The Governess and the Sheikh

by Marguerite Kaye

  Three hot dusty days later, he arrived at Balyrma to be greeted with some surprise by Prince Ramiz and his wife, Lady Celia, formerly Armstrong, now Princess al-Muhanna.

  ‘Mr Finchley-Burke,’ Celia said, handing him a glass of iced tea, ‘what an unexpected pleasure, I hope you are well.’

  Although he was used to the Eastern habit of sitting on the floor, it was not a position in which Peregrine was ever comfortable. The not-insubstantial bulk of his stomach made it difficult for him to do anything more dignified than loll, and he was—correctly, as it happened—rather horribly afraid that he looked more like a grounded walrus than a man of fashion. ‘Oh, tolerably well, thank you,’ he said, wriggling his ample buttocks on to a large—but not quite large enough—satin cushion. ‘Can’t complain, you know.’

  ‘And you are enjoying your new career at the Consulate?’ Lady Celia continued politely, trying not to catch her husband’s eye.

  ‘Absolutely,’ Peregrine said, smiling bravely.

  ‘I’m sure you must have made yourself quite indispensible to Lord Wincester by now.’

  Peregrine blushed. Despite having over a year of sound British diplomatic training under his belt, lying did not come naturally to him. ‘Well, as to that—well.’ He took a sip of tea.

  ‘You are too modest,’ Celia said with a smile. ‘Why else would Lord Wincester send you here to us on what I am sure must be most important business?’

  ‘Yes, just what exactly is this mission of yours?’ Ramiz asked pointedly. ‘I was not informed of your impending visit.’

  ‘Ah.’ Peregrine took another sip of tea. ‘Thing is, not actually an affair of state. At least, not strictly…’

  Intrigued, Celia set down her own glass and cast her husband an enquiring look. ‘You have come here, perhaps, on business of your own?’

  ‘No, no. Lord, no. Don’t get me wrong,’ Peregrine said, flustered, ‘I mean lovely to be here and all, lovely to see you both again, but—no. Fact is,’ he blurted out, diplomacy forgotten, ‘it’s about your sister.’

  ‘My sister!’ Celia paled, and sought her husband’s hand. ‘Which one? Has there been an illness at home? Why has not my aunt, or my father—? Peregrine, please tell me you are not here to inform me that there has been a tragedy.’

  ‘No, no. Nothing like that. Not involving one of those sisters any road. I’m talking about the one here in Arabia. Lady Cassandra.’

  ‘Cassie! What has happened to Cassie?’

  ‘I beg you to be calm, Lady Celia. Didn’t mean to alarm you.’

  ‘Then you will tell us, if you please, exactly what it is you have come here to discuss, and you will tell us quickly without further prevarication,’ Ramiz said in clipped tones, all amusement gone as he pulled his wife protectively towards him. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said to Celia, ‘if Cassandra had come to any harm, we would have heard it direct from Prince Jamil before now. I am sure of it.’

  ‘Of course. Of course,’ Celia said. ‘Silly of me.’ She turned her attention once more to Peregrine. ‘Please explain, Mr Finchley-Burke, you have my full attention.’

  But when Peregrine finished his halting and somewhat expurgated explanation, Celia was more confused than enlightened. ‘But I don’t understand—why is my father is so keen to have Cassie return to England forthwith?’ she asked.

  Peregrine shrugged embarrassedly. ‘Mine is not to reason why. I suspect he is concerned for her—ahem—safety.’

  ‘But that doesn’t make any sense. I wrote to Papa when Cassie left for Daar to inform him that she was taking up the role of governess there with my full approval, but he must have sent his communiqué to Cairo before that. How, then, did he know of Cassie’s presence there? And more to the point, what precisely does he think she is doing there?’

  ‘Ah,’ Peregrine said, shuffling uncomfortably on his cushions.

  ‘Ah?’

  ‘Suspect he thinks it’s a little less above board than—you know how these rumours fly at the Foreign Office, Lady Celia.’

  ‘I do indeed, Mr Finchley-Burke,’ Celia replied acerbically. ‘Let me assure you, my sister and I have been in regular correspondence since she went to Daar, and she is not only perfectly happy there, she is very well thought of, and is making an excellent fist of her role as governess. Prince Jamil is her employer, nothing more.’

