Twilight 0f Memory (Historical Regency Romance) Page 14

  CHAPTER 10

  As a way to pass the time 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 shrubs and be accented by stone benches and bird baths. There would be a brick wall around it with a locking gate, a place where she could go for seclusion and complete solitude. But while laying out plans on her sketch pad, 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. She also remembered her mother's small stone idols that she kept hidden in a shed in the garden, a shed that had been replaced by a gazebo.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 gone, and the next her father was packing her off to boarding school in England where she stayed with relatives in the summer months, and saw her father during his visits there, but never to bring her back to Shanti Bhavan, even for a short stay…

  "Missy Sahib," a young coolie called up to her. He stood in the courtyard below the veranda, while holding Elizabeth's mare.

  Elizabeth set aside her sketchpad and nodded. 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 breakfast with Damon in the dining room, 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. Even in the middle of the dreaded hot weather, such as it was, the day still began with this magic. But after Damon spent three days eating alone in the dining room, he requested his morning meal be brought to the bungalow, which was best, Elizabeth decided.

  Damon could cool his ardor with Mara, and she could use that time to plan her garden, undistracted, undisturbed, and unaffected by Damon's presence. And once her garden would be in full bloom, and Damon would be 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 couldn't 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 Mara had been trained from an early age. Still, she couldn't fault Damon. He was doing nothing more than what she suggested.

  Determined to give it no further thought, 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, and he agreed, but only with Damon's permission.

  As she cantered her mare alongside the jute fields, Elizabeth 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. Eyeing a well-worn trail leading into a grove of banyan trees, she pulled the mare to a halt. She'd never taken the trail before and found herself eager to know where it led and 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 the woman stood a bearer holding an enormous parasol over her head. 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 called out, "Good morning. I hope we haven't 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. I would enjoy having some British companionship."

  Elizabeth tied her mount to a tree and walked over to where the woman sat putting the finishing touches on a painting of the meadow before her, but in her painting, the meadow was dotted with flowers that didn't exist.

  As if picking up on that, the woman said, "I long for sweet peas, 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, so I enjoy them this way." She touched her brush to the painting several times, leaving a trail of pink sweet peas. "That should do." She 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're hungry."

  "Yes, I am, and I'm delighted to join you." Elizabeth wondered 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, then motioned for Elizabeth to help herself to soap and water at a wash basin. After they'd taken their seats opposite each other, the woman offered her hand across the table. "Please excuse my poor manners. I'm Blanche Bourke."

  Elizabeth took the woman's hand. "And I'm 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. "Jute. The fields surrounding us are his."

  Lady Bourke glanced at the jute fields in the distance. "Then they are also yours. I'm a firm believer that what belongs to a husband also belongs to his wife." She eyed Elizabeth with curiosity. "Am I wrong in assuming you are a new bride?"

  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 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, 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 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 said, "A little over two months."

  "Oh, you are a fresh bride. Were you married here in India?"

  "No, we were married in London." Technically, on the steamer, Elizabeth silently amended, but that was neither here nor there since it was a sham of a 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 afte
r spending a month in those close quarters then the marriage is in trouble."

  Elizabeth laughed nervously. "Yes, I suppose it would be." Lady Bourke would be shocked to learn the indignities she'd been forced to endure in those close quarters because of Damon. Certainly not cooing and cuddling and silly bedchamber talk.

  Lady Bourke snickered. "Well, my dear, now that all that newlywed 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. Ironically, while on the steamer she could not have imagined passing time with Damon in such an unappealing way. The whole act seemed entirely one of male gratification. Only recently, with Damon's change in attitude towards her, could she entertain the possibility that there could be some pleasure for the woman as well. She could not deny she'd been aroused with the things she'd allowed him to do the night she was dancing in the moonlight. Merely the thought of exactly what he'd been doing had her pulse quickening and heat creeping up her face, and she realized too late that she was blushing.

  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… yes, please…"

  While enjoying 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 feel honored that you're 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. "Having you join me for tiffin 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 guests at the masquerade ball to be held at Government House next week. I realize it doesn't give you much time to prepare 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 a joke. Then she quickly dismissed that notion. She'd only just met Lady Bourke by chance, and nothing about the woman's demeanor suggested she was anything but a sincere, courteous woman. As for the ball, she could certainly slip into the role of a gypsy queen, and she doubted there was a man in all of British India who'd 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. "I'm just not that intimidating, Lady Ravencroft. Now, you and your husband must come."

