men’s
macassar, rushed to her head. Elizabeth firmed her lips and straightened her
spine. “I will not lie to you if you will not malign my husband.”
“Very well.”
“And if you insist upon the truth, you must be prepared to give
it.”
His thick, dark lashes created jagged shadows on his cheeks. “I am
here to tutor you, taaiibba, not the other way around.”
“Perhaps we will both learn.”
“Perhaps.” He offered her his arm.
She tentatively rested her fingers on his sleeve. Underneath the
silk, his muscles were whipcord taut.
Heat washed over her chest—it came from his gaze, staring at her
breasts. She drew her shoulders back, corset creaking, too late realizing the
motion pushed her breasts up and out.
He lifted his lashes; laughter shimmered in the depths of his
eyes. “Rule number three. Starting tomorrow morning, you will not wear one
single article of wool in my house. You may wear silk, muslin, velvet, brocade,
whatever you wish so long as it is not wool.”
“And you, Lord Safyre,” she asked rashly, brashly, “what will you
wear?”
“As little or as much as you wish me to wear.”
Elizabeth’s mouth went dry, imagining warm brown skin capped by
red-hot desire.
She abruptly remembered who he was and who she was not.
A man like him did not lust after a woman whose hair was touched by silver and whose body had
thickened from the birth of two children.
“We are engaged in a tutelage, Lord Safyre, not a burlesque.”
Heads turned to see who dared laugh with such unadulterated
enjoyment.
Elizabeth bit her lips to keep from joining in with his mirth.
It was pure nervousness, of course. There was nothing even
remotely humorous about society witnessing the Bastard Sheikh’s uninhibited
laughter, especially when she held his arm and also came underneath their
scrutiny. But no matter how hard she tried, she could not keep her lips in a
straight line.
Emerald-green eyes caught Elizabeth’s.
Her mother’s eyes.
They were not amused.
Elizabeth jerked her hand away from the Bastard Sheikh’s arm.
His
laughter abruptly died.
Elizabeth turned, giving him the cut direct.
And felt as if something inside her died, too.
Chapter 7
lizabeth Petre wore a heavy brown velvet gown and cold English
civility. Last night she had smiled at him ... and then she had cut him
directly as if he were a gutter dog.
“Sabah el kheer, Mrs. Petre.”
“Good morning, Lord Safyre.”
A reluctant smile crooked his lips as she methodically removed her
black leather gloves. He poured steaming coffee into a blue-veined porcelain
demitasse cup, then added a splash of cold water before handing it to her.
Clearly, she was reluctant to accept it. It was equally clear that
her rigid English manners decreed she not offend her host by not accepting
it.
Ramiel studied her through the veil of his lashes, willing her to
take the coffee.
The exultation that surged through him when she accepted the
Turkish beverage was a throwback to his Mogul heritage.
He wanted her.
He wanted her to acknowledge her physical needs.
He wanted her to want him , the Bastard Sheikh, a man born
in the West who had become a man in the East and El lbn, a man who had
tasted the bitter dregs of human sexuality and still yearned for more.
Turkish coffee was a good place to start.
Hot mist enveloped Elizabeth’s face; she blew into the cup before
taking one sip, two, three. . . Sliding the cup and saucer onto the edge of his
desk, she pulled a sheath of papers out of her reticule.
“Your choice of textbook is confusing, Lord Safyre.” She raised
her head and caught his gaze. Sexual awareness briefly glimmered in her clear
hazel eyes and was quickly buried. “The sheikh gives very little instruction on
how to give a man pleasure.”
Ramiel refreshed his own cup of coffee, inhaling the thick, sweet
aroma, a bittersweet reminder of what he had once taken for granted. “ ‘O you
men,’ “ he murmured, “ ‘prepare her for
macassar, rushed to her head. Elizabeth firmed her lips and straightened her
spine. “I will not lie to you if you will not malign my husband.”
“Very well.”
“And if you insist upon the truth, you must be prepared to give
it.”
His thick, dark lashes created jagged shadows on his cheeks. “I am
here to tutor you, taaiibba, not the other way around.”
“Perhaps we will both learn.”
“Perhaps.” He offered her his arm.
She tentatively rested her fingers on his sleeve. Underneath the
silk, his muscles were whipcord taut.
Heat washed over her chest—it came from his gaze, staring at her
breasts. She drew her shoulders back, corset creaking, too late realizing the
motion pushed her breasts up and out.
He lifted his lashes; laughter shimmered in the depths of his
eyes. “Rule number three. Starting tomorrow morning, you will not wear one
single article of wool in my house. You may wear silk, muslin, velvet, brocade,
whatever you wish so long as it is not wool.”
“And you, Lord Safyre,” she asked rashly, brashly, “what will you
wear?”
“As little or as much as you wish me to wear.”
Elizabeth’s mouth went dry, imagining warm brown skin capped by
red-hot desire.
She abruptly remembered who he was and who she was not.
A man like him did not lust after a woman whose hair was touched by silver and whose body had
thickened from the birth of two children.
“We are engaged in a tutelage, Lord Safyre, not a burlesque.”
Heads turned to see who dared laugh with such unadulterated
enjoyment.
Elizabeth bit her lips to keep from joining in with his mirth.
It was pure nervousness, of course. There was nothing even
remotely humorous about society witnessing the Bastard Sheikh’s uninhibited
laughter, especially when she held his arm and also came underneath their
scrutiny. But no matter how hard she tried, she could not keep her lips in a
straight line.
Emerald-green eyes caught Elizabeth’s.
Her mother’s eyes.
They were not amused.
Elizabeth jerked her hand away from the Bastard Sheikh’s arm.
His
laughter abruptly died.
Elizabeth turned, giving him the cut direct.
And felt as if something inside her died, too.
Chapter 7
lizabeth Petre wore a heavy brown velvet gown and cold English
civility. Last night she had smiled at him ... and then she had cut him
directly as if he were a gutter dog.
“Sabah el kheer, Mrs. Petre.”
“Good morning, Lord Safyre.”
A reluctant smile crooked his lips as she methodically removed her
black leather gloves. He poured steaming coffee into a blue-veined porcelain
demitasse cup, then added a splash of cold water before handing it to her.
Clearly, she was reluctant to accept it. It was equally clear that
her rigid English manners decreed she not offend her host by not accepting
it.
Ramiel studied her through the veil of his lashes, willing her to
take the coffee.
The exultation that surged through him when she accepted the
Turkish beverage was a throwback to his Mogul heritage.
He wanted her.
He wanted her to acknowledge her physical needs.
He wanted her to want him , the Bastard Sheikh, a man born
in the West who had become a man in the East and El lbn, a man who had
tasted the bitter dregs of human sexuality and still yearned for more.
Turkish coffee was a good place to start.
Hot mist enveloped Elizabeth’s face; she blew into the cup before
taking one sip, two, three. . . Sliding the cup and saucer onto the edge of his
desk, she pulled a sheath of papers out of her reticule.
“Your choice of textbook is confusing, Lord Safyre.” She raised
her head and caught his gaze. Sexual awareness briefly glimmered in her clear
hazel eyes and was quickly buried. “The sheikh gives very little instruction on
how to give a man pleasure.”
Ramiel refreshed his own cup of coffee, inhaling the thick, sweet
aroma, a bittersweet reminder of what he had once taken for granted. “ ‘O you
men,’ “ he murmured, “ ‘prepare her for
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