“Did you pump and squeeze his manhood?”
“Hello, Mr. Bidley, Mrs. Bidley.”
The middle-aged couple, no less conservative than the elderly couple who smelled of mothballs, did not hear Elizabeth over the music. Elizabeth wished she could share their deafness.
Moist heat feathered the top of her head. “Did you take his manhood into your mouth?”
As if by their own will, her feet came to an abrupt halt. She closed her eyes against the images and sensations that his words conjured: a man’s tongue inside her mouth, the Bastard Sheikh’s member, plum-shaped head crying for a kiss.
She had not known that a man grew moist with arousal—just like a woman. Edward had not.
“How do you know that my husband rejected me, Lord Safyre?”
“Your note, Elizabeth.”
Edward pronounced her name with distant courtesy.
Rebecca pronounced her name with cold authority.
The Bastard Sheikh pronounced her name as if they had shared physical as well as verbal intimacies.
“I did not give you leave to address me by my given name.” Tears pricked the back of her eyelids. “I did not ask to be treated with disrespect.”
“I have never treated you with disrespect.”
She blinked back the tears and met his turquoise gaze. “What do you call it, Lord Safyre, when you hunt me down to question me about my sexual activities with my husband?”
His hard, relentless gaze did not waver. “Just answer my question.”
“No, I did not kiss my husband. I did not pump and squeeze his manhood. I did not take his tongue or anything else into my mouth. He does not want me, so you should be satisfied. My humiliation is complete. Isn’t that what you wanted, to humiliate me for blackmailing my way into your home? Well, you have succeeded. I wish you happy, sir.”
Pain. For a second it was mirrored in his eyes.
She did not stand around to see if it was an illusion. Her own pain was real enough for the both of them.
The Bastard Sheikh did not follow her this time.
Men and women were milling around the buffet tables, talking over iced shrimp, laughing over caviar, content with rich food and sexless morality. Elizabeth smiled, greeted, talked, but could not remember one single thing that was said.
Her mother conferred with the caterer—they stood together, Rebecca regal in royal blue velvet, the harried caterer in serviceable brown silk. When Rebecca caught sight of Elizabeth, she waved her over. Elizabeth turned and blindly smiled at the person nearest her.
Her smile froze.
“Dance with me.”
Refusal sprang to her lips.
He was a bastard. An exotic, dark-skinned, golden-haired peacock surrounded by that most unforgiving breed, the middle class. Their association might be overlooked among the ton. It would not at a charity ball.
She could feel icy green eyes watching her, judging her, and did not have to turn around to identify the watcher as her mother.
The Bastard Sheikh’s turquoise gaze was guarded; he expected her to reject him. To judge and condemn him like Lord Inchcape had done. Like Rebecca Walters would do.
Would you dance with me again?
“I would be honored, Lord Safyre.”
Blue flame flickered in the turquoise eyes. He, too, remembered the lessons, the shared confessions. Silently, he led her onto the dance floor. Just as silently she reached up, up, up and laid her left hand on his shoulder.
The heat of his gloved hand burned through her own glove. He held her far closer than the regulated eighteen inches, and it felt good.
Warm breath gusted in her ear. That felt good too. Hot, intimate, all the things she would never experience.
I will not put myself through the trouble of bedding you again just so that you can lie with a man.
Oh, God. How could she live another sixteen years with Edward?
“No matter what happens, I want you to promise me something.”
A man’s and a woman’s stiff elbows gouged into Elizabeth’s shoulder. The Bastard Sheikh expertly twirled her aside.
“You are creaking, Mrs. Petre.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Your corset. How can you breathe with it laced that tightly?”
Her lips tightened. Emma, under Elizabeth’s instructions, had laced her corset tighter than usual. To contain her udder breasts and flabby hips.
“How can you dance so well if you do not attend balls?”
A low laugh rumbled in his chest. “There are balls, taalibba, and there are balls.”
“Where women dance bare-breasted?” she asked bitingly.
“Some of them,” he murmured lazily.
He sounded as if the idea of her dancing with her naked breasts brushing his jacket appealed to him.
Impossible. Edward had made it clear that a full-breasted woman did not appeal to a man.
“What do you want me to promise?” she asked curtly.
“I want you to promise me you will never forget that you have a right to sexual gratification.”
Elizabeth stiffened. “This is not Arabia, Lord Safyre.”
“I want you to promise me that you will never forget that a man trembles in his passion . . . just as a woman trembles in her passion.”
She tried to force their bodies into the regulated eighteen-inch dance position that decency demanded but that the crowd of people prohibited.
“I want you to promise me that you will come to me when the pain of being alone becomes too great.”
She quit struggling against him. “I will not commit adultery, Lord Safyre.”
“Marriage is more than words spoken in a church. You cannot commit adultery if you are not truly wed.”
“I have two children.”
“Your two sons will shortly be men. Whom will you have then, taalibba?”
Pain twisted inside her chest. “Whom do you have, Lord Safyre?” she sharply countered.
“No one. That is why I know that sometime soon the pain will become too great for you to bear alone.”
It already was. “You bear it alone well enough.”
“I bear it because I have to.”
