Lady Beauchamp's Proposal

by Secret Cravings Publishing

  Beth gave him a shaky smile in return. “Well…we can’t have poor Rosencrantz pining away now, can we?” She stretched out her hand toward the hound and he immediately went to her side. Guildenstern followed and flopped down on the rug at her feet.

  “I’m afraid both dogs spent a fair bit of time in your room while you were unwell. I hope you don’t mind,” Rothsburgh said, letting himself indulge in the simple pleasure of looking at Beth. He was pleased to see her beautiful ash blonde hair was unbound, falling in a luxurious wave over one of her shoulders. Aside from a grey cashmere shawl, she wore only a pale blue silk robe over one of her simple, white cotton nightrails. He tried to ignore the pang of disappointment within his chest when he saw her lovely ankles and feet were concealed by a thick woolen blanket.

  “No, I don’t mind. In fact, I’m rather fond of dogs.” She stroked one of Rosencrantz’s ears with her pale, elegant fingers. The hound had an almost beatific expression on his face.

  Lucky Rosencrantz.

  Rothsburgh pulled his gaze away from the rhythmic movement of her fingers lest his body betray how aroused he was becoming. He knew he shouldn’t feel this way, given how exceedingly unwell the poor woman was, but it seemed he had no control over his body’s reaction to her presence. So he remained where he was, hesitant to fully come into the room.

  He noticed that she hadn’t invited him to sit by her either.

  As an awkward silence descended, he glanced about and noticed her supper tray on a nearby side table. Mrs. Roberts had sent up a smaller version of what he’d dined on earlier—a rich beef and red wine casserole with neeps and tatties—but it appeared Beth had barely touched the fare. She also hadn’t drunk the dram of whisky he’d sent up with the meal to ease her coughing.

  “It seems you haven’t taken your medicine, Mrs. Eliott.” He nodded toward the crystal glass of amber-hued liquid.

  She looked up and grimaced. “I’m not much of a drinker when it comes to strong liquor, my lord.”

  “Nevertheless, I can highly recommend the uisge beatha—the water of life—for easing coughs. Even Mrs. Roberts swears by it.”

  “Hmm. I don’t know whether I should believe you, Lord Rothsburgh.” There was a sudden silvery glint of humor in the usually solemn, grey depths of Beth’s eyes. “I think most ladies of good character would suspect that you were just trying to get them inebriated.”

  Taking her amusement as an encouraging sign—he felt like a gawking, inexperienced youth as he continued to linger in the doorway—he finally entered the room and sat in the chair opposite her.

  “I wouldn’t dare to do such an immoral thing,” he said with mock indignation. “What sort of gentleman do you take me for?”

  She started to laugh. However, the sweet musical sound quickly dissolved into another bout of coughing. At the end of it, she was so breathless, she’d turned an alarming shade of blue around the mouth.

  The severity of her condition concerned him greatly. He would have to send for Blackhaven’s physician, Dr. Addison, to attend her again.

  “On second thought, Mrs. Eliott, it would be remiss of me not to make you drink the whole dram.” Taking the glass off the tray, he passed it to her. “Trust me. I promise it will help,” he said gently. “Just take it slowly.”

  With a look of tired resignation, she nodded then took a few small sips, grimacing as she did so. Thankfully, her breathing started to grow less effortful and uneven with each passing moment.

  She smiled weakly. “Thank you. You are quite correct. Who would have thought such a thing would work?”

  “Och, we Scots are a verra canny lot,” he said with a soft burr as he shot her a deliberately roguish grin. She immediately blushed. Good. She needed color in her cheeks.

  But then she dropped her gaze. “My lord…I feel more than a little weary. Would you mind if I bid you goodnight?”

  Damn. Disappointment welled within. He’d gone too far and had scared her off. But she was right. It was late and he really had no good reason to be here…other than to assuage his own less than honorable needs.

  “Not at all, Mrs. Eliott.” He rose and bowed. “Good night again. I trust that the whisky will help you to sleep.” He clicked and Rosencrantz and Guildenstern followed him to the door.

  “Good night then, my lord.”

  Resisting the urge to rake his gaze over her one last time, he firmly closed the door and marched back to his room. He knew he shouldn’t, but once in his own chamber, he downed another dram of whisky in an attempt to ease his aching need—not only the ache of desire, but also an intense yearning for Beth’s company.

  Why did it only just occur to him how ill advised his offer of work had been? How the hell was he going to keep his distance from Beth, now that she had agreed to stay on as his housekeeper?

  But perhaps she wouldn’t stay for long. Hopefully, Helena would know of another governess’s post, and Beth would leave before he gave into the urge to seduce her or worse—fall in love with her. He was on treacherous ground indeed, and if he wasn’t careful, he’d be lost just as surely as if he’d been caught by the tide on his own causeway.

  He couldn’t risk falling for anyone again, not after Isabelle.

  There was only one thing for it—he needed to leave for Edinburgh at first light tomorrow, before the unthinkable happened.

