Her Master's Touch (23 page)

She viewed herself in the long mirror on the
door of the wardrobe, amazed at what the
durzis
had put
together in less than a week. The stitching was masterful, the
costume exquisite in its simplicity—a white blouse of the finest
Persian silk, with long sleeves, split from elbows to wrists, that
formed narrow panels that floated and swirled when she moved her
arms. On top of the blouse and rising over her shoulders, but
dipping below her breasts, she wore a black velvet vest. Gold
grommets with a crisscrossing of black lacing held the vest panels
together. The skirt, also of Persian silk, was made from layers of
intermingling panels in shades of teal blue, moss-rose, and
fuchsia. Unlike the other gowns, which would be worn with
crinolines, her skirt followed the lines of her body. And around
her hips she wore a sheer, black spider-web scarf, which was caught
high on one hip with a flamboyant filigree pin—another find at the
bazaar.

Because décolleté gowns were the fashion, the
women attending the ball would wear them daringly low—swells of
breasts rising above bodices with the aid of stays and whalebone
and uplift corsets, all intended to give male viewers an occasional
tantalizing peek at a rosy tip. Everything would be utterly proper
because it was
'all the fashion
.' Elizabeth, however,
decided to be more subtle. The unadorned neckline of her blouse
covered her completely, but beneath the several gauzy layers of
sheer white silk she wore nothing.

She did a little turn in front of the mirror.
Persian silk spun around her like a gossamer teal and rose cloud.
Satisfied, she nodded her appreciation to the
ayahs
. Before
leaving her bedchamber, however, she added one last touch. Lifting
from her trinket box, the delicate gold chain with its tiny glass
vials, she fastened it around her neck. It would, raise the dark
brow of a particular pirate king, which was her plan. She wanted to
be Eliza Shirazi one last time. She missed her spunk and her
sassiness and her proclivity for wrapping a certain lord around her
little finger. She felt like toying with Damon tonight, if for no
other reason than to make him want what he would never have—her
justification for suffering the humility of knowing that Mara would
be waiting for him to come to her bed at the end of the evening.
If, in fact, Damon went to the ball. There was still some
doubt.

When she'd first informed him that the
Viceroy's wife had invited them to the ball, he'd looked at her as
if she were deranged. Then he followed with a string of expletives
about what he thought of balls in general, followed by a tirade
about dressing like a—another few expletives—pirate king. Still,
she had the
durzi
make a costume for him, which had been
delivered to his bedchamber that morning.

All doubt was allayed when she stepped into
the hallway just as Damon was coming out of his bedchamber. And
what she saw near took her breath away. Tight black breeches tucked
into tall buccaneer boots hugged his lean hips, his white silk
shirt gaped open to mid chest, revealing a mat of dark hair, and
his head was capped with a black tricorn that displayed a skull and
cross bones. With the shadow of a beard on his square jaw, he
looked dark and intimidating, and magnificently male. The urge to
push his shirt aside and run her hands over his muscular chest and
snuggle against that enticing matt of dark hair made her question
the soundness of her costume design. But tonight was a farce, and
she intended to play it to the fullest.

She dipped a curtsy and said in a bright
voice, "Good evening, my lord. You don't mind if I call you that do
you? Somehow Your Majesty doesn't quite ring true for a pirate
king. Besides, I feel like you're more my master than my
monarch."

Damon scanned the length of her, his eyes
hovering on her chest. A slight frown gathered between his brows.
At first Elizabeth thought he was scrutinizing the glass vials. But
when he leaned forward, and his gaze shifted between her breasts,
she realized he was trying to decide if what lay beneath the silk
folds was, in fact, bare flesh. She gave him a saucy smile. "To
answer your question, no my lord pirate king, I am not wearing
anything beneath my blouse. I am a gypsy tonight and gypsies do not
wear corsets or camisoles. But I don't think you can see anything,
can you?" She smoothed the folds over her breasts, revealing the
vague darkened images of two puckered tips.

Damon's eyes took on a steely glint as he
said, in a gruff voice, "You're covered, if that's what you mean."
There was a definite edge to his tone.

