“Joseffa!” The countess’s voice gently carried over the water. The old Arab woman came to the edge of the pool. “Joseffa—” The countess turned toward Elizabeth. “Would you like the carriage to return for you or would you rather go home in one of mine?”
“I—return, please.”
“Joseffa. Tell Anthony to inform Mrs. Petre’s coachman that he should return for her in three hours.”
Three hours!
Joseffa was gone before Elizabeth could countermand the countess’s orders.
The countess smiled at Elizabeth. “There. Now we shall have time for a nice, long chat.”
Elizabeth tentatively waded out into deeper water. She imagined beautiful concubines gathered about the edges of the pool, talking, laughing, happy in the Bastard Sheikh’s home.
“What are harem women like?” she asked compulsively. “Are they . . . beautiful?”
“Oh, yes.” The countess gently rotated her arms in the water, creating small whirlpools. “Otherwise they would not be bought.”
Elizabeth felt a pang of envy—not to be sold into slavery, of course, but it would be nice to be wanted by a man so much that he would pay sterling coin.
“Lord Safyre said they are more concerned about pleasing a man than they are pleasuring themselves.”
“Ah . . .” The countess stopped her idle motions. “Of course it is true, for the most part, but I have never asked . . . Arab men are very secretive when it comes to talking about women.”
“Siba,” Elizabeth murmured dryly.
The countess laughed delightedly. “It is such a pleasure talking to another woman who knows of these things.”
Elizabeth walked deeper into the water, until it came up to her chin. “I wish I knew how to swim.”
“Ramiel is an excellent swimmer. He had his first lesson here, in this pool.”
Elizabeth tried to contain her curiosity, but failed. She had imagined Ramiel experiencing many kinds of love; the love between a mother and her son was not one of them. “How old was he?”
“Three. He wriggled out of Joseffa’s arms and leapt into the water, right there.” The countess pointed toward the very end of the pool, where it was five feet deep. “When I fished him out, he spat a mouthful of water into the air and laughed.”
A reminiscent smile curved Elizabeth’s mouth. “When Phillip was three he discovered that the banister made a wonderful slide. I caught him just as he sailed off the end. He laughed and threw his arms around my neck and asked if I would carry him back upstairs so that he could do it again.”
The countess laughed. “How old is he now?”
“Eleven—soon to be twelve. He entered Eton last fall. Richard, my elder, will be taking exams for Oxford in six months.” A mother’s pride rang in Elizabeth’s voice. “He’s only fifteen.”
“They sound like lovely boys.”
“Oh, they are.” Emotion roughed Elizabeth’s voice. “I would not know what to do without them.”
She would not let Edward take them away from her.
Water swirled and foamed; the resulting current buoyed Elizabeth’s breasts. Her scathing remark about a woman’s full breasts serving as buoys was more apt than not, she thought wryly.
The Bastard Sheikh’s instruction promptly came to mind. He can position his manhood between her breasts and press them together . . . as if they were a vulva.
Hurriedly turning away from her thoughts, Elizabeth saw that the countess floated on her back.
Her eyes widened in shock. The countess had no pubic hair. In fact, she had no body hair whatsoever.
Pivoting, she used her arms to propel herself more quickly through the water to the edge of the pool. She leaned her forehead on the tile and closed her eyes against the forbidden images that flooded her imagination.
Ramiel. Naked. A hard column of veined manhood jutting out from a hairless pubis.
The water churned behind her. Elizabeth could feel the countess, solid rather than liquid. Her question came unbidden. “Did you bring your son to England so that he would not be taken away from you?”
The gentle slap of water lapped the tiles. Elizabeth did not think the countess was going to respond. And then—
“No. I brought my son to England because I could not stand to leave him behind.”
“Do you regret . . . leaving?”
A gentle hand reached out, anchored a strand of hair to Elizabeth’s damp bun.
Elizabeth stiffened. The gesture was maternal, something she would do to one of her sons. She could not recall her own mother ever touching her in such a manner.
“Yes. But if I had to do it over again, I would do so.”
