Damon leaned forward slightly, as if to make sure she understood, and said, "That's why I'm staying in the bungalow, Elizabeth, so I will not be tempted again."
Elizabeth wanted to tell him that she knew precisely why he was staying in the bungalow, and it had nothing to do with avoiding temptation with her, but said instead, "You should not have touched me there at all. No, not touched," she corrected. "You fondled me as if you were inspecting a concubine you intended to purchase for your harem. But I had no choice but to allow you to do what you were doing. You and I are already a prime topic for gossip among Calcutta's bluebloods, so I could hardly shove your hand away as I wanted to do, with a half-dozen ayahs staring at us. Not only did I feel violated by what you were doing, but I also felt violated by the spectators who were watching you fondle my breast in a way that had nothing to do with the swelling under my arm." She let out a short, cynical laugh. "At least the gossipmongers will not be able to say that Lady Ravencroft shuns Lord Ravencroft's touch."
Damon looked at her thoughtfully. "Maybe some day my touch will feel right."
Elizabeth slapped her napkin on the table, fixed her eyes on his, and said, "We will not be together long enough for that to happen. The gypsies will be here in three weeks, and if they have the opal in their possession, I will get it back for you, in which case you will return to England, and I will stay here. If they don't have the opal, I will return to England, and you will stay here. Either way, this marriage will be over, and your touch will no longer be a threat to me." She shoved her chair back and stood.
Damon rose out of respect, looked across the table at her, and said, "I behaved badly on the steamer, Elizabeth. The things I said were cruel and vindictive and I apologize for that. And for the incident during your bath. I had no right. Will you ever forgive me?"
Elizabeth shrugged. "You've behaved badly ever since I first met you, though I've been partly to blame for your poor behavior. I believe we bring out the worst in each other, which is why I'll be glad when this alliance is over. Now, if you'll excuse me, I want to be done with all the bedtime nonsense with my ayahs and go to sleep." She turned and left the room, and Damon didn't try to stop her. But before the issue of the opal would be settled, he was determined that she would welcome his touch, and him as her husband.
The thought of another man's hands on her was not an option now. But he had little time left to change bitterness and hatred to love and desire. But change it, he would.
CHAPTER NINE
To pass the days while awaiting the arrival of the gypsies, Elizabeth set about planning an English garden for the day when Shanti Bhavan would be hers. The garden would be an intricate maze of brick walkways that would wind among plants and shrubs and be accented by stone benches and bird baths. There would be a brick wall around it, with a locking gate that only she could access. It would be a place where she could go for seclusion and complete solitude.
But while she was laying out plans on her sketch pad and making copious notes on the features she wanted to include, buried memories began to emerge—recollections of gathering herbs with her mother in the garden, and crouching beside her while filling pots with pansies that reminded her of little faces. And she remembered her mother's small stone idols that she kept hidden in a shed in the garden, a shed that had been replaced by a small gazebo. Those memories were as clear as her memories of Madam Chatworthy's in England. Yet, all memory of the days leading up to her mother's disappearance remained buried. It was as if one day her mother was hovering over her, and the next her father was packing her off to school in England…
"Missy Sahib," a young coolie called up to her. He stood in the courtyard below the veranda, holding Elizabeth's mare. "You ride now?"
Elizabeth set aside the sketchpad and nodded. "I'll be right there," she called down. Before leaving, she finished her spicy tea and took one last mango tart from the bamboo tray. For the past several days she'd had morning meal on the veranda off her bedchamber. Although she'd initially requested doing it as a means of avoiding having to eat with Damon, she was beginning to look forward to it. The pearly light of dawn was an almost mystical experience, especially when surrounded by the calls of doves, and jungle crows, and the ever present brain fever bird. Even in the middle of the dreaded hot weather, such as it was, the day still began with this magic.
But after two days of eating alone in the dining room, Damon requested that morning meal be brought to him at the bungalow. Which was best, Elizabeth decided. He could cool his ardor with Begum Mara until late in the morning, and she could use that time to plan her flower garden, undistracted, undisturbed, and unaffected by Damon's presence. Once her garden would be in full bloom, and Damon back in England, she'd give no further thought to what went on between the silk sheets in the bungalow.
