‘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 palate. Let me explain the various dishes on your plate. The smooth purée topped with yoghurt is moutabal, which is made from roasted aubergine. The salad of tomatoes, mint and cucumber is called fattoush, and beside it is tabbouleh, which is made from steamed grains of bulgur wheat. Oh, and the little patties are falafel, made from chick peas.’
‘My mother has talked fondly of falafal. She said that every family has a different, secret recipe that they claim to be the best and most authentic.’
Prince Rafiq smiled. ‘My grandmother used to say the very same thing. What does your mother think of your coming to Arabia?’
The change of subject was smoothly done, but Stephanie was not fooled. This was not so much a private dinner as an interview. She was—unsurprisingly—being vetted. She studied the small fritter-like falafel, which tasted nutty, and nothing at all as Mama had described it. ‘Once my father had persuaded her of the advantages,’ she said carefully, ‘my mother was most supportive. Though Egypt is some weeks’ travel from Bharym, the presence of her family relatively nearby in Alexandria was of some comfort.’
Stephanie swallowed a mouthful of the wheat salad which she had scooped up on a piece of flatbread and absent-mindedly put her fingers to her mouth to lick a dribble of tomato juice. It was delicious, but she was suddenly conscious that the Prince was looking at her with the strangest expression. ‘Oh, I do apologise,’ she said guiltily. ‘I’ve just remembered that my mother told me that it is considered rude to do such a thing before the end of a meal.’
He seemed to be fascinated by her mouth. Was there a smear of juice on her chin? She couldn’t resist checking. She wished he wouldn’t look at her like that, as if—as if he wanted to lick her fingers. And where on earth had that ridiculous thought come from! Stephanie took a sip of iced sherbet.
‘If one licks one’s fingers before the end of a meal it indicates to one’s host that one has finished eating, though is not yet replete,’ the Prince informed her. ‘Which is deemed a negative reflection on the quality of the repast.’
‘I assure you, I intended no such slight,’ Stephanie replied hastily. ‘On the contrary, the food is utterly delicious, but I am not quite accustomed to using my fingers and so when I licked them...’
‘Please,’ Prince Rafiq said, giving his head a little shake, ‘there is no need to draw attention to your—I assure you, no offence was taken.’ He seemed to be suddenly thirsty, taking a long draught from his glass. ‘I am interested in the—advantages, I believe you called it—this appointment provides you with.’
Whatever had been distracting him a moment before, he was completely focused on her now. Stephanie stared down at her half-empty plate. ‘The opportunity to gain experience working in such a prestigious stud farm is a prize beyond rubies. Success here, Your Highness, will go a long way to ensuring my success back in England, in a field of endeavour in which, as you have pointed out, my sex is a great disadvantage.’
Prince Rafiq raised his eyebrows. ‘It did not prevent you from securing a position on a leading English stud farm, Miss Darvill. I believe you said you had been working there for the past year.’
Her plate was removed, and Stephanie was thus granted time to consider her answer while another was set out with a variety of meats. It went completely against her nature to prevaricate, though her naïve belief that everyone, especially army officers, valued honesty and integrity as highly as Papa, had taken a severe knock. But a partial truth was no lie. ‘My father is not without influence, and facilitated matters. His reputation assisted me in establishing my own credibility,’ she said.
‘And association with my name—or more accurately, the name of my stud farm—will further enhance it?’
‘If you will be so kind as to permit me to use it as a testimonial,’ Stephanie said. ‘Assuming, of course, that I am successful in effecting a cure for the mysterious sickness. There is also,’ she added awkwardly, ‘the matter of financial reward. Not having my father’s experience, I would not expect you to compensate me quite so generously, but frankly, Your Highness, with apologies for raising such a vulgar topic, even half of the remuneration which you offered would give me the freedom to set up my own establishment and live independently. Something which I am very eager to do.’
Thinking about what it would mean to her, and to her parents, to have her future secured brought a lump to her throat. Aware of the Prince watching her carefully under those sleepy lids, Stephanie concentrated on making a little parcel of roasted goat meat and couscous studded with pomegranate.
‘What induced you to leave your father’s patronage to work on a stud farm? Did you tire of military work, Miss Darvill? It has been your life, you said so yourself.’
‘Army horses, Your Highness, are heavy working breeds, either draught horses for pulling artillery or chargers, neither of which are used for breeding purposes. Working on a stud farm was, my father felt, an excellent way of filling this gap in my knowledge.’
She had not lied, her experience at the Newmarket stud had been invaluable, it was simply that she wouldn’t have left her army life and gone there were it not for another, much more unpleasant experience. Prince Rafiq’s expression gave absolutely nothing away, yet somehow she was certain he had detected her unease. Flustered, Stephanie picked up her fork then set it down again. Her food was no more than half-eaten, but she had quite lost her appetite.
‘You have had a sufficiency?’
‘Yes, thank you.’ Her plate was cleared. Another was prepared, of sweet pastries dribbled with honey, dates covered in chopped nuts. The foods representing life. Most appropriate since her presence here was driven by her desire to establish a new life for herself.
She hoped that the changing of dishes and the serving of the final course meant the topic was now closed. The Prince, however, had merely been biding his time. ‘Your desire for independence is intriguing, Miss Darvill,’ he said. ‘A most unusual ambition for a woman. A more common aspiration is marriage, surely?’
* * *
Stephanie Darvill’s glass slipped from her hand, spilling sherbet over the table. In the moments it took for one of his servants to clean the mess up, Rafiq watched her covertly, noting the effort it took her to regain her composure. The robe she wore was cut demurely enough at the neck, but it was still low enough to show the rise and fall of her breasts as she breathed. Her curves distracted him. He wondered if the ribbon tied at the neckline was the only fastening of the dress. He wondered what she wore beneath that gown. It looked flimsy enough, but it was most likely an illusion. In his limited experience, the complexity of the undergarments worn by European women seemed expressly designed to repel a man’s advances.
Miss Darvill herself, on the other hand, seemed designed to encourage just such advances, yet she was not married, and nor was she, in her own words that sort of woman. What sort of woman was she? And why did she crave what she called independence? Would she live alone? Why would a woman wish for such a thing? Though admittedly, his experience of Western women was not extensive, he did not think they were so very different from women in the East. Didn’t all women wish for a husband, children? But this woman—he had never met anyone quite like this woman.
‘I have