Elizabeth found that vastly rewarding. She
liked toying with him. Just turnaround. She gave him her most
beguiling smile. "And you fill out that silk shirt quite
adequately—" she backed away, letting her eyes drift downward "—and
the breeches as well." Her gaze locked on the bulge straining
against the webwork of crossties that closed his breeches. "If I
were not bound by our contract, my lord pirate king," she said in a
velvety voice, "I'd be tempted to slip the lacing of those
crossties. I have a fancy for rogues in snug breeches." Lifting her
folded fan, she smacked him playfully on the belly and sashayed
past him.

Damon followed her down the hallway. It was a
trap! He had no idea what her game was this time, but he'd be on
guard, not be duped again. If she intended to seduce him tonight it
was because she had an ulterior motive, though for the life of him
he could not figure what it could be. But he'd long since learned
his lesson with Elizabeth. Once a fool, perhaps. Twice a fool,
inexcusable. Thrice a fool… No way in hell!

As the coach made it's way toward Government
House, Damon's attention shifted between sultry smiles and
long-lashed emerald eyes, and speculation as to why Elizabeth would
want to consummate their marriage. His plan to change bitterness
and hatred into love and desire had not been implemented, which
made him even more suspicious. She was not behaving this way out of
love for him. But until he learned her reason, he'd keep his
distance, though it would take all the willpower he could marshal
if she decided to get inside his breeches, which were becoming
painfully uncomfortable with the crisscrossing of lacing, as he
pondered that thought.

Elizabeth patted his thigh and allowed her
hand to remain there. "You haven't said what you think of my
costume, my lord pirate king," she said. "Do you think I look like
a gypsy queen?" She gave him a glowing smile and waited.

Damon peered into mischievous. "You know more
about gypsy queens than I do," he groused. "So you tell me. Are you
dressed like a gypsy queen?"

Elizabeth shrugged. "Not any I've ever seen.
But then, I designed it to catch your eye. So, did it catch your
eye, the dress that is, not just what's beneath these folds." She
squared her shoulders and breathed deeply as she toyed with the
material over her breasts.

Damon stared at the darkened nubs straining
against the fabric. What the hell was she doing? Whatever it was,
it was raising havoc with his libido, not to mention that painful
part of him that felt as if it were being cut into pieces. He
snapped his eyes up to meet her teasing gaze. "The dress is fine,"
he grumbled. "I'm sure every man there will notice." He intended to
look away, but couldn't stop from taking in the sight of her
unhampered breasts swaying seductively with the motion of the
coach. Hellfire and damnation, he wanted to fill his hands with all
that soft, warm flesh. Instead, he tugged at his crotch to
alleviate the tight constraint caused by the damn lacing, then
pressed his knotted fists to his knees.

Elizabeth made a point of leaning toward him
and looking down. "Oh dear. That must be a burden," she said in a
playful tone, while pointing. "I hope I'm not the cause. When I
designed your costume, I assumed pirate kings should wear snug
breeches with lacings instead of buttons, but I can see that was a
mistake. Next time I'll have the
durzis
eliminate the lacing
and add a pouch instead to accommodate your… umm... enthusiasm. It
would be like a gusset that would start right about here…"

Damon grabbed her hand before her finger
could reach its target. She looked at him and smiled. "Relax, my
lord pirate king. You're stiff as a board." She pulled her hand
free and waved a finger over his breeches. "And from the looks of
all those odd little lumps and bulges pushing out between the
lacings I'd swear you're not wearing drawers," she said. "But then,
I designed the breeches with lacing so that with one little tug you
could be quite free of them, if the need arose."

"
Enough!"
Damon said, resisting the
urge to slip the lacing and prove her right about the drawers. But
the breeches had been too damn tight to accommodate them. And he
was paying the price for it now. If the lacings didn't cut him into
pieces, the damn fabric would rub him raw. But he refused to give
her the pleasure of knowing the hell she was causing.

"You're very edgy tonight," she said in a
plaintive voice, "and this is our one evening out to enjoy. I doubt
we'll ever be invited to mingle in British society again."

Damon's hand still trapping hers, he slid her
a sideways glance, and said, "Would that really bother you?"

