Читать книгу Forbidden in Regency Society: The Governess and the Sheikh - Marguerite Kaye - Страница 13

As he had expected, he found Cassie sitting alone by the sun fountain. They ate early here in the schoolroom apartments and the remnants of dinner had already been cleared. Linah would be asleep upstairs, he knew, so familiar was he now with his daughter’s routine. With her governess’s routine.

She was sitting on the cushions with her book. Her feet were tucked out of sight, but he knew they would be bare. She relished the coolness of the tiles on her toes. He liked to see them peeping out from under the hems of her English dresses. He had not thought feet could be so sensual.

Engrossed in a volume of Mr Wordsworth’s poems, Cassie had not noticed the courtyard door opening and did not look up until he was almost by her side. ‘Jamil,’ she said, closing the book and rising gracefully from the cushions, shaking out the folds of her gown. ‘I wasn’t expecting you. Linah is in bed.’

‘I know.’

He looked different. Not angry but—different. His eyes were stormy. A flush stained his cheek bones. He was looking at her strangely. ‘Have you eaten?’ she asked. ‘I could ring for some food, if you like.’

‘I’m not hungry.’

She hovered uncertainly on the edge of the cushions. During the day it was just about possible for her to disguise the pleasure she took in his presence, the attraction to him that she continued to deny, but in the evening, alone with him like this, it was much more difficult. Try as she might, she could not see him as a prince, only as a man. An incredibly attractive man, who, at the moment, looked as if he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders. ‘You’re wearing your official cloak,’ she said. ‘Have you come from the Council?’

‘Yes.’ Jamil tugged at the emerald pin that held the heavy garment in place. He’d forgotten all about it, another heirloom passed on from his father, who had received it from his. It fell with a soft whoosh on to the tiled floor of the courtyard. The priceless emerald pin he dropped with a careless clatter on top of it.

‘It will crease if you leave it there,’ Cassie said, stooping to retrieve it. ‘Let me—’

‘Leave it.’

Startled by the harshness of his tone, which she had recently so rarely heard, Cassie did as he bid her. ‘Is there something wrong?’

Jamil shrugged. ‘Nothing more than usual.’

‘Do you want to talk about it?’

‘No.’

She could not read his mood. He had his Corsair face, impenetrable and remote. ‘I was thinking—wondering—if you had considered what I was saying about Linah. About her having some friends of her own age, I mean. I think she’s ready for it now, she hasn’t had a tantrum in ages, and it will do her good to have someone other than you and me to talk to.’

‘Is she bored with my company already?’

‘Of course not, I didn’t mean that.’ Cassie smiled, but it was a nervous smile, her lips trembling. She sat down on the edge of the fountain and trailed her hand in the cool water, trying to regain control of herself. He looked so careworn, she wanted more than anything to comfort him, but did not know how to start when he was in such a strange mood. She stretched out her hand invitingly. ‘Sit with me a while. You don’t have to talk, just sit and enjoy the night. Look up, the stars are coming out, they’re lovely.’

But Cassie herself made too lovely a picture for Jamil to be interested in the stars. Her dress was made of lemon-yellow silk, with some sort of complicated trimming on the ruffle at the hem. The colour brought out the fiery lights in her hair. The sleeves were shorter than she usually wore during the day, finishing just above her elbow, though a fall of cream lace covered her forearm. There was cream lace at the neckline, too, almost the same colour as her skin. An evening gown, intended to be worn in the formal drawing rooms of London and yet looking perfectly at home here, in the stark wildness of the desert. He could see the roundness of her bosom, rising and falling beneath the creamy lace. He could see one bare foot peeping out, balancing her on the edge of the fountain. He moved towards her, took the hand she was holding out, but didn’t sit down. It was a delicate hand, lost in his. Easily crushed. For some reason, this made him angry. He let it go, and regretted it as soon as he had done so, and that made him even more angry.

