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—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 which greeted him was so far from the one he had imagined that Jamil stopped in his tracks.

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 hint of upturn on her nose which made it not quite perfect. And it was her curves.

A sharp pang of desire jagged through him. This woman had the type of beauty which turned heads. The type of beauty which inevitably spelled trouble.

AUTHOR NOTE

When I was asked to write my first ever sheikh story for the Mills & Boon Summer Sheikhs anthology, I assumed it would be a one-off. But the exotic magic of the desert cast its spell over me. The allure of an all-powerful prince, master and commander of a fantastical kingdom steeped in sensuality and set in the midst of a starkly beautiful and totally alien landscape, proved irresistible. I had to return.

Cassandra, heroine of this book, made her first appearance in INNOCENT IN THE SHEIKH’S HAREM, which tells the story of Prince Ramiz of A’Qadiz and Lady Celia, Cassie’s elder sister. English Rose meets Desert Prince, and in the process eminently sensible Celia discovers her true passionate nature, while autocratic, invulnerable Ramiz finds that ruling in splendid isolation can be a very lonely business. The enclosed world of the harem, the wild beauty of hot desert nights, the intervention of not only Celia’s father but her formidable aunt and Cassie, too, are the ingredients for a denouement in which Regency England meets exotic Arabia. Of course, true love ultimately bridges the cultural divide.

Cassie was smitten, as was I, with the intoxicating atmosphere of Arabia. Her story was begging to be told, and I was as eager as she to return to the sultry world of the desert in order to tell it. Two years after Celia and Ramiz are married Cassie has her opportunity, when she visits Celia in an effort to heal her broken heart. She swears she will never love again, but of course she’s never met anyone like Prince Jamil al-Nazarri, one of Ramiz’s closest allies. And Jamil has never met anyone like Cassie. Sparks fly from that first meeting. Their encounters are as scorching as the desert sun, as tumultuous as a desert storm.

I hope you enjoy reading Cassie and Jamil’s story as much as I loved telling it. Here in Scotland, as I write this, we’re having our usual damp and driech summer. Outside my window the rain is falling steadily, and the sea is iron-grey. Something tells me it won’t be long before I am transported back to the desert again.

About the Author

Born and educated in Scotland, MARGUERITE KAYE originally qualified as a lawyer but chose not to practise—a decision which was a relief both to her and to the Scottish legal establishment. While carving out a successful career in IT, she occupied herself with her twin passions of studying history and reading, picking up first-class honours and a Masters degree along the way.

The course of her life changed dramatically when she found her soul mate. After an idyllic year out, spent travelling round the Mediterranean, Marguerite decided to take the plunge and pursue her life-long ambition to write for a living—a dream she had cherished ever since winning a national poetry competition at the age of nine.

Just like one of her fictional heroines, Marguerite’s fantasy has become reality. She has published history and travel articles, as well as short stories, but romances are her passion. Marguerite describes Georgette Heyer and Doris Day as her biggest early influences, and her partner as her inspiration.

Marguerite would love to hear from you. You can contact her at Marguerite_Kaye@hotmail.co.uk

Previous novels by the same author:

THE WICKED LORD RASENBY

THE RAKE AND THE HEIRESS

INNOCENT IN THE SHEIKH’S HAREM

(part of Summer Sheikhs anthology)

and in Mills & Boon® Historical eBook Undone!: THE CAPTAIN’S WICKED WAGER THE HIGHLANDER AND THE SEA SIREN BITTEN BY DESIRE

Look for THE CAPTAIN’S WICKED WAGER, now part of the Scandalous Regency Nights anthology. First time in print format. Available now.

THE GOVERNESS AND THE SHEIKH

Marguerite Kaye

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

Before you start reading, why not sign up?

Thank you for downloading this Mills & Boon book. If you want to hear about exclusive discounts, special offers and competitions, sign up to our email newsletter today!

SIGN ME UP!

Or simply visit

signup.millsandboon.co.uk

Mills & Boon emails are completely free to receive and you can unsubscribe at any time via the link in any email we send you.

In loving memory of W,

who helped make me the person I am

and whose spirit, hopefully, lives on in me

Chapter One

Daar-el-Abbah, Arabia—1820

Sheikh Jamil al-Nazarri, Prince of Daar-el-Abbah, scrutinised the terms of the complex and detailed proposal laid out before him. A frown of concentration drew his dark brows together, but could not disguise the fact that his face, framed by the formal head dress of finest silk, was an extraordinarily handsome one. The soft golden folds of the cloth perfectly complemented the honeyed tones of his skin. His mouth was set in a firm, determined line, but there was just a hint of a curve at the corners, enough to indicate a sense of humour, even if it was seldom utilised. The sheikh’s nose and jaw were well defined, his flawlessly autocratic profile seemingly perfectly designed for use on the insignia of his kingdom—though Jamil had, in fact, refused to consent to his Council’s request to do so. But it was his eyes that were his most striking feature, for they were the strangest colour, burnished like autumn, with fiery glints and darker depths which seemed to reflect his changing mood. Those eyes transformed Jamil from a striking-looking man into an unforgettable one.

Not that the Prince of Daar-el-Abbah was easily overlooked at the best of times. His position as the most powerful sheikh in the eastern reaches of Arabia saw to that. Jamil had been born to reign and raised to rule. For the last eight years, since he had inherited the throne at the age of twenty-one following the death of his father, he had kept Daar-el-Abbah free from incursion, both maintaining its independence and enhancing its supremacy without the need for any significant bloodshed.

Jamil was a skilled diplomat. He was also a formidable enemy, a fact that significantly enhanced his negotiating position. Though he had not used it in anger for some time, the wicked scimitar with its diamond-and-emerald-encrusted golden hilt that hung at his waist was no mere ceremonial toy.

Still perusing the document in his hand, Jamil got to his feet. Pacing up and down the dais upon which the royal throne sat, his golden cloak, lined with satin and trimmed with passementerie twisted with gold thread and embedded with semi-precious stones, swung out behind him. The contrasting simple white silk of the long tunic he wore underneath revealed a slim figure, athletic and lithe, at the same time both graceful and subtly powerful, reminiscent of the panther, which was his emblem.

‘Is there something wrong, your Highness?’

Halim, Jamil’s trusted aide, spoke tentatively, rousing the prince from his reverie. Alone of the members of the Council of Elders, Halim dared to address Jamil without first asking permission, but he was still wary of doing so, conscious of that fact that, although he had the prince’s confidence, there was no real closeness between them, nor any genuine bond of friendship.

‘No,’ Jamil replied curtly. ‘The betrothal contract seems reasonable enough.’

‘As you can see, all your terms and conditions have been met in full,’ Halim continued carefully. ‘The Princess Adira’s family have been most generous.’

‘With good reason,’ Jamil said pointedly. ‘The advantages this alliance will give them over their neighbours are worth far more than the rights to the few diamond mines I will receive in return.’

‘Indeed, Highness.’ Halim bowed. ‘So, if you are satisfied, perhaps I may suggest we proceed with the signing?’

Jamil threw himself back down on to the throne, in essence a low stool with a scrolled velvet-padded seat. It was made of solid gold, the base perched upon two lions, while the back was in the shape of a sunburst. It was a venerable and venerated relic, proof of the kingdom’s long and illustrious history. More than three hundred years old, it was said that any man who sat upon it who was not a true and destined ruler would fall victim to a curse and die within a year and a day. Jamil’s father had cherished the throne and all it stood for, but Jamil loathed it as ostentatious and impractical—though, as with most things ceremonial, he continued to tolerate it.

He lolled on the unforgiving seat, resting his chin upon his hand, the long index finger of his other hand tapping the document that lay on the low table before him. The various members of his Council of Elders, seated in order of precedence on low stools facing the dais, gazed up at him anxiously.