  ‘I’m sure, I’m sure. But regardless of that, I’m still under strict instructions to facilitate her immediate return to England,’ Peregrine said despondently, ‘whether the young lady wishes it or not. It is not a task I relish, I can tell you, but there you have it, needs must. I will rest here tonight, with your permission, then set off for Daar tomorrow.’

  Celia turned to her husband. ‘Perhaps it is for the best if I accompany him, dearest? I am overdue a visit to see Cassie, and Bashirah is weaned now. I’m sure there is nothing at all wrong, but I would rather see that for myself, just to make sure.’

  Ramiz nodded. ‘It would make sense.’

  ‘Then it is settled. I will accompany you to Daar, Mr Finchley-Burke, if you have no objection.’

  ‘Objection? My dear Lady Celia,’ Peregrine said with enormous relief, ‘that is a most capital idea, a most capital idea indeed. Your assistance in this matter would be most gratefully received.’

  Clearly buoyed, Peregrine left for ‘a bit of a wash and a brush up’ as he put it, and Celia turned to her husband. ‘I just need to make sure this ridiculous man doesn’t upset Cassie unduly, that’s all. She is still recuperating emotionally from this Augustus business. I don’t want a combination of Papa and Mr Finchley-Burke setting her back. I’ll only be gone a few days.’

  ‘One day is too many,’ he replied, kissing her deeply. ‘I will have the caravan readied for the morning. Hurry back, my beloved.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I won’t be away from you a day more than I have to,’ Celia replied, melting into his arms. ‘Anyway, I am already looking forward to you welcoming my return.’

  Upon his return to the palace later that same morning, Jamil wasted no time in summoning Halim and informing him briskly of his decision to terminate his betrothal to the Princess Adira. ‘I want you to work out suitable terms,’ he said, glancing through the stack of papers that Halim had left for him to sign. ‘Be generous, I don’t want her father to bear us any ill will.’

  ‘Not bear us any—but, Highness,’ Halim exclaimed, aghast, ‘you cannot have considered the consequences of such a rash course of action.’

  ‘Of course I have,’ Jamil replied impatiently. ‘It will be a tricky challenge, but one I am sure you are more than capable of meeting. I have every faith that you will be able to redraw the marriage agreement in the form of an alliance treaty, and…’

  Under any other circumstances, Halim would have blossomed under the rays of such warm praise, but these were not any other circumstances. Never before, to his knowledge, had a betrothal been broken without a war resulting. ‘Prince Jamil, I beg you to reconsider…’

  ‘I have considered. I’m sick of considering. I have never, as you perfectly well know, wanted to marry Princess Adira, and I have decided now that I shall not do so. Come, my friend, you underestimate your powers of negotiation.’

  Jamil smiled, one of his rare smiles, but Halim was too distraught to respond, rocking back and forwards on the balls of his feet. ‘Yes, yes, I am flattered you have such faith in me—but no amount of negotiating on my part can produce an heir for Daar-el-Abbah, Highness.’

  ‘An heir. Yes, I know how much you are worried about my heir, but there’s no need to.’

  Halim stilled. ‘You have another bride in mind?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Another from the Council list?’ It was said hopefully, but Halim was experiencing a rather horrible sensation. He felt as if his stomach was creeping slowly towards his knees.

  ‘No. It is Lady Cassandra.’

  Halim crumpled to the floor and began to beat his breast. ‘No, Jamil—Prince Jamil, I beg of you.’r />
  ‘Get up. For the sake of the gods, Halim, get up and stop sobbing like a woman. I know you don’t approve of Cassie, but—’

  ‘Don’t approve! She has no royal blood, she brings with her no lands. She is not even one of us.’

  Jamil had taken Halim’s understanding for granted, just as he had taken for granted his support. Now he realised that his man of business was in his own way just as blinkered as the Council. So, mustering his patience, he explained at some length just why it was that his marriage to Lady Cassandra would be even more advantageous for Daar-el-Abbah than his marriage to Princess Adira or any other of the Arabian princesses on the Council’s list.

