Lady Beauchamp's Proposal

by Secret Cravings Publishing

  And he didn’t like it one little bit.

  He finished his whisky, then paced over to the bay windows again to watch the sun slowly ascend through scattered shreds of cloud over the perpetually cold, dark sea. The question was, what was Beth going to do now? That she needed to stay at Eilean Tor until she had completely recovered from her illness, was a foregone conclusion. But after that…

  There was no longer a governess’s position here. He hated to think that Beth had travelled all this way in good faith, for nothing. She was clearly alone in the world and desperate.

  He cast about in his mind, trying to think of friends or acquaintances of his that had children and required a teacher, but he could think of none. It was a shame that Lady Beauchamp’s intelligence about the position was old. He supposed that Isabelle must have enlisted the services of the Widows of Waterloo Trust to try to secure a suitable applicant before her death. Perhaps he could enlist his sister’s aid in finding another situation. He certainly had no suitable position of an honorable nature to offer Beth.

  He doubted that she’d consent to becoming his mistress.

  As much as he was loath to say farewell to Mrs. Eliott, he knew it would be for the best if she left this cursed place—for both their sakes.

  Chapter Four

  Much to her consternation, Elizabeth quickly discovered that Lord Rothsburgh’s prognosis about her current state of malaise, and the expected rate of her recovery, was entirely accurate.

  After he’d left her alone, the only activity she’d had the strength for was returning to bed where she’d alternately dozed and worried over her future; until Mrs. Roberts had arrived with a pot of tea and a bowl of stodgy, salty porridge to ‘build up her strength’. Elizabeth was dismayed to find that she barely had the energy to lift her spoon or her teacup. As much as it frustrated her, the grim reality was, she wasn’t going anywhere for the next few days.

  As promised, Lord Rothsburgh arranged a bath for her. Mrs. Roberts returned mid-morning and pulled the amber velvet curtains around the bed before the tub was discreetly set up by several—Elizabeth assumed—male servants. She felt grateful, but also a little self-conscious for such a luxury being bestowed when she was really nothing more than an interloper at the castle.

  Mrs. Roberts, a grey-haired, stout woman with the type of dour countenance that brooked no argument, shooed the men from the room before she drew open the curtains again. “It’s verra good to see you are much better, Mrs. Eliott,” the older woman commented as she ran her shrewd grey-green eyes over Elizabeth. “Would you like me to help ye with yer bath?”

  Elizabeth politely declined the older woman’s kind offer. “I’m sure you have enough to do, Mrs. Roberts, what with cooking all the meals here and hardly any staff to help. And from what I’ve discovered this morning, I have already claimed too much of your time. You must be exhausted.”

  The cook shrugged. “It doesna matter. There’s no’ many to feed at the moment. Wha’ wi’ Lady Annabelle gone to live in Edinburgh wi’ her aunt—thank the Lord and sweet Jesus, the child left afore this wretched ague came to Eilean Tor—there’s only Lord Rothsburgh left to cook anything special for. ’Tis only a wee bit o’ work.”

  Elizabeth’s breath caught in her chest as the import of what Mrs. Roberts had just said, sank into her brain. Lady Annabelle wasn’t here? Surely she hadn’t heard correctly. Somehow she managed to suck a quick shallow breath into her constricted lungs in order to speak. “Excuse me, Mrs. Roberts, but what did you just say about Lord Rothsburgh’s daughter? She’s in Edinburgh?”

  Mrs. Roberts nodded. “Weel, yes. The poor wee mite has gone to live wi’ Lord and Lady Maxwell.” The cook suddenly frowned and looked wary. “But perhaps I shouldna have said anything. ’Tis no’ my place to discuss any matter to do wi’ his lordship. Mr. Roberts is always tellin’ me to watch my tongue.”

  Elizabeth’s head suddenly buzzed with dizziness and nausea swirled in her belly. She was grateful she was still sitting in the bed as she didn’t think her legs would support her. Why hadn’t Lord Rothsburgh told her there was no governess’s post here as soon as she’d arrived? No wonder he had laughed at her when she’d first announced her intentions on his doorstep. And then to go through the bizarre charade of pretending to be the butler before conducting a sham interview. It made no sense. Why was he playing these strange games with her? She didn’t understand this man. No, not at all.

