Her Master's Touch (11 page)

He rapped on the window and the coachman gave
the command. The coach lurched forward and moved at a fast clip
through the muck and grime of St. Giles toward towards the splendor
and stateliness of South Kensington. By the time they arrived at
the great hall where Lord Sheffield’s daughter would be presented,
the rain had stopped, and carriages and coaches of every shape and
size began arriving in rapid succession. Footmen stepped down and
opened coach doors for stunningly-dressed ladies and their
immaculately-clad escorts. Even the harnesses and trappings of the
horses were oiled and polished and every bit as splendid as the
liveries of the coachmen and footmen.

Damon stepped out of the coach and was
immediately ushered inside. While waiting for Lord Sheffield's
daughter to make her grand entry, he gazed around the room at
daughters of folly wearing white kid gloves and enormous gowns; and
dandies with more money than wit, with their impeccable white neck
cloths and faultlessly-made habilements, and feet encased in
mirror-like patent boots. And champagne and coffee and refreshments
of ices, and silk butterflies and garlands and wreaths of
artificial flowers reflecting the height of the paper-cutters
art...

After a while, the voices in the room
gradually died. Damon looked up to where Lord William Sheffield’s
daughter stood poised at the head of the long stairway. Wearing a
magnificent gown of white satin adorned with pearls and sequins,
and with a small tiara sparkling with tiny diamonds gracing her
ebony hair, she looked like an exquisite princess.

But, as she slowly descended the stairs, the
realization of
exactly
who Lady Elizabeth Sheffield was
gradually began to dawn. Elbowing his way closer, Damon stared up
at her, certain he must be mistaken. Surely Elizabeth Sheffield
could not be...

“
Bloody Hell!”

The words slipped out as a whispered gasp.
But that didn't change the fact that the woman was a thief, a liar,
and a felon, and he had no intention of letting her get away with
her chicanery. She owed him a substantial sum, and he intended to
collect every last pence.

***

As she descended the stairs while making her
entrance, Elizabeth's gaze drifted over the guests, singling out a
tall, extraordinary-looking man, splendid in gold and velvet and
jewels, whose eyes were fixed on her. A half-head taller than any
other man in the room, and dressed in a deep-green velvet tunic,
fitted breeches of gold brocade, and flashing a great emerald from
the aigret of his gold turban, he was undoubtedly Prince Rao Singh,
the talk of London, and perhaps the finest specimen of a man she’d
ever seen.

But as the gap between them closed, something
about his imposing demeanor and intense gaze reminded her of Lord
Damon Ravencroft. The man wore a mustache and a neatly-trimmed
beard, and his hair was caught up in his turban so she couldn’t see
if it was dark and curly. And his eyes. She couldn’t tell what
color they were, whether blue-brown or steel gray or... cobalt
blue... But certainly Lord Ravencroft wouldn't be so bold as to
parade about on British soil where he was wanted for murder, and do
it with such a brazen display? Or appear at her coming out ball? Of
course, if it were he, she‘d be in danger of being exposed by him
as a thief and a murderer, so his secret would be safe with
her…

Several hours later, still aware of the
prince's incessant gaze while she danced with one potential suitor
after another—though the prince made no attempt to dance with
her—Elizabeth tried to maintain a gracious facade. But as the
evening drew to a close, she saw the prince leave his circle of
friends. She stood frozen, unable to move, unable to breathe, as he
walked toward her with the stealth and grace of a big cat stalking
its prey. As he approached, she said to her dance partner, “I’m
feeling lightheaded from the excitement, Lord Ashby. Please escort
me off the dance floor at once so I may sit out the next
dance.”

“As you wish, Lady Elizabeth.”

They’d just left the dance floor when the
prince walked up to them and said to Lord Ashby, “I’ll take Lady
Elizabeth now.”

Lord Ashby started to protest, but catching
the look of warning from the prince, he released Elizabeth’s arm,
bowed graciously and stepped aside. The prince cupped his palm
around Elizabeth’s elbow and escorted her onto the dance floor.
Elizabeth tugged against his solid grip. “I did not give you
permission to dance with me, Your Highness,” she said.