  Halim remained deeply skeptical, but neither his rational counter-arguments, nor his pointing out that tradition decreed the prince’s marriage to be subject always and completely to the Council’s approval, made any difference. The prince merely reiterated his own point of view again with renewed force. Nothing he said would persuade him to change his mind. Prince Jamil, Halim realised with sudden clarity, though he did not know it, had completely fallen under the spell of a pair of blue eyes. This was not about breaking tradition or advantageous alliances, this was about a young English governess. Halim sighed. He did not like to see his prince brought low by a mere woman like this, but the only course of action open to him now was damage limitation. ‘If you were to visit the Princess Adira’s family yourself, Highness, inform them in person of the change in your plans, it would be less of an insult,’ he suggested tentatively.

  ‘There is no insult to the Princess Adira. You yourself told me that I was one of five men being considered for her. She did not choose me, any more than I chose her.’ Jamil ran his fingers through his hair, dislodging his head dress. Why was nothing simple in his life?

  ‘You would not wish Daar-el-Abbah to go to war over a mere woman,’ Halim said, playing his last card.

  Jamil gave a growl of exasperation. ‘Summon the Council now. I want this over, and I want it over now. But be assured, I will not permit Princess Adira to be the cause of us going to war.’

  ‘She is not the woman I was referring to,’ Halim muttered to himself as he bowed and slowly backed out of the room.

  Cassie endured a horrid night. No matter that she returned to the schoolroom apartment determined to leave just as soon as arrangements could be made, no matter that her head told her quite unequivocally that to do so was the one and only sensible course open to her, her heart refused to listen.

  The idea of being married to Jamil, of being his wife, of sharing his bed, if not his heart—oh, it was so very tempting. She loved him. Of course she wanted to marry him. To bear his children. To share his life.

  But he did not love her. Perhaps if she loved him enough, then surely he would come to love her, too? But it did not work that way, even the poets agreed on that topic. He would not come to love her and when his passion for her faded—what then?

  No, love for her had to be not just unequivocal, but utterly reciprocal. And love was an integral part of marriage. So in the end, it was simple. She could not marry Jamil, no matter how tempting the compensations. And since she loved him and only him, it meant she would never marry anyone and was doomed to remain childless.

  A spinster.

  A virgin.

  She would never experience true love-making with him. And could not, with anyone else.

  When dawn broke, Cassie rose wearily from her divan, dressed in one of her English muslin gowns, and dejectedly began to pack. If she could be ready to leave as soon as arrangements were made, it would all be for the best. A clean break from Linah. From Jamil. From her heart. It was for the best.

  But the day passed, with Linah subdued, sensing something was wrong and obviously afraid to ask, and still no word came from Jamil or any of his officials. The Council were in session, one of Linah’s handmaidens informed her, and Cassie assumed that state business had taken precedence—as it always would. Nevertheless, she resented being ignored. Obviously she was being taught a lesson as to her irrelevance in the grand scheme of things. So it was, when the summons came for her to join his Highness in his private courtyard, Cassie was inclined to reject it.

  But of course she did not. Instead, she donned one of her most elegant of evening gowns, a cream crepe slip worn under an overdress of gold spider-gauze. It had a low décolleté, too low for her to have worn it in public here in Arabia for it showed rather a generous amount of Cassie’s creamy bosom, but if this was the last time she was going to see Jamil she wanted to look her best. Between the tiny puff sleeves and the long, elegant cream kid gloves was just a hint of dimpled flesh. She wore her locks up, braided into an elaborate coronet on top of her head, and affixed her diamond earrings, a coming-of-age gift from Aunt Sophia, to her ears. Her neck she left unadorned. Cream silk stockings with gold clocks, which she’d never before worn, cream kid slippers and a matching shawl of gold spider-gauze, completed the ensemble. A quick glance in the mirrored tiles of her bathing chamber satisfied her. Despite the sleepless night, she looked passable.

  The servant attending her hurried her along the corridors. She was late. Belatedly, Cassie realised that while she considered the time well spent, there was a chance Jamil might not agree with her. Still, at least he intended to communicate the arrangements for her departure in person, rather than have some lackey do it. That, at least, was something.

