The Harlot And The Sheikh. Marguerite Kaye

it into the back of Stephanie’s hair with a huge comb and a selection of pins, where it fell in filmy folds down her back, rather like the beautiful mantillas worn by the haughty Spanish ladies whom Stephanie had seen pay court to Wellington in Madrid. This mantilla though, was much longer. Taking up both ends, Aida draped it over Stephanie’s arms so that it added a lustre to her gown, and covered the bare skin of her forearms which would have been rendered more decent by the addition of evening gloves, if she had any, which she did not.

      ‘It’s beautiful. My gown is quite transformed.’ Delighted, Stephanie twirled around in front of the mirror. ‘Now I feel suitably dressed to dine with a prince. How clever you are.’

      Aida smiled shyly. The sound of a bell tinkling in the courtyard made them both jump. ‘It is time,’ she said, ‘that is your summons, madam.’

      A final glance in the mirror was reassuring. She barely recognised herself. Her eyes sparkled with anticipation. A new Stephanie. It truly was time for her to put her past behind her and embrace whatever the future might hold.

      * * *

      The dining room into which Stephanie was shown was even grander than she had expected. A perfectly square chamber, each of its walls was an exact replica of the other, with three tall arched windows topped by three half-size arches, the whole surrounded by another huge corniced arch stretched between two marble pillars. The walls between each of the windows were tempered a soft lemon, the simplicity a stark contrast to the geometric pattern of tiles in multiple shades of ochre, terracotta, umber, russet and mahogany, which decorated the floor, the pattern replicated in the ceiling. There were candles everywhere. Light flickered from the huge chandelier which hung on a long chain over the centre of the table, from the myriad candles which burned in the free-standing clusters of candlesticks which stood in each corner, and in the blazing sconces which adorned the walls.

      The low circular table with scrolled and gilded legs took up most of the available floor space. It could, Stephanie reckoned, have seated at least thirty people, though there were only two places set with gold plates and crystal glasses. The servant who had escorted her from the harem waved her to the smaller collection of cushions, shaking his head when she would have seated herself. Two more servants stood by each of the four doors. Stephanie shuffled nervously from foot to foot. She was extremely hungry, but she wasn’t at all sure she’d be able to eat anything. She was about to have dinner with a prince, for goodness sake.

      The doors—different doors from the ones through which she had entered—were flung open. ‘His Most Royal Highness, Prince Rafiq al-Antarah of Bharym.’

      The servants did not bow, but stood sharply to attention. Stephanie dropped uncertainly into a curtsy. ‘Your Highness.’

      ‘Miss Darvill. There is no need to curtsy every time we meet.’

      He had changed from his formal robes. Over the traditional white dishdasha robe buttoned high to a little round collar, Prince Rafiq was now dressed in a tunic of indigo-blue silk richly trimmed with gold braid. His hair was swept back in damp waves from his high forehead, his jaw freshly shaved. Once again, Stephanie’s body reacted with an unmistakable shiver of desire. She resolutely ignored it.

      ‘Please, sit.’

      He took her hand to assist her on to the heap of cushions. His skin was so cool, it made her own feel uncomfortably hot. She dropped down with very little grace, almost as if her knees had given way under her. ‘What a beautiful room,’ Stephanie said inanely, in an effort not to stare at the beautiful man.

      ‘My private dining room,’ Prince Rafiq said, seating himself cross-legged on the large cushion at her right hand. ‘I thought you would be more comfortable in a less formal setting.’

      ‘A less formal setting?’ Was he teasing her?

      ‘The Royal Dining Salon can seat up to three hundred guests comfortably, the kitchens can spit-roast fifty goats simultaneously. I thought you would appreciate a more modest venue and less ostentatious menu. You may commence.’

      Realising just in time that this last remark was addressed to the servant who had appeared, as if by magic, at the head of the table, Stephanie watched in astonishment as yet another of the room’s four doors was flung open, and a positive cavalcade of servants, each bearing a covered gold platter, began to load the table with enough food to feed an army. The domed lid of each was removed with a flourish before being carefully placed on the table. Hot food was served in chafing dishes, the lid removed for the Prince’s inspection and approval, before being replaced. The familiar, appetising aroma of grilled meat and warm bread mingled with other, less familiar but no less mouthwatering smells.

      Stephanie tried to recall all her mother had told her of the eating customs of Egypt, but her mind was a complete blank. Was she to serve herself? The question was answered when the last dish was placed on the table, the doors closed, and two fresh servants joined them, each carrying a gold tray. Waiting for permission from the Prince—Stephanie made a mental note that the Prince’s permission seemed to be required for everything—the servants knelt on the floor. A precursor to ritual hand washing, she realised, recalling some of her mother’s stories hazily now, but she was not to be permitted to carry out that menial task for herself. Her fingers were dipped in the scented water. Her hand was rubbed with lemon, and then rinsed again. The linen which was used to dry her was pleasantly warmed.

      Feeling slightly embarrassed, as the servant repeated the process on her other hand, Stephanie allowed her attention to drift to the man seated beside her. Prince Rafiq had very long legs. He was also very supple, for such a tall man. And very athletic looking, for a prince. It must be all the physical work with the horses. In the army, when they were not campaigning, the cavalry regiments spent endless hours training their horses, riding them over obstacles both wide and high. In the sunshine, the men often rode shirtless. Riding gave a man very strong shoulder muscles. The flimsy silk and cotton robes he wore showed Prince Rafiq’s muscles off to fine effect.

      ‘I can tell by your expression that you are ravenous, Miss Darvill.’

      What on earth was wrong with her! Stephanie’s cheeks flamed. ‘It all smells delicious, though I am not sure that I recognise many of the dishes.’

      ‘I will explain. We will converse in English,’ he said, switching to that language. ‘By doing so we can talk both freely and privately. As you can see, the table has been laid with food of the same colours grouped together. Green for prosperity. Yellow for happiness. We begin with those. Then there are the meats and the mixed salads. And finally there are the sweets, dates and honey, which represent life.’

      ‘Goodness, I had no idea.’ She was vastly relieved to see that her plate was being delicately filled by one of the servants. Whether this was yet another newcomer or not, she had no idea. ‘Thank you,’ she said to him, relieved, when he returned her gesture, that she had not broken protocol by doing so, and pleasantly surprised when the Prince also thanked his servant, calling him by name. In a palace whose staff must run to hundreds, it was an impressive feat of memory.

      ‘Please, begin,’ he said. ‘I have had them set out silverware cutlery for you. We have no shortage of European visitors here, and some are most averse to our custom of eating with our hands.’

      ‘Thank you, but I am happy to eat as you do,’ Stephanie replied, tearing a piece of flat bread and preparing to scoop some tomato salad on to it, hoping fervently that she would not make a fool of herself.

      ‘Your mother has retained the customs of her native land in your father’s English household then?’ Prince Rafiq asked.

      ‘Some of them, though Papa prefers more plain fare, to be honest. And Mama’s family are not particularly wealthy. I suspect she would be every bit as overwhelmed as I am, by this veritable feast.’

      ‘It is a modest repast, believe me, compared to the state banquets I am required to endure. I am a man of simple tastes. Be careful,’ Prince Rafiq added as she scooped what she thought was another piece of salad on to her bread, ‘those dishes containing chilli are extremely spicy. Unless you are accustomed to them, they will destroy your