. No point in pretending that the urgent ache consuming her, the thing that held her fast to him, made her lips long to cling to his, was anything other than base desire. He wanted her. Her wilful heart wanted him. ‘Yes,’ she whispered, not really knowing what she was agreeing to, save only that she was agreeing. ‘Yes.’
Jamil hesitated. Lovely, delicious, irresistible as she was, honour and duty dictated resisting. But for once, for just this moment, Jamil had had a surfeit of honour and duty. He wanted the pleasure she could give him and he wanted the oblivion such pleasure would grant him. To be, just for a while, merely a man, not to have to think, lost in the sweet delight of a woman. This woman. He tilted her chin up with his finger. Angled his mouth towards hers. And kissed her.
He kissed her softly, lingering on the soft pillow of her luscious lips, tasting her. She was so sweet. So heady. Like peaches and English strawberries, laced with fire. His kiss deepened. His manhood hardened. Pliant in his embrace, she was soft, lush and ripe for the taking. He kissed her harder.
Cassie moaned softly under the onslaught. Kisses such as she could never have imagined, dark delights such as she could never have dreamed, consumed her. Her body was on fire. His kiss demanded things from her she didn’t know how to give, though she wanted to. She wanted to so much. His lips moulded hers into a response she hadn’t known she could make. She opened her mouth and his tongue slid in, touching hers, sparking like a shooting star, sending echoing shivers out to the extremities of her body. Her fingers curled into his robe, her toes into the cushions on which she stood. Now she knelt as he eased her down, now she lay as he eased her further, still kissing, kissing, kissing, dark and hot and velvety.
Little kisses on her eyes now, then her throat and her neck. Her hands fluttered over the breadth of his shoulders, feeling the heat of his skin through his tunic. Daringly, she pushed his head dress back, touching his hair, then his cheeks, with their faint traces of stubble.
His lips fastened on hers again and Cassie closed her eyes. His hands traced the line of her waist through the silk of her gown, making her shiver with expectation. She could feel his legs pressing against hers now. She could feel something building inside her, a knot of something that wanted to unravel. His tongue touched hers again, and she bucked under him. He pressed her back against the cushions, stroking her, her waist, the side of her breast, making her jump again, making her nipples ache in the confines of her chemise, her stays, her dress. Her clothes felt too tight, she felt too hot. His tongue touched hers again. Should she like it so much?
She didn’t care, she did like it. His hand moulded her breast now, and she liked that, too, though her nipples strained, hard, tingling, exciting. Should she feel that? Like that? And that?
She didn’t know. All she desired was that he do it again. Fingers brushing her breasts, lingering on the place where her nipples pressed into the fabric. More sparks. More yet as he stroked down, over her belly, her thighs, cupping the roundness of her, as if to show her how different she was, for at the same time her own fingers were boldly exploring his back, his arms, the dip of his stomach, wondering at the sheer delight of male heat and male muscle and male otherness. He was so different. So very, delightfully, different. She felt as if she was melting.
Jamil kissed the mounds of her breasts, but the lace of her dress got in the way. The fastenings were at the back. Complicated fastenings. Too complicated for now. Need, raw need was taking a hold on him. He kissed her with a new urgency. He was hard, more than ready. Still kissing, he found the hem of her dress and pushed it roughly out of the way. Toe. Ankle. Calf. Knee. The skin so soft, the shape so curvaceous. She was panting under him, her hands clutching at his robe, seeking skin. Above her knee was some sort of undergarment. He hadn’t expected that. Her thigh beneath the cotton was smooth and creamy. His hand roamed higher, to the apex, and found to his surprise the undergarment was split. Curls. Damp and warm and inviting.
Through the delicious haze of her growing excitement, the words leapt unbidden into Cassie’s head, delivered in that familiar clipped, censorious tone. Remember, child, once a female has abandoned her corsets, there is no saying what else she will abandon. Aunt Sophia’s parting words to her. The effect was instantaneous; the fire of Cassie’s passion was extinguished as effectively as if she had been doused in cold water. ‘No! Stop!’
Jamil froze.
Cassie began to wriggle free of his intimate embrace. He released her immediately. She pulled her dress down over her legs and sat up, her breath coming fast and shallow. ‘I’m sorry—I…’
Jamil got to his feet, tugging his tunic back into place. Sitting before him on the cushions, her hair falling down in long golden tresses over her breast, Cassie looked a picture of abandon. He had never wanted anyone so much in his life, never felt such frustration.
‘Jamil, I didn’t mean to—I’m sorry.’
But he was in no mood to listen. He was in no mood, either, to question his own motives. ‘There is no need to apologise,’ he said, gathering up his cloak, his head dress, his emerald pin. ‘You have my gratitude, you have spared us an experience we would both ultimately regret,’ he said tersely, as he strode off.