Jamil sighed inwardly. Sometimes the burden of royalty was wearisome. Though the betrothal contract was important, it was not really uppermost in his mind right now. He recognised that the marriage his Council had for so long entreated him to enter into was a strategic and dynastic necessity, but it was of little personal interest to him. He would marry, and the union would seal the numerous political and commercial agreements that were the foundation of the contract. Daar-el-Abbah would gain a powerful ally and—once Jamil had done his duty—an heir. He personally would gain …

Nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

He had no wish to be married. Not again. Especially not again for the sake of Daar-el-Abbah, this kingdom of his, which owned him body and soul. He didn’t want another wife, and he certainly didn’t want another wife selected by his Council—though, truth be told, one royal princess was bound to be very much like another. He hadn’t disliked his first wife, but poor Karida, who had died in childbirth not long after Jamil came to power, had seemed to prefer the comfits of the liquorice and crystallised ginger she ate with such relish over almost anyone or anything else.

Jamil could happily do without another such, as this Princess Whatever-her-name-was, to whom Halim and his Council were so keen to shackle him, would no doubt turn out to be. He was perfectly content with his single state, but his country needed an heir, therefore he must take a wife, and tradition decreed that the wife should be the choice of the Council. Though he railed against it, it didn’t occur to Jamil to question the process. It was the way of things. Anyway, in principle he was as keen to beget a son as his people were for him to provide them with a crown prince. The problem he was having was in reconciling principle with practice. The fact was, Jamil was not at all sure he was ready for another child. At least not until he had the one he already had under some semblance of control. Which brought him back to the matter uppermost in his mind: his eight-year-old daughter, Linah.

Jamil sighed again, this time out loud. A rustle of unease spread through the assembled Elders in response. Twenty-four of them, excluding Halim, each man wearing the distinctive Council insignia, an al-Nazarri green checked head dress with a golden tie, or igal, to hold it in place, the sign of the panther embroidered on his tunic. Behind the Elders, the throne room stretched for almost a hundred feet, the floor made of polished white marble edged with green-and-gold tiles. Light flooded the chamber from the line of round windows set high into the walls, reflecting through the gold-plated iron grilles, bouncing off the teardrop crystals of the five enormous chandeliers.

Most of the men arrayed before Jamil had served on his father’s Council, too. The majority were traditionalists, resistant to every attempt at change, with whom Jamil found himself becoming increasingly irked. If he could, he would retire the lot of them, but though he was coming to the end of his patience, the prince was not a foolish man. There were many ways to skin a goat. He would take Daar-el-Abbah into the modern world, and he would take his people with him whether they wanted to join him on the journey or not—though he preferred that they came of their own accord, just as he favoured diplomacy over warfare. This marriage now being proposed was his gesture towards appeasement, for the hand that gives is the hand that receives.

He should sign the contract. He had every reason to sign. It made no sense to postpone the inevitable.

So he would sign. Of course he would. Just not yet.

Jamil threw the papers at Halim. ‘It won’t do any harm to make them wait a little longer,’ he said, getting so swiftly to his feet that the Elders were forced to throw themselves hurriedly on to their knees. ‘We don’t want them thinking they are getting too much of a bargain.’ He growled impatiently at his Council. ‘Get up! Get up!’ No matter how many times he said he no longer wished them to show their obeisance in private meetings, they continued to do so. Only Halim stood his ground, following in his wake as Jamil took the two steps down from the dais in one and strode quickly up the long length of the throne room towards the huge double doors at the end.

‘Highness, if I may suggest …?’

‘Not now.’ Jamil threw open the doors, taking the guards on the other side by surprise.

‘But I don’t understand, Highness. I thought we had agreed that—’

‘I said not now!’ Jamil exclaimed. ‘I have another matter I wish to discuss. I’ve had a most interesting letter from Lady Celia.’

Halim hurried to keep pace as they headed along the wide corridor towards the private apartments. ‘Prince Ramiz of A’Qadiz’s English wife? What possible reason can she have for writing to you?’

‘Her letter concerns Linah,’ Jamil replied as they entered the courtyard around which his quarters were built.

‘Indeed? And what precisely does she have to say on the matter?’

‘She writes that she has heard I’m having some difficulty finding a female mentor up to the challenge of responding to my daughter’s quite particular needs. Lady Celia’s father is Lord Armstrong, a senior British diplomat, and she has clearly inherited his subtle way with words. What she really means is that she’s heard Linah is out of control and has run rings around every single woman in whose charge I’ve placed her.’

Halim bristled. ‘I hardly think that your daughter’s behaviour is any business of Lady Celia’s. Nor is it, if I may be so bold, the business of A’Qadiz, or its sheikh.’

‘Prince Ramiz is an upstanding man and an excellent ruler who has forward-thinking views similar to my own. I would suggest, Halim, that any opportunity to bring our two kingdoms closer together is something to be encouraged rather than resented.’

Halim bowed. ‘As ever, you make an excellent point, Highness. That is why you are a royal prince and I a mere servant.’

‘Spare me the false modesty, Halim, we both know you are no mere servant.’

Jamil entered the first of the series of rooms that ran in a square round the courtyard, unfastened his formal cloak and threw it carelessly down on a divan. His head dress and scimitar followed. ‘That’s better,’ he said, running his fingers through his short crop of hair. It was auburn, inherited from his Egyptian mother. Reaching into a drawer of the large ornate desk that dominated the room, he found the letter and scanned it again.

‘May I ask, does Lady Celia offer a solution to our supposed problem?’ Halim asked.

Jamil looked up from the elegantly worded missive and smiled one of his rare smiles, knowing full well that Lady Celia’s proposal would shock his Council and drive a pack of camels through the dictates of convention relating to the upbringing of Arabian princesses. Today’s Council meeting had bored him to tears, and he was sick of tradition. ‘What Lady Celia offers,’ he said, ‘is her sister.’

‘Her sister!’

‘Lady Cassandra Armstrong.’

‘To what purpose, precisely?’

‘To act as Linah’s governess. It is the perfect solution.’

‘Perfect!’ Halim looked appalled. ‘Perfect how? She has no knowledge of our ways—how can you possibly think an English woman capable of training the Princess Linah for her future role?’

‘It is precisely because she will be incapable of such a thing that she is perfect,’ Jamil replied, his smile fading. ‘A dose of English discipline and manners is exactly what Linah needs. Do not forget, the British are one of the world’s great powers, renowned for their capacity for hard work and initiative. Exposure to their culture will challenge my daughter’s cosy view of the world and her place in it. I don’t want her to become some simpering miss who passes the time while I’m finding her a husband by lolling about on divans drinking sherbet and throwing tantrums every time she doesn’t get her own way.’ Like her mother did. He did not say it, but he did not have to. Princess Karida’s tantrums were legendary. ‘I want my daughter to be able to think for herself.’

‘Highness!’ Shock made Halim’s soft brown eyes open wide, giving him the appearance of a startled hare. ‘Princess Linah is Daar-el-Abbah’s biggest asset; why, only the other day the Prince of—’

‘I won’t have my daughter labelled an asset,’ Jamil interrupted fiercely. ‘In the name of the gods, she’s not even nine years old.’

Slightly taken aback at the force of his prince’s response, for though Jamil was a dutiful parent, he was not prone to displays of parental affection, Halim continued with a little more caution. ‘A good marriage takes time to plan, Highness, as you know yourself.’

‘You can forget marrying Linah off, for the present. Until she learns some manners, no sane man would take her on.’ Jamil threw himself on to the tooled leather chair that sat behind the desk. ‘Come on, Halim, you know how appallingly she can behave. I’m at my wits’ end with her. It is partly my own fault, I know, I’ve allowed her to become spoilt since she was deprived of her mother.’

‘But now you are to be married, the Princess Adira will fill that role, surely.’

‘I doubt it. In any case, you’re missing the point. I don’t want Linah to be raised in the traditional ways of an Arabian princess.’ Any more than he would wish his son to be raised in the traditions of an Arabian prince. As he had been. A shadow flitted over Jamil’s countenance as he recalled his father’s harsh methods when it came to child-rearing. No, of a certainty he would not inflict those traditions on his son.

‘You want her to behave like an English lady instead?’ Halim’s anxious face brought him back to the present.

