amusement, her mother vociferously disapproved of
Phillip’s innocent pranks.
“It was nothing,” Elizabeth said hurriedly. “He was involved in a
dispute with another schoolboy. If I do not get dressed soon, Mother, we shall be
too late to take lunch. Emma . . .”
Elizabeth was mildly amazed at the way Emma gently but firmly
propelled Rebecca Walters out of her bedroom. The abigail had not blinked an
eye at Elizabeth’s lies.
Perhaps Edward had “seeded” the household for deceit, she thought
cynically.
Flipping back the covers, she dragged her legs over the edge of
the bed.
They were pale legs with neat if not dainty ankles. The rub of her
thighs as she scooted across the mattress created warm, moist friction.
Do you know what a climax is, Mrs. Petre?
“Shall I run a bath for you, ma’am?”
Elizabeth gripped the sheet in both hands to anchor herself to the
bed.
Emma stood in the doorway, blandly watching Elizabeth and the
nightgown that had ridden over her knees.
She jerked down the hem of the shapeless white cotton gown and
slid off the bed, heart thumping. “Yes, please. That was rather quick. I
thought you were going to escort my mother downstairs.”
“Mrs. Walters did not want my escort, ma’am. She said that you more
urgently needed my assistance to dress.”
Elizabeth bit her bottom lip to keep from snapping that Emma was her abigail and that here, in this house, the wife of the Chancellor of
the Exchequer outranked the wife of the prime minister. Instead, she said, “Then
I had better hurry. You should not have let me sleep so late.”
“My apologies. I thought you might need the rest.”
Elizabeth’s heart seemed to do a somersault inside her chest. Did
the servants know?. . .
Her lips were cold and stiff. “Why did you think that, Emma?”
“You have a very demanding schedule, ma’am. I sometimes think that
you work harder than Mr. Petre does.”
The abigail’s words were too enigmatic to be reassuring.
Did she mean that Elizabeth worked hard at “seeding” the political
grounds for her husband? Or did she mean that Elizabeth had a very demanding
schedule now with early-morning rendezvous?
The hot bath did not thaw Elizabeth’s unease.
She should stop the lessons now, before suspicion became fact. If
rumors spread that she was meeting the Bastard Sheikh, her marriage would be
over. As would her husband’s career.
But even as she contemplated giving up the dangerous tutelage,
thoughts of The Perfumed Garden crowded aside reason. What had the
sheikh written in the second chapter?
She rubbed a bar of soap underneath her breasts. And wondered if
the Bastard Sheikh had ever rubbed flower petals against a woman’s flesh where
she now rubbed the soap.
Emma waited in Elizabeth’s bedchamber with a pile of clothing.
Stepping behind a white enameled dressing screen, Elizabeth donned cotton
drawers, wool stockings, and a linen chemise before rejoining Emma so that the
maid could help her with her corset—
Elizabeth sucked in her breath to accommodate Emma’s
ministrations. She had worn a corset for twenty-three years. It should not feel
like a whaleboned prison. Nor had it until now.
The corset was rapidly followed by two petticoats. Elizabeth took
a tentative breath, inhaled the scent of starch and laundry soap.
What did Edward’s mistress smell like? she wondered.
Did Edward move like a pestle while his mistress swung her hips
side to side in lascivious accompaniment? Or were certain sexual motions
peculiar to Arabs?
Emma twitched a heavy navy wool dress over Elizabeth’s bustle. “If
you’ll step up to the dressing table, I’ll repair your hair, Mrs. Petre.”
The blood drained from Elizabeth’s face.
Emma had brushed out her hair the night before and braided it, as
she did every night before Elizabeth retired to bed. When Elizabeth had later dressed
for her lesson she had twisted the braid up into a bun.
After so cleverly changing back into her nightgown
Phillip’s innocent pranks.
“It was nothing,” Elizabeth said hurriedly. “He was involved in a
dispute with another schoolboy. If I do not get dressed soon, Mother, we shall be
too late to take lunch. Emma . . .”
Elizabeth was mildly amazed at the way Emma gently but firmly
propelled Rebecca Walters out of her bedroom. The abigail had not blinked an
eye at Elizabeth’s lies.
Perhaps Edward had “seeded” the household for deceit, she thought
cynically.
Flipping back the covers, she dragged her legs over the edge of
the bed.
They were pale legs with neat if not dainty ankles. The rub of her
thighs as she scooted across the mattress created warm, moist friction.
Do you know what a climax is, Mrs. Petre?
“Shall I run a bath for you, ma’am?”
Elizabeth gripped the sheet in both hands to anchor herself to the
bed.
Emma stood in the doorway, blandly watching Elizabeth and the
nightgown that had ridden over her knees.
She jerked down the hem of the shapeless white cotton gown and
slid off the bed, heart thumping. “Yes, please. That was rather quick. I
thought you were going to escort my mother downstairs.”
“Mrs. Walters did not want my escort, ma’am. She said that you more
urgently needed my assistance to dress.”
Elizabeth bit her bottom lip to keep from snapping that Emma was her abigail and that here, in this house, the wife of the Chancellor of
the Exchequer outranked the wife of the prime minister. Instead, she said, “Then
I had better hurry. You should not have let me sleep so late.”
“My apologies. I thought you might need the rest.”
Elizabeth’s heart seemed to do a somersault inside her chest. Did
the servants know?. . .
Her lips were cold and stiff. “Why did you think that, Emma?”
“You have a very demanding schedule, ma’am. I sometimes think that
you work harder than Mr. Petre does.”
The abigail’s words were too enigmatic to be reassuring.
Did she mean that Elizabeth worked hard at “seeding” the political
grounds for her husband? Or did she mean that Elizabeth had a very demanding
schedule now with early-morning rendezvous?
The hot bath did not thaw Elizabeth’s unease.
She should stop the lessons now, before suspicion became fact. If
rumors spread that she was meeting the Bastard Sheikh, her marriage would be
over. As would her husband’s career.
But even as she contemplated giving up the dangerous tutelage,
thoughts of The Perfumed Garden crowded aside reason. What had the
sheikh written in the second chapter?
She rubbed a bar of soap underneath her breasts. And wondered if
the Bastard Sheikh had ever rubbed flower petals against a woman’s flesh where
she now rubbed the soap.
Emma waited in Elizabeth’s bedchamber with a pile of clothing.
Stepping behind a white enameled dressing screen, Elizabeth donned cotton
drawers, wool stockings, and a linen chemise before rejoining Emma so that the
maid could help her with her corset—
Elizabeth sucked in her breath to accommodate Emma’s
ministrations. She had worn a corset for twenty-three years. It should not feel
like a whaleboned prison. Nor had it until now.
The corset was rapidly followed by two petticoats. Elizabeth took
a tentative breath, inhaled the scent of starch and laundry soap.
What did Edward’s mistress smell like? she wondered.
Did Edward move like a pestle while his mistress swung her hips
side to side in lascivious accompaniment? Or were certain sexual motions
peculiar to Arabs?
Emma twitched a heavy navy wool dress over Elizabeth’s bustle. “If
you’ll step up to the dressing table, I’ll repair your hair, Mrs. Petre.”
The blood drained from Elizabeth’s face.
Emma had brushed out her hair the night before and braided it, as
she did every night before Elizabeth retired to bed. When Elizabeth had later dressed
for her lesson she had twisted the braid up into a bun.
After so cleverly changing back into her nightgown
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