“Do you not think that you owed it to your son to stay with his father?”
The question was out before Elizabeth could stop it. She waited for the answer, shoulders tense, eyes staring fixedly at the wooden floor blanketed with steam.
“Yes. No. That is not an easy question to answer. I think Ramiel would have been happy had we stayed in Arabia. I would not have been happy, though, and I think my unhappiness would have affected him far more than my bringing him to England did. He was happy here, surrounded by friends and loved ones. When he turned twelve, however, I could no longer protect him from those who would slander him because of his birth. Arabians view a son borne out of wedlock differently than do the English. So I sent him to his father. And I cried. And I worried. And I trusted in the love that I gave him, that it was strong enough to carry him through manhood.”
A hot, wet trail of steam slithered down Elizabeth’s cheek.
Other words, masculine words, reverberated inside her ears. Your two sons will shortly be men. Who will you have then, taalibba?
Elizabeth wondered what the countess would say if she told her that she had asked Edward for a divorce. She wondered what the countess’s son would say if Elizabeth told him that Edward had retaliated by threatening to take away her sons.
Taking a shaky breath, Elizabeth faced the countess. “Thank you for sharing your bath with me. It is an experience that I shall treasure.”
Elizabeth flinched away from the pale, slender hand that flicked moisture off her cheek.
The countess viewed her handiwork, reached out and swiped Elizabeth’s other cheek. “You may come and bathe here anytime you wish. I will leave instructions with my servants that you are to have complete access to my home. My only request is that you do not bathe alone. Joseffa must always accompany you; should anything happen while you are in the water, she will save you.”
Joseffa was probably eighty years old and weighed half of what Elizabeth did. “And who will save Joseffa?” she asked tartly.
Warm laughter riffled the steam. “Do not judge people by size. The small are often strong. And now we must quit the water or we will both become wrinkled. Joseffa!”
Joseffa magically appeared holding two towels. Elizabeth started; she had not heard her return from the errand the countess had sent her on.
“I will show you another popular pastime in the harem. And then we will take coffee.”
Short steps led up out of the pool. Elizabeth averted her eyes while the countess uninhibitedly dried off. She chose the shelter of the lacquered screen.
Her clothes were gone! In their place was a green silk robe.
Elizabeth hurriedly dried and shrugged into it. It was four inches too long and snug through the chest.
The countess, wearing a dark blue silk robe with a towel turbaned around her head, correctly interpreted Elizabeth’s expression when she marched out from behind the screen. “It is very damp down here. Joseffa took your clothes upstairs and spread them out by the fire so they will dry.”
Having no choice, Elizabeth hiked up the robe and padded barefoot after the countess up the stairs, past the second landing, up to the third. Hoping that no servants were peeking—the silk clung to her body like wet skin—she stepped into a hallway covered with pale rose carpeting.
The countess’s sitti
ng room was decorated in pale rose and leaf green with an Oriental wool carpet woven in various shades of matching rose and green. English with a distinct Arabic touch. A feminine version of Ramiel’s home.
“Come, sit.” The countess patted the sofa beside her. Reaching over, she plucked an odd, carafe-shaped object off a teak side table. A long, thin hose curled away from its slender brass neck; it was tipped with a brass bit.
Taking the bit between her lips, the countess lit a match and placed it against the bowl atop the exotic object. A thin stream of smoke plumed up, as if from a pipe. A matching plume of smoke curled out of the countess’s mouth.
The countess offered Elizabeth the hose. “There is nothing like a good smoke after bathing.”
The Bastard Sheikh had offered her a smoke. She had rejected it because it was another act that a respectable woman did not indulge in. Had he thought she was rejecting his culture?
“What is this called . . . in Arabic?”
“It’s called a hookah. There is water inside it; the smoke is drawn through it to purify it.”
As if it were a snake that could strike her at any moment, Elizabeth accepted the hose and brought the brass bit up to her lips. “What do I do?”
