Forbidden in Regency Society: The Governess and the Sheikh. Marguerite Kaye

first, the child was determinedly uninterested in Cassie’s carefully planned lessons, drumming her fingers on the miniature desk, kicking her heels against the legs of her chair—for the room used for lessons had been kitted out, to Cassie’s surprise, in a Western manner, presumably by Jamil and at great expense. There was a substantial oak desk for herself, a slate board and a large globe, all imported. When requested to desist, Linah would either roll her eyes and feign sleep, or simply throw the desk over and storm out, hiding herself within the ranks of her maidservants, a clutch of giggling, fluttery creatures who made Cassie think of a cloud of butterflies, who were only too keen to pander to Linah, soothing her with comfits, singing her to sleep in her favourite spot under the lemon tree by the fountain, so that no amount of coaxing or reasoning or even threats from Cassie could persuade her to return to the classroom. That the child was bored, Cassie could plainly see. That she had an excess of energy to fuel her regime of defiance was also obvious.

      There had been some minor signs of improvement of late, but not sufficient, in Cassie’s view, to yet be measured in any way as success. Linah occasionally paid attention during lessons, very occasionally she asked a question or deigned to do a few sums, but mostly she continued with her campaign of disobedience. After ten days, Cassie, having signally failed to exert her authority, was starting to wonder whether the task was beyond her.

      It was evening, and she was taking refuge in her room—actually a suite of rooms, which took up the whole southern ellipse of the main courtyard, consisting of a day room that led to a sleeping chamber, a dressing room and a magnificent tiled bathing room. She’d been certain that all it would take was a little love and affection, but Linah responded to neither and Cassie, who was used to the security of her own loving little circle of sisters, was beginning to realise just how much she had taken the daily tokens of affection between them for granted—and how much they had sustained her, too, for without them she was beginning to feel as lost and unloved as poor little Linah.

      Cassie sat up wearily, resolutely denying herself the solace of a good cry, and rubbed her eyes, though a few stray tears escaped. She was tired, she was a bit disillusioned and a bit homesick, that was all. With Jamil inexplicably absent, she had no one to talk her problems over with, no one to confide in, nor anyone to encourage her either. Cassie, used to the bustle of the Armstrong household where female company, whether in the shape of her beloved sisters or her formidable Aunt Sophia, was never in short supply, found herself longing even for such an unsympathetic ear as Bella’s. She was lonely, and she was unsure of herself, and she was afraid of making mistakes.

      Another tear trickled its solitary path down her cheek, and then another. Cassie sniffed. Crying was pointless, as was self-pity. If she was Celia—but she was not, and never would have her elder sister’s calm assurance. How much she wished she was with Celia right now. Just a few moments in her company would restore her equanimity.

      She sniffed again, but her tears gathered momentum. Bella was right. Aunt Sophia was right. Papa was right. She had been foolish beyond measure to think she could succeed where so many others had patently failed. Linah didn’t even like her and Jamil quite obviously wasn’t interested in his daughter. He’d told her as much, yet she hadn’t listened, so determined had she been to hear only what she wanted to hear. Yet again.

      She fumbled for her handkerchief, but the scrap of lace that her sister Caro had so carefully embroidered eluded her grasp, which made her tears flow faster still. She was useless! Linah could see that, and if an eight-year-old child could see that, it surely would not be long before her father did, too—if he ever deigned to visit them. Finally locating her kerchief, Cassie rubbed her cheeks furiously. She would not fail. She would not allow herself to fail. ‘I’ll show them, all of them,’ she muttered, ‘and in particular one uncaring man with autumn-coloured eyes who needs to be taught a lesson in love.’

      Strengthened by this reviving thought, her mood lightened. The heat of the day had given way to the welcome cool of the desert night, the time she loved best. She kicked off her kid slippers, untied her garters, stripped off her stockings, and made her way out to the courtyard, wriggling her bare toes with relish on the delicious cool marble of the tiled floor. The air was lemon-scented, the moon a thin silver crescent. Making her way over to the minaret, she climbed the stairs, feeling her way with her toes in the dark. At the top of the tower, she sat, her arms clasping her knees, and gazed up at the stars, which seemed, tantalisingly, almost within reach.

      Save for a fleeting visit a day after her arrival, she had not seen Jamil at all. He was away dealing with weighty matters, she had been informed by Halim, who greeted her ongoing enquires with disdain. Prince Jamil would return when Prince Jamil saw fit. It was unlikely, Halim said with a superior smile, that his first port of call would be the schoolroom. Prince Jamil was far too important, he clearly implied, to be wasting his time on English governesses and wayward daughters.

      At first Cassie had been relieved not to have to face him—or at least that’s what she told herself. Best not to be reminded of that kiss. Best not to be distracted by his presence. She didn’t want to think of Jamil as anything other than her charge’s father—though it was one thing to decide to think that way, quite another, she discovered, to do it. His absence was proving just as distracting as his presence would have been.

      Throwing her head back, she looked up at the heavens. The vastness of the skies, the fierce beauty of the endless desert landscape, had an eternal quality. She could neither change nor conquer it, but what she could do was embrace it. There was nothing so pure or so perfect or so wildly exciting as nature in this raw state. It was intoxicating. The natural effervescence with which she used to embrace life began to return, and with it came a renewed determination to succeed in making Linah happy. Which meant confronting Jamil, an idea as exciting and intimidating as taking on the desert over which he alone was master. He was out there now, somewhere under the stars, perhaps surveying them just as she was. Perhaps looking at that particular one, just there. Perhaps he, too, saw the shooting star that blazed across the tip of the moon’s crescent. Perhaps …

      A noise in the courtyard below caught her attention. Thinking it might be Linah, who was prone to sleepwalking, Cassie got to her feet and leaned over the parapet, but the person looking up at her was most definitely not a child. A tall figure, lithe in his white robe, with eyes that glittered in the harshly beautiful planes of his autocratic face. Cassie gripped hold of the parapet, trying to ignore the absurd little flutter of excitement which rippled through her tummy. ‘Your Highness—Jamil. You’re back.’

      ‘Lady Cassandra.’ He made a small bow. ‘Cassie. I am only just returned this past hour.’

      Only an hour ago, and yet he had come here to see her! To see Linah—or at least to obtain a report on Linah, Cassie reminded herself sternly. ‘I—we are flattered. I’m afraid Linah is asleep.’

      ‘I should hope so. But you, I see, are not.’

      ‘It’s a beautiful night.’

      Jamil stared up at her, what he could see of her above the parapet. The fiery tints of her hair and the pale material of her dress outlined her starkly against the night sky. He had forgotten how breathtakingly beautiful she was. She looked like a princess in a tower, awaiting rescue. ‘Lovely,’ he said softly.

      Cassie leaned precariously over to obtain a better view. Jamil was barefoot and bare-headed, as she was. Even without the trappings of authority, his air of command was there in the way he stood, feet firmly planted, hands on his hips, head thrown back. He looked like the master of all he surveyed, she thought, then had to suppress a smile because of course he was, and there could be no mistaking the fact. Including her. Cassie shivered. It was a disturbing thought. She knew she shouldn’t like it.

      ‘If you lean over any further, you will fall,’ Jamil said. ‘Come down and tell me how you have been getting on with my daughter.’

      His daughter. Of course, that’s what he’d come to talk about. He wasn’t interested in her. She had imagined the glint of smouldering desire in his expression. Reality broke into her fantasy of playing Juliet or Rapunzel, of Jamil mounting the tower—without using the stairs, of course—to come to her rescue. His daughter was his only concern.