awake, heart pounding.
She knows about the Bastard Sheikh was her first thought. It was immediately
followed by How could she?
The previous morning had been awkward, but this morning Elizabeth
had arrived back home at five thirty-five, a quarter of an hour before the
servants arose. No one could possibly know about her two visits with the
Bastard Sheikh.
But why else would her mother be here unless—
You should have sent a note around to my house pierced the fog of sleep and the
mind-numbing start of fear.
Elizabeth’s gaze flew to the window.
Today was Tuesday.
Her mother and she always went shopping on Tuesday mornings. Then
they took lunch.
Judging by the gray winter light streaming through the curtains,
it was fast approaching noon.
Hot blood flooded Elizabeth’s cheeks.
Emma and her mother had stood over her and watched her while she
dreamed that the Bastard Sheikh worked her body as if his virile member were
indeed a pestle and she was a stubborn herb that needed to be thoroughly
pounded and ground into submission.
Hez, taalibba, he had whispered, alternately thrusting hard and deep then side to
side. Swing your hips for me. . .
She squeezed her eyelids together, acutely aware of the harsh
flavor of the Turkish coffee that lingered in her mouth and the frustrated
desire that continued to pulse deep inside her. If only Emma had delayed
pouring the hot chocolate.
A surge of resentment flared up inside Elizabeth. Her mother did
not belong in her bedroom any more than the Bastard Sheikh belonged in her
dreams.
Opening her eyes, she rolled over onto her back and summoned a
smile. “Good morning, Mother. I am afraid I have overslept. If you will wait in
the drawing room, I will dress and join you. Emma, please escort my mother
downstairs and ring for tea.”
“Very good, ma’am.”
Her abigail stepped backward; her mother stepped forward.
“Your cheeks are flushed, daughter. If you are ill, there is no
need to get up. I apologize if I intrude on your rest, but I was
worried. Monday you canceled all of your appointments, and now this. You know
that your father is grooming Edward to stand for prime minister when he
retires. You have to seed the ground for him, just as I do for your father.”
The smile froze on Elizabeth’s face. Rebecca Walters was worried .
. . because Elizabeth had failed to fulfill her obligations.
The only memories that stood out in Elizabeth’s childhood were of
her mother “seeding” the ground for her father. Every spare moment, every spark
of energy, every deed of charity, had been dedicated to a political cause.
“Do you never get tired, Mother?”
The emerald-green eyes snapped with impatience. “Of course I do.
So does your father. And so does your husband, I might add. Is that what this
is about”—she gestured toward Elizabeth in bed— “you lying abed ... because you
are tired?”
Yes, that
was exactly what it was about, Elizabeth thought with a spark of anger. She was tired ... tired of coming fourth place with her husband. Edward had his
politics, his mistress, his children, and then there was his wife. Just for
once in her life she would like to come first.
Just for once in her life she would like to lie abed, free of
social and political commitments, with a man who loved her.
Her face blanched. Not with “a” man, she harshly corrected
herself. She wanted to lie abed with her husband.
“No, Mother, I am not tired. I had the migraine last night and
took laudanum to ease the pain,” Elizabeth lied, acutely aware of Emma, who
hovered by the door and who must know that she lied. “Perhaps I overdid the
dosage.”
“And Monday?”
Elizabeth forced a smile. And added another lie. “The dean rang
up. He wanted to see me immediately, so—”
“What has Phillip done now?”
It should have been amusing, her mother repeating the words Elizabeth
herself had asked the dean. It was not. Whereas Elizabeth viewed her younger
son’s antics with tolerant
She knows about the Bastard Sheikh was her first thought. It was immediately
followed by How could she?
The previous morning had been awkward, but this morning Elizabeth
had arrived back home at five thirty-five, a quarter of an hour before the
servants arose. No one could possibly know about her two visits with the
Bastard Sheikh.
But why else would her mother be here unless—
You should have sent a note around to my house pierced the fog of sleep and the
mind-numbing start of fear.
Elizabeth’s gaze flew to the window.
Today was Tuesday.
Her mother and she always went shopping on Tuesday mornings. Then
they took lunch.
Judging by the gray winter light streaming through the curtains,
it was fast approaching noon.
Hot blood flooded Elizabeth’s cheeks.
Emma and her mother had stood over her and watched her while she
dreamed that the Bastard Sheikh worked her body as if his virile member were
indeed a pestle and she was a stubborn herb that needed to be thoroughly
pounded and ground into submission.
Hez, taalibba, he had whispered, alternately thrusting hard and deep then side to
side. Swing your hips for me. . .
She squeezed her eyelids together, acutely aware of the harsh
flavor of the Turkish coffee that lingered in her mouth and the frustrated
desire that continued to pulse deep inside her. If only Emma had delayed
pouring the hot chocolate.
A surge of resentment flared up inside Elizabeth. Her mother did
not belong in her bedroom any more than the Bastard Sheikh belonged in her
dreams.
Opening her eyes, she rolled over onto her back and summoned a
smile. “Good morning, Mother. I am afraid I have overslept. If you will wait in
the drawing room, I will dress and join you. Emma, please escort my mother
downstairs and ring for tea.”
“Very good, ma’am.”
Her abigail stepped backward; her mother stepped forward.
“Your cheeks are flushed, daughter. If you are ill, there is no
need to get up. I apologize if I intrude on your rest, but I was
worried. Monday you canceled all of your appointments, and now this. You know
that your father is grooming Edward to stand for prime minister when he
retires. You have to seed the ground for him, just as I do for your father.”
The smile froze on Elizabeth’s face. Rebecca Walters was worried .
. . because Elizabeth had failed to fulfill her obligations.
The only memories that stood out in Elizabeth’s childhood were of
her mother “seeding” the ground for her father. Every spare moment, every spark
of energy, every deed of charity, had been dedicated to a political cause.
“Do you never get tired, Mother?”
The emerald-green eyes snapped with impatience. “Of course I do.
So does your father. And so does your husband, I might add. Is that what this
is about”—she gestured toward Elizabeth in bed— “you lying abed ... because you
are tired?”
Yes, that
was exactly what it was about, Elizabeth thought with a spark of anger. She was tired ... tired of coming fourth place with her husband. Edward had his
politics, his mistress, his children, and then there was his wife. Just for
once in her life she would like to come first.
Just for once in her life she would like to lie abed, free of
social and political commitments, with a man who loved her.
Her face blanched. Not with “a” man, she harshly corrected
herself. She wanted to lie abed with her husband.
“No, Mother, I am not tired. I had the migraine last night and
took laudanum to ease the pain,” Elizabeth lied, acutely aware of Emma, who
hovered by the door and who must know that she lied. “Perhaps I overdid the
dosage.”
“And Monday?”
Elizabeth forced a smile. And added another lie. “The dean rang
up. He wanted to see me immediately, so—”
“What has Phillip done now?”
It should have been amusing, her mother repeating the words Elizabeth
herself had asked the dean. It was not. Whereas Elizabeth viewed her younger
son’s antics with tolerant
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