Lady Beauchamp's Proposal

by Secret Cravings Publishing

  And froze. The space ahead of her was dark and cavernous. The lantern held by Mr. James revealed glimpses of a wide area of stone-flagged floor that disappeared into dark corners, and a high vaulted ceiling that was filled with flickering shadows. The steel of ancient weaponry mounted on stone walls glimmered dully, and a suit of armor stared blindly at her from a wall recess. Elizabeth was unsure in which direction she should turn. It struck her anew how dark and apparently devoid of life the castle was.

  “This way, Mrs. Eliott.” Perhaps sensing her uncertainty, Mr. James strode past her.

  Elizabeth picked up her skirts again and followed him with careful haste. Within a few moments she could see they were heading for a wide stone staircase that swept upwards into darkness. She followed Mr. James, trying her best to keep up with his long-legged stride. But her legs were trembling, and her heart and head were pounding by the time she gained the top of the stairs. She paused for a moment, her hand on the carved stone balustrade, fighting a sudden wave of dizziness.

  Mr. James turned back. The lantern cast strange shadows over the angular planes of his face, giving him a distinctly saturnine expression. She shivered.

  “Are you all right, madam?”

  She nodded. “I think so…I have travelled such a long way…Perhaps I am a little fatigued…that is all.”

  Mr. James cocked an eyebrow. “Well, if you’re sure. It’s not much farther.” He then turned and continued on down the corridor without glancing back.

  Elizabeth hurried to keep up, but was relieved that the footman-cum-butler was as good as his word. Within a short space of time, he ushered her into another vast room that appeared to be a library. She paused on the threshold, astounded by the magnificent proportions and opulence of the room. She hadn’t expected such grandeur considering the starkness of the Great Hall—the sections she had been able to see at any rate.

  A large fire roared in an enormous fireplace that was surrounded by a black marble mantelpiece, elaborately carved with fluted columns, scrollwork and motifs of all manner of wild creatures—lions, stags and eagles. On a sumptuous Turkish carpet before the hearth, lay two massive deerhounds; they blinked at her sleepily before lowering their heads back onto their paws, clearly disinterested in her arrival.

  The room was relatively well-lit with strategically placed lamps and wrought-iron candelabra that held clusters of fat, beeswax candles. By their light, Elizabeth could see that the library had two levels; towering bookshelves covered two of the walls on the lower level where she had entered, whilst the upper level was comprised of shelves entirely. Heavy, Jacobean-style side tables in dark oak, and armchairs upholstered in dark brown leather or gold and burgundy damask, were strategically arranged around the hearth and other places about the room.

  Directly opposite to where she stood was a solid oak desk, also elaborately carved. A tapestry of a hunting scene hung directly behind it. On either side of the desk, thick curtains of burgundy velvet framed wide, arched mullioned windows that were set in deeply recessed embrasures. All she could see beyond the diamond-shaped panes at this moment was inky blackness, although she could just detect the muted pounding of waves. She imagined that during the day, the windows would look out across the sea.

  Mr. James marched in and placed the lamp on the desk, then turned to scowl at her. “Why are you hovering there? You’re not afraid of the dogs, are you? The last governess that was here—Miss Lark, I think her name was, or maybe it was Miss Goose—turned tail and ran when she saw them.”

  Steadfastly refusing to rise to this man’s bait again, Elizabeth willed herself not to scowl back. “N-not at all Mr. James. I quite like d-dogs. It’s just that I am still soaking wet, and I do not think Lord Rothsburgh would appreciate it if I drenched his f-fine carpets.”

  “Nonsense. You’re obviously freezing.” He moved across the room to a leather settee by the fire, and held up a blanket of green, dark blue, and black patterned tartan. “Why don’t you remove your bonnet and pelisse then sit before the fire with something warm and dry around you? I swear you are turning blue as we speak.”

  Elizabeth gritted her teeth to stop them chattering and undid the bonnet’s ribbons at her throat, before unbuttoning her pelisse. She dropped both water-logged items onto the flags outside the library door, then with as much dignity as she could muster, crossed to the hearth and took the proffered blanket. She was, to her dismay, icily cold and shivering uncontrollably.

