The lady of a sultan, p.1
The Lady of a Sultan, page 1
THE LADY OF A SULTAN
THE LADIES OF THE ARISTOCRACY
LINDA RAE SANDE
This is a work of fiction. The events and characters described herein are imaginary and are not intended to refer to specific places or living persons. The opinions expressed in this manuscript are solely the opinions of the author and do not represent the opinions or thoughts of the publisher. The author has represented and warranted full ownership and/or legal right to publish all the materials in this book.
The Lady of a Sultan
ISBN: 978-1-946271-58-7
All Rights Reserved.
Copyright © 2022 Linda Rae Sande
V1
Cover photograph © Period Images.com
Background cover image © DepositPhotos.com
Cover art by Twisted Teacup Publishing
All rights reserved - used with permission.
Edited by Katrina Teele-Fair
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient.
CONTENTS
Also by Linda Rae Sande
1. Contemplating a Past
2. Contemplating a Future
3. Englishmen on Holiday
4. A Departure
5. A Vision for the Future Blurs
6. Captured by Pirates!
7. Sold to a Sultan
8. An Introduction to Palace Life
9. A Lesson in Names
10. Preparing for a Tour
11. A Tour of the Palace
12. A Captain Brings News
13. A Bath Interrupted
14. Dinner with a Sultan
15. A Different Sort of Agreement
16. A Rescue Crew Sets Sail
17. A Night Interrupted
18. An Offer is Made
19. Tea Time
20. A Garden of Delight
21. A Son to the Rescue
22. The Decision for a Daughter is Made
23. A Garden Luncheon Brings News
24. Young Love
25. Conversations in the Gardens
26. One Enlightening Night
27. One Bad Awakening
28. A Mother Listens to Her Son
29. A Father Comes to Terms
30. An Audience with a Father
31. A Father Gives Permission
Epilogue
Author’s Notes
Also by Linda Rae Sande
About the Author
ALSO BY LINDA RAE SANDE
The Daughters of the Aristocracy
The Kiss of a Viscount
The Grace of a Duke
The Seduction of an Earl
The Sons of the Aristocracy
Tuesday Nights
The Widowed Countess
My Fair Groom
The Sisters of the Aristocracy
The Story of a Baron
The Passion of a Marquess
The Desire of a Lady
The Brothers of the Aristocracy
The Love of a Rake
The Caress of a Commander
The Epiphany of an Explorer
The Widows of the Aristocracy
The Gossip of an Earl
The Enigma of a Widow
The Secrets of a Viscount
The Widowers of the Aristocracy
The Dream of a Duchess
The Vision of a Viscountess
The Conundrum of a Clerk
The Charity of a Viscount
The Cousins of the Aristocracy
The Promise of a Gentleman
The Pride of a Gentleman
The Holidays of the Aristocracy
The Christmas of a Countess
The Knot of a Knight
The Heirs of the Aristocracy
The Angel of an Astronomer
The Puzzle of a Bastard
The Choice of a Cavalier
The Bargain of a Baroness
The Jewel of an Earl’s Heir
The Vixen of a Viscount
The Honor of an Heir
The Ladies of the Aristocracy
The Lady of a Grump
The Lady of a Sultan
Beyond the Aristocracy
The Pleasure of a Pirate
The Making of a Mistress
The Bride of a Baronet
The Lyon’s Den (Dragonblade Publishing)
The Courage of a Lyon
Stella of Akrotiri
Origins
Deminon
Diana
CHAPTER 1
CONTEMPLATING A PAST
March 1841, on the western shore of the Aegean Sea
Even as a blazing sun washed out the brilliant colors surrounding him, Sultan Ziyaeddin I was seeing red. He was sure he had managed to sneak out of his holiday palace without being seen, but the hairs on the back of his neck rose to warn him of another’s presence.
Who had dared follow him on this day, the first day of spring? The one day he deliberately kept his schedule clear so he might enjoy a rare treat. To simply stare out at the turquoise waters of the Aegean Sea whilst standing in his favorite place, a covered balcony that jutted from the golden-stoned walls of his saray. Leaning against the edge made it feel as if he was suspended in mid-air.
It had been her favorite place as well. At least, when she hadn’t been curled up at his side in his bed late at night, satiated from their lovemaking and murmuring words of love and affection.
Twenty years. Had it really been twenty years since Afet’s death?
Ziyaeddin swallowed hard in an attempt to clear his throat. Now was not the time to mourn.
Someone most definitely stood behind him, apparently waiting for an audience. He audibly sighed. “What is it now?” he asked in his native Turkish.
“My apologies, My Sultan,” came the timid reply. “You asked that I provide an update on the plans for the new saray in Constantinople.”
His shoulders immediately tensing, Ziyaeddin turned to find one of his emirs standing with his head bowed. Dressed in white baggy trousers, or şalvar, a pleated white silk shirt, and a white brocade kaftan, the man carried a leather pouch in one hand. The other held a sheet of parchment. He sported a simple white kufi on his head, the ends of its scarf wrapped loosely around his throat.
