The Lady's Tutor (34 page)

“Ramiel,
please,
you have to help me, I cannot—I don’t—” Elizabeth’s
sob strangled in her throat.

Ramiel gently sank his teeth around the base of her nipple, giving
her the extra sensation that she needed while he continued licking and
suckling, licking and suckling. He could feel the arch of her body, hear the rush
of air whooshing inside her lungs, could see her orgasm growing behind his
eyelids, expanding,
erupting
—

He
jerked free of her nipple and took her cry of release inside his mouth,
plunging his tongue inside the hot wetness of her, taking her pleasure and
making it his own.

She
abruptly tore her mouth away from his, gulping oxygen. Her cheek was wet.

Ramiel
opened his eyes—harsh gaslight penetrated the coach window. His throat
tightened. “Don’t cry,
taalibba.
It was only a kiss.” He licked away the
trail of salt. “Just a kiss.”

“The
coach has stopped.”

He
buried his face into her neck, knowing what she was going to do, hoping he had
the strength to let her do it. Sighing, then, he moved away from her, sat
across from her as if she had not shared her first orgasm with him.

She
wriggled, freeing her arms from the vise of her dress, tucking her breasts back
inside the chemise, pulling up the corset, the dress, wrapping the cloak about
her.

“Divorce
Edward Petre.”

“I
cannot.”

Ramiel steeled himself against the finality in her voice. “I can
give you love, Elizabeth. What can he give you?”

“He
can give me my sons.”

“You
have your sons.”

Elizabeth
reached for the door. “I have to go.”

He could not let her go, not with the taste of her still coating
his tongue.
“I want you,
Elizabeth.”

“And my husband does not,” she rejoined flatly. “But you know
that, do you not?”

Yes, he knew.

“Do
you think I want to live the rest of my life with a man who does not want me?”
Her low cry echoed inside the coach. “You just gave me a memory I will always
cherish. And now I have to go. Please do not ever ask me to dance again,
because
I cannot.
”

Wrenching open the door, she tumbled out of the carriage. Ramiel
jumped to help her.

Elizabeth leapt to her feet,
clutched her cloak about her. Golden light from the gas lamp by the town house
door danced in her hair. “I asked for a divorce. It is not advantageous to
either my husband’s or my father’s career.
Ma’a e-salemma,
Lord Safyre.”

She slammed the carriage door in his face, leaving him with only
her bonnet and her gloves and the lingering taste and smell of her body.

It occurred to Ramiel that he had underestimated Elizabeth. And
that he had quite possibly jeopardized more than her reputation.

ohnny sat on a chair inside the foyer, fast asleep. Either Edward
had not come home yet or he had posted the footman as sentry to clock the time
she returned from the ball.

Elizabeth
dashed away the salty stains on her cheeks. Underneath her cloak, her dress had
slid off one shoulder; the loosened tapes of her corset tickled her back. Her
lips tingled, her breasts ached, and she should feel tawdry and used, allowing
a man who was not her husband such familiarities. She did not. She felt—alive.
Empowered yet humbled. Like she had received far, far more than just a kiss.

Stealthily,
she closed the front door to the town house and tiptoed by the footman, up the
stairs, foot landing on the telltale creaking board.
She could not go on
with her marriage, having sampled the intimacy that a man and a woman could
share.

She
could not—
but she must.

Elizabeth
eased open her bedroom door—and stopped dead in her tracks. A black-haired man
dressed in evening clothes sat at her desk. He was reading—what?

“What
are you doing, Edward?”

The
distant bong of Big Ben sounded over London’s rooftops; it was followed by a
more proximate chime—the Westminster clock downstairs. It was two o’clock.

Edward
continued perusing whatever it was that he was reading. “I am amassing the
evidence of your adultery, Elizabeth.”

Elizabeth’s heartbeat pounded against her loosened corset. “You
are a Uranian, Edward. Exactly what does a Uranian do?”

She had the satisfaction of seeing his back stiffen. Edward swung
around in his chair. “Your lover did not tell you?”

Elizabeth shut the door and leaned against it. “Ramiel is not my
lover,” she retorted, too late realizing she had called him by his given name.

Contemptuous eyes raked her body. Elizabeth was acutely conscious
of her state of disarray, of the swollen heat of her lips and her nipples and
the dull throb inside her womb.

“You
were given an ultimatum this evening, Elizabeth.”

She had expected to regret her dance with Ramiel. But now that it
was time, she could not. All that she felt was gratitude, that he had shown her
the ecstasy of a man’s kiss. She regretted only that she had not told him to
touch her until he plumbed the very depths of her body so that she would never
again feel dirtied by her husband.

“Are
you going to threaten to kill me too, Edward?”

Shadow deepened his dark brown eyes. “I know how much you love
your sons. I do not have to threaten your life.”

Sick horror rose in her throat. “Are you threatening to harm your
own children?”

“I
do not have to.”

“But
you would.”

She could see it in his eyes. For the first time, Elizabeth was
glad that Richard and Phillip were away at school, out of harm’s way.

“I
will do whatever it takes to become prime minister.”

Desperately, she tried to call his bluff. Edward had backed down when
Ramiel threatened to expose his membership in the fellowship of Uranians.
She
would not let him threaten her sons.
“Is your mistress a Uranian too,
Edward?”

“As
a matter of fact, my lover is a fellow Uranian.”

Elizabeth sucked in air. The hair on the back of her neck stood
up. “You said you did not have a mistress.”

“I
don’t.”

“Is
there a difference between a lover and a mistress?”

Edward
rolled up a sheath of earmarked papers. “I will strike a bargain with you,
Elizabeth.”

