The Lady's Tutor (10 page)

That was not the answer she wanted to hear. She snatched the
saucer out of his hand and raised the cup to her lips.

“Blow on it, Mrs. Petre.”

Elizabeth blew on the brew. Once.

Hardly registering the scalding liquid, she took two sips.

“What did you think about the sheikh’s advice on the qualities
that make a woman praiseworthy?”

Impervious to the dictates of polite manners, Elizabeth set the
saucer onto the desk so hard that black coffee slopped over the rim of the cup.
The rustle of paper filled the room as she flipped through her notes.

“‘In order that a woman may be relished by men, she must have a
perfect waist, and must be plump and lusty. Her hair will be black, her
forehead wide, she will have eyebrows of Ethiopian blackness, large black eyes,
with the whites in them very limpid. With cheek of perfect oval, she will have
an elegant nose and a graceful mouth; lips and tongue vermilion; her breath
will be of pleasant odour, her throat long, her neck strong, her bust and her
belly large…’“

She lowered her notes. “I think, Lord Safyre, that Arab men desire
different attributes in their women than do English men.”

The turquoise eyes glittered with laughter. “We have already
agreed that beauty is in the eyes of the beholder, Mrs. Petre. However, it was
not the sheikh’s description of a woman’s physical attributes that I was
referring to.”

The hot anger coiled more tightly in the pit of Elizabeth’s
stomach.

Her mother was scornful. Her husband was indifferent. She was not
going to endure ridicule from her tutor.

“I take it, then, that you are referring to the sheikh’s edicts
that a praiseworthy woman rarely speaks or laughs. She has no friends, ‘gives
her confidence to nobody,’ and relies solely on her husband. ‘She takes nothing
from anyone’ except her husband and her parents. She ‘has no faults to hide. .
.’ She does not try to gain attention. She does what her husband wishes
when
he wishes and always with a smile. She assists him in his political and
social affairs. She soothes his troubles that she might make his life more
content even if it requires sacrificing her own contentment. She never
expresses
any
emotion for fear he will be repulsed by her
base,
childish needs”

Elizabeth lifted her chin, refusing to let the stinging tears that
welled in her eyes fall. “Is that what you were referring to, Lord Safyre?”

The Bastard Sheikh cradled his cup in the palms of his hands and
rocked back in his chair. “You do not think that such a woman is praiseworthy?”

Her lips tightened mutinously. “I
think
that I would rather
be a ‘meritorious’ man.”

He stared at her for long seconds before replying. “That is
because you have not yet read one of the prescriptions for increasing a man’s ‘meritoriousness.’
”

Elizabeth could not imagine anything worse than the life she had
just described.
She had spent sixteen years being a
praiseworthy
wife,
holding her emotions in abeyance, always deferring to her husband. It might
make a man’s life more pleasant, but it certainly did nothing to enhance the
life of a woman.

“And that is?”

“Imagine washing a man’s genitals in warm water until he becomes
pleasurably erect. . .”

He paused, studying her face.

Elizabeth returned his stare. Not for the life of her would she
admit that she had never imagined washing a man’s genitals, either in warm or
cold water. Furthermore, it was hard to imagine a man growing pleasurably erect
when one had no idea of what a man looked like ...
erect.

“Now imagine taking a piece of soft leather that is spread with
hot pitch and slapping it onto the man’s unsuspecting member.”

Shock raced across Elizabeth’s face; it was chased by incredulity.

Hot pitch was hot pitch. And while she had never seen a man’s erect
member, she was quite certain that it was as sensitive as was a woman’s
genitals.

“According to the prescription, the man’s member rears its head,
trembling with passion. When the pitch cools and the man is again in a state of
repose, the operation must be repeated several times in order to increase his ‘meritoriousness.’
”

. . .
The man’s member rears its head, trembling with passion
shimmered
in the air between them.

A flash of heat rippled through Elizabeth’s body.

“Does a man tremble with passion, Lord Safyre?”

“Not wrapped in hot pitch, he doesn’t,” the Bastard Sheikh
murmured dryly.

Edward had looked so distant yesterday, so above the dictates of
the flesh, so unlike a man who would tremble, whether it be in passion or the
result of any other emotion.

Was it a facade? Did men project the qualities they thought women
wanted to see in them?

“Does a man tremble with passion?” she repeated, enunciating the
words slowly, carefully, needing to know,
needing to hope.

He leaned forward in his chair, a sharp crack of protesting wood.
His hair and eyes blazed in the lamplight. “When sexually excited . . . yes,
Mrs. Petre, a man trembles with passion.”

She instinctively glanced down at his hands, still cradling his
cup. They were large and muscular and rock steady.

“Just as a woman trembles in her passion.” His voice was a dark
rasp.

Elizabeth recoiled. Absolutely, that was not the voice of a tutor
to his student.

His dusky brown fingers tightened, knuckles whitening. Suddenly, he
brought the demitasse cup to his lips and neatly downed its contents. The dull
impact of china on wood echoed in the stillness.

“Tobacco is enjoyed by both men and women in Arabia,” he said
abruptly. “Would you care for a smoke, Mrs. Petre?”

A smoke?

Only women of ill repute smoked.

“Perhaps another time, Lord Safyre,” she said repressively.

The skin over his cheekbones stretched taut. “Men are excited by
words. If you want to learn how to please your husband, perhaps you should
memorize, or at least take note of, some of the Arabic love poems in
The
Perfumed Garden.”

It was a direct challenge.