The countess leaned forward; her gray eyes were bright with camaraderie. Elizabeth suddenly felt like the young girl she had never been, playing truant with a school friend. “Suck on it . . . gently . . . take the smoke into your mouth but not your—”
Raw fire erupted inside Elizabeth’s lungs. She choked, she coughed, and suddenly she was laughing with the countess while she tried to draw the tobacco smoke into her mouth instead of her lungs.
“Ummee, you do not make a very good tutor.”
Elizabeth sucked in more smoke, a little fire instead of a blazing conflagration. The countess gently patted her on the back while turquoise eyes blazed at her from across the expanse of the sitting room.
Abruptly, agonizingly aware of the damp silk robe clinging to her naked body and the wreath of smoke capping her head, she thrust the rubber hose at the countess. “I have to go—”
With lightning motion the Bastard Sheikh stepped forward as if he would prevent her from rising from the sofa. At the same time, the countess held up an authoritative hand. “If my son’s presence disturbs you that greatly, Elizabeth, then he will leave.”
Those beautiful turquoise eyes—they were stark with pain.
Elizabeth sucked in a breath of smoke-filled air—held it inside her lungs until they ached.
If she rejected him here, now, in front of his mother, she would never see him again. She would not dance with him again. She would never hear the intimate drawl of his voice when he called her taalibba.
Her breath escaped in a sigh. “There is no need for that.”
Between one blink and another Joseffa was there before her, bearing a large brass tray. A wrinkled lid drooped in a wink.
Elizabeth stared.
Ramiel relieved the old Arab woman of the heavy coffee tray and set it down on the table beside the countess. Joseffa spat out a volley of Arabic. Turquoise gaze settling on Elizabeth’s breasts, he responded in her native language.
“English, please,” the countess reprimanded. “Ramiel, you may sit.”
Ramiel sat on the carpet near their feet, legs bonelessly crossed—a sheikh in brown wool trousers and tweed jacket. Elizabeth adjusted her robe, almost slipped off the sofa onto his lap. Silk on silk was more slippery than a two-year-old child.
Joseffa took away the hookah while the countess poured coffee. The aroma of the strong, sugary beverage mingled with the acrid incense of tobacco.
Elizabeth blurted out the question that had puzzled her since she had first met the countess. “Do you have your father’s eyes?”
An identical smile blossomed on the two disparate faces, the one so dark, the other so pale. The twin smiles rumbled into shared laughter. The timbre in their laughter was identical, one softened by femininity, the other roughened by masculinity.
Elizabeth stiffened. She did not enjoy being the butt of a joke, no matter how delightful the sound of a person’s laughter.
“Please forgive my curiosity—”
“Please forgive our rudeness.” The countess held out a delicate gold-rimmed demitasse cup and saucer to Elizabeth. “We still have not been able to figure out which side of the family contributed to Ramiel’s eyes. It certainly did not come from mine, but on the other hand, there is no one on his father’s side who possesses that particular eye color either. They are Ramiel’s eyes and no others.”
Yes, Elizabeth had thought that when first she had seen him.
Ramiel extended a plate of sticky-looking pastries to Elizabeth. “It is baklava, a confection of pastry and nuts soaked in honey. Joseffa makes the best in the East or the West.”
“It is Ramiel’s favorite,” the countess added softly.
Had the countess sent for her son while they were bathing? And did the thought anger Elizabeth . . . or did it please her?
She remembered her mother’s disapproval. The memory was replaced by the countess’s honesty.
I cannot cast stones, Elizabeth, because I would not trade one single moment I spent with my sheikh for a lifetime of English virtue.
Elizabeth solemnly chose a golden, bite-sized pastry sprinkled with almonds.
Ramiel next extended the plate to the countess. She, too, solemnly chose a piece of the baklava. Lastly, he himself took one. As if synchronized, they bit into the delicate pastries.
Elizabeth felt as if they exchanged vows. As if, inexplicably, they had become a family.
Edward was an orphan. She had never had a mother-in-law.
She had never had a husband.
She swallowed. “These are delicious. What other foods do the Arabs enjoy?”
“Lamb.” The countess delicately licked her fingers clean of honey. “Rice pilaff.”
