Her Master's Touch (18 page)

Elizabeth said nothing. She knew precisely
where she stood. Two years before he'd wanted her only as his
mistress. Now, all he wanted was his opal, her dowry, and her
father's influence in obtaining a pardon so he could annul their
marriage, claim his inheritance, and take a wife whose parentage
would make her suitable for bearing the heir of Lord Edmund Damon
Carlisle, Earl of Westwendham.

And all she wanted was to be mistress and
sole owner of
Shanti Bhavan
.

She looked beyond Damon to where the women
sat, heads tipping together, with an occasional glance in their
direction. She could only imagine their delight on arriving in
India and being the first to spread word that Lord Damon Ravencroft
had been trapped into marriage. But no matter. Once she was
mistress of
Shanti Bhavan
, and Damon was back in England,
the gossip would cease. Oddly, that revelation brought her no
joy.

***

True to his word, for the next two weeks
Damon did not touch Elizabeth, even when she stood naked behind the
privacy screen while taking a sponge bath. But some intimacies
could not be avoided. During the night, when he'd return from
gaming, and before settling onto his palette, he'd turn his back to
her, lower his drawers and use the 'throne.' And when she'd get up
in the morning, wearing only her shift, and scurry for the privacy
screen, she could not mask the sound it made while she relieved
herself into the chamber pot concealed there. But the privacy
screen meant nothing to Damon. When he wished to bathe, he simply
stripped off his clothes and did so. If she were present, he gave
no indication that it mattered. Sometimes his body showed no sign
of arousal. Other times—especially those times when he'd caught her
watching—his male member responded in a way that left no doubt that
he wanted her in his bed. Even that did not bother him enough to
turn away from her view. It did, however, reaffirm the gossip she'd
heard about Prince Rao Singh being well-endowed. He was very much a
man.

Although she tried to ignore his presence, by
the time the steamer entered the Suez Canal—the last leg of their
journey by sea—Elizabeth was familiar with every physical detail of
her husband's virile male body. What she saw tormented her during
the night while they lay in their separate beds, not touching, not
talking, and she'd hear his heavy breathing and know he was fully
awake. Those were the times she longed for the touch of the man who
had a legal right to do so, and refrained.

The slow drift down the Suez Canal brought
with it ever rising temperatures. By late afternoon each day, the
stateroom would be stifling. When Damon made no move to touch her
in any way—except when offering his arm while escorting her to the
dining room—Elizabeth became less reticent to sit at the dressing
table in her camisole and drawers to make up her face and do her
hair. However, on the afternoon before they were to arrive in Aden,
the last port before reaching Bombay, while she was dressing for
dinner, Damon entered the stateroom to find her standing in her
drawers and camisole while trying in vain to engage the stiff front
fastenings of a new corset. Although her back was to him, in the
mirror above the dressing table she saw his reflection. And hers.
She wore the near-transparent undergarments that had been included
in her trousseau. Through her sheer drawers she could see the
triangle of darkness at the juncture of her thighs. And peeking
through the sheer lace of her camisole was the rose hue of her
nipples.

Damon said nothing, just stood watching as
she attempted to insert a small strap into a tiny buckle with
fingers so nervous and jittery she could not perform the simple
task. To break the awkwardness, she said, "I'm ready to forego the
Suez Canal and cross the desert in a
palkee
just to get
there sooner. I forgot how incredibly hot it could get in this part
of the world." A particularly stubborn strap refused to thread into
the tiny buckle.

Damon walked up behind her and turned her
around. Nudging her hands aside, he inserted the strap into the
buckle and fastened it, then moved to the next buckle. As he made
his way up the front while fastening each buckle, his eyes focused
on his task and his breath wafted against her breasts, as he said,
"As mistress of
Shanti Bhavan
the heat will no longer be an
issue. You will have servants to operate the
punkas
, iced
drinks at the snap of your fingers, and
ayahs
to prepare a
cool bath and help you dress."

