Twilight 0f Memory (Historical Regency Romance)

by Patricia Watters

  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. "You spoke to my father about marrying me?" she said in a voice she almost didn't recognize as her own, its 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 the 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?"

  The prince tightened his arm around her waist. "Because I find English women irresistible," he said while 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. "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. India is a place I would never care to return."

  "But India has its own charm. If you were properly escorted around the country you'd view it differently."

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

  His lips 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. Surely it was not... But those deep-blue eyes, their intensity. She released the breath she'd been holding and looked off, her gaze moving anxiously over the couples gliding around the dance floor, as the reality of exactly who this man was, took hold.

  Deciding that her only recourse was to finish the dance without voicing her suspicions, she made no effort to be free of the man, but immediately on seeing her father she'd inform him that Prince Rao Singh was to be removed from her list of suitors, permanently. But for the moment, his proximity was playing havoc with her mental and physical well-being. She could barely remember to breathe, much less piece together coherent thoughts and put them into words.

  Yet, there was still a thin shred of doubt that the man could indeed be a prince from the Punjab... with cobalt blue eyes.

  "Lady Elizabeth," he cut into her thoughts, "is the evening everything you anticipated? You appear 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. She started to ask where he got such an idea, then stopped herself, recalling precisely where it was—from a gypsy girl who behaved shamelessly at the horse fair, gave him a run for his money, then absconded with his opal. 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 be so bold with a woman he intended to court. But then, Damon Ravencroft was no gentleman, nor was Prince Rao Singh, it seemed, if this was, in fact, the prince.

  "Certainly you expected to have suitors vying for your hand, Lady Elizabeth. Any woman as beautiful and desirable as you should expect nothing less."

  Heat rushed up her face, which annoyed her. 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. I did not expect to have suitors lining up at all."

  His 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'd be a prize in India," he said in a deep resonant voice that triggered distant memories, a voice that was becoming all too familiar, even after three years. "A woman with eyes like emeralds and skin as smooth as porcelain would indeed be a treasure. Surely you know that, since you lived in my country for some time."

  Elizabeth laughed a high, frenetic laugh. "I didn't get around much while I was there. I spent my time sheltered with a family. As for being a prize, I'm quite commonplace here in London."

  The music stopped and Elizabeth started to back out of his arms, ready to flee, but his hand tightened around hers. "I will have the next dance with you, Lady Elizabeth."

  Elizabeth held his steady gaze. "Is that a command?"

  "No, it's my greatest desire at this moment." The music started and he tightened his arm around her waist drawing her to him, and guided her around the dance floor. Closing his palm around her hand, he pressed it against his heart where she could feel its heavy beat. When she looked away he raised their clasped hands together, and with his bent knuckle, lifted her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. "Is it so difficult to look at me, Elizabeth?"

  She tipped her face from his touch. "You are rude to address me by my given name. In our country a gentleman never addresses a lady in such a familiar way."

  He smiled a slow, rueful smile. "Because I am a prince is not to say that I am also a gentleman, but since I intend to remain one of your suitors, I'll do as you wish... Lady Elizabeth." His hand meandered up her bare back again, but this time it lingered, sending tingles coursing through her. "Yes," he mused, "I find English women far more desirable than our Indian beauties, and infinitely more passionate, like you, Lady Elizabeth. Beautiful, spirited and passionate." The tips of his fingers teased the tender flesh behind her ear.

  Elizabeth snapped her head from his touch. "If you were not a prince I'd slap your face and leave you stranded on the dance floor."

  He laughed a soft, humorless sound. "Then why don't you? Are you afraid I'll have your head on a block? I don't wield that much power."

  Unable to contain herself, Elizabeth pushed against the hard wall of his chest and said in a firm voice, "I'm finding this conversation distasteful and I'll request that my father not receive you in our home."

  He pulled her back into his arms. "I stand chastised, my lady, and I will, in future, try to behave more gentlemanly because I intend to continue vying for your affection."

  Elizabeth lifted her chin and looked directly at him, not caring who or what he was. "It will do you no good if my father refuses to receive you in his house."

  Cobalt-blue eyes held her captive, as he replied in a quiet, confident tone, "But your father will receive me in his house, regardless of your wishes."

  His unyielding gaze, the uncompromising set to his jaw, the controlling way he held her while they danced… Elizabeth's assessment of him when they first met in Calcutta was correct. He was a dangerous man. Dangerous, and confident. "What makes you so sure he'll receive you?"

  "Because, Lady Elizabeth, I always get what I want, and I want you."

  Her chest rising and falling with her anxious breaths, Elizabeth said, while tugging against his restricting hold, "Do you intend to take me against my will?"

