The Lady's Tutor Read Free

softly.
    “Yes.”
    Ignorance
shone in her clear hazel eyes.
    Elizabeth
Petre thought that a woman like herself, a woman who is older and whose body is
not “perfect,” a woman who is respectably married with two children, could hold
no appeal to a man like himself. She did not understand the driving power a man’s
curiosity could become or the powerful attraction a woman’s desire could
ignite.
    Ramiel
knew these things only too well. Just as he realized that mutual need could
bind a man and a woman together more surely than vows spoken in a church or a
mosque.
    A dull
sulfuric glow penetrated the bay windows. Somewhere above the yellow fog that
heralded another London morning shone sunlight and the beginning of a new day.
    Pivoting
sharply, he crossed the Oriental carpet and reached to pluck from the
ceiling-high wall of books a small leather-bound volume.
    The
Perfumed Garden of the Sheikh Nefzaoui.
    In Arabic
it was titled Al Raud al atir wa nuzhat al Khatir — The Scented Garden
for the Soul’s Delectation. More popularly it was translated as The
Perfumed Garden for the Soul’s Recreation.
    Ramiel had
memorized it as assiduously as boys in England memorize Greek and Latin
primers. But whereas the primers prepared English boys to read Greek and Latin
scholars, The Perfumed Garden had prepared Ramiel to satisfy a woman.
    It also
gave excellent advice for a woman who wished to learn how to satisfy a man.
    Without
giving himself time to reconsider his action, he returned to the bay window and
offered her the book. “Tomorrow morning, Mrs. Petre. Here. In my library.”
Muhamed had said she had arrived at— “Five sharp.”
    A small,
slender hand gloved in black kid sprang out of the heavy concealing folds of
her wool cloak. The book, some five by eight inches in measurement, was grasped
snugly between thumb and fingers. “I do not understand.”
    “You want
me to tutor you, madam; therefore, I shall tutor you. Lessons begin tomorrow
morning. There is your textbook. Read the introduction and the first chapter.”
    She
lowered her head; the upturned veil blocked the overhead light so that her
expression was hidden in shadow. “The Perfumed Garden of the ...” She did
not attempt to pronounce the rest of the title, Sheikh Nefzaoui. “I take
it this is not a book on how to cultivate flowers.”
    His lips
twitched with sudden amusement. “No, Mrs. Petre, it is not.”
    “Surely
there is no need to start lessons so soon. I will need time to assimilate what
I read—”
    Ramiel did
not want to give her time to assimilate.
    He wanted
to shock her.
    He wanted
to titillate her.
    He wanted to
peel away the drab black wool and her cold English reserve and find the woman
underneath.
    “You asked
me to tutor you, Mrs. Petre. If I am to do so, you will follow my instructions.
Excluding the preface and introduction, there are twenty-one chapters in The
Perfumed Garden; tomorrow we will review the introduction and the first
chapter. The morning after we will discuss the second, et cetera, until we
finish your schooling. If you prefer more time to ponder your lessons, you will
have to find another tutor.”
    The
distant slam of an attic door echoed through the walls; as if on cue, the dull
clang of metal followed, an iron skillet sharply contacting an iron stove as
below stairs the cook started breakfast for the rising servants.
    The book
and her gloved hand disappeared inside the black wool of her cloak. Her corset
audibly protested the abrupt motion. “Five o’clock is too late; we will have to
start at four-thirty.”
    He cared
little what time they conducted the lessons; his only interest was how much a
woman like her would learn from a man like him. “As you will.”
    Her neck
was slender, as had been her hand. The shoes peeking out from underneath the
concealing cloak were narrow.
    What did
she seek to restrain so tightly within the confines of the creaking
whalebone—flesh ... or desire?
    “Every
school has