His fingers against her scantily-clad breasts
as he struggled with a mulish buckle brought an unexpected shiver
coursing through Elizabeth. And in her privates, that urgency began
to stir. "Is the staff the same as when I was there?" she asked,
not because she was curious, but because she was trying to ignore
the desire that was slowly building, until she feared she might
lose control and behave as she had in his bed chamber, two years
before.

"Some have remained," Damon replied. "But it
will be different now. Those who were your friends before will
resent you."

Elizabeth looked down and saw his hands,
large and dark and masculine against her sateen corset and milky
white breasts, his maleness emphasizing her femininity. Her lungs
seemed trapped for air, and her heart started pounding so fast she
was certain he must feel it hammering against his hand. The
sensation of urgency grew stronger, more pressing. And she was
aware of her nipples rising and falling above the lace of her
camisole with her heavy breaths. "And Mrs. Throckmorton?" she
asked, wondering why she didn't stop what he was doing, wishing
he'd never quit, "is she still in charge of things?"

"Mrs. Throckmorton is my most faithful and
dependable servant," Damon said.

Elizabeth let out a little snicker. "So, now
that I talk with high-flown ways and pattern myself after my
betters, how do you think she will react to me?"

Damon looked at her and smiled, and for the
first time since she'd fled
Shanti Bhavan
, she saw the old
glint of humor in his eyes. "I don't know," he said." I guess we'll
have to wait and see. I hope you'll control your sharp tongue
though," he added, "because Mrs. Throckmorton's the best
housekeeper I've ever had, and the only one willing to stay on in
spite of the rumors surrounding my house. I trust you'll make an
effort to work out your differences with her."

Elizabeth shrugged. "Does that mean I am to
kowtow to her?"

One corner of Damon's mouth tipped up. "That
would be a start, though I don't think there's a chance in hell it
will happen."

Elizabeth pursed her lips. "She disliked me
from the start. She'll hate me now."

"True. But she won't be able to show it."
After fastening the last buckle, he placed his hands on her waist
and stared at her bosom. His thumbs came up to caress the
undersides of her breasts and she made no move to stop him. She was
about to curve her hands around his neck when he dropped his arms
to his sides, drew in a labored breath, and said, "I will see you
at dinner," then turned and left the stateroom.

Elizabeth stared at the closed door, her
breasts tingling from his touch. He'd seemed a changed man, helping
her dress as if she were his adored wife, chatting with her as he
fastened her corset—a pleasant moment together, the kind a married
couple might share…

... you’ll come as my mistress, or my whore…
never as my wife…

She could not set his words aside, no matter
how his demeanor toward her changed. The fact was, she was
beginning to believe she was the wanton woman he'd accused her of
being, the kind of woman who used a man solely for her own
gratification. And there was no denying. In his bedchamber, two
years before, she had done just that. And if she were truly honest
with herself, while he'd fastened her corset, she'd done it again,
suppressing the urge to shove his hands aside, strip off the corset
and let him hold and kiss and caress her breasts. And if by some
twist of fate, he were to return to the stateroom right now and
remove his clothes, and hers, she'd take her pleasures from him,
and be done with him. She hated the hedonistic woman she'd become.
And him for making her that way.

***

Shortly after disembarking in Bombay, Damon
sent a telegraph informing his staff of the imminent arrival of
Lord and Lady Ravencroft, and to send a coach round for them when
the train arrived in Calcutta. With the help of a dozen or more
Brahmin bearers, they made their way from the docks to the train
station—a noisy, busy place with a line-up of vendor stalls, some
with mounds of fruits and vegetables, others displaying an array of
hot spicy dishes or offering a variety of sweets. Dogs and chickens
wandered amid the stalls, scavenging for stray bits of food. And on
the platform, Indian families, with their bedrolls and clothing
packs and cooking utensils, squatted patiently awaiting the
train.