“And now I have to.”
“No, you do not.
“So you expect me to come to you like a bitch in heat?”
Elizabeth had not thought she could shock herself anymore. She continually proved herself wrong.
“I did not call you a bitch.”
She stared at the gold studs in his shirt. “You said I was in heat.”
“Sexual heat.”
She threw her head back and defiantly stared at him. “Is there a difference?”
His turquoise eyes were flat. “There is a difference.”
“What? What is the difference?”
He pulled her closer, silk on silk, breasts to chest . . . and that felt good too. Proof of her wanton nature.
“A bitch takes without giving.”
His voice was harsh. All she could see of his face was the sharp outline of his chin, the angular curve of his cheeks, and the slight hook of his nose.
She remembered the bleakness in his eyes that Monday morning when she had asked him to teach her how to give a man pleasure . . . and the clinging aroma of a woman’s perfume.
“I take it you are familiar with that type of woman.”
“I am familiar with that type of woman,” he agreed flatly.
“But a man and a woman . . . there can be a bonding between them. Can’t there?”
She waited, hardly breathing, wanting him to tell her she knew not what, no, yes, there was nothing more to be had in a marriage but there must be. Otherwise she could not bear it.
“I believe so.”
“You do not know?”
“I know now. Yes, taalibba, a man and a woman can bond, two bodies becoming one.”
“You know who his mistress is, don’t you.”
It was not a question.
Sudden
ly, her body was separate from his and they were once again just a man and a woman waltzing together. Elizabeth did not want to see the knowledge that would be there in his face. She squeezed her eyes shut.
The mistress must be very beautiful indeed for the Bastard Sheikh to be so certain that her husband would not bother bedding his wife. A beautiful, beautiful bitch.
He twirled Elizabeth around, a rush of overheated air and billowing silk. Her eyes snapped open.
“Siba, Elizabeth.”
He knew . . . and he would not tell her.
She could not keep the bitterness out of her voice. “I see no honor in withholding information that might save a marriage.”
“Some things are believed only when they are seen,” he responded cryptically, swirling her around and around until she was dizzy. “When you are ready for the truth, you will see for yourself who your husband’s lover is.”
The music died with a crash of piano chords. The gas chandelier and Ramiel’s dark face continued to spin. She clutched at him for support.
His lips twisted in a smile that did not reach his eyes. “I will be waiting, taalibba.”
Gently, he disengaged her clutching fingers and stepped back. The throng of dancers swallowed him up.
What did he mean, he would be waiting? Her note had been quite explicit: There would be no more lessons. She had returned the book. There could be no more lessons.
Elizabeth stared at the place where the Bastard Sheikh had stood but moments earlier. His voice reverberated inside her head. When you are ready for the truth, you will see for yourself who your husband’s lover is.
She looked around wildly. Was her husband’s mistress someone she knew, someone she trusted?
The crowd parted, surging toward the buffet to replenish the energy dancing had drained. Edward stood with his head bent toward a young woman—Elizabeth estimated her to be eighteen years old, a year older than she had been when he had married her. The girl had blond hair and a wispy figure that managed to look graceful in the cumbersome bustle that continued to grow in both size and popularity.
Did Edward prefer “the flat chest and shapeless hips of a young girl”?
A blond-haired man joined Edward. He bore a marked resemblance to the young woman—no doubt the girl’s brother, older perhaps by a couple of years. Edward raised his head and greeted the newcomer.
Elizabeth blinked at the warmth of her husband’s smile.
“Mrs. Petre, we want to thank you for helping to organize such a wonderful party. You can be sure that we support your father and husband.”
Elizabeth tore her gaze away from her husband and stared into pale, protruding eyes. It took her a second to identify the tall, gaunt woman and the short, squat man beside her.
“Mr. and Mrs. Frederik, thank you so much for joining us.” Elizabeth smiled and took the woman’s hand into hers. “Your bid on the porcelain figurine was very generous.”
“We don’t like to think of women and children going hungry, Mrs. Petre.” This from Mr. Frederik. “Not when their menfolk died for our country.”
Elizabeth’s smile grew stilted. “There are women and children on the streets who do not have husbands and fathers, Mr. Frederik. They need our help too.”
Their reproving expressions did not bode well for future donations.
Elizabeth pushed aside thoughts of the Bastard Sheikh and the desperately poor women and diseased children who suffered because of people’s ignorance. “Have you tried the shrimp, Mr. Frederik? It is a specialty of the caterer, quite delicious. I believe it is cooked in sherry. Mrs. Frederik, what a lovely gown. You must tell me who your modiste is.”
Mr. Frederik was mollified by the food; Mrs. Frederik basked in Elizabeth’s attention. It was a relief when Elizabeth was pulled aside by her mother.
“What was Lord Safyre doing here? Who invited him? And why did you dance with him?”
The smile on Elizabeth’s face faded. “I have no idea why he was here. Perhaps he is a supporter of the Conservative Party.”
“He’s a Liberal. And a bastard. We do not associate with the likes of him. Not even for contributions.”
That was a first. Elizabeth sometimes thought her mother would consort with the devil himself to further the campaign.