‘Yes. If Lady Celia is an example of an English lady, that is exactly what I want. If this Lady Cassandra is anything like her sister, then she will be perfect.’ Jamil consulted the letter in his hand again. ‘It says here that she’s one-and-twenty. There are three other sisters, much younger, and Lady Cassandra has shared responsibility for their education. Three! If she can manage three girls, then one will be—what is it the English say?—a piece of cake.’

Halim’s face remained resolutely sombre. Jamil laughed. ‘You don’t agree, I take it? You disappoint me. I knew the Council would not immediately perceive the merits in such a proposition, but I thought better of you. Think about it, Halim—the Armstrongs are a family with an excellent pedigree, and, more importantly, impeccable connections. The father is a diplomat with influence in Egypt and India, and the uncle is a member of the English government. It would do us no harm at all to have one of the daughters in our household, and in addition they would be in our debt. According to Lady Celia, we would be doing them a favour.’

‘How so?’

‘Lady Cassandra is already in A’Qadiz and wishes to extend her stay, to see more of our lands, our culture. She is obviously the scholarly type.’

‘One-and-twenty, you say?’ Halim frowned. ‘That is rather old for a female to be unwed, even in England.’

‘Quite. Reading between the lines, I suspect her to be the spinsterish type. You know, the kind of women the English seem to specialise in—plain, more at home with their books than the opposite sex.’ Jamil grinned. ‘Once again, exactly what Linah needs. A dull female with a good education and a strict sense of discipline.’

‘But Highness, you cannot be sure that—’

‘Enough. I will brook no more argument. I’ve tried doing things the traditional way with Linah, and tradition has singularly failed. Now we’ll do it my way, the modern way, and perhaps in doing so my people will see the merits in reaching out beyond the confines of our own culture.’ Jamil got to his feet. ‘I’ve already written to Lady Celia accepting her kind offer. I did not bring you here to discuss the merits of the proposal, merely to implement my decision. We meet at the border of A’Qadiz in three days. Lady Celia will bring her sister, and she will be accompanied by her husband, Prince Ramiz. We will cement our relationship with his kingdom and take delivery of Linah’s new governess at the same time. I’m sure you understand the importance of my caravan being suitably impressive, so please see to it. Now you may go.’

Recognising the note of finality in his master’s voice, Halim had no option but to obey. As the guards closed the doors to the courtyard behind him, he made for his own quarters with a sinking heart. He did not like the sound of this. There was going to be trouble ahead or his name wasn’t Halim Mohammed Zarahh Akbar el-Akkrah.

At that moment in the kingdom of A’Qadiz, in another sunny courtyard in another royal palace, Ladies Celia and Cassandra were taking tea, sitting on mountainous heaps of cushions under the shade of a lemon tree. Beside them, lying contentedly in a basket, Celia’s baby daughter made a snuffling noise, which had the sisters laughing with delight, for surely little Bashirah was the cleverest and most charming child in all of Arabia.

Cassie put her tea glass back on the heavy silver tray beside the samovar. ‘May I hold her?’

‘Of course you may.’ Celia lifted the precious bundle out of the basket and handed her to Cassie, who balanced her niece confidently on her lap, smiling down at her besottedly.

‘Bashirah,’ Cassie said, stroking the baby’s downy cheek with her finger, ‘Such a lovely name. What does it mean?’

‘Bringer of joy.’

Cassie smiled. ‘How apt.’

‘She likes you,’ Celia replied with a tender smile, quite taken by the charming image her sister and her daughter presented. In the weeks since Cassie had arrived in A’Qadiz she seemed to have recovered some of her former sunny disposition, but it saddened Celia to see the stricken look that still made a regular appearance in her sister’s big cornflower-blue eyes on occasions when she thought herself unobserved. The shadows that were testimony to the many sleepless nights since that thing had happened had faded now, and her skin had lost its unnatural pallor. In fact, to everyone else, Cassandra was the radiant beauty she had always been, with her dark golden crown of hair, and her lush curves, so different from Celia’s own slim figure.

But Celia was not everyone else, she was Cassie’s oldest sister, and she loved her dearly. It was a bond forged in adversity, for they had lost their mother when young, and though the gap between Cassie and their next sister, Cressida, was just a little more than three years, it was sufficient to split the family into two distinct camps, the two older ones who struggled to take Mama’s place, and the three younger ones, who needed to be cared for.

‘Poor Cassie,’ Celia said now, leaning over to give her sister a quick hug, ‘you’ve had such a hard time of it these last three months—are you sure you’re ready for this challenge?’

‘Don’t pity me, Celia,’ Cassie replied with a frown. ‘Most of what I’ve been forced to endure has been of my own doing.’

‘How can you say that! He as good as left you at the altar.’

Cassie bit her lip hard. ‘You exaggerate a little. The wedding was still two weeks away.’

‘The betrothal had been formally announced, people were sending gifts—we sent one ourselves—and the guests had been invited to the breakfast. I know you think you loved him, Cassie, but how you can defend him after that …’

‘I’m not defending him.’ Cassie opened her eyes wide to stop the tears from falling. ‘I’m just saying that I’m as much to blame as Augustus.’

‘How so?’ Until now, Cassie had refused to discuss her broken betrothal, for she wanted only to forget it had ever happened, and Celia, who could see that the wound to her sister’s pride was as deep as that to her heart, had tactfully refrained from questioning her. Now, it seemed, her patience was about to pay off, and she could not help but be curious. She leaned over to lift Bashirah from Cassie, for she was making that little impatient noise that preceded an aggressive demand for sustenance. Celia thought of Ramiz and smiled as she settled the baby at her breast. The child had clearly inherited her demanding temperament from her father. ‘Won’t you tell me, Cassie?’ she said gently. ‘Sometimes talking about things, however painful, helps, and I’ve been so worried about you.’

‘I’m perfectly all right,’ Cassie replied with a sniff.

She looked so patently not ‘all right’ that Celia laughed. ‘Liar.’

Cassie managed a weak smile in return. ‘Well, I may not be all right at the moment, but I will be, I promise. I just need to prove myself, make a success of something for a change, give everyone, myself included, something to be proud of.’

‘Cassie, we all love you, no matter what. You know that.’

‘Yes. But there’s no getting away from it, Celia, I’ve behaved very foolishly indeed, and Papa is still furious with me. I can’t go back to England, not until I’ve proved I’m not a complete nincompoop.’

‘Cassie, Augustus failed you, not the other way round.’

‘He was my choice.’

‘You can’t choose who you fall in love with, Cass.’

‘I’ll tell you something, Celia, I’m going to make very sure I choose not to fall in love ever again.’

‘Oh, Cassie, you say the silliest things.’ Celia patted her sister’s knee. ‘Of course you will fall in love again. The surprising thing is that you have not fallen in love before, for you are such a romantic.’

‘Which is precisely the problem. So I’m not going to be, not anymore. I’ve learned a hard lesson, and I’m determined not to have to learn it again. If I tell you how it was, maybe then you’ll understand.’

‘Only if you’re sure you want to.’

‘Why not? You can’t think worse of me than I already do. No, don’t look like that, Celia, I don’t deserve your pity.’ Cassie toyed with the cerulean-blue ribbons that were laced up the full sleeves of her delicate-figured muslin dress. ‘Augustus said these ribbons were the same colour as my eyes,’ she said with a wistful smile. ‘Then again, he also told me that my eyes were the colour of the sky at midnight, and that they put a field of lavender to shame. He brought me a posy of violets in a silver filigree holder and told me they were a hymn to my eyes, too, now I come to think about it. I didn’t even question the veracity of it, though I know perfectly well what colour of blue my own eyes are. That should give you an idea of how deeply in love I thought I was.’

A pink flush stole up the elegant line of Cassie’s throat. Even now, three months after it had all come to such a horrible end, the shame could still overwhelm her. Hindsight, as Aunt Sophia said, was a wonderful thing, but every time Cassie examined the course of events—and she examined them in minute detail most frequently—it was not Augustus’s shockingly caddish behaviour, but her own singular lack of judgement that mortified her most.

