Her Master's Touch by Patricia Watters Page B

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 Elizabeth,” 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