‘Perhaps it is you who are bored with my company,’ he said harshly. ‘Are you missing your poet, Cassie? Are you missing the simpering compliments and admiring glances of your gaggle of gallants? I warned you that life with Linah meant seclusion.’

Turquoise eyes turned on him, dark with hurt. He hadn’t meant to lash out, but he couldn’t seem to stop. ‘My daughter is a princess of royal blood. She must learn there is a price to be paid for that privilege. And so must you.’

‘Jamil, why are you being like this? It’s not like you.’

‘But you are wrong, Lady Cassandra, it is very like me. You don’t really know me at all.’

‘I don’t agree. In these last few weeks, I think I have come to know you very well.’

‘You see only one aspect of me. You know nothing of my life as a ruler.’

‘Perhaps, but I know what you are like as—as …’

‘As?’

‘A man.’

‘You think so?’

He took a step closer to her. The air seemed to crackle with tension. Cassie’s hand lay so still in the water of the fountain that one of the little golden fish which lived there brushed against it. She couldn’t understand how the conversation had taken this turn, nor why it felt so—so … precarious? Precipitous? Was that even a word? Pre-emptive? But of what?

‘Tell me, then, what am I like, Cassie. As a man?’

Jamil had taken another step towards her. In fact, he was standing so close to her his knees were brushing her thigh. She could almost feel the anger pulsing from him, and something else burning there behind his tawny eyes that gave her goose bumps. ‘Jamil, stop this.’

‘Stop what, Cassie?’ He pulled her to her feet, holding her there, almost in his embrace, with his hands lightly on her waist. ‘Stop pretending that I don’t find you attractive? Stop pretending that I don’t think of you as I first saw you in the tent in the desert? Stop pretending that I don’t remember our kiss? Stop pretending that I don’t want to kiss you again? That every time I see you I see only an English governess? Why should I? Was it not you who told me I should acknowledge my feelings?’

‘I didn’t mean that. Please don’t do this.’

‘Why?’ He pulled her closer. She did not resist, nor did she comply. She dropped her gaze, closed her eyes. He didn’t want that. He gave her a tiny shake. ‘Look at me, Cassie. Tell me honestly that you don’t feel it, too. Tell me that you don’t think of these things. Tell me you don’t want me and I’ll let you be. Only, look at me when you say the words.’

For a long moment she did not move. Then, with a small sigh that could have been resignation, but might have been something quite different, she met his gaze, and all the secret thoughts, the shameful night-time dreams that she bundled up and held securely in the back of her mind during the day, tumbled forth as if the knot that held them had been untied. He knew. He saw it in her eyes. His gaze raked over her, her eyes, her mouth, her breasts, then her mouth again.

He was going to kiss her, unless she stopped him. He was going to kiss her and she couldn’t stop him. She wanted him to kiss her again, she had been wanting him to ever since that last unsatisfactory, cut-short kiss, though God knew she had tried not to.

‘Cassie.’ He pulled her close, his hands tight around her waist, pressing her hard against him. ‘Cassie, let us have no more of this pretence.’

She closed her eyes in an effort to try to regain some sort of hold on reality, but it was already too late. Too late for calm, rational thinking. Too late to release herself from his hold. Too late to think about how wrong, how utterly wrong, this would be. It couldn’t be wrong, not when it felt like this. Not when she had been wanting this, just this, for weeks now. There was no point in pretending any more that the pleasure she took in his company was for Linah’s sake. No point in pretending that the urgent ache consuming her, the thing that held her fast to him, made her lips long to cling to his, was anything other than base desire. He wanted her. Her wilful heart wanted him. ‘Yes,’ she whispered, not really knowing what she was agreeing to, save only that she was agreeing. ‘Yes.’

Jamil hesitated. Lovely, delicious, irresistible as she was, honour and duty dictated resisting. But for once, for just this moment, Jamil had had a surfeit of honour and duty. He wanted the pleasure she could give him and he wanted the oblivion such pleasure would grant him. To be, just for a while, merely a man, not to have to think, lost in the sweet delight of a woman. This woman. He tilted her chin up with his finger. Angled his mouth towards hers. And kissed her.