‘Augustus St John Marne.’ The name, once so precious, felt bitter on her tongue. Cassie made a moue of distaste. ‘I first met him at Almack’s, where I was fresh from another run-in with Bella.’

‘Bella Frobisher!’ Celia exclaimed. ‘Who would have believed Papa could stoop so low? I still can’t believe she’s taken Mama’s place. I doubt I will ever be able to bring myself to address her as Lady Armstrong.’

‘No, even Aunt Sophia stops short of that, and she has been pretty much won over since James was born. I have to say though, Celia, our half-brother is quite adorable.’

‘A son and heir for Papa. So the auspicious event has mollified even our terrifying aunt?’

Cassie giggled. ‘Bella Frobisher may be a witless flibberty-gibbet,’ she said in a fair imitation of their formidable Aunt Sophia’s austere tone, ‘but her breeding is sound, and she’s come up trumps with young James. A fine lusty boy to secure the title and the line, just what the family needs. And honestly, Celia, you should see Papa. He actually visits James in the nursery, which is far more than he did with any of us, I’m sure. He has him signed up for Harrow already. Bella thinks I’m jealous, of course.’ Cassie frowned. ‘I don’t know, maybe I am, a little. Papa has only ever been interested in us girls as pawns in his diplomatic games—he and Bella had drawn up a short list of suitors for me, you know. I mean, I ask you, a short list! How unromantic can one get. It was what I was arguing with Bella about the night I met Augustus.’

‘Ah,’ Celia said.

‘What does that mean?’

‘Nothing. Only you must admit that when someone tells you to do something you are very much inclined to do the exact opposite.’

‘That’s not true!’ Cassie’s bosom heaved indignantly. ‘I fell in love with Augustus because he was a poet, with a poet’s soul. And because I thought he liked all the things I did. And because he is so very good-looking and most understanding and—’

‘And exactly the sort of romantic hero you have always dreamed of falling in love with.’ Celia kissed the now-sated and sleeping Bashirah and placed her carefully back into her basket. ‘And partly, Cassie, you must admit, because you knew Bella and Papa would not approve.’

‘I concede, that might have been a tiny part of the attraction.’ Cassie frowned. Celia had merely articulated what she herself had long suspected. When Bella had handed her the list of suitors her father had compiled, Cassie had promptly torn it in two. The confrontation had ended, as most of her confrontations with Bella ended, in an impasse, but over dinner, and during the coach ride to King Street, Cassie had found her resentment growing. It was while in this rebellious mood that she had encountered Augustus, a singularly beautiful young man who was most gratifyingly disparaging of her stepmother’s treatment of her.

‘We danced a quadrille that night at Almack’s,’ she told Celia, forcing herself to continue with her confession, ‘and during supper Augustus composed a quatrain comparing me to Aphrodite. He dashed it off right there on the table linen. I thought it was just the most romantic thing ever. Imagine, being a poet’s muse. When he told me about his impoverished state, I positively encouraged myself to fall in love, and the more Papa and Bella protested against my betrothal, the more determined I was to go through with it.’ Cassie brushed a stray tear away angrily. ‘The terrible thing is, in a way I knew it wasn’t real. I mean, there was a part of me that looked at Augustus sometimes and thought, Are you seriously intending to marry this man, Cassandra? Then I’d think about how much he loved me, and I’d feel guilty, and I’d think about how smug Bella would be if I changed my mind, for it would prove her right, and—and so I didn’t do anything. And the funny thing is that, though there were times when I questioned my own heart, I never once doubted Augustus. He was so impassioned and so eloquent in his declarations. When he—when he jilted me it was such a shock. He did it in a letter, you know; he didn’t even have the decency to tell me to my face.’

‘What a coward!’ Celia’s elegant fingers curled into two small fists. ‘Who was she, this heiress of his, whom he abandoned you for? Do I know her?’

‘I don’t think so. Millicent Redwood, the daughter of one of those coal magnates from somewhere up north. They say she has fifty thousand. I suppose it could have been worse,’ Cassie replied, her voice wobbling, ‘if it had been a mere twenty …’

‘Oh, Cassie.’ Celia enfolded her sister in a warm embrace and held her close as she wept, stroking her golden hair away from her cheeks, just as she had done when they were girls, mourning their poor departed mama.

For a few moments Cassie surrendered to the temptation to cry, allowing herself the comfort of thinking that Celia would make everything better, just as she always had. But only for a few moments, for she had resolved not to spill any more tears. Augustus did not deserve them. She had to stop wallowing in self-pity, and anyway, what good did tears do? She sat up, fumbling for her handkerchief, and hastily rubbed her cheeks dry, taking a big gulp of air, then another. ‘So you see, Bella and Papa were right all along. I’m selfish, headstrong and foolish, and far too full of romantic notions that have no place in the real world. “A heart that can be given so easily cannot be relied upon, and must never again be given free rein.” That’s what Aunt Sophia said, and I have to say I agree with her. I have tasted love,’ Cassie declared dramatically, temporarily forgetting that she had abandoned her romantic streak, ‘and though the first sip was sweet, the aftertaste was bitter. I will not drink from that poisoned chalice again.’

Celia bit her lip in an effort not to smile, for Cassie in full unabridged Cassandra mode had always amused her terribly. It was reassuring that her sister wasn’t so completely given over to the blue melancholy as to have lost her endearing qualities, and it gave her the tiniest bit of hope that perhaps her very tender heart would recover from the almost-fatal wound dealt it by Augustus St John Marne. Ramiz would have dispensed swift retribution if he ever got his hands on him. Celia toyed momentarily with the satisfying vision of the feckless poet staked out, his pale foppish skin blistering and desiccating under the fierce desert sun, a legendary punishment meted out to transgressors in bygone days in A’Qadiz. And then, as was her wont, she turned her mind to practicalities.

‘You are expected at the border of Daar-el-Abbah in three days. Ramiz will escort you there, but Bashirah is too young to travel and I’m afraid I can’t bear to leave her so I won’t be coming with you. It’s not too late to change your mind about all this though, Cassie. The city of Daar is five days’ travel from here and you are likely to be the only European there. You will also have sole responsibility for the princess. She has a dreadful reputation, poor little mite, for she has been left to the care of a whole series of chaperons since her mother died in the process of giving birth to her. The prince will expect a lot from you.’

‘And I won’t let him down,’ Cassie said, clasping her hands together. ‘Who better than I to empathise with little Linah’s plight—did I not lose my own mother? Have I not helped you to raise our three sisters?’

‘Well, I suppose in a way, but …’

‘I am sure all she needs is a little gentle leading in the right direction and a lot of understanding.’

‘Perhaps, but.’

‘And a lot of love. I have plenty of that to give, having no other outlet for it.’

‘Cassie, you cannot be thinking to sacrifice your life to a little girl like Linah. This position cannot be of a permanent nature, you must think of it as an interlude only. It is an opportunity to allow yourself to recover, and to do some good along the way, nothing more. Then you must return to England, resume your life.’

‘Why? You are content to stay here.’

‘Because I fell in love with Ramiz. You, too, will fall in love one day, properly in love, with the right man. No matter what you think now, there will come a time when looking after someone else’s child will not be enough.’

‘Perhaps Prince Jamil will marry again, and have other children. Then he will need me to stay on as governess.’

‘I don’t think you understand how unusual it is, his taking you into the royal household in the first place. Daar-el-Abbah is a much more traditional kingdom than A’Qadiz. Should he take another wife—which he must, eventually, for he needs a son and heir—then he will resort to the tradition of the harem, I think. There will be no need for governesses then.’

‘What is Prince Jamil like?’

Celia furrowed her brow. ‘I don’t know him very well. Ramiz has a huge respect for him so he must be an excellent ruler, but I’ve only met him briefly. In many ways he’s a typical Arabian prince—haughty, distant, used to being revered.’

‘You make him sound like a tyrant.’

‘Oh, no, not at all. If I thought that, I’d hardly allow you to go and live in his household. His situation makes it difficult for him to be anything other than a bit remote, for his people idolise him, but Ramiz says he is one of the most honourable men of his acquaintance. He is anxious to forge an alliance with him.’