“I am sorry, Mother. I have no idea why he came.”
I came for you.
Hot blood flooded Elizabeth’s face.
“Why did you dance with him?”
Because I want to know what it is like for two bodies to become one.
“Because he asked me to,” she said quietly.
“That is the second time you have danced with him, daughter. Even you must be aware of his reputation.”
Elizabeth calmly met her mother’s eyes. “Do you think Lord Safyre is trying to seduce me?”
Rebecca’s emerald-green eyes glittered. “Don’t be ridiculous. Obviously, he is attempting to undermine our cause. He is fully aware that if you are seen dancing with the likes of him, it will reflect badly on your father and your husband. The Liberals do not want a Conservative for prime minister.”
Elizabeth ignored the pain of her mother’s condescension. “Is it so inconceivable that a man might dance with me because he finds me attractive?”
“Do you find him attractive?” Her mother’s voice was razor sharp.
“Yes, I do. Don’t you?”
For the first time in Elizabeth’s life she shocked her mother into silence.
The shock quickly wore off, to be replaced by distaste. “Are you flirting with that man, Elizabeth?”
Ineffable weariness washed over Elizabeth as the excitement of the Bastard Sheikh’s pursuit and the warmth he had imparted to her while they danced evaporated.
“No. As you said, a man like him would not be interested in a woman like me.”
It was farce at its most pure.
The man who should be solicitous of her needs refused to touch her—while a man who could have any woman he wanted would take her out of pity.
Chapter 14
“...Temptation,” swelled over the heads of the congregation. The candles lighting the wooden altar flickered; dark shadows danced on the gleaming wood.
Elizabeth sat in the front pew, wearing the black bonnet and veil that she wore every Sunday. Edward, mustache waxed, sat on her right, impeccably attired in his gray wool four-button cutaway suit. Rebecca, wearing a black bonnet and veil, sat on Elizabeth’s left; she appeared to be transfixed by the minister’s words. Elizabeth did not have to turn her head to know that her father, who sat on Rebecca’s left, was equally attentive.
She had married Edward in this church. The minister who proselytized now on the chapter of Matthew had pronounced them man and wife.
A wedding breakfast had followed the ceremony. The bubbles in her allotted glass of champagne had fizzed and fizzed.
How disappointed she had been that she was not to have a honeymoon. How excited she had been at the prospect of having her own home. And how full of expectation she had been on their wedding night.
Blindly, she glanced down at the open Bible lying across her lap.
Rebecca had decorated Edward’s town house; Rebecca had hired the servants. The only claim Elizabeth had had on her new life was Edward. And the only time he had spent with her had been those few minutes each night underneath the bedcovers.
All to make her pregnant so that he could gain votes.
A riffling of paper filled the church. Beside Elizabeth, Rebecca flipped to the next page in her Bible.
Elizabeth instinctively followed her mother’s lead. She looked at the tiny black print through the tiny holes in her black veil. What was she supposed to be following?
Bowing her head, she squinted at the text. The Beatitudes, the Similitudes, murder, divorce . . .
Divorce, according to Matthew, was forbidden unless fornication could be proven.
Edward had a mistress. Adultery was fornication.
I will be waiting,
taalibba.
Elizabeth’s head snapped back. Her heart thudded against the tightly laced corset. The minister’s voice, raised so that he might reach the parishioners at the rear of the church, cannonaded inside her head.
What was she thinking? Respectable women did not sue for divorce.
She concentrated on the minister, on the gleam of the wooden altar, on the wax running down the candles, on the elaborate embroidery decorating the minister’s vestments. Respectable things that respectable women thought about.
“Elizabeth.”
Elizabeth dumbly looked up at her mother. The hollow echo of shuffling feet reverberated inside the church.
The first pew was emptying out. Others waited impatiently for their turn to exit—including her husband and her parents.
Flushing, she stood up. A loud thump sounded over the retreating footsteps.
Her Bible.
Edward quickly bent, retrieved it for her. An enigmatic expression flitted across his face.
Elizabeth snatched the book from his hand. “Thank you.”
Sunshine spilled in the aisle, turned the crimson runner to blood red. Elizabeth nodded and smiled at familiar faces as she passed the long rows of pews. Outside, she took a deep breath of air.
“Elizabeth. Edward and your father are going to the club; we’ll take luncheon together, shall we?”
Every Sunday after church, Edward and her father went to their club; every Sunday Rebecca extended the same invitation. And every Sunday Elizabeth accepted.
They had much to talk about on Sundays. The upcoming week of social and political events, synchronizing their schedules . . .
“No, thank you, Mother. I have correspondence that must be taken care of,” she lied.
Rebecca’s emerald-green eyes glittered through the black veil. Elizabeth tried to remember if those eyes had ever lit up with laughter or love. She could not.
“There are certain changes in our schedules—”
“We will lunch on Tuesday, Mother. We can go over the changes then.”
“Very well. I, too, have things to take care of this afternoon. Your father speaks on Wednesday.”
“I remember.”
“I will drop you off at your town house. Andrew and Edward are taking the other carriage.”
Elizabeth nodded. “Thank you.”
Robin Schone Page 17