Elizabeth glanced across the throng gathered
on the platform and saw Damon heading toward her, train tickets
clasped in his hand. His face glistened with perspiration and the
entire front of his shirt, and large patches under his arms, were
soaked. He took her elbow and guided her toward the vendors,
saying, "Let's get what we need for the trip and go aboard. It's
hot as hell out here and I want to get out of these clothes."

This was one time Elizabeth didn't argue. The
heat was oppressive. Even the breeze from the sea offered little
relief, except that without it, she surmised, they possibly would
have roasted alive. Thankfully, just before entering the Suez Canal
she'd purchased a topi from a vendor who claimed that the layers of
pith protected European brains from being fried by the vicious
Indian sun. She bought the hat to help the man, who claimed he had
a wife and many hungry children to feed. However, she'd declined
the silk scarf to go around the hat, deciding the price was
extreme. Now she was sorry. It seemed that no matter how she tipped
her topi, the sun managed to reach her face and neck, causing sweat
to collect on her forehead and trickle downward, soaking her
collar. Before long, her bodice, corset and camisole were sopping.
She only hoped that their compartment on the train would provide
some means of privacy, as she was anxious to sponge off her entire
body, and change into clean fresh clothes.

After purchasing a variety of foods and
personal items for the three-day journey, along with a block of ice
to place on the floor of their compartment, they boarded the train
and located their quarters—a hot, stuffy cubicle with facing,
leather-covered benches that made up into two narrow beds. While
Damon hefted their handbags onto the racks above the seats, a
coolie placed the block of ice on the floor in the space between
the benches.

Elizabeth lowered herself onto one of the
seats and glanced around the tight quarters. To her dismay, there
was no privacy screen, which would mean having to stand in her
undergarments with her back to Damon, while she attempted to reach
inside her drawers and down the front of her camisole in order to
wash herself. Even the commode—a covered box with a hole that
opened onto the tracks below—was in plain view. She had no idea how
she would get around that. Damon, of course, would simply strip
naked to wash, and use the commode as the need arose, and give it
no thought.

He affirmed her misgiving by closing the
compartment door, stripping off his clothes, urinating in the
commode, and saying, "It's going to be hell in here with you
sitting half-naked across from me for three days." He poured water
from a pitcher on the wash stand into a basin and dipped a wash
cloth into it, then started sponging off his chest.

Elizabeth glared at him. "Well, your total
disregard for modesty, along with your proclivity for displaying
your male member to my view, in whatever state it happens to be in,
doesn't make it any easier on me," she snapped, surprised at her
boldness in discussing things no proper lady should discuss. But
she was long past fretting over trying to maintain a sense of
modesty and decorum. India, and the man she was married to,
stripped her of any pretense of propriety, though she could not
fault him. She was, after all, his wife, and what he was doing was
normal for a legally-wed couple. Still, she found it troubling.

Ignoring her complaint, Damon passed the
cloth across his taut belly and swabbed it over the cluster of male
parts hanging below. "If the sight of my male member bothers you,"
he snapped, "look the other way. And I can't do a damn thing about
its state, which has a way of hardening when you're watching, which
you have a penchant for doing."

Heat rushed up Elizabeth's face. The fact
was, whenever Damon stripped naked, she found it near impossible to
keep her eyes off him. She'd never seen that part of a man before
marrying him, and it was still a curiosity. On one occasion, when
he'd caught her staring, she'd been completely unaware that he was
watching, so astounded she'd been by the change that was taking
place to the object of her attention. She was also certain no woman
could possibly find pleasure in such a menacing-looking thing.

Catching herself staring again, she hastily
looked up, and said, "You could have purchased two compartments
like I asked you to do."

Damon propped his foot on the seat and began
sponging off his leg. "I could have, but I'm staying with you in
this compartment to protect you from thugees."

"Thugees crawling through the window and
strangling me are the least of my worries," Elizabeth parried,
noting that the thing dangling between his legs, which had been
flaccid moments before, was rising upward and taking on a definite
form, as were the two pouches beneath. When he'd stripped off his
drawers, those pouches had sagged with the rest. Now they were
round and so full, she doubted one alone could fit in her
hand...