Read The Governess and the Sheikh for Free Online Page A

formally into my household, as is the custom. You know that until I do, she will not be considered under my protection. I hope you told her, as I instructed you, that I would call on her when my business with Prince Ramiz was concluded?’
    Halim swallowed. ‘Not in so many words, Highness. My English is not the best, perhaps something was lost in translation.’
    â€˜That is news to me. You speak, to my knowledge, seven languages fluently.’ Jamil looked sharply at his aide. ‘I hope, Halim, I can be assured that your enthusiasm for this endeavour matches my own? I would not like to contemplate the consequences, were it otherwise.’
    â€˜Highness! I promise you that—’
    â€˜I do not want promises, Halim, I want your unequivocal support. And now, whether she is expecting me ornot, I intend to see Lady Cassandra. We start for home at first light. Make sure all is ready.’
    Jamil nodded his dismissal and turned towards Lady Cassandra’s tent. Over the last few days, he had constructed his own mental image of his daughter’s new governess. His fleeting glimpse of her had done little to confirm or deny the figure that existed in his mind’s eye, that of a rather frumpy, slightly forbidding bluestocking, austere and businesslike. He hoped he would not be disappointed.
    He pulled back the door curtain of the tent and stepped through into the main room. The vision that greeted him was so far from the one he had imagined that Jamil stopped in his tracks. Was the sleeping beauty who lay before him some sort of offering or gift that Lady Cassandra had brought with her? It was a ridiculous notion, he realised almost immediately, but how else to explain the presence of this alluring female?
    Her long hair, a dark golden colour with fiery tints, rippled over the cushions. Her face had all the classical proportions of beauty, but it was not that which made her beautiful. It was the way her mouth curved naturally upwards. It was the colour of her lips, like Red Sea coral. It was the hint of upturn on her nose, which made it not quite perfect. And it was her curves. There was something so pleasing, so tactile about a curve, which was why it was such a prominent feature of the Eastern architecture. Curves were sensual, and this female had them in plentiful supply, from the roundness of her full breasts, to the dip and swell from her waist to her hips.
    She was wearing some sort of loose gown with longsleeves trimmed with lace, an absurdly feminine piece of clothing, obviously designed for the boudoir. The sash had come undone to reveal a thin garment that left little to the imagination. He could see the rise and fall of her breasts at the neckline. He could see the dark aureole of her nipples through the gauzy material. He could see all too clearly that underneath it she was completely naked. She gave off an aura of extreme femininity, the type of yielding softness that begged for a corresponding male hardness. A sharp pang of desire jagged through him. This woman had the type of beauty that turned heads. The type of beauty that inevitably spelled trouble.
    â€˜Lady Cassandra?’
    The temptress opened her eyes. They were the blue of a turquoise gemstone, under heavy lids that gave her a slumberous appearance. A woman waiting to be woken, stirred into life.
    â€˜Yes?’ Cassie gazed sleepily up at the man standing over her and rubbed her eyelids. Her surroundings came into focus. And then so did the man. The first thing she noticed was his eyes, which were the strangest colour she had ever seen, burnished like an English autumn, though his gaze was wintery. His mouth was set in a straight line, his brows in a frown. His skin, framed by the traditional white silk head dress, was the colour of honey.
    A man of loneliness and mystery, scarce seen to smile, and seldom heard to sigh. Lord Byron’s words popped into her head, as if they had been waiting for just this opportunity to be