The doors closed behind him with a snap. Cassie made no attempt to stand up. Her knees wouldn’t hold her. She was appalled. Not at Jamil, but at herself. The liberties she had granted him. The liberties she still wanted to grant him. The wanton way he made her feel, as if to abandon all restraint was her heart’s desire. She was mortified. She
sank slowly back down on to the floor and covered her head with her hands.
‘Ah, Henry, my dear fellow, how the devil are you?’ Lord Torquil Fitzgerald strode over to where his old friend was seated alone in the library of Boodle’s, enjoying an after-dinner snifter of brandy. ‘Haven’t seen you for an age.’
‘I’ve been in Lisbon for the last three weeks, at Castlereagh’s behest. He has some notion of possible unrest in Portugal.’
‘More radicals!’ Lord Torquil exclaimed, his eyebrows shooting up alarmingly, making him look like a startled rabbit, and betraying the accuracy of his old Harrovian nickname.
Lord Armstrong had know Bunny Fitzgerald since their schooldays. He shrugged. ‘Liverpool is reading conspiracy into everything, since Cato Street. I don’t think it will come to anything. Managed to pick up a barrel or two of port while I was out there though, so it wasn’t exactly a wasted journey.’
‘Heard congratulations are in order, by the way. A son after all this time. You must be mightily relieved.’
‘James. A fine boy.’ Lord Henry smiled proudly.
‘A toast to the whippersnapper, then,’ Lord Torquil said, helping himself to another snifter. ‘Be nice to have another man around the house, I’ll wager. Quite overrun with all those daughters of yours till now. Which reminds me,’ he said, thumping his forehead with his glass, ‘bumped into Archie Hughes the other day, he was telling me that the fair Cassandra is rusticating.’
Lord Henry’s genial expression faded. ‘Cassandra is visiting her sister in Arabia. I would hardly call it rusticating.’
‘A bad business, that entanglement with the poet. You must have been sick as a dog. Little beauty like that, she’d have gone off well.’
‘Cassandra will still go off well enough,’ Lord Henry said determinedly. ‘When she returns, she will be betrothed to Francis Colchester. It is not quite the brilliant match I had intended, but it will do well enough.’
‘Colchester? That the boy who was one of Wellington’s protégés? A younger son, I think, but a sound choice. He’s predicted to go far. Provided, of course, you can tear her away from that sheikh of hers,’ Lord Torquil said with a throaty chuckle.
‘Your brain’s befuddled as usual, Bunny. Prince Ramiz of A’Qadiz is married to my eldest daughter, Celia. Had you forgotten?’
‘’Course not. Rich as Croesus, has that port in the Red Sea you did the deal on. No, I’m not talking about him. It’s another one. Hang on a minute, it’ll come to me. Jack—no—Jeremy—no—Jamil! That’s it. Sheikh Jamil al-Nazarri. Principality next to A’Qadiz, I believe.’
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ Lord Henry exclaimed. ‘What has this to do with Cassandra?’
‘Well, I heard it from Archie, who was just back from a stint in Cairo, and he got it from old Wincie himself—though how he knew I’m not sure. But anyway, upshot is that the fair Cassandra is apparently cooped up in this sheikh’s harem.’
‘What!’
‘For God’s sake, Henry, keep your wig on, only passing on what I heard. Sorry to have dropped the cat among the pigeons, thought you knew. I’m sure it’s all very innocent, though it doesn’t look too good, does it?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Well. Cassandra’s a lovely girl. Stuck alone out in the desert with a man who owns all he surveys. Droit de seigneur,’ Lord Torquil whispered, tapping his nose.
Lord Henry drained his glass of brandy and got to his feet. ‘If you value our friendship, sir, you will keep this news to yourself. My daughter is visiting her sister Celia. When she returns, she will be married to Francis Colchester. Do you understand?’
‘No need to—that is, of course,’ Lord Torquil blustered.
‘Then I will bid you goodnight.’ Accepting his hat and cane from the major-domo, Lord Henry demanded a hack and instructed the driver to take him to Grosvenor Square. It was late, but that was of no matter. His sister, Lady Sophia, was forever informing him of her inability to sleep. If anyone knew what was what, and what was to be done, it would be Sophia. Strangely, it did not for an instant occur to Lord Henry to consult Bella, his wife.
Cassie endured a restless night after Jamil stormed off, her mind circling endlessly between anger, mortification and regret as she tossed and turned endlessly on her sleeping divan. She was furious with herself for having succumbed to her own base desires, for had she not promised herself over and over again that she would not. And now she had made a complete fool of herself.
At this point mortification took the upper hand. She had more or less thrown herself at Jamil! Celia would be horrified. Aunt Sophia would—no, she could not begin to contemplate what Aunt Sophia would think—accuse her of casting off her morals with her stays, for a start. Not that she had cast off her stays, or anything else for that matter. In fact, apart from her stockings and slippers, which she had discarded earlier, she had remained fully dressed. Yet she might as well have been naked.
