Her Master's Touch by Patricia Watters Page A

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