‘Yes, yes, I’m sure he is, but what does Prince Jamil actually look like?’

‘He’s very good looking. There’s something about him that draws attention. His eyes, I think—they are the most striking colour. And he’s quite young, you know, he can’t be any more than twenty-nine or thirty.’

‘I didn’t realise. I had assumed he would be older.’

‘Though he has not married again, it is not for lack of opportunity. I don’t know him well enough to like him—I doubt any woman does—but what’s important is, I trust him. The thing is though …’ Celia hesitated, and took Cassie’s hand in her own ‘… he’s not a man who will readily tolerate failure, and he’s not a man to cross either. You must curb your tongue in his presence, Cassie, and try to think before you speak. Not that I expect you’ll see very much of him—from what I’ve heard, one of the contributing factors to his daughter’s bad behaviour is his complete lack of interest in her.’

‘Oh, how awful. Why, no wonder she is a bit of a rebel.’

Celia laughed. ‘There, you see, that is exactly what I have just cautioned you about. You must not allow your heart to rule your head, and you must wait until you understand the whole situation before leaping in with opinions and judgements. Prince Jamil is not a man to get on the wrong side of, and I am absolutely certain that should you do so he would have no hesitation in trampling you underfoot. The point of this exercise is to restore your confidence, not have it for ever shattered.’

‘You need have no fear, I will be a model governess,’ Cassie declared, her flagging spirits fortified by the touching nature of the challenge that lay ahead of her. She, who had resolved never to love again, would reunite this little family by showing Linah and her father how to love each other. It would be her sacred mission, her vocation. ‘I promise you,’ Cassandra said with a fervour that lit her eyes and flushed her cheeks and made Celia question her judgement in having ever suggested her sister as a sober, level-headed governess, ‘I promise you, Celia, that Prince Jamil will be so delighted with my efforts that it will reflect well on both you and Ramiz.’

‘I take it, then,’ Celia said wryly, ‘that you are not having second thoughts or falling prey to doubts?’

Cassie got to her feet, shook out her dress and tossed back her head. Her eyes shone with excitement. She looked, Celia could not help thinking, magnificent and quite beautiful, all the more so for being completely unaware of her appearance. Cassie had many faults, but vanity was not one of them. Celia felt a momentary pang of doubt. How much did she really know of Jamil al-Nazarri the man, as opposed to the prince? Cassie was so very lovely, and she would be very much alone and therefore potentially vulnerable. She stood up, placing a restraining hand on her sister’s arm. ‘Maybe it is best that you should take a little more time, stay here for a few more days before committing yourself.’

‘I have decided. And in any case, it is all arranged. You are worried that Prince Jamil may have designs on me, I can see it in your face, but you need not, I assure you. Even if he did—which seems to me most unlikely, for though in England I pass for a beauty, here in Arabia they admire a very different kind of woman—it would come to nothing. I told you, I am done with men, and I am done for ever with love.’

‘Then I must be done with trying to persuade you to reconsider,’ Celia said lightly, realising that further protestations on her part would only unsettle Cassie further. ‘Come then, let me help you pack, for the caravan must leave at first light.’

Chapter Two

At dawn the next day, Cassie bade Celia a rather tearful goodbye and set off, following closely behind Prince Ramiz, who led the caravan through the dark and empty streets of Balyrma and out into the desert. She wore the royal blue linen riding habit she’d had Papa’s tailor make up especially for this trip, which she fervently hoped would not prove too stifling in the arid heat of the desert. The skirt was wide enough to ensure she could sit astride a camel with perfect modesty. The little jacket was cut in military style, with a high collar and a double row of buttons, but was otherwise quite plain, relying on the severity of the masculine cut to emphasise the femininity of the form beneath it. By the time the caravan began to make its way through the first mountain pass, however, the sun was rising and Cassie was wishing that a less clinging style was currently more fashionable. Though she wore only a thin chemise under her corset, and no other petticoats, she was already frightfully hot.

The first two days’ travel took a toll on both her appearance and spirits. The heat seared her face through her veil so that her skin felt as if it were being baked in a bread oven. Her throat ached from the dust and constant thirst, and the unfamiliar sheen of perspiration made her chemise cling like an unpleasant second skin that had her longing to cast both stays and stockings to the winds.

The excitement of the journey was at first more than compensation for these discomforts. The dramatically shifting scenery of ochre-red mountains and undulating golden dunes, the small grey-green patches that marked the location of oases, the ever-changing blue of the sky and the complete otherness of the landscape all fascinated Cassie, appealing at an elemental level to her romantic heart.

Until, that is, she started to lose sensation in the lower half of her body. The camel’s saddle, a high-backed wooden affair with a padded velvet seat that gave it a quite misleading air of comfort, began, on the second day, to feel like an instrument of torture. Renowned horsewoman that she was, Cassie was used to the relative comfort of a leather saddle with the security of a pommel, ridden for pleasure rather than used as a mode of long-distance transport. Six hours was the longest she’d ever spent on horseback. Counting up the time since she’d left Celia at the royal palace, she reckoned she’d been aboard the plodding camel for all but eight hours out of the last thirty-six. What had begun as a pleasant swaying motion when they had first started out, now felt more like a side-to-side lurching. Her bottom was numb and her legs ached. What’s more, she was covered from head to toe in dust and sand, her lashes gritty with it, her mouth and nose equally so, for she had been forced to put up her veil in order to see her way as dusk fell and Ramiz urged his entourage on, anxious to make the pre-arranged meeting point by nightfall.

Sway left, sway right, sway forward. Sway left, sway right, sway forward, Cassie said over to herself, her exhausted and battered body automatically moving in the tortuous wooden saddle as she bid it. Sway left, sway right, sway—‘Oh!’

The lights that she’d vaguely noticed twinkling in the distance now coalesced into a recognisable form. A camp had been set up around a large oasis. A line of flaming torches snaked out towards them, forming a pathway at the start of which Ramiz bid his own entourage to halt. Her aches and pains temporarily forgotten, Cassie dismounted stiffly from her camel, horribly conscious of her bedraggled state, even more conscious of her mounting excitement as she caught a glimpse of the regal-looking figure who awaited them at the end of the line of braziers. Prince Jamil al-Nazarri. It could only be him. Her heart began to pound as she made a futile attempt to shake the dust from her riding habit and, at Ramiz’s bidding, communicated by a stern look and a flash of those intense eyes that had so beguiled her sister, put her veil firmly back in place.

Following a few paces behind her brother-in-law, Cassie saw Prince Jamil’s camp take shape before her, making her desperate to lift her veil for just a few moments in order to admire it properly. She had never seen anything so magical—it looked exactly like a scene from One Thousand and One Nights.

The oasis itself was large, almost the size of a small lake, bordered by clumps of palm trees and the usual low shrubs. The water glittered, dark blue and utterly tempting. She longed to immerse her aching body in it. On the further reaches of the shore was a collection of small tents, typical of the ones she had slept in on her overland journey from the Red Sea to Balyrma. They were simple structures made of wool and goatskin blankets held up with two wooden poles and a series of guy ropes. The bleating of camels and the braying of mules carried on the soft night air. The scent of cooking also, the mouth-watering smell of meat roasting on an open spit, of fresh-baked flat bread and a delicious mixture of spices she couldn’t begin to name. Two much larger tents stood slightly apart from the others, their perimeter lit by oil lamps. Their walls were constructed from what looked to Cassie like woven tapestries or carpets, topped by a pleated green-damask roof bordered with scalloped edges trimmed with gold and silver.

‘Like little tent palaces,’ she said to Ramiz, momentarily forgetting all he had told her about protocol and tugging on his sleeve to get his attention. She received what she called his sheikh look in return, and hastily fell back into place, chiding herself and praying that her lapse had not been noted.

Another few paces and Ramiz halted. Cassie dropped to her knees as she had been instructed, her view of the prince obscured by Ramiz’s tall frame. She could see the open tent in front of which the prince stood. Four carved wooden poles supporting another scallop-edged green roof, the floating organdie curtains that would form the walls tied back to reveal a royal reception room with rich carpets, a myriad of oil lamps, two gold-painted divans and a plethora of silk and satin cushions scattered around.