  Mr. James frowned at her. “Sit down, Mrs. Eliott. I will fetch you some tea and summon the marquess. He won’t be long.”

  She placed her damp reticule beside her and perched on the edge of the settee before wrapping the blanket about her shoulders. “Th-thank-you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  As soon as the library door snicked shut, Elizabeth let herself relax against the back of the chair. Heavens, she felt decidedly unwell. Her head throbbed and her throat felt raw. She was ill, there was no denying it. But how in God’s name was she to sway the marquess when she looked like a bedraggled cat and could barely sit upright?

  She reached for her reticule and retrieved her reference, relieved to find it was relatively dry. She would just have to let the words of The Right Honorable, Countess of Beauchamp, impress Lord Rothsburgh. The way she currently looked and felt, she would be lucky if the marquess didn’t toss her out onto the doorstep.

  Long minutes passed in which she fought the urge to sink into the welcoming arms of sleep. Surprisingly, one of the deerhounds stood, stretched his rangy body, and then came and placed his large shaggy head on her lap. She stroked one of his silky ears, and the hound let out a contented sigh. If only Lord Rothsburgh could be so easily pleased.

  “Mrs. Eliott.”

  Elizabeth opened her eyes to find Mr. James had returned. He was placing a tea tray onto the low table beside her.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I seem to have drifted off,” she said, forcing herself to sit upright. She dropped the blanket from her shoulders as she had begun to feel decidedly warm. A bead of perspiration trickled between her shoulder blades. “Is Lord Rothsburgh coming?”

  Mr. James cocked an eyebrow and smiled. “Yes. In fact he’s already here.”

  Elizabeth glanced about the room. There was no one else in the library besides herself and Mr. James. It was then that she noticed the butler was wearing a superbly tailored coat of black superfine with a neatly tied cravat at his throat.

  Pure, undiluted horror swept over her.

  “Oh, no.” She couldn’t believe she had been so stupid. How could she not have realized that Mr. James was in fact James Huntly, the sixth Marquess of Rothsburgh? She had researched his lineage in Debrett’s Baronetage and Peerage before she’d left London. Her heart in her mouth and cold dismay gripping her belly, she forced herself to stand, then dropped into a deep curtsy. “Lord Rothsburgh. I’m so deeply sorry for my lack of—”

  “Don’t be silly, Mrs. Eliott,” interrupted the marquess. “How were you to know that I, Lord Rothsburgh, would answer the door? Now sit back down before you fall down.”

  She subsided onto the settee again, her cheeks burning. In her wildest imaginings, she could not have envisaged anything as nightmarish as this. “I…I don’t know what to say, my lord,” she said. “Please forgive my presumption—”

  “Mrs. Eliott, I think I preferred it when you were rude to me.” Lord Rothsburgh smiled at her, a decided spark of amusement in his dark brown eyes. He bent over the tea tray and deftly poured her a steaming cup. “How do you take your tea?”

  “A little milk. No sugar thank you,” she replied meekly as she removed her gloves.

  Lord Rothsburgh handed her a cup and saucer of the finest bone china—the pattern was Wedgwood if she wasn’t mistaken. She took a sip and closed her eyes, savoring the soothing liquid. She could have sworn that the tea was a smoky Lapsang Souchong, her favorite blend.

  “I can see you have made friends with Rosencrantz.”

  Elizabeth ope
ned her eyes and looked down. The deerhound that had been resting his head on her knee earlier was now lying at her feet, his head on her boots. She smiled then glanced over to where Lord Rothsburgh sat in a leather wing chair opposite her.

  “Guildenstern, I take it, obviously prefers your company, my lord.” The other deerhound had moved over to his master’s side, his head on the marquess’s lap.

  “More fool him,” replied Lord Rothsburgh, his dark gaze roaming over her.

  Elizabeth felt her already feverish cheeks grow hotter, and she glanced toward the dog at her feet. A misanthrope she could deal with, but a darkly handsome voluptuary? She had not anticipated the marquess would be such a man; which was quite short-sighted really—men of his class often lived a hedonistic lifestyle.

  She should know considering she was married to one of the worst offenders.