But for now, no matter how hard she tried, she could not set aside her bizarre longing to be the one to give Damon pleasure in the ways a woman could pleasure a man, in the way Begum Mara had been trained to do from an early age.
Determined to give no further thought to her errant husband, Elizabeth grabbed her riding crop, snatched her riding hat from a hook on the wall, and headed down the stairs toward the courtyard. Her morning ride was her one time in a long tedious day that she could be alone with her thoughts, though she'd had to be brusque with the syce to allow her to do so. He did, but only with Damon's permission, which Damon grudgingly gave.
As she cantered her mare alongside the jute fields, she breathed in the sweet scent of the fresh morning air while savoring the exhilaration she felt on being free from the flurry of servants scurrying about. And with both Lord and Lady Ravencroft away from the house, it was a time when the staff would be given no fodder for gossip...
Except for the fact that Lord Ravencroft never accompanied Lady Ravencroft on her morning ride because His Lordship was busy bedding Begum Mara in the bungalow.
Eyeing a well-worn trail leading into a grove of banyan trees, Elizabeth pulled the mare to a halt. She'd never taken the trail before and found herself eager to know where it led. Turning the mare, she set out at a brisk trot. But when she came to a clearing beyond the grove, she was surprised to find a middle-aged woman sitting at an easel, painting. Beside her stood a bearer holding an enormous umbrella over her head. And a short distant away, servants busied themselves around several tables, one table prepared with a crisp white cloth and tableware, another holding food hampers, and yet another with griddles and pots with steam curling upward, carrying with it the aroma of onions and spices.
The woman looked across the meadow at Elizabeth, and smiled. "Good morning," the woman called out. "I hope we have not overstepped the boundaries of your plantation."
Elizabeth smiled. "You have but you're welcome to stay. May I see what you're painting?"
"By all means. And please take tiffin with me," the woman said. "I would enjoy having some British companionship."
Elizabeth tied her mount to a tree and walked over to where the woman sat putting finishing touches on a painting of the meadow before her. But in her painting, the meadow was bedecked with flowers that did not exist. As if picking up on that, the woman said, "I long for sweet peas and snapdragons and petunias, but every time my mali tries to get them to grow, the hot weather sweeps down on the tender plants and withers them overnight. So I enjoy them this way." She touched her brush to the painting several times, leaving a trail of pink sweet peas. "That's fine now," she mumbled, then immersed her brush in a tin of solvent and removed her apron. "So, shall we see what my Punjabi cook has prepared this morning? I suspect those are parathas on the griddle. I hope you are hungry."
"Yes, I am. And I am delighted to join you," Elizabeth said, wondering what the woman's reaction would be on learning exactly who she'd invited for tiffin.
The woman called to the servants to set another place at the table, then indicated for Elizabeth to help herself to soap and water at a wash basin. After they'd taken their seats opposite each other, the woman of
fered her hand across the table, and said, "Please excuse my poor manners. I am Blanche Bourke."
Elizabeth took the woman's hand, and replied, "And I am Elizabeth Ravencroft." When Lady Bourke gave no indication that the name Elizabeth Ravencroft was a name to disdain, Elizabeth wondered how it was that this woman, of obvious high social status, had not heard gossip that seemed to have reached every British ear in Calcutta.
Lady Bourke draped her napkin across her lap, nodded for her server to place a chapatti on her dish, and said, "Then your husband is a planter, Lady Ravencroft?"
Elizabeth nodded. "Yes, jute. The fields surrounding us are his."
"Then they are also yours," Lady Bourke said. "I am a firm believer that what belongs to a husband also belongs to his wife." She eyed Elizabeth with curiosity. "Am I wrong in assuming that you are a new bride, Lady Ravencroft?"
Elizabeth laughed lightly. "Is it that obvious?"