  Heart pounding, head held high, determinedly ignoring the fluttering in her stomach and the trembling in her knees and the flush that she just knew stained her cheeks, Cassie stepped into Jamil’s private courtyard. He was standing by the fountain, dressed in a plain caftan in emerald silk. His feet were bare, his head uncovered, an endearing lick of auburn hair standing up over his brow. Without his robes of state, he was not the Corsair, but simply the most handsome man she had ever seen. Or would ever see.

  Cassie could not help it, her eyes positively ravished him, the fierce little frown between his brows, the sharp cheekbones, the almost-tilt of his lips, the burnish of his autumn eyes. He was watching her impassively, but she could feel the hunger in his gaze. Her nipples tightened in response. She thanked heaven that she had her corsets and her chemise and her underdress on to disguise this blatant physical response. He must not see. She must not falter.

  But already she was faltering. Imagining the touch of his fingers on her skin. Her own on his. The soft folds of his caftan showed off his perfect physique. She wondered if he wore anything beneath it. She wished she hadn’t wondered. Then she couldn’t help but wonder. Then she remembered how angry he had been yesterday, and though there was no trace of it now, she would do well to be cautious. ‘Your Highness,’ she said stiffly.

  ‘Jamil.’

  ‘You wanted to see me?’ Her voice sounded all wrong. She compensated for its breathiness by glaring.

  Jamil spread his hands. He smiled at her, partly to reassure her, for she looked like she was walking on broken glass, and partly because he was simply glad to see her. More than glad. ‘You are looking quite ravishing tonight, Cassie,’ he said, taking her hand and pressing a kiss on her palm. ‘Do you know, you are quite the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known? And the most desirable.’

  Why was he speaking to her like this? He never spoke to her like this! Why was he making it so difficult for her? ‘Please don’t say such things.’

  Jamil caught her in his arms. ‘Why not, when they are true?’

  ‘Because I—because we—just because. Let me go, Jamil.’ But her body was already yielding, melting into the hard planes of his.

  He pulled her closer, effortlessly stilling her attempt to free herself, and tilted her chin up. ‘I don’t intend to let you go, Cassie.’

  His voice was husky. His eyes glowed fiercely as they rested on her face, on her heaving breast. Her heart was pounding, slow and heavy, thump, thump, thump. She was afraid to ask what he meant. Afraid she would be wrong. Men like Jamil did not change overnight. But she so much wanted to be
right. Oh God, she was weak. ‘Jamil…’

  ‘Cassie, about yesterday. When I asked you to marry me, I did not make the nature of my feelings clear.’

  She felt faint. Were it not for his embrace she would surely slip to the floor. ‘Feelings?’

  Jamil smiled wryly. ‘Don’t look so surprised. You were right, I do have some.’

  Hope began to tap its way out of the shell in which she had encased it, like the frantic pecking of a baby bird. ‘What—what feelings?’

  ‘I have never desired anyone more than you.’ He would not make her pretty speeches, but he could speak the truth of what he felt; she had taught him the value of that. Though he had never before made any such admission, curiously it felt liberating rather than destructive. The truth of how he felt. Surely not something she could resist? ‘I have cancelled my betrothal to the Princess Adira. I cannot marry her. I cannot marry anyone but you.’

  The egg shell cracked. The fledgling that was hope peeped through.

  ‘Yesterday,’ Jamil continued, ‘I spoke of practical reasons, advantages. Those remain valid, but they are not the most important thing. The most important thing is what we have together, the special emotion we feel for each other.’

  Cassie waited, scarce able to breathe.

  ‘Passion,’ Jamil said firmly.

  The fledgling paused in the act of spreading its wings. ‘Passion?’ Cassie repeated.

  ‘What you call love, Cassie, does not exist, save on the pages of a book or in a poem. Pretty words and sentimental nonsense, they mean nothing. Hearts do not speak, but bodies do,’ Jamil said, too caught up in the unexpected relief of finally speaking his mind aloud to notice that he was making what, to all intents and purposes, was a pretty speech. ‘What we feel for each other is real. More than most can aspire to. More than I have ever experienced, or ever hoped to have. We can share that, surely that is enough?’