Forbidden in Regency Society: The Governess and the Sheikh

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.