Cassie craned her head, but Ramiz’s cloak fluttered in the breeze and frustrated her attempts to see beyond him. He was bowing now, making formal greetings. She could hear Prince Jamil respond, his voice no more than a deep sonorous murmur. Then Ramiz stepped to one side and nodded. She got to her feet without her usual grace, made clumsy by her aching limbs, and made her curtsy. Low, as if to the Regent at her presentation, just as Celia had shown her, keeping her eyes lowered behind her veil.

He was tall, this prince, was her first impression. A perfectly plain white silk tunic beneath an unusual cloak, a vivid green that was almost emerald, bordered with gold and weighted with jewels. A wicked-looking scimitar hung at his waist. He certainly wasn’t fat, which she’d been expecting simply because Celia told her that it was a sign of affluence, and she knew Prince Jamil to be exceedingly rich. But the thin tunic was unforgiving. Prince Jamil’s body showed no sign of excess. He was more—lithe.

The word surprised Cassie. Apt as it was, she hadn’t ever thought of a man in such a way before. It was his stance, maybe; the way he looked as if he was ready to pounce. A line of goose bumps formed themselves like sentries along Cassie’s spine. Celia was right. Prince Jamil was not a man to cross. As he put his hands together in the traditional welcome, Cassie tried to sneak a quick look at his face, to no avail.

‘Lady Cassandra. As-salamu alaykum,’ Prince Jamil said. ‘Peace be with you.’

‘Wa-alaykum as-salam, Your Highness,’ Cassie replied from behind her veil, her voice raspy with thirst, ‘and with you also.’ She caught a glimpse of white teeth as he smiled in response to her carefully rehearsed Arabic. Or to be more accurate, he made something approximating a smile, which lasted for about two seconds before he held out his hand in greeting to Ramiz, and then ushered him into the throne room, where a servant pulled the organdie curtains into place, thus effectively obscuring them from view. Cassie was left to follow another man who emerged from the shadows to lead her towards the smaller of the two large tents.

‘I am Halim, Prince Jamil’s man of business. The prince asks me to ensure you have all you require. Refreshments will be served to you in your tent.’

‘But—I assumed I would dine with Prince Jamil and Ramiz—I mean Prince Ramiz.’

‘What can you be thinking of to suggest such a thing?’ Halim looked at the dusty-veiled female who was to be the Princess Linah’s governess with horror, thinking that already his worst fears were being confirmed. She had no idea of the ways and customs of the East. ‘You are not in London now, Lady Cassandra. We do things very differently here—Prince Jamil would be shocked to the core.’ The latter statement was a lie, for Prince Jamil was forever lamenting the outmoded segregation of the sexes at meal times, but this upstart governess was not to know that, and the sooner she was put firmly in her place the better.

‘Please, don’t mention it to him,’ Cassie said contritely. ‘I did not mean to offend. I beg your pardon.’

‘It shall be so, but you would do well to heed my warning, Lady Cassandra. Daar-el-Abbah is a very traditional kingdom. You must tread extremely carefully.’ Halim bowed and held back the heavy tapestry that formed the door of the tent. Cassie stepped across the threshold and turned to thank him, but he was already gone. She stared in wide-eyed amazement at the carpets, the wall hangings, the divans and cushions, the carved chests and inlaid tables. Another heavy tapestry, depicting an exotic garden in which nymphs sported, split the tent into two. In the smaller of the compartments she found, to her astonishment, a bath of beaten copper filled with warm water and strewn with petals. It had a delightful fragrance, orange blossom, she thought. A selection of oils in pretty glass decanters stood beside it on a little table, along with a tablet of soap and the biggest sponge Cassie had ever seen.

She needed no further encouragement, stripping herself of her travel-worn clothes and sinking with a contented sigh into the bath. She lay luxuriating in it for a long time, allowing the waters to ease her aching muscles. Eventually she sat up and washed her hair, then chose a jasmine oil with which to anoint herself before donning one of her own nightgowns and a loose wrapper in her favourite shade of cerulean blue. Her hair she brushed out and left loose to dry in its natural curl.

‘Since I’m obviously surplus to requirements while the men discuss weighty matters of state, I may as well be comfortable,’ she muttered to herself. Part of her resented being so completely excluded, despite the fact that she was perfectly well aware her presence would be unprecedented in this deeply patriarchal society. As Papa’s daughter, playing a role, albeit a small one, in the world of politicking and diplomatic shenanigans was second nature to Cassie. Though she was not the trusted confidante that Celia had been, she was used to pouring oil on troubled waters and providing a sympathetic ear. It irked her, though she knew it should not, that both Ramiz and her new employer should so casually dismiss her.

But as she emerged into the main room of the tent and found a silver tray covered in a huge selection of dainty dishes had been provided for her, along with a jug of sherbet, Cassie’s mood brightened significantly and common sense reasserted itself. She was expecting too much—and she would do well to remember that she was here to govern a small girl, not a country! The princes were welcome to their weighty affairs of state.

Stacking up a heap of cushions on the floor beside the tray, she set about making an excellent meal. Far better to enjoy her own company than to have to make polite conversation with the prince tonight, all the time on tenterhooks lest she overstep some invisible mark. Far better to have a good night’s sleep, to be introduced to him formally in the morning when she was refreshed and able to make a better impression.

She washed her fingers in the bowl and lolled back on the cushions in a most satisfyingly un-ladylike manner, which would have immediately prompted Aunt Sophia into one of her lectures about posture and politesse. The thought made Cassie giggle. Despite the fact that Celia was inordinately happy in her marriage, and despite the fact that, having met Ramiz, her initial reservations were quickly assuaged by his charm and patent integrity, Aunt Sophia thought Arabia a decadent place. For once a female has abandoned her corsets, there is no saying what else she will abandon, had been her parting words to Cassie. Firmly laced stays signify firmly laced morals. Remember that, and you will be safe.

Safe from what? Cassie wondered idly now, yawning. She should go to bed, but instead settled back more comfortably on the mound of cushions and examined her surroundings. The ceiling of the tent was constructed from pleated silk, decorated with gold-and-silver tassels. It reminded her a little of one of the rooms at the Brighton Pavilion, to which she, in the company of Papa, had been invited to take tea with the Prince Regent. Which room was it? Her eyes drooped closed as she tried to remember. Tea had been delayed for over an hour because Prinny was being bled. Papa was most upset, considering it very poor form. But at least she had been allowed to socialise with the prince, unlike here. Strange to think that Prinny was king now. Which room had it been?

Cassie fell fast asleep.

An hour later the princes, having concluded discussions to their mutual satisfaction, parted company. Ramiz, who had never before left Celia alone for more than one night since they were married, was anxious to return to Balyrma, and could not be persuaded to stay on, despite Jamil’s entreaties.

‘I won’t disturb Cassandra,’ Ramiz said to Prince Jamil, ‘you will pass on my goodbyes, my friend, if you would be so kind.’ Ramiz headed back to his own waiting caravan, glancing up at the night sky, reassured that the moon was full enough for him to be able to travel for a few hours before having to stop for the night.

Jamil waited until his new ally was beyond the torch-lit path, and turned to Halim. ‘That went well, I think.’

‘Indeed, Highness. Extremely well.’

‘I’ll see the Lady Cassandra now.’

‘But, Highness, it’s very late.’

‘Nonsense. She’ll be expecting me to welcome her 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.’

‘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.’

‘Highness! I promise you that—’

‘I do not want promises, Halim, I want your unequivocal support. And now, whether she is expecting me or not, 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 long sleeves 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.

‘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.

‘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 heard, so pertinent were they. Like the Corsair, this man was both intriguing and inscrutable. He had an imperious air about him, as if he surveyed the world from some higher, more exclusive plane. Intimidating, was the word which sprang to mind. Who was he? And what was he doing in her tent in the middle of the night?

Clutching at the neck of her nightgown, the sash of her robe, her unbound hair, Cassie tried to get up off the cluster of cushions upon which she had been lying and succeeded only in catching her bare foot on a particularly slippery satin one, which pitched her forwards. ‘Oh!’