He kissed her softly, lingering on the soft pillow of her luscious lips, tasting her. She was so sweet. So heady. Like peaches and English strawberries, laced with fire. His kiss deepened. His manhood hardened. Pliant in his embrace, she was soft, lush and ripe for the taking. He kissed her harder.

Cassie moaned softly under the onslaught. Kisses such as she could never have imagined, dark delights such as she could never have dreamed, consumed her. Her body was on fire. His kiss demanded things from her she didn’t know how to give, though she wanted to. She wanted to so much. His lips moulded hers into a response she hadn’t known she could make. She opened her mouth and his tongue slid in, touching hers, sparking like a shooting star, sending echoing shivers out to the extremities of her body. Her fingers curled into his robe, her toes into the cushions on which she stood. Now she knelt as he eased her down, now she lay as he eased her further, still kissing, kissing, kissing, dark and hot and velvety.

Little kisses on her eyes now, then her throat and her neck. Her hands fluttered over the breadth of his shoulders, feeling the heat of his skin through his tunic. Daringly, she pushed his head dress back, touching his hair, then his cheeks, with their faint traces of stubble.

His lips fastened on hers again and Cassie closed her eyes. His hands traced the line of her waist through the silk of her gown, making her shiver with expectation. She could feel his legs pressing against hers now. She could feel something building inside her, a knot of something that wanted to unravel. His tongue touched hers again, and she bucked under him. He pressed her back against the cushions, stroking her, her waist, the side of her breast, making her jump again, making her nipples ache in the confines of her chemise, her stays, her dress. Her clothes felt too tight, she felt too hot. His tongue touched hers again. Should she like it so much?

She didn’t care, she did like it. His hand moulded her breast now, and she liked that, too, though her nipples strained, hard, tingling, exciting. Should she feel that? Like that? And that?

She didn’t know. All she desired was that he do it again. Fingers brushing her breasts, lingering on the place where her nipples pressed into the fabric. More sparks. More yet as he stroked down, over her belly, her thighs, cupping the roundness of her, as if to show her how different she was, for at the same time her own fingers were boldly exploring his back, his arms, the dip of his stomach, wondering at the sheer delight of male heat and male muscle and male otherness. He was so different. So very, delightfully, different. She felt as if she was melting.

Jamil kissed the mounds of her breasts, but the lace of her dress got in the way. The fastenings were at the back. Complicated fastenings. Too complicated for now. Need, raw need was taking a hold on him. He kissed her with a new urgency. He was hard, more than ready. Still kissing, he found the hem of her dress and pushed it roughly out of the way. Toe. Ankle. Calf. Knee. The skin so soft, the shape so curvaceous. She was panting under him, her hands clutching at his robe, seeking skin. Above her knee was some sort of undergarment. He hadn’t expected that. Her thigh beneath the cotton was smooth and creamy. His hand roamed higher, to the apex, and found to his surprise the undergarment was split. Curls. Damp and warm and inviting.

Through the delicious haze of her growing excitement, the words leapt unbidden into Cassie’s head, delivered in that familiar clipped, censorious tone. Remember, child, once a female has abandoned her corsets, there is no saying what else she will abandon. Aunt Sophia’s parting words to her. The effect was instantaneous; the fire of Cassie’s passion was extinguished as effectively as if she had been doused in cold water. ‘No! Stop!’

Jamil froze.

Cassie began to wriggle free of his intimate embrace.

He released her immediately. She pulled her dress down over her legs and sat up, her breath coming fast and shallow. ‘I’m sorry—I …’

Jamil got to his feet, tugging his tunic back into place. Sitting before him on the cushions, her hair falling down in long golden tresses over her breast, Cassie looked a picture of abandon. He had never wanted anyone so much in his life, never felt such frustration.