Elizabeth’s hazel eyes shifted, stared at a point over his golden
head. “ ‘Full of vigor and life,’ “ she quoted softly, “ ‘it bores into my
vagina, / And it works about there in action constant and splendid. / First
from the front to the back, and then from the right to the left; / Now it is
crammed hard in by vigorous pressure, / Now it rubs its head on the orifice of
my vagina. / And he strokes my back, my stomach, my sides, / Kisses my cheeks,
and anon begins to suck at my lips.’ “

She shifted her focus back onto Ramiel. “Like that, Lord Safyre?”

His gaze snared hers. “Exactly like that.”

Liquid heat spread through her stomach. She was suddenly,
breathtakingly conscious of the rhythmical rise and fall of her uncorseted
breasts and the stiff caress of her linen chemise and lined wool bodice.

“In the poem . . . earlier on,” she said daringly. “What does it
mean, that a man’s member has a head like a brazier?”

The turquoise eyes narrowed. “It means that it is red with desire
and hot for a woman.”

Elizabeth felt as if the air had been sucked out of her lungs. “Does
a man . . . enjoy it when a woman . . . puts him inside of her?”

“ ‘When he sees me in heat he quickly comes to me,’ “ he recited
huskily. “ ‘Then he opens my thighs and kisses my belly, And puts his tool in
my hand to make it knock at my door.’

“When a woman wraps her fingers around a man’s member, she holds
his very life in her hand. She can hurt him
. . . or
she can give him
indescribable ecstasy. When she guides him to her vagina and pushes the head of
him against her, there is a moment of resistance, the threat of rejection, then
her body opens up and swallows him in hot welcome and
yes,
Mrs. Petre,
it is enjoyable. More, it is a moment of bonding. By taking control, a woman
demonstrates to her man that she accepts him for who and what he is. By
relinquishing control, the man tells his woman that he trusts her implicitly.”

A moment of bonding.

Edward had come to Elizabeth in a darkened room. Underneath
stifling bedcovers and tangled nightclothes a fumbling caress had preceded a
slight prick of discomfort and their moment had been over. There had been no
acceptance or loss of control. Only silence broken by the creak of the
bedsprings.

She jerked her head down, away from those hypnotizing eyes, and
rummaged through her notes.

A woman did not memorize erotic poetry unless it stimulated her.
Sexually.
As the Bastard Sheikh must know.

As he no doubt knew that words affected a woman as strongly as
they did a man.

My God, what he must think of her!

She squirmed with embarrassment and something far more shameful,
creasing the paper in her search.
Where is that passage
—

“Or would you have me memorize this poem?” She stridently read, “ ‘Oh,
men! listen to what I say on the subject of woman . .. her malice is boundless
... As long as she is with you in bed, you have her love, / But a woman’s love
is not enduring, believe me.’ ”

Elizabeth cringed at the jarring note of cynicism in her voice.

“How long can a woman comfortably go without coition, Mrs. Petre?”

The sheath of papers crackled between her clenched fingers.

Twelve years, five months, one week, and three days.

That was how long it had been since Edward had visited her bed.
But not one day of it had been comfortable.

“A woman is not like a man. She does not need ... that particular
kind of comfort.”

A piece of wood dropped in the fireplace, underscoring her lie.
Sparks snapped, fire flamed.

“How long, Mrs. Petre?” he repeated relentlessly, as if he knew
exactly how long it had been since Edward had visited her bed.

Squaring her shoulders, she raised her head.
“The Perfumed
Garden
claims that a wellborn woman can comfortably remain celibate for six
months.”

She could see the next question shaping his lips:
How long have
you
been celibate, Mrs. Petre?
Masking haste with haughtiness, she
intercepted. “How long can
a man
comfortably remain celibate, Lord
Safyre?”

The ruthless intensity in the Bastard Sheikh’s eyes eased. He
leaned back in his chair. “Celibacy is never comfortable for a man, Mrs. Petre.”

She
did not
have to ask
him
when
he
had last been with a woman.
Any more
than she had to ask her husband where he spent his nights.

“And why is that?” she lashed out. “Why cannot a man suffer
celibacy in comfort, as a woman is expected to?”

“Perhaps, Mrs. Petre, because women endure their suffering in
silence and men do not,” he responded quietly.

The air was suddenly too thick, the conversation too intense. “Do
you recommend a diet of white bread and egg yolks ‘fried in fat and swimming in
honey’ to give a man stamina?” she abruptly asked.

Warm, rich, masculine peals of laughter suddenly cocooned her.

Elizabeth blinked.

The hard, chiseled face of the Bastard Sheikh had transformed into
one of an uninhibited little boy. A very jolly little boy.

Her lips quivered. She wanted to share his laughter even though
she knew it was directed
at
her.

Finally, “No, Mrs. Petre, I do not.”

“Do you speak from experience, Lord Safyre?”

All signs of laughter disappeared and once again his face was dark
and hard and cynical. “There is very little I have not tried.”

No man should look so bleak ... or alone.

Not even a Bastard Sheik.

Elizabeth wanted to incite more laughter.

“I take it, then, that you tried the poultice of hot pitch,” she
said tartly.

Ramiel winced. “Then you take it wrongly. There is a difference
between adolescent ego and infantile lunacy.”

“Then what, pray tell, was the sheikh’s purpose in including such
a recipe if it is injurious?”

“The Perfumed Garden
is over three hundred years old. Times change, people change, but
the need for sexual satisfaction does not.”

“For men,” she said firmly.

“And for women,” he adjured. “I will share with you some
information that is not contained in the English translation here. In Arabia,
there are three things that men are petitioned not to take lightly: the
training of a horse, shooting with a bow and arrow, and, lastly, making love to
one’s wife.”

“In that order?” she asked stiffly, reality a sharp slap in the
face.

Fourth place,
third place,
it mattered little: A woman
still did not come first. Either in Arabia or England.