“And to give you my sincerest condolences on the anniversary of Sultana Afet’s death,” the emir added in a quieter voice.
Ziyaeddin regarded the young man with a look of annoyance, tamping down his initial revulsion at seeing Ertuğrul Efendi, his fifth son. “Thank you,” he replied as he watched the emir quickly kneel and kiss the hem of his purple embroidered kaftan.
Could the emir choose a worse time to interrupt his reverie?
“This is the first day of spring. You may give me your update on the morrow,” the sultan said.
Ertuğrul looked up from where he knelt. “As you wish, My Sultan.” He rose to his feet but continued to bow as he backed away from the ruler.
“Did you forget to bring a fez?”
Pausing in his retreat, Ertuğrul gulped. “You have not worn one since our arrival, so I thought it best to follow suit, My Sultan.”
Ziyaeddin winced. Not only had he left Constantinople without more than the clothes on his back—he no longer employed a dresser who might have seen to packing his more European style top coats—he hadn’t brought any of the scarlet red felt hats with him, either. The wardrobe in his private chamber was filled with the older style of clothes and headwear, though, and so he had simply adopted them for his stay at the palace near the shore of the Aegean Sea.
“Very well,” he replied, realizing Ertuğrul was attempting to do him a favor. He already appeared out of place when in the company of his oldest sons and the other members of his cabinet due to his age. His manner of dress needn’t add to the issue. “We shall find you a wife this year,” Ziyaeddin added before the emir had taken a fourth step backwards.
His startled gaze lifting to meet the sultan’s, Ertuğrul blinked. “Very well, My Sultan.” Without waiting for a verbal dismissal, the emir crept away.
Sighing loudly—Ziyaeddin wanted to be sure Ertuğrul knew he was unhappy—he returned to the edge of the balcony and closed his eyes.
“Promise me you won’t make him marry some spoiled rotten vizier’s daughter, Baba.”
The words, spoken in English, had Ziyaeddin whirling around to discover one of his daughters standing at the other end of the balcony.
From where had she come?
“I haven’t yet decided who he will marry,” he replied, wincing at how the foreign words sounded in his ears. “And why are we speaking in English?”
Sultana Sevinc, his second daughter, approached and bowed to kiss his ring and then touch her forehead against the top of his hand. When she straightened, she said, “For practice making perfect, My Sultan.”
Ziyaeddin took her face between his hands and kissed her forehead. “I am not sending you to Cambridge University,” he stated, managing a smirk despite his poor mood. “They do not accept women.”
Sevinc’s face showed disappointment, but only for a moment. “Oxford, then?” she countered, one of her dark brows arching in a tease. “Or the university in Paris?”
He scoffed, dipped his head, and shook it in pretend frustration. “We are never going to find you a husband willing to abide you, are we?” he asked rhetorically. He almost wished he didn’t have to arrange a marriage for her given how much he enjoyed her company. She argued her point of view far better than any of his viziers did.
Sevinc angled her head to one side as she crossed her arms. The move only enhanced the young woman’s height and pleasant figure, both inherited from her mother, a Greek beauty gifted to Ziyaeddin upon his eighteenth birthday. “Not in the entirety of the Ottoman Empire,” she agreed with a grin.
Rather than a simple head scarf, she wore a more traditional baslik, this one a felted hat wrapped in a scarf and festooned with beads and an occasional gemstone. Gold earrings dripped from her plump earlobes. Dressed as she was in a yellow şalvar and a golden yellow entari over a darker long gold waistcoat, Sevinc looked the part of a Turkish princess from the previous century.
Given her level of education, she did not wear it well.
“I am reading about titled men in England,” she said. “I could be a duchess, or a marchioness, or a countess, or a—”
“You are not marrying an Englishman,” Ziyaeddin stated, his manner suggesting they’d had this conversation in the past. “Now, is there a reason you’ve come out here without a...?” he glanced around, in search of the eunuch that should have been her chaperone.
“Samsa is just there,” she replied, lifting her chin in the direction of the rather large bald bodyguard who, breathless, stood near the entrance to the balcony. From the sheen of sweat on his black skin, it was obvious the eunuch had been in search of her. “I thought to spend a few minutes with you whilst you mourn your second wife,” she added in a quiet voice. “The first day of spring is always so hard for you.”
Ziyaeddin dipped his head. “I am glad for your thoughts,” he said. “And for remembering.” Of all of his children, only Ertuğrul and Sevinc seemed to acknowledge the anniversary of Afet’s death. He supposed it was because they were her children, even if Sevinc didn’t know it.
“Mother is worried about you. She says you have not taken her to your—”
“Sevinc,” he scolded, holding up a palm to reinforce his warning. “Who I take to my bed is not for you to know.” He had to think a moment as to which concubine Sevinc knew as her mother. One who had nursed her while another saw to her twin brother, Ertuğrul. A gentle scolding was in order.