His reactions were lightning quick. Instead of falling on to the carpet, Cassie found herself held in a hard embrace. She had never, even dancing a waltz, been held this close to a man—not even by Augustus, that soul of propriety. She hadn’t realised how very different was the male body. A sinewy arm, lightly tanned under the loose sleeve of his tunic, held her against his unyielding chest. Were all men this solid? She hadn’t really realised either, until now, that she was so very pliant. Her waist seemed designed for his embrace. She felt helpless. The feeling was strange, because it should have made her feel scared, but she wasn’t. Not completely.

‘Unhand me at once, you fiend!’

The fiend, who was actually remarkably un-fiendlike, retained his vice-like hold. ‘You are Lady Cassandra?’ he said, gazing at her in something akin to dismay. ‘Sister to Lady Celia, daughter of Lord Henry Armstrong?’

‘Of course I am.’ Cassie clutched her robe more firmly together. ‘More to the point, who are you, and what, pray, are you doing in my tent in the middle of the night? I must warn you,’ she declared dramatically, throwing herself with gusto into the role of innocent maiden, safe now in the knowledge that the stranger meant her no harm, ‘I will fight to the death to protect my honour.’

To her intense irritation the man smiled, or made as if to smile, a slight curl of the mouth that she’d seen somewhere before. ‘That will not be necessary, I assure you,’ he said. He had a voice like treacle, rich and mellow, his English softly accented.

‘I am here as Prince Jamil’s guest, you know,’ Cassie said warily. ‘If any harm were to come to me and he were to hear of it, he would—he would …’

‘What would he do, this Prince Jamil, who you seem to know so well?’

‘He would have you beheaded and dragged through the desert by a team of wild horses,’ Cassie said defiantly. She was sure she had read about that somewhere.

‘Before or after the beheading?’

Cassie narrowed her eyes and set her jaw determinedly. ‘You are clearly not taking me seriously. Perhaps I should scream.’

‘I would prefer it if you did not. My apologies, Lady Cassandra, allow me to introduce myself. I am Sheikh Jamil al-Nazarri, Prince of Daar-el-Abbah. I did not intend to alarm you, I merely wished to formally welcome you into my protection. Protection,’ he added sardonically, ‘that you obviously feel in urgent need of.’

Prince Jamil! Dear heavens, this was Prince Jamil! Cassie stared aghast at his countenance, forgetting all about the heinous crime of meeting a prince’s eyes, which Celia had warned her about. ‘Prince Jamil! I’m sorry, I didn’t realise, I thought.’

‘You thought I was about to rip your nightclothes unceremoniously from you and ravish you,’ Jamil finished for her, eyeing the luscious curves, barely concealed by her flimsy garment.

Cassie clutched her nightdress even tighter to her and tried, not entirely successfully, to banish this shockingly exciting idea from her mind. ‘I wasn’t aware that you were going to call on me,’ she said in what she hoped was an unflustered tone.

‘Halim did not mention that I intended to visit you?’

‘No.’ She saw a fierce frown form on the prince’s countenance. She would not like to be in Halim’s shoes. Cassie bit her lip. ‘I’m sure it was an oversight. He may even have mentioned it, but I didn’t hear him. I was very tired.’

‘Your generosity does you credit. Don’t worry, I won’t have him beheaded and dragged through the desert by wild horses.’

His words were accompanied by a half-smile that Cassie could not help but return. ‘I’m afraid I let my imagination run away with me a bit.’

She was not the only one. Reality crashed down on Jamil’s head with a vengeance, forcing him to bid a metaphorical goodbye to his cherished vision of a dowdy, sober, English aristocrat. He looked at the dishevelled female standing before him who apparently was Lady Cassandra Armstrong, Linah’s new governess. This ravishing, curvaceous, luscious creature with lips that were made to cushion kisses was to stay at the royal palace and teach Linah manners. Respect. Discipline.

Jamil clutched at the golden band of his headdress and pulled it from his head along with the gutrah itself and threw both onto a nearby divan. He ran his hands through his short hair, which was already standing up in startled spikes, and tried to imagine the reception his Council would give her. Almost, it would be worth bringing her back to Daar just to see their stunned expressions. Then he imagined Linah’s reaction and his mouth straightened into its familiar determined line. ‘No,’ he said decisively.

‘No? No—what, may I ask?’

‘I cannot permit you to be my daughter’s governess.’

Cassie’s face fell. ‘But why not? What have I done?’

Jamil made a sweeping gesture. ‘For a start you look like you belong in a harem, not a schoolroom.’

Dismay made Cassie forget all about the need for deference and the necessity of not speaking without thinking. ‘That’s not fair! You caught me unawares. I was prepared to go to my bed, not to receive a formal state visit. You talk as if I lie around half-naked on a divan all day, buffing my nails and eating sweetmeats.’

Jamil swallowed hard. The idea of her lying around half-naked was most distracting. To be fair, she was actually showing less flesh than if she had been clad in an evening gown. Except that he knew her to be naked underneath. And the folds of her robe clung so lovingly to her, he could not help but notice her contours. And there was something about her, the slumberous eyes, the full bottom lip, the fragrance of her skin, jasmine and something else, sensuous and utterly female.

‘What I meant is, you don’t look—strict enough to be a governess,’ he said.

Despite the very awkward situation, Cassie’s sense of the ridiculous was tickled. She bit hard on her lower lip, but her smile quivered rebelliously.

‘I don’t know what you find in the situation to amuse you,’ Jamil snapped.

‘I beg your pardon,’ Cassie said, trying very hard to sound contrite. ‘If you would perhaps tell me how you expect me to look, I will endeavour to change my appearance accordingly. I have lots of perfectly demure dresses, I assure you.’

‘It’s not a matter of clothing. Or lack of it. It’s—it’s you. Look!’ He took her by surprise, taking her by the arm and turning her towards the full-length mirror that stood in a corner of the tent.

Cassie looked at her reflection in the soft glow of the lamp that hung from the canopied ceiling. Her hair was burnished, more auburn than gold, curling wildly about her face, tangling with the lace at the neckline of her negligee. Her skin was flushed. Her eyes had a sparkle to them that had of late been missing. She had an air of disarray that made her look a little—wanton—there was no denying it. How could that be?

Behind her, Prince Jamil moved closer. She could feel the hardness of his body just barely touching her back. She could sense him, warm and male, hovering only inches away from her. He reached over her shoulder to brush her hair back from her face and his touch, for some reason, made her shiver, though she wasn’t cold in the slightest.

‘Look,’ he said, gazing at her intently, straightening the lace at her neck, running a hand down her arm to twitch the lace straight there, too, to tighten the sash of her robe which kept coming undone despite her best efforts to knot it securely. ‘Look,’ he said, his hand brushing her waist. Their eyes met in the mirror, autumn gold and summer blue, and she looked—not at herself but at them, the two of them, close enough to almost merge into one—as he did, too, at precisely the same moment.

And at that precise moment something happened. The air seemed to crackle. Their gazes locked. Cassie’s breath caught in her throat. Prince Jamil bent his head. She watched in the mirror as he lifted the fall of her hair from her shoulders, as if she were watching a play, as if it was happening to someone else, as if the sensual creature before her was not her.

But if it was not her, why was it that she could feel his lips on the bare skin of her neck? The tiniest touch, but it was searing. Her skin contracted and burned. Now her breath came, rapid and shallow, too fast, like her heart, suddenly galloping. She realised only a fraction of a second before he did so that he was going to kiss her.

Kiss her properly.

Kiss her on the mouth.

He turned her around and tilted her chin up. His eyes met hers again, darker gold now, intensely gold, irresistibly gold. He made the tiniest movement towards her, so subtle as to be almost undetectable, except she detected it and responded, stepping into his arms and lifting her face and slanting her lips. And he kissed her.

Cassie had been kissed before. Truth be told, men had a habit of trying to kiss her, though she gave them no encouragement as far as she was aware, and had never had any problem in actively discouraging them when necessary. But strangely, discouraging Prince Jamil simply did not occur to her.