Continuing toward the dance floor, he
replied, “Then I humbly ask your permission. May I have the honor
of this dance, Lady Elizabeth?”

The timbre of his voice caught Elizabeth’s
attention. But surely it couldn’t be… mustn’t be… She chanced a
glimpse at him then shifted her gaze so quickly she couldn’t
capture the entirety of his face. With the beard and mustache
covering a good portion of his features, she had no way of knowing
if he could, in fact, be Lord Damon Ravencroft—far fetched as it
seemed. Not wanting to be so rude as to deny the man a dance,
should he be exactly who he presented himself to be, she replied,
“Yes, Your Highness, but only one dance. I’m very tired and wish to
sit out the remainder of the evening.”

On the dance floor, he placed his hand at her
waist but held her away from him, appearing as if to study her. She
could not be certain how intense his perusal was though, because
she avoided looking directly at him. Picking up on that, he said,
“You are a very beautiful woman, Lady Elizabeth, but you avoid
looking at me. Why?”

Elizabeth shifted her gaze to his face
momentarily, then looked away. “Perhaps you read me wrong, Your
Highness,” she said, refusing to look directly at him, fearing she
might find him not to be the prince he claimed to be. Which was
absurd. Lord Ravencroft would never show his face in England…
Unless, perhaps, disguised as someone else...

“Read you wrong, Lady Elizabeth," he said.
"How is that?”

Elizabeth felt his eyes boring into her. But
it was the tone of his voice that set her heart thrumming and sent
prickles across her back and neck. “Our cultures are very
different," she said. "In England, a proper young lady refrains
from looking directly at a potential suitor and chance sending him
the wrong message.”

She felt his warm breath on her damp forehead
as he said in a low, evocative voice, “Is that why you think I’m
here tonight, Lady Elizabeth, as one of your suitors?”

Elizabeth fought the urge to look at the
arrogant man and shoot mental daggers at him, accompanied by a
sharp retort. Another time, and another place, she could certainly
match him in verbal and mental sparring. But here, tonight, this
man most definitely held the advantage, whoever he may be. “I
assumed my father invited you here for that reason,” she said,
anxiously scanning the room, hoping to catch the eye of a would-be
dance partner to cut in and sweep her away from this man who set
her nerves humming and her heart tripping like a drunken maiden
stumbling around while trying to catch her balance.

“You assumed correctly,” he said. “I was told
that not only did Lady Elizabeth Sheffield possess rare beauty, but
that she’d spent several years in India. It seemed appropriate that
she be among the young ladies I’d consider to take as my wife.”

“Your wife?” Elizabeth was certain her heart
stopped momentarily. The idea of marrying either man was
unthinkable. Under normal circumstances she’d give no credence to
it. But whichever man this was—Lord Damon Ravencroft or Prince Rao
Singh—he held enough power, money and finesse to convince her
father that he
would
make a fine match for his daughter.
That thought alone brought chills coursing through her.

“You seem surprised that I am seeking a wife
here tonight, Lady Elizabeth,” the prince said. “It’s my
understanding that this is what tonight is all about, finding a
suitable match for Lord Sheffield’s beautiful daughter. Perhaps I
misunderstood when I spoke to your father. He led me to believe
that I would make an excellent match for you.”

Elizabeth looked at him with a start, then
quickly glanced away. But two cobalt blue orbs remained in her
mind’s eye, setting her nerves humming with a combination of dismay
and disbelief. Surely not him… “You spoke to my father about
marrying me?” she said in a voice she almost didn’t recognize as
her own, it’s tone unnaturally high.

“Of course.”

“When?”

“Recently. Does it matter?”

“Well... no... I suppose not.” She’d
certainly take this up with her father. For now, all she wanted was
to get through this dance, slip away unnoticed, and close herself
in her room. Trying to hold her voice steady, she said, “Why would
an Indian prince wish to take an English bride, Your Highness?”

He tightened his arm around her waist,
drawing her close. “Because I find English women totally
irresistible,” he said, curving his palm intimately around her
hand, his fingers searching hers. “What did you think of my country
when you were there?”

