Until she's rescued by wildly enigmatic desert prince Ramiz of A'Qadiz, while traveling across his unforgiving sands. He offers her a place in his harem and Lady Celia ought to be shocked except the seductive desert and intoxicating Ramiz make it curiously tempting .
'Oh , George, do come and see!' In her excitement, Lady Celia Cleveden leaned precariously over the side of the dhow in which they had just completed the last leg of their journey down the northern part of the Red Sea. The crew lowered the lateen sail which towered high above their heads and steered the little craft skilfully through the mass of other dhows, feluccas and caiques, all jostling for space in the busy harbour. Celia clung to the low wooden side of the boat with one gloved hand, the other holding her hat firmly in place, watching with wide-eyed wonder as they approached the shore.
She was dressed with her usual elegance in a gown of pale green sprigged muslin, one of several which she had had made especially for the trip, with long sleeves and a high neckline which in London would have been quite out of place but which here, in the East, she had been reliably informed, was absolutely essential. A straw hat with a long veil, also essential, covered her distinctive copper hair, but her tall, slender figure and youthful creamy complexion still attracted much attention from the fishermen, boatmen and passengers of the other craft currently vying for space in the busy port.
'George, come and see,' Celia called over her shoulder to the man sheltering under the scant cover provided by a tattered tented roof over the stern. 'There's a donkey on that boat with a positively outraged expression. He looks exactly like my uncle when a parliamentary vote has gone against him in the House,' she said with amusement.
George Cleveden, her husband of some three months, made no move to join her, and clearly was in no mood to be amused. He too was dressed with his usual elegance, in a cutaway coat of dark blue superfine teamed with a striped waistcoat from which a selection of elegant fobs dangled, and buckskin breeches worn with top boots. Sadly, though his outfit would indeed have been perfect for a coach journey from his mother's house in Bath to his own lodgings in London, or even for the ride from his London lodgings to his small country estate in Richmond, it was very far from ideal for a trip down the Red Sea in the blazing heat of summer. The starched points of his neck cloth had wilted many hours ago. His head ached from the heat of the sun, and there was a very distinctive rim of sweat marking the band of his beaver hat.
George eyed his young bride, looking confoundedly cool as a cucumber, with something akin to resentment. 'Blast this infernal heat! Do come away from there, Celia, you're making a show of yourself. Remember you are a British diplomat's wife.'
As if she needed reminding! Celia, however, continued to marvel at the spectacle unfolding before her eyes, choosing to ignore her husband. It was something at which she had become surprisingly adept during the short period of their marriage. The wedding had taken place on the very day upon which they had set out for the long journey to Cairo, and George's new diplomatic posting. George, the collected, organised undersecretary who worked for Celia's father, Lord Armstrong, at the Foreign Office, had proved to be a rather less than intrepid traveller. This left Celia, who was no more experienced than he when it came to traversing the globe, to manage as best she could the challenging task of getting themalong with their mountain of baggage from London to Egypt via Gibraltar, Malta, Athens, and an unplanned stop in Rhodes, when their scheduled ship had failed to arrive, and much of their luggage had disappeared. For this, and for a plethora of other minor mishaps which were the result of Celia's naive but plucky determination to get them in one piece to their destination, George blamed his wife. Damp sheets or no sheets at all, poor wine and much poorer food, insect bites and insect stings, nausea-inducing pitching seas and seas that were becalmedGeorge had borne none of these with the equanimity Celia had so much admired in the man she had married.
She put much of it down to the tribulations of travel, and maintained an optimistic outlook which she had intended to be reassuring, but which seemed to have rather a contrary effect. 'How can you be so damned jaunty?' George had demanded during one particularly uncomfortable crossing, memorable for its weevil-infested ship's biscuits and brandy-infested ship's captain. But what was the point in lying abed and bemoaning one's fate? Far better to be up on deck, watching hopefully for land and admiring a school of porpoises with comically smiling faces swimming alongside them.