"Yes, I'm afraid so. I fear you have not yet settled in. But you will. India has a way of stripping away all of your frailties. And please, help yourself to a kabob. I think out here in the hinterland we can relax the rules of propriety some."
Elizabeth laughed, enjoying Lady Bourke's easy manner. She lifted a kabob to her mouth and nibbled at a piece of lamb. After chewing thoughtfully, she said, "And your husband, Lady Bourke. What does he do?"
Lady Bourke smiled graciously. "Lord Bourke is Viceroy of India."
Elizabeth stared at the woman in stunned silence. When she'd finally found her voice, she said, "Please forgive me, Lady Bourke, I had no idea. Lord Ravencroft and I do not discuss politics."
Lady Bourke chuckled. "Good heavens, I should hope not. It would be a sad start to your marriage if your husband resorted to discussing politics at this early date. Cooing, cuddling and silly bedchamber talk are more the standard. Just enjoy your husband while his focus is still entirely on you, before life and his career get in the way."
Elizabeth tried to imagine what it would be like to cuddle with Damon, to have him coo sweet nothings in her ear and touch her in the ways a loving husband would touch his beloved wife. Or to even look at her as if she truly mattered.
Lady Bourke nodded for a server to fill Elizabeth's cup with spicy tea, then looked at Elizabeth, and said,. "How long have you and Lord Ravencroft been married?"
Elizabeth hadn't kept track. The nuptial date meant nothing, the exchange of vows too cold and unfeeling to reflect on. But Lady Bourke was expecting an answer, so she replied, "A little over two months."
"Oh, you are a fresh bride," she said, grinning. "Were you married here in India?"
"No, we were married in London," Elizabeth said. Well, technically on the steamer, she silently amended, but that was neither here nor there since it was a bogus marriage.
Lady Bourke smiled knowingly. "So your honeymoon was spent travelling by steamer to Bombay and, I presume, by train to Calcutta. But there's no better way for a young bride to get to know her husband." She laughed lightly. "If she still has one iota of modesty after spending a month in those close quarters, then the marriage is in trouble."
Elizabeth laughed nervously. "Yes, I suppose it would be." If only Lady Bourke knew the indignities she'd been forced to endure in those close quarters because of Damon. Certainly not cooing and cuddling and the gentle touch of a caring groom introducing his bride to the marital act. Though he had, in a sense, introduced her to it when he'd pressed her hand around his aroused male member, and the feel of its silken sheath against her palm made it seem less threatening. Oddly tempting in fact. That incident, coupled with her memory of the private pleasure, left little to the imagination. Mercilessly, that which was left taunted her when she was alone in bed at night, knowing Damon was using that part of him to bring pleasure to another woman. She'd had a sample of that pleasure, and now she couldn't put aside her longing to experience the fruition of it with Damon.
Lady Bourke snickered. "Well, my dear, now that all that newly-wed folderol is over, I expect you'll be having an announcement to make in the near future. Many children are conceived on the trip between England and Bombay. It helps pass the time."
"Yes, it did help pass the time," Elizabeth said, then realized she'd just admitted to something that never happened. Strangely, the thought that she had missed out on a kind of initiation into marital life that was as old as time saddened her. Ironically, while on the steamer she could not have imagined passing time with Damon in such an unappealing way. When she'd first seen that part of him rise up from it's nest of dark bristly curls and grow large, she'd been appalled. Why on earth would any woman want such a repugnant-looking thing inside her, she'd thought? Not only was the thing ominous in size, but the whole act seemed entirely one of male gratification. Only now could she entertain the possibility that there could be some pleasure for the woman as well. With that thought her pulse quickened, heat crept up her face, and she realized too late that she was smiling.
Lady Bourke snickered. "I will not say to you, 'a penny for your thoughts,' because they are quite obvious. I look forward to meeting your husband in the near future. Tea?"
