The Lady's Tutor Read Free Page A

rules, Mrs. Petre. Rule number one is this: You will not wear a
corset while you are in my house.”
    Her fine
white skin turned ruby red.
    He
wondered if she turned that same fiery color when she was sexually excited.
    He
wondered if her husband had ever sexually excited her.
    Her head
jerked back. “What I wear or do not wear, Lord Safyre, is none of your concern—”
    “On the
contrary, Mrs. Petre. You sought me out to teach you what pleases a man.
Therefore what you wear is my concern if it is detrimental in
accomplishing that goal. I assure you, a creaking corset does not please a man.”
    “Perhaps
not a man of your nature—”
    Ramiel’s
mouth involuntarily tightened.
    Infidel.
Bastard. There was
nothing he had not been called, either in Arabic or English.
    He was
strangely disappointed that she should be afflicted with the same prejudices as
were other people.
    “You will
find, Mrs. Petre, that when it comes to sexual pleasure, all men are of
a certain nature.”
    She tilted
her chin in a gesture that was becoming increasingly familiar. “I will not
tolerate any physical contact with you.”
    Ramiel
smiled cynically. There were things that affected a person far more deeply than
mere touch.
    Words.
    Death.
    Dabid...
    “So be it.”
He briefly inclined his head and shoulders in a half-bow. “I give you my word
as a man of the East and the West that I will not touch your body.”
    Impossibly,
her spine stiffened even more; it was accompanied by the creak of her corset. “I
am sure you understand that our lessons must be kept in the strictest of
confidence. . .”
    Ramiel was
struck by the irony of English etiquette. She blackmailed him yet
expected him to be a gentleman and remain discreet about her
indiscretion.
    “The Arab
people have a word for a man who speaks of what goes on in privacy between
himself and a woman. It is called siba, and it is forbidden. I assure
you that under no circumstances will I compromise you. ”
    Her mouth
tightened into what the English so aptly termed a stiff upper lip. Clearly, she
did not trust the concept of Arab honor. “Good day, Lord Safyre.
    He bowed
his head. “Ma’a e-salemma, Mrs. Petre. I am sure you know your way out.”
    Elizabeth
Petre’s retreat was marked by a harsh swish of wool and a sharp click of the
library door opening then closing. Ramiel stared at the swirling yellow fog
outside the bay windows and wondered how she had traveled to his house. Hack?
Her own carriage?
    Hack, he
would guess. She fully realized the danger should their liaison be discovered.
    “El Ibn.”
    Ramiel’s
stomach clenched.
    The
son.
    He was the
Bastard Sheikh. He was Lord Safyre. And he was El Ibn. The son . . . who
had failed. Never again would he bear the title of Ramiel ibn Sheikh
Safyre—Ramiel, son of Sheikh Safyre.
    He turned,
body tensed as it had not been the past thirty minutes.
    Muhamed
wore a turban, a man’s baggy trousers and thobs, a loose, ankle-length
shirt. He had been with Ramiel for twenty-six years. A gift from Ramiel’s
father, a eunuch to protect the bastard son of a sheikh who at the age of
twelve had failed to protect himself. And had done no better at the age of
twenty-nine.
    He reached
inside his dress coat and retrieved the card tucked away there. An address was
printed in the lower right-hand corner in ornate script.
    “Follow
Elizabeth Petre, Muhamed, to make sure that she doesn’t get into any more
trouble than she already has.”
    Ramiel’s
expression hardened.
    A man like
the Chancellor of the Exchequer married moral women to bear his children—he
would not relish his wife performing those sexual acts he sought from his
mistress. Ramiel had been exiled from his father’s country; he had no desire to
be exiled from the country of his mother. If trouble accrued from this
tutelage, he would have to be prepared.
    “When she
is safely inside, surveil the house. Follow her husband. I want to know who his
mistress is, where he meets her, when