Ramiel held Elizabeth’s gaze. “The heart of a dove prepared in wine and spices.”
“The Arab people must have a plentiful supply of doves,” Elizabeth countered briskly. “Or very small appetites.”
Ramiel’s eyes glinted turquoise fire. He stared at her as if he were a hungry man, and she were a very savory woman. “The Arabs are renowned for their appetites. As well as for their meritoriousness.”
Elizabeth could not help it—she laughed. And realized that she would never think of him as the Bastard Sheikh again. He was, simply, a man.
Chapter 17
Elizabeth felt drugged on tobacco, coffee and the affectionate love between a disreputable countess and her outcast bastard son. She gave Beadles one of her rare smiles, free of artifice and pretense. “Please send Emma up to my room.”
“Mr. Petre is in his study, Mrs. Petre.” Beadles stared over her head. “He requested that you join him the moment you came home.”
Cold reality replaced the lingering warmth of the hot swimming bath. Elizabeth allowed Beadles to take her cloak, her bonnet, her gloves. They smelled of steam.
It was ridiculous, of course, but she was suddenly, terribly afraid. She gripped her reticule between her fingers. “I am not a coward,” she said softly, bracingly.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Thank you, Beadles. Tell Emma I will be dressing for dinner shortly. I need her to press my burgundy satin ball gown for tonight.”
“Very good, ma’am.”
Johnny stood by the study doors. His easygoing face was expressionless. It made him look older . . . and less like a footman than ever before. Bowing, he opened the door for her.
The gesture should gratify her: Obviously, his footman skills were improving. But all she felt was that cold, unreasonable fear.
She stepped into the study—and froze with shocked surprise. Her father sat at the long walnut table Edward used when other Members of Parliament dropped by to talk. Her husband and her mother sat on either side of him. The expression on the three faces was identical.
The door
closed behind her softly, irrevocably.
A dark cloud seemed to envelop the study. Perhaps it was the approaching dusk that was unrelieved by artificial light; perhaps it was the walnut paneling that absorbed the sun’s dying rays. All Elizabeth knew was that it required every ounce of her willpower not to turn and run.
“Sit down, Elizabeth,” Andrew Walters curtly ordered.
Mentally bracing herself, Elizabeth crossed the dark crimson carpet and sat down opposite her father. “Hello, Father. Edward. Mother.”
A rose-patterned china cup neatly ensconced in a matching saucer sat before each of them. Elizabeth automatically searched the study for the tea tray. Silver glinted in the fading light.
Of course. Her mother would be given the honor of pouring, so the tea cart would naturally be by her.
Rebecca did not offer Elizabeth tea.
“You are speaking tonight, Father. Is there anything wrong?” she asked, knowing what was wrong, dread knotting her stomach. Please don’t let this meeting be about what she knew it would be.
Andrew’s eyes bulged in fury.
Elizabeth had seen displeasure on his face; she had seen condescension. She had never seen his face contorted with rage.
“You have twice danced with a man who is a disgrace to society. You have entertained the bastard’s whore of a mother in your home and now you flaunt your husband’s orders and spend the day with the most bloody bitch in England. Have you no respect for your husband?”
“Edward did not forbid me to visit Countess Devington,” Elizabeth returned calmly. Underneath the cover of the table she gripped the reticule so tightly a fingernail pierced the lined silk. Her father had never sworn at her. “All he said was that I was not to receive her here, in his home.”
“You will not dance with the bastard or talk to the whore ever again.” Andrew’s voice bounced off the dark walnut panels. “Is that specific enough?”
Elizabeth studied her father’s hazel eyes, so like hers, yet she could not see anything of herself in him. “I am thirty-three years old, Father. I will not be treated like I am seventeen. I have done nothing wrong.”
She focused on her husband’s brown eyes, and could not see anything there of the last sixteen years that they had spent together. “You have a mistress, Edward. How many nights a week—a month—do you sleep with her? Why do you not tell my father about that? How dare you sit there when you behave with far more impropriety than I ever have!”
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