  But perhaps Lord Rothsburgh was only testing her mettle, to see if she was made of sterner stuff than her predecessors. Despite her throbbing head and raw throat, she would just have to show the marquess that she was not some withering violet.

  She looked up to find that the marquess was still watching her. He had stretched back in his chair; his long muscular legs, encased in form-fitting breeches were extended out before him, his booted lower legs crossed at the ankle. He was the personification of the arrogant, indolently graceful aristocrat. In one long fingered hand he held a glass of amber-colored liquor—whisky perhaps.

  Noticing the direction of her gaze, he raised the glass and took a sizeable sip. “Would you like some?” he asked, arching a black-winged eyebrow. His voice was low and soft, like velvet.

  She swallowed. “No thank you, my lord.” Her voice emerged as a husky croak. She took another quick sip of tea, then placed the cup and saucer on the table. They rattled faintly against each other. She was shivering again and she could feel a sheen of cold perspiration on her brow. Banter was all well and good, but she needed to get down to business to secure her position as governess.

  She reached for her reference and offered it to the marquess. “P-perhaps we could speak about the governess’s p-post, Lord Rothsburgh,” she said, although she inwardly cursed her chattering teeth. It made her sound nervous. “This is my letter of reference from the C-Countess of B-Beauchamp.”

  Lord Rothsburgh leant forward and took the letter from her, frowning. “Are you sure you are all right, Mrs. Eliott? You look a little flushed.”

  She shrugged. “I think I must have caught a chill, my lord. I will be f-fine.”

  He sat back, his dark eyes lingering on her a moment more before he turned over the envelope and broke the wax seal. “This is from Lady Beauchamp, you say.”

  “Yes. She is one of the p-patronesses of the Widows of Waterloo Trust, my lord. It is a charity that aims to f-find paid, decent work for wives who have lost their husbands at Waterloo and n-no longer have a source of income.”

  Lord Rothsburgh sought her gaze. His eyes were somber. “Then I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs. Eliott.”

  Elizabeth inclined her head in acknowledgement of the condolence, yet felt herself flushing a little more—if that was at all physically possible. Although she had uttered the lie about her situation with relative ease, once spoken it was as if a bitter taste still lingered in her mouth.

  The marquess returned to perusing her reference. “You come highly recommended,” he said thoughtfully when he had finished reading it. He put the letter aside and fixed his gaze on her again. “Although I do hope that Lady Beauchamp isn’t tied to that first-class bounder, the Earl of Beauchamp, Hugh Harcourt. Her recommendation isn’t worth much if she is. Only a fool would have married a prat like that.”

  Elizabeth gasped. He knew Hugh, but he obviously didn’t know her. She quickly scanned her mind for any memory of having met Lord Rothsburgh before, but she could not find one. Her real identity was safe.

  But even though what he had just said about Hugh was accurate, his comments about her true self—Lady Beauchamp—still stung. That meant her reference was worthless. Lord Rothsburgh had dismissed her well-chosen words outright. And it was not as if what she had stated about Mrs. Beth Eliott was an entire fabrication; she did truly possess the personal qualities and attainments delineated within the letter that made her more than suitable governess material. And she did really want and need the work.

  She sat dumbfounded, searching for something to say that would convince this mercurial man she was the right person to teach his daughter. But nothing came to mind.

  She raised a shaking hand to her fevered brow and pushed a damp lock of hair out of her eyes. “I…I don’t know what to say, Lord Rothsburgh.” There was a hard lump in her throat and her eyes were suddenly misty. She bit her lip and willed herself not to cry. It had been a mistake to come here. Perhaps she was the fool the marquess thought she was.

  She couldn’t stay. Perhaps the tide was still low enough for her to return to Torhaven. She could beg Mr. Geddes for a room—she would pay of course. “It’s probably best if I go then, my lord.” She stood abruptly and the room swayed before her eyes.

  “Mrs. Eliott…”

  Her name was the last thing she heard before blackness descended.

  Chapter Three

  “Mrs. Eliott…Christ.”

  Rothsburgh leapt to his feet, but was not fast enough to catch the crumpling form of the beautiful widow. She sprawled face down across the rug before him.