Augustus’s kisses had been worshipful and chaste rather than intimate. To be honest, Augustus’s kisses had failed singularly to arouse the rapture which dwells on the first kiss of love, which Lord Byron had so beautifully evoked and which Cassie had been led to expect. It had been one of the things that had made her question the depth of her feelings for Augustus, for neither the first kiss of love nor the twentieth had roused in her anything but mild indifference. But as Prince Jamil’s mouth met hers, indifference was the furthest thing from her mind, and she knew that when he finished kissing her, she would be in no doubt whatsoever that she had been kissed.

His hand cupped her head, urging her to close the space, the tiny space, between them. She did, relishing the way her curves seemed to meld into the hard planes of his muscular frame. Her breasts brushed tantalisingly against his chest and her nipples puckered in response, as they did when she was cold, except she wasn’t cold, and it was quite a different sensation. His other arm curved round her waist, nestling her closer. She licked her lips, because they felt dry. His eyes widened as she did so. He made a guttural noise like a moan that made her stomach knot. Then his lips touched hers, and she knew instantly that Lord Byron had been right after all.

Rapture. A soaring, giddy feeling surged through her as Prince Jamil’s mouth moulded itself to hers. He kissed as if he were tasting her, his touch plucking tingling strings of sensation buried deep in her belly. He pulled her closer, settling her against him, his fingers sinking into her hair, into the soft, yielding flesh of her waist. His mouth coaxed hers open, his lips settled on hers, harder now, making her sigh at the taste of him. She felt herself unfurling like a flower as his tongue touched hers, a shockingly sensual and intimate act. If he had not held her, if she had not clutched, with both hands, at his tunic, his arms, his shoulders, his back, she felt as if she would have fallen into an abyss. She felt wanton. She felt wild abandon. She wanted the kiss to go on for ever. She pressed herself against him, and encountered something solid and heavy pressing against her thigh.

Jamil leapt back at once. He stared at her as if she was a stranger. Cassie stared, too, her hand to her lips, which were burning, seared, marked. Shame and embarrassment washed over her. What must he think of her?

Jamil looked at her in horror. What was he doing? And by the gods, why was he still thinking of doing more! ‘You see what I mean now,’ he said, taking his frustration out on the cause of it, ‘you are clearly not governess material.’

Cassie was too bewildered to do anything other than stare at him. She felt a strange, needy ache, as if she had been starving, had been shown a banquet and allowed just one bite before the feast was withdrawn. Her body hummed and protested and begged for more. She was mortified and confused. Had she encouraged him? Was it her fault?

‘Well? Have you nothing to say for yourself?’

She licked her lips. They felt swollen. ‘I …’

Jamil gave an exclamation of disgust, as much at his own actions as anything else. It was not like him to behave with such a lack of control. A prince must be above such emotions. ‘This arrangement is clearly not going to work. It is best we acknowledge that now. I will have you returned to your sister in the morning.’

The heavy edge of his cloak brushed against her ankle as he made for the door, rousing Cassie from her stupor. ‘Returned!’ she gasped, as the consequences of her entirely inappropriate behaviour began to dawn on her. She was to be sent back, like an unwanted present or a misdirected missive! Why could she not just for once think before she spoke or acted? ‘Please. I beg of you, Prince Jamil, to reconsider.’ Cassie tugged on his cloak in an effort to halt his retreat, and succeeded in earning herself an extremely haughty stare, but desperation made her ignore it. If he left now, he would not change his mind. He would send her back, she would be disgraced for the second time, only this time it was even worse because she would be letting not only herself but Celia down, and Ramiz, too, and she could not bear that. ‘Oh, please,’ she said again, ‘I implore you, your Highness, don’t be so hasty. Just listen to me, give me a chance to prove myself, I beg of you.’

Jamil hesitated momentarily and Cassie threw herself into the breach. ‘Prince Jamil. Your Highness. Sheikh al-Nazarri.’ She made a low and extremely elegant curtsy, completely unaware that she was granting Jamil a tantalising glimpse of cleavage. ‘You would concede that your daughter is in urgent need of a governess and I—well, to be frank, I am in urgent need of an opportunity to prove myself, so you see, we both stand to profit from making this arrangement work. I know I’m not what you were expecting, though indeed I’m still not sure what exactly you were expecting, but I assure you I am extremely capable of looking after a little girl like Linah. I myself lost my mother at an early age, and I have three younger sisters whose education and upbringing I’ve been closely involved in. I’m sure she and I will get on. I know I can get through to her, make a difference to her. Please. Don’t send me back. Give me a chance. You won’t regret it.’

She clasped her hands in supplication and only just resisted the urge to throw herself on her knees. Prince Jamil gave no indication of wavering, his face set in an implacable expression. Only his eyes betrayed a flicker of something else. What, she couldn’t discern.

Why on earth had he kissed her like that? To teach her a lesson? And why had she let him? She wasn’t attracted to him, she couldn’t be, she wasn’t going to allow herself to be attracted to anyone. Not ever. She’d never allowed a man such liberties before. No man had ever attempted to take such liberties before, but Prince Jamil did not seem to think his behaviour questionable. Only her own.

And he was right about that. She had behaved like a very wanton. No wonder he thought—oh, God, she didn’t want to even think about what he thought. Cassie clasped her hands together tighter and swallowed her pride. What use was pride, after all? She had no right to it, and no use for it either, if it prevented her from using all her powers to persuade the prince that she was worthy of his trust. ‘I don’t know what came over me—when you—when you—when I allowed you to kiss me, I mean,’ she said, blushing madly but forcing herself to continue to meet those strange golden brown eyes. ‘I can only assure you that I am not in the habit of allowing—of indulging—in kissing.’

‘I know,’ Jamil said, surprised out of his rigid hold on his control by this naïve admission.

‘You do?’

‘Your kisses were hardly expert.’

Cassie wasn’t sure if this was an insult or a compliment. Though she was much inclined to pursue this very interesting question, for once sense prevailed and she held her tongue. ‘Anyway, whatever they were or were not, I assure you I won’t subject you to them again.’

Despite his determination not to be persuaded, Jamil was intrigued. And amused. It had been so long since he had found anyone so entertaining as Lady Cassandra. Or so—confounding. Unexpected. Interesting. He would be quite happy to be subjected again to her kisses. More than happy. The question was, was this a good thing or a bad? ‘My daughter.’

‘Linah.’

‘She is.’

‘Unhappy.’

He raised a supercilious brow. ‘I was going to say difficult.’

‘Yes, but that’s because she’s unhappy.’

‘Nonsense. She has no reason to be so. She has everything any little girl could wish for.’

‘Children are not born difficult, they are difficult for a reason,’ Cassie persisted, feeling herself on surer ground. ‘The trick is to work out what that reason is. Linah is only eight years old, she has not the language to express her feelings properly. So instead she expresses them by.’

‘Being difficult.’ Jamil pondered this. All his experience told him that leniency was the root cause of Linah’s tantrums. It had not occurred to him until now that Linah could actually be unhappy; he had assumed that withholding the harsh physical discipline which had been meted out to him would be enough. Could he be wrong? The thought was discomfiting.

‘You see, I do understand little girls,’ Cassie continued, sensing from the look on the prince’s face that she had struck a chord. ‘I want nothing more than to help Linah. If we could forget about what happened tonight—make a fresh start in the morning …’

Jamil raised an imperious hand. ‘Enough. I admit, you’ve given me food for thought, but it’s late. I will sleep on it and inform you of my decision in the morning.’

‘Sleep is the wisest counsel. That’s what my sister Celia always says.’

Jamil smiled properly this time, showing a fleeting hint of a single dimple. ‘My father used to say something similar. I will bid you goodnight, Lady Cassandra.’

Dazzled by the way his face changed, from intimidating sheikh to an extraordinarily attractive and somehow more youthful man, Cassie gazed up at him. Only his turning to go brought her to her senses. ‘Goodnight, Highness,’ she said, dropping another curtsy. By the time she emerged from it, he was gone.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.