  Elizabeth reached out and grasped the older woman’s arm. “Please, Mrs. Roberts. It was not my intention to draw you into gossip. You are obviously a very loyal servant.” She studied the cook’s expression, trying to detect if there was any degree of suspicion or judgment hardening the woman’s gaze. What on earth did Mrs. Roberts make of her?

  It only just occurred to Elizabeth that her arrival must appear odd indeed if there was no longer the need for a governess here. So what had the marquess told his staff about her? Surely they must know their master had been looking after her, attending to her every personal need…that he’d shared her bed.

  Oh God. Do they think I am his mistress?

  She couldn’t bear it if Mrs. Roberts or the other staff thought she was some high-class whore. Panic started to squeeze her chest, making her breathless. “It’s just that…I’m a little confused…and I’m not sure what Lord Rothsburgh has told you about my…presence here, which I know must seem highly unusual. You see, I came here to apply for the governess’s position…”

  Understanding and perhaps compassion suddenly appeared in Mrs. Roberts eyes. “Och, Mrs. Eliott. Dinna worry aboot how things look.” She patted Elizabeth’s hand. “His lordship explained tha’ there was a misunderstandin’—tha’ yer London committee fer widows referred ye fer the job here, even though ye wasna needed. Such a shame too. Ye wouldha’ suited her young ladyship verra well.”

  Elizabeth closed her eyes and breathed a sigh of relief. She wasn’t convinced the staff wouldn’t look askance at her because of Lord Rothsburgh’s attentions during her illness. But at least they all knew why she had come here. Even though she was Mrs. Beth Eliott, she couldn’t countenance the idea of being branded as a man’s mistress, no matter how rich and titled that man was.

  With a sinking heart, she realized her continued presence at Eilean Tor was more precarious than she’d originally thought. With no charge requiring a governess, she had no business being here at all. Her stomach began to churn again with a tumult of emotions; anger at Lord Rothsburgh’s lack of honesty, acute embarrassment at the whole, strangely burdensome situation. And fear of what was to become of her.

  She was going to have start afresh…again. And soon.

  Fighting a wave of tears, she dismissed Mrs. Roberts with sincere thanks for her assistance before she shakily disrobed, and then climbed into the steaming bath. As the lavender scented vapors rose about her, she immediately felt a little calmer. It was reassuring to know she had a few days’ grace to recover some of her strength and formulate a new plan of action for her future.

  But even though she was grateful to the marquess for his continued care, she resolved to seek him out. No matter how unwell she felt, she would demand that he explain his perplexing actions thus far. She would not be able to rest until she did.

  * * * *

  It was late afternoon when Elizabeth finally set forth from her sick bed in order to locate Lord Rothsburgh. She hadn’t seen him since he’d quit her room earlier. Part of her was relieved that he hadn’t returned given she’d still been abed, whilst another part of her was impatient to demand why he’d strung her along.

  Indeed, it was her indignance alone that helped her to summon sufficient energy to don her least crushed set of widow’s weeds, and to arrange her freshly washed and dried hair into a simple chignon. Even these simple actions left her breathless and shaking. She hated feeling so weak.

  Emerging from her room, she found herself in a completely unfamiliar hallway. A thick Oriental runner extended the length of the polished wo
oden floor and absorbed the sound of her footsteps as she made her way down the long gallery toward a staircase. Richly colored tapestries and portraits of glowering men and woman in antiquated dress—ancestors of the Huntly line she supposed—were interspersed between tall arched windows that afforded glimpses of wind-lashed sea, and a horizon of pale, blue-grey sky.

  Again she was struck by the absolute isolation of this place. It was little wonder that the marquess had the reputation for being a lone wolf given his place of residence.

  He was definitely an enigma. Her experience of his company might be limited, but she did not think he completely eschewed the companionship of others. He was unconventional in his behavior at times, and his moods seemed somewhat unpredictable, but he was certainly not the misanthrope Lady Airlie had deemed him. So why was the marquess such a recluse? She suddenly wondered if he was ever lonely.