  "Never." Trapping her hand against his chest, he moved so close their lips almost touched as he said in a voice that held forewarning, "You have something to hide. I have something to hide. I think we understand each other."

  Elizabeth twisted her hand from his grasp. "I don't know what you're talking about."

  "I think you do, but if there's any doubt, I'll lay it out for you. I'll have you, and your dowry, and y
our father's blessing, and my opal back, and with your approval. Like I said, gypsy girl, I always get what I want." His voice was as firm as it was decisive. Gripping her elbow, he escorted her off the dance floor, turned, and left.

  ***

  Elizabeth stared at her father in disbelief. "An offer of marriage from Prince Rao Singh? Surely you must be joking?"

  Her father steepled his fingers. "I would never joke about something as serious as marriage."

  Elizabeth lifted her chin. "Then I flatly refuse. I'd rather sit in my room and become a whiskery old spinster with warts on my nose than be married to that man under any terms."

  "Stop being melodramatic. The Prince is an upright, honorable and very wealthy man. He'll provide all your worldly needs, and honor and care for you with respect. You could certainly do worse."

  "I cannot live in India again!" Elizabeth cried. Nor could she tell her father the truth about how she lived while there. If he learned she'd roamed with gypsies, worked as a common servant, was wanted for a murder she didn't commit, and stole a valuable gem from the man who was asking for her hand in marriage, he'd turn her out, just as he'd turned her mother out, and she couldn't bear to be back on the streets again. But to marry the insufferable man posing as a prince was almost as unthinkable.

  Her father looked at her dispassionately. "As the prince's wife you'd live in luxury in India, with every comfort you have here in England."

  "Even with every conceivable luxury that could be imported to India from England, there would still be bugs and mice and mold and snakes and... I'd hate every minute of it!"

  The valet appeared in the doorway and announced the arrival of Prince Rao Singh. Before Elizabeth could protest, her father instructed the valet to show him in.

  When Damon stepped into the room, Lord Sheffield stood and offered his hand. Damon shook it heartily then turned to Elizabeth. "A pleasure to see you again, Lady Elizabeth. I hope this finds you in good spirits"

  Elizabeth glared at him and stood, prepared to leave.

  "You will sit down at once, Elizabeth," her father snapped. "We are not finished."

  "I will not marry this... this... man, Father. He's an impostor!" There! It was out.

  Her father's gaze shifted between Damon and Elizabeth, settling on Elizabeth as he said, "I know exactly who this man is. Now do as I say and sit down."

  "But he's not who he presents himself to be!"

  "You will not raise your voice to me, Elizabeth. Sit down at once."

  Elizabeth lowered herself and sat propped on the edge of the chair, lips pursed, hands gripping the armrests, eyes fixed on her father. "You must listen to me, Father, and take heed of what I say. This man is not who he claims to be. His name is Lord Damon Ravencroft—though since he's not a prince, he may not be a man of title either."

  "I know exactly who this man is, but may I ask how you learned?" her father asked.

  Elizabeth looked at Damon, whose face remained indifferent, then said to her father, "There was talk about him in India… from the people I lived with."

  Lord Sheffield sighed. "Excuse my daughter's rudeness, Damon. I had not yet told her who you really are, and obviously she's been privy to scuttlebutt, but please, draw up a chair and sit where we can discuss this."

  Damon angled a chair and sat close to Elizabeth, who looked with disgust at him, then she turned to her father and said. "Then you've known all along who he is?"

  "Of course. I wouldn't offer your hand to a man whose lineage I could not trace. Damon has been falsely accused of murder and he's in England to clear his name, but once that's done he'll become the Earl of Westwendham and a very wealthy man. In exchange for your hand in marriage he'll receive a dowry from me sufficient for him to seek counsel to clear his name, after which time you'll be married to a titled man of wealth and live a life of luxury in England."

  Elizabeth wondered just how much more her father knew about Damon and the running of his household in India, or if Damon told him about one particular servant who stole an opal from him—a gem he believed she still had, it seemed—and whose ivory-handled knife ended up in the chest of his gateman. "What else do you know about this man, Father? You're asking me to share his life and his bed and have his children, and we are strangers."

  Lord Sheffield eyed Elizabeth with empathy. "I understand your concern, and I know Damon to be an honorable man. Ever since he purchased Shanti Bhavan we've corresponded and engaged in other business dealings and he's been forthright in every way. I would not offer your hand to him should I believe he was anything less than what he has presented himself to be over the years."

  Elizabeth looked down at her hands, and said to her father in a voice just above a whisper. "I cannot marry this man."

