After slipping into a plain, poplin traveling dress fashioned in a dark shade of burgundy, with pleated puff sleeves and tiny tucks down the front of the fitted bodice —a relatively unadorned dress she hoped would not draw attention to herself—she made her way to the dining room. She did not wear the diamond-encircled emerald wedding ring that Damon had given her as part of the marriage arrangement, but kept it in her reticule in case she needed to play the role of bride. It was a role that would make use of the acting skills she'd acquired while living with the gypsies, skills she'd successfully used to mislead a merchant into giving her fresh vegetables for her three hungry children, and to hoodwink a traveling salesman into giving her tonic for her ailing baby, and to dupe a lord at the horse fair into buying a dyed black horse.
To her dismay, the maître d' seated her at a table with four other passengers—two sets of married couples, it appeared. The vacant chair beside her demanded an explanation, which she had no intention of providing. After cordial greetings that confirmed the couples' marital and high-born status, the middle-aged woman directly across from her smiled, and said, "I'm sorry dear, but I did not get your name."
Elizabeth looked around the table and realized all eyes were on her, waiting. Offering a tentative smile, she replied, "Elizabeth."
"Have you a husband aboard, or are you venturing to India to find one?" the woman asked, tagging her as one of the many 'fishing fleet' women aboard for that exact reason.
Elizabeth's eyes shifted uneasily with the woman's direct question. She suspected word was already out that Lord Damon Ravencroft had taken a wife, and the woman was intent on learning if the female in the unadorned, burgundy dress sitting across from her was Lady Ravencroft. Realizing she had little choice but to admit to the inevitable, she replied, "I have recently married. My husband is Lord Ravencroft." Uncertain where this interrogation was leading, she covertly withdrew the ring from her reticule and slipped it on her finger, the weight of it more like a manacle than a symbol of eternal love.
For a few moments no one spoke, and Elizabeth surmised that they were trying to digest the juicy bit of gossip they'd just been given. Two years ago she'd heard enough tittle-tattle from the servants at Shanti Bhavan to conclude that Damon was considered a notorious rake, a gem dealer of questionable integrity, and a threat to the husbands and paramours of the many women who derived a bizarre pleasure out of the danger associated with being in the company of a man with Damon's enigmatic background.
The younger woman, who Elizabeth presumed was the daughter of the middle-aged woman—their sharp noses and high foreheads placed them clearly from the same stock—said to Elizabeth, "I wasn't aware that Lord Ravencroft had been in England."
Elizabeth studied the woman more closely. From the look of puzzlement on the woman's face, Elizabeth realized that the woman, like the others in her insular little circle of gossipers in Calcutta's British society, had been fooled royally by Prince Rao Singh. She could not suppress the smile of satisfaction that brought, even if it was to Damon's credit. "Lord Ravencroft was in London to take care of some business matters," she replied.
The older woman, who had been eyeing her with the sharp stare of a hawk, said to her, "Lady Ravencroft, is your husband not joining you for dinner this evening?"
"I am not sure," Elizabeth replied, truthfully. "When we awakened this morning I told him that my stomach was queasy, so he left me in our stateroom to rest. I suspect he's in the gaming room."
The younger woman leaned toward her. "You say your stomach was queasy this morning?" she said, as if to make sure everyone heard, then added in a lowered tone. "How long have you been married?"
Elizabeth looked from one woman to the other. She was tempted to tell them it was none of their bloody business, but decided that would add fuel to a fire that was already building, so she replied instead, "Well, actually, we were married yesterday."
The older woman looked at her, incredulous. "The first day of your honeymoon, and your husband left you to go gaming?"
"It was just a touch of motion sickness from the rocking vessel," Elizabeth said, before realizing she'd picked the wrong excuse as to why her husband had not been with her for the entire day, the question of morning sickness opening the door for further gossip.
The women exchanged knowing glances. Then the elder of the two reached across the table and patted Elizabeth's hand. "We quite understand, my dear. But you've managed to land Lord Ravencroft with the oldest trick known."
Elizabeth bristled. Looking directly at the woman, she said, "If you are implying that I am carrying Lord Ravencroft's child, you are greatly mistaken."
The woman laughed lightly. "No, my dear, that is the second oldest trick in trapping a husband of means. I venture to say that when your husband learns he is not to be a father, but was deceived into believing that was the case, he will not be happy. But then, perhaps that's the only way to land a man such as Lord Ravencroft. He's a dodgy devil."
Elizabeth stood, looked from one woman to the other, and said, "Excuse me, but I believe I'll find another table." She turned to leave, and to her shock, saw Damon in the entry to the dining room. The sight of him, clean-shaved and standing tall in a cutaway jacket and narrow trousers, near took her breath away, much as it had the first time she'd laid eyes on him at the horse fair. Back then, he'd been pointed out to her from a distance. But when she'd paused in front of him to display the horses, and he winked and smiled, her heart started racing so fast she thought she might faint…
Damon caught sight of her and started across the dining room. After nodding an acknowledgement to the others, he took Elizabeth by the arm and turned away. "I want to talk to you," he said in a low voice, his hand firm on her elbow, letting her know that breaking and running was not an option. He guided her to a table for two and seated her, then sat opposite.
Elizabeth glared across the table at him. After her encounter with the women she was in no mood to be reprimanded by Damon for any reason. If he did, she would simply shove her chair back and leave the dining room. What difference would it make if everyone knew that Lady Ravencroft detested her husband. "Go ahead, say whatever it is you want," she challenged. "You cannot strip me of any more pride because I have none."
Damon looked steadily at her. "You'll have your privacy, Elizabeth. I have secured a palette and a privacy screen, which will be brought to our stateroom. You will have the berth, and I will sleep on the palette. Afternoons and evenings, I'll be in the gaming room, and the stateroom will be yours. Mornings, I'll sleep, and the stateroom will be mine. You can remain at that time if you wish, or go up and mingle with women who will be your friends in India. At high tea and dinner, we will dine together and put up a front as a married couple. You don't need to worry about my touching you again."
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.
Her Master's Touch Page 13