Her Master's Touch by Patricia Watters

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