  "I'm sorry Elizabeth, but I know what's best for you. In time you'll grow fond of each other and perhaps even grow to love each other."

  "But you're sending me back to India."

  Damon patted her hand. "Lady Elizabeth, as I told your father, you've stolen my heart, and it would do me great honor if you'd agree to become my wife. I'd spend my days trying to make you happy and comfortable while we lived in India, and it shouldn't be long before I could bring you back to England where we'd take up residency at Westwendham. It's a magnificent estate. I'm certain you'd fall in love with it once the place is restored to its original splendor."

  Elizabeth looked at Damon, her lips pressed in anger. His hostile demeanor on the dance floor did not match the man addressing her now, the man her father believed him to be, and the terrible truth was, Damon had already secured half of what he wanted...

  …I'll have you with your father's blessing...

  But getting her approval was another matter. "If you force me to marry this man, Father, it will be against my will. There is no way I'll willingly give him my hand."

  "Excuse me, William," Damon interjected, "but may I ask your permission to escort Lady Elizabeth to the opera tomorrow night?"

  "Yes, of course," Lord Sheffield replied. "Perhaps Elizabeth will feel more inclined to accept your offer if she gets to know you better."

  "No, Father! I do not wish to go out with this man. Conducting business with you is far different than spending an evening with me, and you know nothing about the way he might behave under those circumstances."

  "I assure you, Elizabeth, he will treat you with respect. Now I'll hear no more about it."

  "But Father..."

  "Enough!"

  Damon stood. "I look forward to enjoying your company at the opera tomorrow night, Lady Elizabeth. I'll call for you at seven." Although Elizabeth didn't offer her hand, Damon lifted it from her lap, placed a chaste kiss on it, nodded to Lord Sheffield and left.

  Elizabeth quietly fumed. Somehow she would get out of this marriage, if she had to act like a woman on the verge of insanity to do so. Whatever it took, she would absolutely not marry the man calling himself Lord Damon Ravencroft. Ever!

  CHAPTER 6

  Prince Rao Singh's coach arrived at the Sheffield Manor house at precisely seven o'clock. Dressed in fitted black breeches, a blue velvet tunic that matched the deep blue of his eyes behind the spectacles, and flashing a star sapphire from the aigret of his gold turban, Damon near took Elizabeth's breath away, and she had to remind herself that he was not a prince come to take her to the ball in a great pumpkin coach and later whisk her away to his castle. He was Lord Damon Ravencroft, who wanted to ferret her away to India and... And what? She had no idea what he planned after that. But one thing was certain: she had not stolen his heart, she'd stolen his opal, and his intention was definitely not to spend his days trying to make her happy while they lived in India.

  Coincidentally, Elizabeth wore a gown of blue velvet, much the color of Damon's tunic, and around her neck draped a pearl necklace that her father had given her, which featured a sapphire ringed by small diamonds, an overall effect that bothered her immensely. She and Damon looked far too much like a betrothed couple, as if their attire had bee
n coordinated. She wondered now if her father had arranged the matching attire with Damon and instructed her step-mother to carry it through as the dress she was wearing had been laid out for her in advance. It was also a décolleté gown that dipped fashionably low, clearly intended to fan the fire of the man her father had chosen as her future husband.

  Damon stood beside her father in the large entrance hall while waiting for her, and as she descended the wide, curved stairway, the focus of his gaze was unmistakable. He also looked far too eager to be alone with her, and she realized, with great misgiving, that she'd made a grave error in wearing the low-cut gown, and should have returned to her rooms and changed into something less revealing.

  When she reached the bottom step, Damon bowed so low she could feel his warm breath against her bosom as he said, "Lady Elizabeth, what I see takes my breath away." He lifted his head and smiled, and his meaning was unambiguous. He reached for the hand she'd refused to offer and brought it to his lips. She attempted to pull her hand free, but lost the tug-of-war when he placed her palm in the crook of his elbow and trapped it with a firm hand. She struggled for an instant, then gave up the effort and glared at him.

  Lord Sheffield caught her hostile behavior. "Elizabeth, you will conduct yourself as you have been taught." His tone was one of dire warning.

  Elizabeth pursed her lips in vexation. "Not to worry. I'll conduct myself as the occasion calls." She refused to look at Damon, but knew he got her message.

  Damon helped her into the coach and climbed in to sit uncomfortably close beside her, reminding her of their ride from the horse fair to Shanti Bhavan, three years earlier, a memory she quickly repressed. As the coach pulled away, she said, "Don't expect me to refer to you as Your Highness or My Lord. I will not."