He rapped on the window and the coach came to a halt. For a few minutes he stared at the place where he’d lived with his mother—an abandoned building once occupied from cellar to garret by families who lived in one room flats. Back then, stairwells sheltered the homeless, and the pungent odor of urine and unwashed bodies was so strong, doors to the flats remained closed day and night. Each morning his mother sent him with two wooden buckets to fetch water from a community cistern in which litter and an occasional dead rat floated. One bucket was for bathing, and for washing clothes. The other was for washing dishes and scrubbing the flat. Then he and his mother would leave for work, pushing a barrow and selling mussels, or picking through refuse for odds and ends to sell on the street when mussels weren’t available. But however desperate things got, his mother refused to beg.
The strange thing was, until the day he first saw Westwendham, when he was nine years old, he hadn't known how utterly poor they were because they'd always had food on the table and managed to stay out of the poorhouse. His mother had been careful to point that out. Their flat was scrubbed, faded gingham curtains hung over the single window, jute mats that covered the floorboards were beaten each day, and the table was always dressed with an unsoiled cloth that was removed for meals. And sitting on a shelf above the table, like a piece of fine porcelain, was the china bird with the broken wing he’d rescued from the garbage and given to his mother for Christmas the year he turned twelve. But no matter how hard she tried, his mother could never keep out the roaches and rats.
Instinctively his hand went to his chest where the tattooed image of a rat—pricked into his flesh by a gypsy chit who still haunted his memories—stood as a reminder of the life he and his mother had been forced into by a cruel father he’d never met, a man who divorced his wife and booted her out without a penny because she defied him by reading books. She was an abomination he'd raved. Women were not to be educated in a man’s world. But she had the foresight to take her precious books with her when she left, which she placed on shelves that covered one wall of their small flat.
Damon shared his mother’s thirst for knowledge, and from those books he learned Latin, the classics, and proper English grammar. From etiquette books and her Patrician upbringing, his mother instructed him in the social graces he needed to one day assume his rightful place at Westwendham. And on occasion, he made his way to the Royal Victoria Theater, where for three pence, he joined a rowdy crowd of dustmen and porters and black-faced sweeps to watch a melodrama or a farce, or if he was lucky, a burlesque.
The rest of his education was wide-ranging. On the streets of St. Giles he learned bare-fisted fighting and back-alley boxing. And in the crowded marketplace he learned how to spot and subdue a thief and return a coin purse to a dandy for a few pennies reward. He hadn’t been back to St. Giles since the night his mother died, and tonight he needed a reminder of why he’d come back to England. Westwendham was his, and he intended to claim it, if not for himself, then for his mother. He could still see the zealous look on her face when she impressed upon him the importance of seeking justice and claiming what was rightfully his. He was his father's first born, his heir—though his father never knew he existed as his mother was pregnant when he divorced her and turned her out…
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 E
lizabeth,” 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.”
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 glanced up, held the cobalt-blue depths of his steady gaze, and said, “Is that a command, Your Highness?”
“No, Lady Elizabeth. It’s my greatest desire at this moment." The music started again. 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. His breath tickled her temple as he said, “Is it so hard to look at me, Elizabeth?”
She held his mocking gaze. Still, she couldn’t be absolutely certain who she was looking at. There was still that shred of doubt. She tipped her face from his touch and said, “You are rude to address me by my given name, Your Highness. In our country a gentleman never addresses a lady in such a familiar way.”
Her Master's Touch Page 8
