Read The Lady's Tutor for Free Online Page A

the library door clicked loudly in the silence.
    The Bastard Sheikh—and yes, Elizabeth thought as shock gave way to
fury, he was a bastard—stood up and waved a hand toward a burgundy
leather chair drawn up in front of his desk. “Please take a seat, Mrs. Petre.”
    Elizabeth had never felt so angry—or so betrayed. She had expected
him to try to humiliate her. She had not expected him to lie.
    “Siba, Lord
Safyre.” She compressed her lips to stop their trembling. “You assured me that
an Arab man does not compromise a woman.”
    He raised his eyebrows in mock surprise, a slash of golden brown
several shades darker than the leonine gold of his hair. “And you think I have?”
    “If I wished to be identified, I would not wear a veil. There was
no need to address me by name. Servants talk.”
    “And English gentlemen do not, I take it?” The light mockery
remained in his eyes, tinged with something darker. “If you did not wish
English servants to know you, Mrs. Petre, you should not have left your card
with one.”
    “Your butler is Arab,” she said tightly.
    “Is he? What am I, do you think? Arab or English?”
    It took all of her self-control not to tell him exactly what
he was.
    “Your nipples are hard, Mrs. Petre. Does anger stimulate you?”
    Elizabeth’s breath caught in her throat.
    Suddenly, he smiled, flashing even, white teeth.
    It was an inviting smile, full of warmth and mischief.
    She was irrepressibly reminded of Phillip, her younger son. He
smiled just so when he did something totally outrageous and wished to avoid
punishment.
    “Please, Mrs. Petre, sit down. My servants are too well trained to
repeat the names of my guests. In Arabia, disrespectful servants are whipped or
sold.”
    “In England, it is illegal to whip one’s servants,” she retorted
icily. “Nor do we condone slavery.”
    “But it is not illegal to buy a servant a one-way passage onto an
Eastern freight steamer. Ah, here is Lucy. Place the cup and saucer on the tray
. . . there. Thank you. We will not need you again.”
    Elizabeth fought her body to keep it from independently following
the maid out of the library. Even if the Bastard Sheikh had not betrayed her,
he had used the word nipples.
    Common sense, however, told her she had sought him out to tutor
her in the ways to please a man. If she could not survive a member of a woman’s
anatomy passing through his lips, how would she react when he discussed a gentleman’s anatomy?
    As if unaware of her inner struggles, he poured a surprisingly black brew into the extra
demitasse cup, then added what looked to be a splash of water. He offered her
the coffee, formally presenting it by holding the edge of the saucer. “Come,
Mrs. Petre. Sit down. Unless you’ve changed your mind, that is.”
    He had neatly tossed the gauntlet into her lap. If this lesson
failed, it would be her fault and her fault alone, that tauntingly correct
gesture implied.
    It was a challenge she could not refuse.
    Elizabeth stiffened her spine; it thrust her breasts forward,
increasing the friction to her nipples. Slowly, she crossed the wide expanse of
Oriental carpet that separated them and perched on the edge of the burgundy
leather chair.
    Proper etiquette decreed that a woman remove her gloves if she
intended to visit for more than fifteen minutes. Just as it decreed that she
not hide her face behind a veil.
    Coolly, methodically, she peeled off her gloves, then tucked the
veil over her bonnet. Balancing the gloves and her reticule on her lap, she
reached for the blue-veined porcelain saucer. “Thank you.”
    The coffee was thick and sweet and so strong it nearly crossed her
eyes. It was also boiling hot.
    Gasping, she hurriedly set the saucer and cup onto the desk. “What is that?”
    “Turkish coffee. It is best when freshly boiled. You should blow
on it, then quickly drink it down. Did you read the designated chapters?”
    She brought her hand up to her throat—it felt as if the inner