  She halted her thoughts right there. She would be on dangerous ground if she suddenly started to feel any sort of sympathy for the man. She already found him devilishly attractive in a physical sense. Cultivating any sort of tender feeling for him would be unwise indeed. She must always remember that she was married, and not a witless green girl. More than anyone, she should know that she needed to keep her head.

  She’d had her head turned before by a handsome man, and it had ended in disaster.

  She slowly descended the wide staircase, holding onto the stone balustrade for support—even this brief walk was making her feel heavy-chested and breathless—and noted a vaguely familiar set of double doors in carved oak ahead. She guessed she’d found the library. It was as good a place as any to search for Lord Rothsburgh. She certainly didn’t have the stamina to look any further afield for him, and she suspected it would be very easy to get lost within the environs of Eilean Tor.

  Elizabeth slipped through the door—she had indeed gained the library—but it was deserted. Not even the deerhounds, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, lurked about the hearth. The grate contained logs that were yet unlit, as were the candles and lamps.

  Contrary emotions assailed her again—she was relieved, yet oddly disappointed that Lord Rothsburgh wasn’t present. She’d half expected him to be ensconced in one of the leather wing chairs, nonchalantly sipping a tumbler of whisky as he’d done on her first evening here. The evocative memory made her shiver—with either apprehension or feminine appreciation, she wasn’t sure.

  She just prayed she didn’t lose her nerve before the marquess made an appearance.

  Remember you’re annoyed with him. And he owes you a decent explanation.

  The clock on the black marble mantle suddenly proclaimed the hour to be four o’clock. The light was starting to fade, but it would be sufficient to read by while she waited. However, instead of choosing a book from the substantial collection of leather bound volumes on display, she was drawn across the room to the bay windows where a magnificent view of sea and sky beckoned to be admired. Kneeling upon the brocade covered window seat, she looked down a plunging granite cliff face to where grey-green breakers exploded against slick, black rocks far below. A sudden wave of dizziness swept over her. Sitting back on her heels, she closed her eyes, waiting for the sensation of falling to ebb. She’d had no idea that Eilean Tor was situated on the very edge of the headland. It felt as if the whole castle was about to slip off the end of the world.

  “Good God, Mrs. Eliott. What are you doing out of bed?”

  Elizabeth’s eyes flew open. Her back was to Lord Rothsburgh, but that didn’t stop her from blushing at being caught in such an unladylike pose upon the window seat. Why did this man always seem to have the uncanny knack of catching her at a disadvantage?

  As she hastily tried to turn around and get down from seat with as much decorum as possible, she felt his hand upon her arm.

  “Allow me,” he said, his touch and the warm baritone of his voice making her shiver. His hand steadied her as she slid one leg, then the other off the seat, and she was acutely aware that he was probably getting a good glimpse of her stocking-clad ankles. Not that it really mattered. He’s probably already seen more of you than your ankles, Elizabeth.

  “You didn’t answer my question,” he prompted, his hand still on her arm. His touch burned her even through the wool of her sleeve. She glanced up at his face to find his dark eyes studied her intently. Despite her resolve not to be affected by this man’s physical attractiveness, she realized it was hopeless as heat scorched her cheeks and her breathing became uneven.

  Not able to return his searching gaze any longer, her gaze dropped to his freshly shaved jaw line and his beautifully sculpted mouth. A mistake because she immediately wondered what it would be like to be kissed by him. She closed her eyes and bit her lip.

  No, no, no. Don’t ever think it. You are a married woman. And the only reason he’s holding your arm is to make sure you don’t trip over, or faint at his feet again.

  Stupid, wicked Elizabeth.

  Thank God, she would be gone from here within a week.

  “I…I needed to speak with you, my lord,” she said, annoyed with herself for sounding so obviously breathless and flustered. She took a step away from him and to her relief, his hand dropped from her arm.

  He cocked a dark eyebrow. “Haven’t you heard of ringing for the butler? You’ll only delay your recovery, you know, if you try to do too much too soon.”