But George could not be so easily distracted, and eventually Celia had learned to keep her fascination for all things strange and colourful to herself. Foreign climes, or at least Eastern foreign climes, clearly did not agree with George's constitution. This was rather a pity, since fate had brought them here, to a clime so foreign Celia had never even heard of it and had been forced to ask one of the consuls in Cairo to point it out on a rather large and complicated map kept under lock and key in his office.
'A'Qadiz.' Celia said the word experimentally under her breath. Impossibly exotic, it conjured up visions of closed courtyards and colourful silks, of spices and perfumes, the heat of the desert and something darker and more exciting she could not put into words. She and her next sister, Cassandra, had read the Arabian tales, One Thousand and One Nights, in French, sharing an edited version with their three younger sisters, for some of the stories hinted at distinctly decadent pleasures. Now here she was in Arabia, and it looked even more fantastic than she had imagined. Watching from the dhow as the dots on the harbour became people and donkeys and horses and camels, as the distant buzz became a babble of voices, Celia wondered how on earth she would be able to convey to Cassie even a tenth part of what it actually felt like.
If only Cassie were here with her, how much more fun it would be. As quickly as the very unwifely thought flashed through her mind, Celia tried hard to suppress itan act rather more difficult than it should be, for though she had been married for exactly three months, one week and two days, she did not feel at all like a wife. Or at least not at all as she had expected to feel as a wife.
The match was of her father's making, but at four-and-twenty, and the eldest of five motherless girlstwo of whom were already of marriageable ageCelia had seen the sense in his proposal. George Cleveden was Lord Armstrong's protege. He was well thought of, and great things were expected of him.
'With a hostess like you at his side, he can't fail,' Papa had said bracingly when he'd first put forward the idea. 'You've cut your teeth in diplomatic circles as my hostess, and a damned fine fist you've made of it. You can hold your own with the best of them, my girl, and let's face it, Celia, it's not as if you've your sister's looks. You take after my side rather than your mother's, I'm afraid. You're passable enough, but you'll never be a toast, and it's not as if you're getting any younger.'
Celia bore her father's casual assassination of her appearance with equanimity. She neither resented nor envied Cassie her beauty, and was content to be known as the clever one of the five Armstrong girls. Elegance, wit and charm were her accomplishmentsassets which stood her in excellent stead as her father's hostess and which would stand George in equally excellent stead as he rose through the diplomatic ranks, as surely he would if only he managed to shine in this posting. Which of course he wouldif only he could accustom himself to being away from England.
George, it seemed, was the type of man who needed the reassurance of the familiar in order to function properly. It had been his idea to postpone the consummation of their vows. 'Until we are settled in Cairo,' he had said on their wedding night. 'There will be enough for us to endure on our journey without having to contend with that as well.'
Even at the time his words had struck her as somewhat ambiguous. Though lacking a mother's guidance, Celia was not entirely unprepared for her marital duties. 'As with so many things in life,' her stately Aunt Sophia had informed her, 'it is an act from which the gentleman derives satisfaction and the lady endures the consequences.' Pressed for practical details, Aunt Sophia had resorted to obscure biblical references, leaving Celia with the vague impression that she was to undergo some sort of stamina test, during which it was vital that she neither move nor complain.
Slightly relieved, though somewhat surprised, given Aunt Sophia's certainty that gentlemen were unfailingly eager to indulge in this one-sided game, Celia had agreed to her husband's proposed abstinence, spending her first night as a married woman alone. However, as the nights passed and George showed no inclination to change his mind, she could not help wondering if she had been wrongfor surely the more one postponed something, the more difficult it became to succeed? And she wanted to succeed as a wife, eventually as a mother too. She liked and admired George. In time she expected to love him, and to be loved in return. But love was built on sharing a life together, and surely sharing a bed must play a part in that? Lying alone in the various bunks, pallets and hammocks which had marked their progress across the globe, Celia had swung between fretting that she should do something about the situation, and convincing herself that George knew best and it would all come right in the end.
But after a week in Cairo, with George restored almost to his pleasant and agreeable self, he had still shown no interest in joining his new wife in her bed. Plucking up all her courage, Celia had tried, extremely reluctantly, with much stumbling, blushing and almost as many vague biblical refe...