"Oh… um… yes, please…"
While lunching on meat curries, and halva, and an assortment of breads and cheeses, Elizabeth was so comfortable with Lady Bourke's warm manner that she was tempted to tell all, but refrained. She was surprised, though, when after asking Lady Bourke how she managed to keep up with all the social engagements that being the Viceroy's wife would entail, Lady Bourke replied, "Social engagements are no problem. In fact, being British India's first lady can be quite lonely. I'm in a fog as to why women feel intimidated by me, but they do. They rarely invite me to their social events, and they avoid sitting by me, or even talking to me at gatherings."
"I find that surprising," Elizabeth said, with candor. "I also feel honored that you are so gracious as to have me join you this morning."
"Well, my entourage and I are, in fact, trespassing." Lady Bourke reached across the table and patted Elizabeth's hand. "But having you join me for tiffen makes this one of the most pleasant mornings I can remember. I hope we can do it again soon. In fact, I'd be honored if you and Lord Ravencroft would join us as our special guests at the masquerade ball to be held at Government House next week. I realize it doesn't give you much time to prepare your costumes, but I'm sure you can work something out. The theme this year is gypsy queens and pirate kings."
Elizabeth stared at Lady Bourke in shocked surprise, wondering if this was some kind of a joke. Then she quickly dismissed that notion. She'd only just met Lady Bourke, and nothing about the woman's persona suggested that she was anything but a sincere courteous woman. As for the ball, she could certainly slip into the roll of a gypsy queen. And she doubted there was a man in all of British India who would make a more convincing Pirate King than Damon, if not for his wickedly handsome looks, than for his reputation for acquiring rare and exotic gems.
Lady Bourke laughed at Elizabeth's reluctance to reply, and said, "I am just not that intimidating, Lady Ravencroft. Now, you and your husband must come."
Elizabeth shook her head and said, wistfully, "It's very gracious of you to ask, but if my husband and I were to attend your ball, your guests would be horrified. You see, Lord and Lady Ravencroft are quite the topic for gossip in Calcutta."
Lady Bourke leaned forward, looked directly at Elizabeth, and said, "Is your husband an honorable man?"
Elizabeth silently pondered that. Until now, she'd considered Damon anything but honorable. From the moment he'd arrived in London and learned who she was, he'd been intent on humiliating her. But then, she'd stolen a precious gem from him that set his life back significantly, if not permanently. And although he was her legal husband, he'd held to their agreement, making no attempt to exercise his husbandly rights. There was also the issue with Cedric Hadleigh. Damon had defended her honor in no uncertain terms. "Yes," she at last replied, "my husband is an honorable man."
"Then it makes no difference to me if ton
gues wag," Lady Bourke said. "Besides, I can think of no better way to stop those wagging tongues than for you and your husband to be personal guests of India's Viceroy and his wife. Now I shall hear no more about it."
Although Lady Bourke didn't ask, Elizabeth felt obligated to inform her that Damon had been forced to flee England, and why. Lady Bourke had not so much as batted an eye, nor was she shocked when Elizabeth mentioned that she was Anglo-Indian. The rest, Elizabeth decided, could wait. For now, she and Damon would attend their first social event as Lord and Lady Ravencroft, and oddly, she looked forward to it. Short of Lord Ravencroft arriving at the ball with Lady Ravencroft on one arm, and Begum Mara on the other, there was nothing more the gossipmongers could add to further sully her reputation.
Then she remembered that Lord and Lady Ravencroft would be arriving at the ball as a pirate king and his gypsy queen. Tongues would indeed wag. Oddly, the dark humor in it brought a smile to Elizabeth's lips, along with a bizarre sense of anticipation for the party to begin. Perhaps a bit of Eliza Shirazi was starting to surface. An intriguing, thought. She was ready to take on that persona again, if only for one evening at a masquerade ball.
***
Two ayahs hovered over Elizabeth, arranging her hair—a cascade of curls interwoven with multi-colored beads strung onto numerous pencil-thin tresses. Perched atop her head was a small crown. She'd found the gaudy thing at the bazaar—a diadem of glass and gold beads winking at her from its velvet pillow—and purchased it at once, knowing it was the perfect accent for her costume. It was also the kind of tawdry thing Eliza Shirazi would have worn for such a grand occasion, if only to taunt a certain lord.
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.
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