Elizabeth tipped her head in thought. "If
truth be known, no. But if the evening is too dull, I've come
prepared." She pulled her hand from his and lifted the chain with
the vials.

Damon eyed them, dubiously. "Prepared for
what?"

"Righting a wrong." She nudged his shirt
aside, and with the tip of her finger, brushed it over the tattoo
above his heart. "It
is
an elegant rat," she said, her
finger tracing its outline, "but since it bothers you, I'm prepared
to tattoo something over it, perhaps a flower. The stem would drape
along here—" her fingertip followed the rat's tail.

Damon grabbed her wrist to stop what she was
doing. Damnation, he was on the verge of ripping all that flimsy
stuff off her and having his way with her in the coach. If it had
been any other woman doing the things she was doing he would have
planted himself inside her and found blessed relief by now. But
Elizabeth had a definite plan, which, it appeared, was to either
consummate the marriage or drive him to insanity.

She looked at him, devilment dancing in her
eyes. "Does my touch bother you that much, my lord pirate king?"
she said, musingly. "I was only inspecting my handiwork."

"The inspection's over," he snapped. He
clamped her hand against his thigh again.

"Pity," she said, "because I have an idea for
another tattoo. It came to me on the train while I was watching you
wash your...umm... self. It would be a dragon, a sort of sleepy
thing, with scales, and drowsy eyes, and a flat mouth, and little
black nostrils. And whenever something awakened this sleeping
dragon it would rise up, and it's eyes would open wide, and its
nostrils would flare, and there would be trails of flames coming
from its mouth. But I'm afraid, my lord pirate king, that you'd
have to sit very still for this one."

Damon looked straight ahead, determined to
not be lured into this trap she was setting. But while he managed
to ignore her verbal taunts, he could not dismiss the feel of her
hand on his thigh. He curved his fingers around it to prevent it
from rubbing against his crotch, whether from the rocking of the
coach, or from her not-so-subtle seduction. The irony of it was,
he'd fancy this playful, wickedly teasing side of her if he were
truly her beloved husband. But he wasn't. And it seemed he never
would be.

If she hadn't spoiled him for any other woman
he could simply walk away at the end of their agreement. But from
the moment she'd burst into his life, he'd had no desire for any
woman but her. He could consummate the marriage and tie her to him
forever, but then he'd be nothing more than a puppet dancing on the
end of his strings for her favors. No. She'd have to come to him
willingly, as his wife, or not at all. Which was ironic.

From her quick responses to him two years
before, he'd assumed she'd give herself to him with little more
encouragement than an intimate touch and a passionate kiss. He'd
also made it clear on the steamer that when she did give herself to
him, it would not be as his wife, but as the wanton hussy he'd
assumed her to be. His malicious words were now stamped on her
mind, and she seemed intent on holding them there…

The coach pulled to a halt at the entrance to
the grand ballroom. The coachman stepped down and opened the door,
and Damon escorted Elizabeth into the ballroom, where a caller
announced, "Lord and Lady Ravencroft."

The reaction from the attendees was entirely
predictable. Dead silence. Gradually, the murmur of voices rose,
accompanied by the bobbling of heads behind fans, and the cupping
of hands around attentive ears.

Elizabeth glanced around the room. The gypsy
queens were dazzling in their opulence, looking much like giant
taffeta bells in the brightest of colors, bedecked with beads and
trifles and trinkets and other garish baubles. Even their flashy
faux
crowns, by comparison, made hers look elegant. And the
pirate kings strutted their stuff like peacocks in tall boots, with
breeches that curved over portly bellies and molded to plump
thighs, and ruffled blouses that revealed pale white chests with
sagging muscles.

Elizabeth eyed the pirate king standing
beside her, acutely aware of his overwhelming masculine
demeanor—the embodiment of pure male essence. She also realized he
was not going unnoticed by the females in the room. The realization
that this quintessential specimen of a man was her husband in name
only made her body come alive in ways she didn't welcome. She
hadn't realized her fingers had tightened on his arm until he
covered her hand with his, and said against her temple, "You are
the reigning queen here tonight, Elizabeth. There's not a woman in
this room who doesn't envy your beauty."