Oh God! Cassie’s face burned at the recollection of Jamil’s touch, her own uninhibited response. She was shocked, not by what she had done, but by how much she had enjoyed it, relished it. More, even, than she had imagined in those feverish dreams that had haunted her since first she had met Jamil. Dark, erotic dreams where his hand did more than rest, as it had earlier, so tantalisingly briefly on that most intimate part of her. Dreams where he kissed her more intimately, too, touched her more intimately, where his lips, his tongue, roused her to a shameless yearning for more. Dreams that made her nipples ache, which brought to life a throbbing pulse deep inside her. Dreams in which she and Jamil were naked, their bodies shockingly entwined. Dreams where Jamil—where she and Jamil…
She was a complete wanton!
She must be. Jamil obviously thought so. By kissing him in such a way she had quite obviously led him to expect—to expect more. Whatever more was. And she, she had been too caught up in the sating of her own passions to think about the fact that her behaviour could—should—be taken for encouragement.
That very first time they had met, all those weeks ago in the tent, Jamil had taken her for a woman who belonged not in the schoolroom but the harem. She had seen it for herself, in her reflection in the mirror, but had stubbornly chosen to believe that the real Cassie was Linah’s responsible governess. She had been deluding herself.
She had not been fooling Jamil, though. He had known the truth all along. Cassie threw off the thin silk sheet that was her only cover and, wearing only her nightgown, padded out to the courtyard again. The sun and moon fountains tinkled at each other. A moonbeam shafted down, bathing Scheherazade’s tiled image in ghostly light. The air was completely still.
The same illicit thoughts that had been keeping her awake at night had clearly been occupying Jamil’s mind, too. Despite everything, Cassie found the idea exciting. The strength of his passion was so powerful, so all-consuming. He was not some weak, foppish excuse of a poet like Augustus, who expressed his emotions in sentimental doggerel, but a man of the desert, whose desires were as raw and fiery and elemental as the landscape he inhabited.
Regret came now. She would never be desired in such a way again, for she would never again meet someone like Jamil. She wished she had not stopped him. She almost wished he had ignored her protestations. But of course he had stopped, the moment she asked him to. He, who was master of all he surveyed, would not stoop to take by force. He, who could so easily have overcome her resistance, had chosen not to. The latent power in that lithe body of his was kept firmly leashed.
Cassie shivered. What would it feel like were he to unleash it? Dear heavens, what would it be like to be the subject of such an onslaught, helpless to do only as he commanded? She shivered again, and felt the knot of excitement that had not quite unravelled tense again in her belly, felt the tinge of heat between her legs return. Was this what Celia saw in Ramiz? Did submission bring with it the sleepy, sated look she had observed on her sister’s unguarded countenance? No wonder Celia preferred her dese
rt prince to any Englishman. If Jamil had not left the courtyard, if she had not asked him to stop, would she, too, be feeling that way?
Oh, God! There was no point in such thoughts. The chances were that in the morning Jamil would send her ignominiously packing. Though really, looking back, she remembered that he had been the one to initiate things. Such a strange mood as he had been in. Momentarily distracted, Cassie frowned. He had almost been intent on picking a fight with her.
Cassie recalled her sister’s warning not to become either too involved or too attached and wished she had paid heed to it. As ever, Celia had been right. Why could she not be more like Celia?
Exhaustion hit her like a cold flannel. She stumbled back to her divan and pulled the sheet up. Almost instantly, she fell into a troubled sleep, haunted by dreams in which she was pursued relentlessly by ravening wild animals, desperate to consume her.
Jamil had stormed back to his private rooms, angrily casting the wretched state cloak and head dress on to the floor of his dressing room. He paced the perimeter of the courtyard around which his apartments were built. It was twice the size of any other in the palace, with four fountains and an ornate pagoda-like structure in the centre built around a fifth, much larger fountain, on top of which perched, rather incongruously, a statue of the royal panther.
Prowling dangerously in a manner very like that of the big cat, first in one direction and then in the other, Jamil swore colourfully in his native language and then, when this proved insufficient, resorted to summoning up curses in the other six languages in which he was fluent. It didn’t help. His heart still pounded too fast. His fingers still curled tight into fists. His shoulders ached with tension. He flung himself down on the curved bench in the middle of the pagoda and made a conscious effort to still the emotions raging inside him.
Anger was a weapon, one which Jamil had been taught to harness. He was not a man given to losing his temper easily, yet of late it was becoming much more of an effort to control it. Everything frustrated him or irked him or felt like too much effort. His life, which had been tolerable until Cassie came along, now seemed burdened with more cares than he wished to carry.
The Governess and the Sheikh Page 11