Ignoring the warning, Sevinc said, “You haven’t been with anyone in over a fortnight. Are not you... lonely?”
Although his silver eyes blazed for a moment—did the women in his harem speak of such things in front of his daughters?—Ziyaeddin merely stared at Sevinc until she dipped her head. “How often I bed my kadins is none of your concern, kız evlât.” He was about to add that her use of the word ‘fortnight’ was entirely incorrect. It had been more than two months since he had invited one of his concubines to his bed.
“I am sorry, Baba. I only wish for your happiness,” she murmured. “Perhaps you could take another wife,” she suggested, visibly wincing when it was apparent her father’s patience with her was at an end.
Although Ziyaeddin was about to scold her again, he felt his throat tighten. “I will never love another as I loved Afet,” he vowed, now glad they were speaking a language few in the palace could understand.
Sevinc leaned closer and lowered her voice. “Never say never, Baba.”
Knitting his dark brows together, Ziyaeddin gave her a look of suspicion. “Who told you that?”
Her confidence flagging, Sevinc glanced in the direction of the eunuch before saying, “I learned it from one of my brothers, who I think learned it from his tutor.”
Ziyaeddin rubbed his face with one hand, smoothing his long, salt-and-pepper beard into a cone shape. He had a passing thought to trim it shorter. Perhaps the gray wouldn’t be so evident. “There are times I think I shouldn’t have had you educated,” he whispered hoarsely.
Having heard this particular claim many times before, Sevinc shrugged. “But who would you converse with when you need to practice your English?” she countered.
“One of your brothers,” he answered without pause.
She giggled, glad he was no longer angry.
His dark-rimmed eyes suddenly rounded. “Why is it you think I need to practice my English?”
Sevinc lifted her shoulders in a shrug. “You never know when you will need it,” she replied.
Scoffing, Ziyaeddin straightened, his fists going to his hips. “Never say never,” he mocked.
Rolling her eyes, Sevinc grinned, gave her father a deep bow, and waited for him to kiss her forehead. “Courage, Baba.”
Ziyaeddin watched her hurry off, the eunuch barely able to keep up as she disappeared down one of the corridors that led into the bowels of the palace. When he turned his attention back to the Aegean waters, he witnessed a sunset made up of a multitude of reds and purples. “I miss you, Afet,” he whispered, unaware he had spoken the words in English.
CHAPTER 2
CONTEMPLATING A FUTURE
Meanwhile, in Sussex, England, near the village of Kirdford
As the late afternoon rain soaked the grounds around Wisborough Oaks, Charlotte, Dowager Duchess of Chichester, leaned against the window sill in the parlor and examined the pattern of the wallpaper. She grinned when she remembered that she had been the one responsible for choosing the floral pattern.
A quarter of a century ago?
Her mouth rounded as she realized it had indeed been that long. Would she choose the same pattern if given the choice today? Probably not, she considered as she smoothed a hand over the wall, remembering when this wing of the Georgian house had been under construction. Although a huge fire had claimed the original, Garrett McElliott, her husband’s best friend and the foreman of Wisborough Oaks, had overseen its reconstruction.
Not yet married to Joshua Wainwright at the time, Charlotte had seen to the choices for the decorating.
She sighed as she stared out the parlor window and pondered what she would do next.
If she was to actually do what she had decided to do only the week prior, when her friends were present and repercussions were of no consequence, then she should have Parma, her lady’s maid, begin packing her trunks immediately. She should secure a ticket on a ship bound for the Mediterranean and travel to Portsmouth to meet the ship.
Making plans to tour Europe whilst surrounded by her very best friends made it seem so easy. Now that they had departed to rejoin their husbands in Mayfair, Charlotte was having second thoughts.
Given the death of Joshua, their eldest son John had taken his place as the new Duke of Chichester. His wife, Arabella, was expecting their first child before Christmas. Like everyone else in the household, Charlotte claimed it would be a boy but secretly hoped it would be a girl.
Youngest son James was somewhere in Italy or perhaps Greece, enjoying his Grand Tour. From his most recent letter, he was contemplating a delay in his itinerary.
Although there was more to Sicily and Rome than expected, there is much to explore here in Greece. David is of the same opinion, more because he has met a young lady for whom he feels affection. Please do not tell Aunt Elizabeth, or I feel she will expect him to return with a wife and child in tow, whereas I do not believe his affections are more than a passing fancy.
Charlotte grinned at the mention of Elizabeth. The Viscountess Bostwick, Elizabeth Carlington Bennett-Jones was not really her sons’ aunt, but she had been Charlotte’s best friend since their youth. She had also been in residence at Wisborough Oaks only the week before, as had Hannah Slater Foster, Countess of Gisborn.
Hosting her two best friends for a fortnight—without their husbands—had been exactly the hen party Charlotte needed as she ended her year-long mourning period. The three of them had folded and packed her widow’s weeds, black stockings, and black veiled hats into old trunks and watched as footmen had taken them up to the attic.