Elizabeth drew in a sharp breath to quiet the
frantic beating of her heart and still the humming of her nerves.
Why she was reacting to this haughty, egotistical, overconfident
male, whoever he was, was beyond her. There was nothing to like
about the man, other than his incredibly handsome face and tall,
masculine bearing. “I found India hot, humid and overflowing with
moths and flies and all manner of winged creatures flopping in food
and fluttering about eyelids until it near drove me mad," she said.
"I’m sorry, Your Highness, but India is a place I would never care
to return.”

“But India has its own charm," the prince
sid. "If you were properly escorted around the country you’d view
it differently.”

“And I am certain I would not," Elizabeth
insisted. "There is nothing that could change my opinion. I found
the heat and the strange system of castes very oppressive.”

His lips very close to her face, the prince
said, “But you must have also found the culture, at the very least,
fascinating, a land of vast contrasts: immense wealth surrounded by
great poverty. Jewel merchants mingling with common thieves.
Gypsies living among... Lords.”

Elizabeth’s heart tripped a staccato beat.
She raised her eyes, and when at last they met his, the air seemed
trapped in her lungs. For an instant she felt so lightheaded, her
legs so weak, she had to tighten one hand on his shoulder, the
other on his hand, to steady herself. Surely it was not... But
those cobalt-blue eyes... their intense, steady gaze...

She released the breath she’d been holding
and looked away, her gaze moving restlessly over the couples
gliding around the dance floor, while her mind searched for a topic
of conversation to distract him from his quest to hold her gaze,
and the reality of who this man was.

Just get through this dance and leave...

Deciding that her only recourse was to finish
the dance, then inform her father as quickly as possible that
Prince Rao Singh was to be removed from her list of suitors,
permanently, she said, “Are you enjoying your stay in London, Your
Highness?”

His hand tightened at her waist, and his face
moved uncomfortably close to hers as he replied, “I’m enjoying
myself tonight, Lady Elizabeth. And you?”

His proximity was playing havoc with
Elizabeth's mental and physical well being. She could barely
remember to breathe, much less piece together coherent thoughts and
put them into words, though she managed to say, “And me...
what?”

“Is the evening everything you anticipated?
You seem restless and uneasy, which seems out of character for a
woman with your… spirited nature.”

“Spirited nature!” Elizabeth let out a
high-pitched, frantic laugh. “Wherever did you get that idea—" she
stopped short, recalling precisely where he got the idea. From a
wild gypsy girl who shamelessly exposed herself to his view at the
horse fair then gave him a run for his money. Determined to cover
her nervousness, as her suspicions of
exactly
who this man
was became increasingly troubling, she said, “As I had no
preconception of what I should anticipate this evening, I suppose
I’d have to say it’s about what I might have expected.”

His fingers caressed her hand lightly,
subtly, but with a clear message. No proper gentleman would ever be
so bold with a woman he intended to court. But then, Lord Damon
Ravencroft was no gentleman, nor was Prince Rao Singh, it seemed,
if this was, in fact, the prince. His thumb began stroking her
palm, an overt, sensuous caress. “Certainly you expected to have
suitors vying for your affection and your hand, Lady Elizabeth,” he
said. “Any woman as beautiful and desirable as you should expect
nothing less.”

Heat rushed up Elizabeth's face, which
annoyed her immensely. The man was skilled at charming women, and
he knew it, just as she did. Yet knowing, she still responded to
his flattery— heart fluttering, lungs fighting for air—like a naive
chit with her first paramour. “You embarrass me, Your Highness. I
did not expect to have suitors lining up at all.”

His other hand moved ever so slowly up the
curve of her spine, caressed the bare skin where her dress dipped
low in back, and roamed down to settle at her waist, leaving the
air trapped in her lungs... again. “You would be a prize in India,
Lady Elizabeth,” he said in a deep resonant voice that triggered
distant memories, a voice that was becoming all too familiar, even
after two years. “A woman with eyes like emeralds and skin as
smooth and white as porcelain would indeed be a treasure," he
added. "Surely you must know that already, since you lived in my
country for some time.”

Elizabeth laughed a high, frenetic laugh. “I
did not get around much while I was there, Your Highness," she
said. "I spent my time sheltered with a family. As for being a
prize, I’m afraid I’m quite commonplace here in London.”