‘Jamil, I didn’t mean to—I’m sorry.’

But he was in no mood to listen. He was in no mood, either, to question his own motives. ‘There is no need to apologise,’ he said, gathering up his cloak, his head dress, his emerald pin. ‘You have my gratitude, you have spared us an experience we would both ultimately regret,’ he said tersely, as he strode off.

The doors closed behind him with a snap. Cassie made no attempt to stand up. Her knees wouldn’t hold her. She was appalled. Not at Jamil, but at herself. The liberties she had granted him. The liberties she still wanted to grant him. The wanton way he made her feel, as if to abandon all restraint was her heart’s desire. She was mortified. She sank slowly back down on to the floor and covered her head with her hands.

‘Ah, Henry, my dear fellow, how the devil are you?’ Lord Torquil Fitzgerald strode over to where his old friend was seated alone in the library of Boodle’s, enjoying an after-dinner snifter of brandy. ‘Haven’t seen you for an age.’

‘I’ve been in Lisbon for the last three weeks, at Castlereagh’s behest. He has some notion of possible unrest in Portugal.’

‘More radicals!’ Lord Torquil exclaimed, his eyebrows shooting up alarmingly, making him look like a startled rabbit, and betraying the accuracy of his old Harrovian nickname.

Lord Armstrong had know Bunny Fitzgerald since their schooldays. He shrugged. ‘Liverpool is reading conspiracy into everything, since Cato Street. I don’t think it will come to anything. Managed to pick up a barrel or two of port while I was out there though, so it wasn’t exactly a wasted journey.’

‘Heard congratulations are in order, by the way. A son after all this time. You must be mightily relieved.’

‘James. A fine boy.’ Lord Henry smiled proudly.

‘A toast to the whippersnapper, then,’ Lord Torquil said, helping himself to another snifter. ‘Be nice to have another man around the house, I’ll wager. Quite overrun with all those daughters of yours till now. Which reminds me,’ he said, thumping his forehead with his glass, ‘bumped into Archie Hughes the other day, he was telling me that the fair Cassandra is rusticating.’

Lord Henry’s genial expression faded. ‘Cassandra is visiting her sister in Arabia. I would hardly call it rusticating.’

‘A bad business, that entanglement with the poet. You must have been sick as a dog. Little beauty like that, she’d have gone off well.’

‘Cassandra will still go off well enough,’ Lord Henry said determinedly. ‘When she returns, she will be betrothed to Francis Colchester. It is not quite the brilliant match I had intended, but it will do well enough.’

‘Colchester? That the boy who was one of Wellington’s protégés? A younger son, I think, but a sound choice. He’s predicted to go far. Provided, of course, you can tear her away from that sheikh of hers,’ Lord Torquil said with a throaty chuckle.

‘Your brain’s befuddled as usual, Bunny. Prince Ramiz of A’Qadiz is married to my eldest daughter, Celia. Had you forgotten?’

‘’Course not. Rich as Croesus, has that port in the Red Sea you did the deal on. No, I’m not talking about him. It’s another one. Hang on a minute, it’ll come to me. Jack—no—Jeremy—no—Jamil! That’s it. Sheikh Jamil al-Nazarri. Principality next to A’Qadiz, I believe.’

‘I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ Lord Henry exclaimed. ‘What has this to do with Cassandra?’

‘Well, I heard it from Archie, who was just back from a stint in Cairo, and he got it from old Wincie himself—though how he knew I’m not sure. But anyway, upshot is that the fair Cassandra is apparently cooped up in this sheikh’s harem.’

‘What!’

‘For God’s sake, Henry, keep your wig on, only passing on what I heard. Sorry to have dropped the cat among the pigeons, thought you knew. I’m sure it’s all very innocent, though it doesn’t look too good, does it?’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Well. Cassandra’s a lovely girl. Stuck alone out in the desert with a man who owns all he surveys. Droit de seigneur,’