  Rosencrantz whined and nuzzled at her head. Rothsburgh fell to his knees and after shooing away the hound, he gently turned the woman onto her side. She was out cold.

  He felt for a pulse at her neck—it was strong—and he noted her breathing was slightly shallow yet steady. As he had already suspected, she was burning up with fever. Her smooth, alabaster skin was unnaturally hot beneath his fingers and there was perspiration across her brow. There was no doubt in his mind that she had contracted the dreadful ague that had recently plagued this corner of Aberdeenshire.

  He sighed heavily. She would be decidedly ill for another three or four days until the fever broke. Then she would develop a debilitating cough that would last for another week or more. That meant he would be responsible for her care for at least another fortnight.

  How ironic, considering that after the death of his faithless wife only six weeks ago, he had sworn that he would never let another female who wasn’t family or a clanswoman under his employ, cross his threshold again.

  Confounded woman. This was the last thing he needed. He should never have let Mrs. Eliott through the door in the first place.

  The ague had arrived with devastating impact in Torhaven about a fortnight ago and most of the staff at Eilean Tor had succumbed to it as well; in fact the castle’s housekeeper Mrs. Barrie, the wife of the gameskeeper, had sadly passed away.

  Rothsburgh thanked all the angels in heaven that his sister Helena had taken his daughter, Annabelle, to Edinburgh a month ago, well before the pestilence had arrived. He was one of the few who had not contracted the illness. God only knew why.

  He ordered Rosencrantz and Guildenstern to stay at the edge of the hearthrug, and then crossed the room to ring for Roberts. He was reluctant to do so; the butler still had a fearsome cough, as did his wife, the castle’s cook—in fact he had ordered them to retire early this evening to assist with their recuperation—but Rothsburgh would need the good man’s help to open up and ready one of the guest rooms in the wing where his own suite of rooms was located.

  Roberts appeared in good time and took the news of the unexpected arrival of Mrs. Eliott in his customary stride. The man was loyal to a fault and truly unflappable.

  Once he had quit the library, Rothsburgh returned to Mrs. Eliott—Beth. She had not moved at all. He bent down and easily lifted her into his arms. He had already noted when he had first opened the door on her that she was of medium height and very slender. In fact, she barely weighed anything at all. Indeed, he suspected that half the weight he carried was sodden wool.

&
nbsp; Looking down at her, he noticed that her head had lolled back at an awkward angle, so he adjusted her position until she was better cradled in his arms with her head resting against his shoulder. She murmured slightly and her eyelids fluttered open for a second before she subsided into oblivion again.

  He couldn’t resist the temptation to study her face for a moment; even though she was in a feverish, disheveled state, he was helplessly arrested by her delicate beauty.

  She had the face of an angel.

  He guessed she was in her early twenties. In his opinion, she was far too young to be a destitute widow—she should be enjoying life to the full, instead of searching for work in the middle of nowhere. But as he well knew, life was hardly ever fair.

  He suspected she had blonde hair, although it was so wet, it was difficult to tell the exact shade. Whatever hairstyle she had previously arranged it into, had largely collapsed. Nevertheless, he could tell it was luxuriously thick; it curled damply in natural waves about her cheeks and across her forehead. Long, surprisingly dark eyelashes fanned over her flushed cheeks, and although hidden from his view now, he also knew she had large grey eyes. The irises were a clear, silver-grey, rimmed with a darker grey; he had registered their exceptional shade during her interview, such as it was.

  Next, his eyes drifted lower to her rose-pink lips, now slightly parted as she breathed softly against his neck. Her lower lip was quite full, even sinfully full he thought, when compared to the rest of her angelic fairness; it pouted in such a way that he had to suppress the sudden, dangerous urge to suck the tantalizing curve into his mouth and kiss her.

  Cursing himself for being both a cad and the worst kind of fool—it had been a long time since he’d been so captivated by a woman’s physical beauty—he roused himself from his unashamed perusal and strode out into the hall, and then up the stairs to the east wing.

  Faint light spilled from one of the open doors. Roberts had obviously got the fire going and set the candles alight. Entering the room, he found the butler turning down the bedclothes. Nearby was a pile of fresh towels and additional blankets. There was also a bowl and ewer filled with fresh water, warming by the fire.