Elizabeth
stared at the roll of papers in his hand, suddenly realizing what he had been
reading and what he now held.
Her notes from
The Perfumed Garden. She
had not been able to throw them away. “What deal is that?”

“I
will tell you the difference between a lover and a mistress if you will tell me
why you thought you could get away with sneaking out to meet your bastard.”

Betrayal raced through her veins—which one of the servants had
given her away? It was chased by fear.

How could he know she met Ramiel—unless he had engaged someone to
follow her?

The watching eyes at the Women’s Auxiliary.

Edward had summoned the constable, claiming he was worried because
she was late, even though the fog would delay anyone. Had he hired someone to
follow her? And had that someone intended to frighten her ... or had he
intended to kill her?

Damn him, he would not make her afraid.

“I will not ask for a divorce again, Edward. That is what you
wanted, is it not?”

“Elizabeth, I want you to be the perfect wife. A mother and a
hostess with an impeccable reputation so that you will be an asset rather than
a hindrance.
Fucking
the Bastard Sheikh is not acceptable behavior in
the wife of a future prime minister.”

Elizabeth
had heard that particular word, of course. It was commonplace on the streets,
like the word
dolly.
Never had she imagined hearing it from her husband.

“Perhaps,
Edward, you are jealous because you cannot.”

Her mouth snapped shut, wishing the words back as soon as she
uttered them.

Edward
laughed loudly.

It was the first time Elizabeth had heard him laugh other than the
polite guffaw. There was no boyish charm or warmth in it as there was in Ramiel’s
laughter.

“Elizabeth,
you have absolutely nothing for me to be jealous of.”

It should not be possible for a man who called her breasts udders
to inflict further pain. It was.

“You
did not used to be like this, Edward.”

“Nor did you, Elizabeth.” He stood up, completely at his ease. “You
have some very interesting notes here. Quite immoral, in fact. Not at all what
one would expect from a virtuous wife and mother.”

Elizabeth pushed away from the door, more angry than afraid now.
She
would not let him spoil the memories of the lessons she and Ramiel had shared.
“They
are mine. Give them back to me.”

“Everything you have is mine, Elizabeth, including your body.”
Edward smiled, enjoying her powerlessness.
How could she have lived with him
all these years without knowing what kind of a monster he was?
“I will keep
this as evidence of your illness.”

She twisted her cloak more tightly around her throat. “What
illness is that?” she asked, already knowing the answer.

“Why, nymphomania, of course.” He opened the door connecting their
bedrooms, paused. “I will have your maid bring you some hot milk. Distraught
women need their sleep.”

Elizabeth
fought down nausea.

Death.
Confinement. Separation from her children.

All because she wanted to be loved.

She did not have to ask who it was when a soft knock issued from
her outer door. It was Emma, come to calm her distraught nerves. She carried a
small silver tray. Hot steam rose from its solitary occupant, a mug.

The abigail was fully dressed, as if she had waited up for
Elizabeth. But Elizabeth did not demand that her maid wait up for her. If
Elizabeth could not undress herself, she rang and Emma came to her dressed in
nightgown and robe.

Ramiel had said she would know who Edward’s mistress was when the
time was right.
Was it Emma?

“Is
there laudanum in the milk, Emma?”

“Yes,
ma’am.”

An
unconscious wife would be much more easily conveyed to an asylum than one who
kicked and fought and screamed.

“You
may put it down on the nightstand.”

“Mr.
Petre said that I should wait until you drank it.”

Feeling strangely numb inside, while outside her body still
tingled and burned from Ramiel’s lips and tongue and teeth, Elizabeth took the
mug, set it down on a side table beside the window, hoisted up the window, and
poured the steaming milk out onto the withered rosebushes below. She returned
the cup to the maid. “You may tell him that I did not leave a single drop.”

Emma stared for long seconds at the mug before taking it out of
Elizabeth’s hand. “Very well, ma’am,” she said, not meeting her mistress’s
eyes.

“Then
you may go to bed. I do not require your services tonight.”

Emma’s mouth opened to object—to remind her that the satin ball
gown buttoned down the back, that she would not be able to unfasten the buttons
by herself. She swallowed the objection. “Very well, ma’am.”

Elizabeth listened carefully, hearing the soft knock on Edward’s
door, muffled voices, then absolute quiet. At any moment she expected her
husband to barge through the connecting door; he did not. Either he did not
care whether she was unconscious tomorrow morning—or Emma had not snitched.

A black wave of exhaustion washed over her. Shadows flickered on
the walls, a skeletal hand here, a scythe there, death and deception
everywhere. She turned the flame down on the gas lamp before taking off the
cloak, the satin gown, the loosened corset. The top of the chemise was damp
from her sweat. Unerringly, her fingers skimmed over the soft cotton, felt the
silky flesh swelling above it, the hard nub of her nipples underneath it.

She had never dreamed that a woman’s breasts were so sensitive. Or
that a man could give her a climax by suckling them.

Ramiel had said that marriage was more than words spoken in a
church. Now she believed him.

What was she going to do?

She
would not endure Edward’s threats on the lives of her two sons. Nor would she
sit back and allow him to commit her to an insane asylum.

A woman’s choices . . .

But
she had only one choice. And that was to leave Edward’s house, now,
tonight,
while she was still free to do so.

She
had money. She had jewelry.

She was not a coward.

Elizabeth yanked out a velvet skirt and bodice from her wardrobe,
struggled into them. Sitting in the armchair in front of the fireplace, she
waited for the light beneath the connecting bedroom door to go out.