  Elizabeth shook her head. "It's very gracious of you to ask, but if my husband and I were to attend your ball, your guests would be appalled. You see, Lord and Lady Ravencroft are quite the topic for gossip in Calcutta."

  Lady Bourke leaned forward. "Is your husband an honorable man?"

  Elizabeth silently pondered that. Until recently, she'd considered Damon anything but honorable. From the moment he arrived in London and learned who she was he'd been intent on humiliating her. But then, she'd stolen a valuable 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 right. 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 tongues wag," Lady Bourke said. "Besides, I can think of no better way to stop 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."

  Elizabeth couldn't help feeling a flurry of anticipation. She and Damon would be attending their first social event as Lord and Lady Ravencroft, and she found herself looking forward to an evening of costumes, dancing, and music. 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 had a smile tugging at 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 role again, if only for one evening at a masquerade ball.

  ***

  Two ayahs hovered over Elizabeth while arranging her hair—a cascade of dark curls interwoven with multicolored 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 silk-lined box, she'd 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, and at the moment, she had an irrepressible urge to tease her errant husband mercilessly. Maybe it was the thrill of the chase, snatching Damon away from Mara, if only for one evening, but she refused to think beyond that.

  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, and on top of that and curving 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.

  Because décolleté gowns were the rage, the women attending the ball would wear them daringly low—swells of breasts rising above bodices with the aid of stays, whalebone and uplift corsets, all intended to give male viewers an occasional tantalizing peek at a rosy tip. Everything would be utterly proper because it was "all the fashion." Elizabeth, however, decided to be more subtle. The unadorned neckline of her blouse rose high on her chest, but beneath the several gauzy layers of sheer white silk she wore nothing.

  She did a little turn in front of the mirror. Persian silk spun around her like a gossamer teal-and-rose cloud. Satisfied, she nodded her appreciation to the ayahs.

  Before leaving her bedchamber, however, she added one last touch. Lifting from her trinket box the gold chain with its tiny glass tattoo vials, she fastened it around her neck. It would raise the dark brow of a particular pirate king, which was her plan. She wanted to be Eliza Shirazi one last time. She missed her spunk, her sassiness, and her proclivity for wrapping a certain lord around her little finger. If, in fact, Damon would even go to the ball. There was still some doubt.

  When she'd first informed him that the viceroy's wife had invited them to the ball, he'd looked at her as if she were deranged. Then he followed with a string of expletives about what he thought of balls in general, followed by a tirade about dressing like a—another few expletives—pirate king. Stil
l, she had the durzis make a costume for him, which had been delivered to his bedchamber that morning.

  All doubt was allayed when she stepped into the hallway just as Damon was coming out of his bedchamber, and what she saw made her breath catch. Tight black breeches tucked into tall buccaneer boots hugged his lean hips, his white silk shirt gaped open midway, revealing a broad expanse of muscular chest, and his head was wrapped in a muslin scarf, the tails of which trailed between his shoulder blades. With the shadow of a beard on his square jaw, he looked dark and intimidating, and magnificently male. The urge to push his shirt aside and run her hands over the sleek, firm contours of his bare chest made her question the soundness of her costume design. But tonight was a farce, and she intended to play it to the fullest.

  She dipped a curtsy and said in a bright voice, "Good evening, my lord. You don't mind if I call you that do you? Somehow Your Majesty doesn't quite ring true for a pirate king. Besides, I feel like you're more my master than my monarch."

  Damon scanned the length of her, his eyes hovering on her chest. A slight frown gathered between his brows. At first Elizabeth thought he was scrutinizing the glass vials, but when he leaned forward, and his gaze shifted between her breasts, she realized he was trying to decide if what lay beneath the silk folds was in fact, bare flesh.

  She gave him a saucy smile. "To answer your question, no my lord pirate king, I'm not wearing anything beneath my blouse. I'm a gypsy tonight and gypsies don't wear corsets or camisoles, but I don't think you can see anything." She gazed down at her chest.

  Damon's eyes took on a steely glint as he said in a gruff voice, "You're covered, if that's what you mean." There was a definite edge to his tone.

  Elizabeth found that vastly rewarding. Did she detect a hint of jealousy that other men would enjoy what he might covet? She gave him her most beguiling smile. "And you fill out that silk shirt quite adequately—" she backed away, letting her eyes drift downward "—and the breeches." Lifting her folded fan, she smacked him playfully on the belly and sashayed past him.