  “Of course I know how to summon the staff,” she snapped back before she could stop herself. She should feel ashamed of her shrewish behavior—it was entirely inappropriate for someone of her assumed social status and current dependent situation. But in truth, she was relieved to be trading barbed comments with the marquess again. It helped her to maintain her distance. “I…just didn’t want to be a bother.”

  Lord Rothsburgh didn’t seem offended though. The corner of his wide mouth quirked with wry amusement. “You are not a bother at all, my lady.”

  Elizabeth paled at his teasing use of the title. She had come across as too imperious, too rude. She immediately felt contrite. “I apologize for my waspishness, Lord Rothsburgh. I am not usually so inclined. I think perhaps my ill humor is related to…my current indisposition in general.”

  “I’m sure that’s the case.” Amusement still tugged at the corner of his mouth. “And let me assure you that no offense has been taken. But would you please humor me and take a seat? You seem quite breathless and your continued rest is of paramount importance.” He gestured toward the arrangement of chairs before the hearth where the hounds now sat. Rosencrantz thumped his tail when she glanced his way.

  She smiled at the dog. Inviting as the wing chairs and the company of Rosencrantz looked, she wanted to retain a modicum of formality during her discussion with the marquess. She almost had to remind herself why she had sought the man out to begin with. He had the alarming effect of scattering her thoughts like the shredded clouds drifting on the horizon over the sea.

  “Perhaps we could sit…at your desk, my lord.” The wide expanse of magnificently carved oak would provide a natural barrier between them, as well as create the atmosphere of decorum she was looking for.

  He raised a quizzical eyebrow, but nevertheless inclined his head. “As you wish.”

  Elizabeth crossed to an oak Jacobean style chair before the desk, and sat as gracefully as she could, smoothing her skirts as she mentally prepared her thoughts. Lord Rothsburgh followed her, but instead of sitting behind the desk, he simply leaned in elegant negligence against it, not far from where she sat.

  She straightaway lost her train of thought, all her senses focused on the way his long muscular legs, tightly encased in buckskin breeches, extended out beside her, and how he casually crossed his black Hussar boots at the ankle. Had he been riding? When he’d helped her from the window seat, she’d been too rattled at first, and then too exasperated to really notice what he’d been wearing.

  She slanted a sideways look at him and confirmed her supposition—he was wearing a superbly cut, navy bl
ue riding jacket of superfine over an ivory linen shirt with a simply tied cravat at his throat. His overlong black hair was hopelessly ruffled as though he’d been out in the wind.

  He caught her gaze and raised his eyebrows, a faintly knowing smile playing about his lips. Curse him—he knew she’d been assessing his appearance. She sternly reminded herself that he was probably as vain as Hugh, and about as safe as Lucifer, the Great Tempter himself.

  “Now, what is it that you wish to speak about, Mrs. Eliott?” he asked, crossing his arms over the broad expanse over his chest, a hint of amusement still glinting in his dark eyes. “It must be of great import if it has prompted you to leave your sickbed to come in search of me.”

  Harnessing her wayward thoughts into some semblance of order by focusing on her annoyance with him, she drew in a shaky breath to speak. “Yes, it is of great import—to me at any rate considering it is about my whole future.”

  Understanding replaced the humor in his gaze. “Ah, I see.” A muscle flickered in his jaw and he even looked a trifle guilty. But he held her gaze, waiting for her to continue.

  Elizabeth swallowed past the rawness in her throat, trying to clear a sudden tickle. “Why did you not tell me that you no longer require a governess, Lord Rothsburgh?” she accused. To her chagrin, her voice had emerged as a hoarse croak instead of with the confident gravitas she had been aiming for. But she wouldn’t be deterred in her quest for an explanation. “I understand that your daughter, Lady Annabelle, now resides with your sister, Lady Maxwell in Edinburgh. Why did you let me…go through a farcical interview? I don’t like games…my lord…especially when they involve my life.” She stopped, too short of breath to continue, her eyes watering. The urge to cough was overwhelming. Damn the marquess for being right about the course of her illness. She threw him a furious glance as she tried to regroup and catch her breath.