  * * * *

  “Lord Rothsburgh left fer Edinburgh first thing this mornin’, Mrs. Eliott.”

  Mrs. Roberts had just delivered a breakfast tray to her room when Elizabeth had asked the servant where she might find the marquess. She wanted to discuss her duties as housekeeper in more detail with him at some stage during the day. Now she felt oddly deflated at the news. She wondered why he hadn’t thought to mention his imminent departure last night when he’d paid her an unexpected visit—a visit that had been welcome and unsettling at the same time. She was more than a little bit reluctant to examine the strange feeling of emptiness that had filled her after he’d departed her room.

  “Oh…I see.” Elizabeth attempted to keep her expression neutral. “And did he say when he would return?”

  “I’m no’ sure. Per’aps a week, maybe two. It’s hard to say wha’ his lordship will do.”

  Elizabeth nodded. She should be pleased he had gone to Edinburgh. He would undoubtedly be visiting his daughter. And perhaps he would speak to his sister about helping her to find a governess’s position elsewhere. That could only be for the best.

  She glanced at Mrs. Roberts who was busy uncovering the items on the breakfast tray. There was a pot of tea and another bowl of grey-looking porridge. Elizabeth knew she should eat. When she’d looked in the mirror this morning she’d been shocked to see how much weight she’d lost over the past few days, but she really had no appetite.

  “Is the food no’ to yer liking, Mrs. Eliott?” Mrs. Roberts asked. Elizabeth’s lack of enthusiasm for the repast must have shown in her expression.

  “It’s absolutely fine. I just haven’t been very hungry of late,” she replied with a warm smile. She didn’t want to offend the cook.

  “Och. I ken wha’ you mean. I didna want much of anythin’ either when I was coughin’ away.” Mrs. Robert’s grey-green eyes narrowed, and she gave Elizabeth an appraising look. “But I have more meat on my old bones than you. Ye really do need to eat. An’ the master said I must make sure ye have wha’ever takes yer fancy, so you dinna fade away to a shadow. I am happy to bring ye some baps, or a wee bit of toast if ye prefer. Or maybe some eggs an’ kippers?”

  Elizabeth smiled. “The porridge will be more than adequate, Mrs. Roberts. I don’t want to be a bother.” She started to eat the thick and slightly salty gruel. She didn’t want to appear ungracious, especially now that she would be working alongside the cook and her husband. She wondered if Lord Rothsburgh had informed the staff about her new appointment. She imagined it would take some time for everyone to adjust to her presence, especially since Mrs. Barrie had probably been housekeeper here for a l
ong time, and her passing was so recent. Perhaps now would be a good time to test the waters in that regard.

  She put down her spoon and caught the cook’s gaze. “Actually, Mrs. Roberts, I was thinking that I would much prefer to take meals with you and the other staff—now that I am to be Eilean Tor’s housekeeper.”

  Mrs. Robert’s sparse grey eyebrows dipped into a slight frown. “I am verra happy tha’ you will be able to stay on as housekeeper, Mrs. Eliott. His lordship did tell us all about tha’ afore he left. An’ I would be pleased to have you dine wi’ Mr. Roberts an’ the rest of us at our kitchen table. But I’m afraid Lord Rothsburgh has ordered tha’ ye are to have meals in yer room until yer cough has completely cleared up, which could be some days. You dinna want to hurry these things.”

  Elizabeth sighed. There was probably no point in trying to fight the marquess’s well-intentioned decree, even in his absence. She would just have to accept Mr. and Mrs. Roberts’ ministrations with good grace. She really didn’t want to get them into trouble with their master for disobeying his orders.

  Nevertheless, she really didn’t think she could sit about languishing in this bedchamber—as luxurious as it was—for too long with nothing more to do than read novels, or stare out the window at the North Sea.

  In her former life as the Countess of Beauchamp, she was used to being busy and productive—what with organizing the smooth running of the households at Harcourt House and Scarwood Hall to meet Hugh’s exacting expectations, attending meetings and fund-raising engagements associated with her charity work, keeping up with correspondence and paying the expected round of tonnish social calls, she rarely had a free moment. She knew that the sooner she started to take hold of the housekeeper’s reins at Eilean Tor, the more satisfied she would be.

  And it would keep her mind from dwelling on one darkly handsome and all too enigmatic marquess.

  An idea occurred to her as she looked over the breakfast tray and noticed there were two teacups. She wondered if the additional cup had been placed there by design or accident by the cook. Either way it hardly mattered.

  “Mrs. Roberts, would you have the time to join me in a cup of tea?” she asked. “As we will undoubtedly be working together, I would very much like to find out more about the running of Eilean Tor, and in what ways I can best contribute. I’m sure you would know better than anyone, all that is entailed.”

  The cook’s habitually stern expression eased a little, and Elizabeth thought the woman almost smiled. “I willna say no to tha’ at all, Mrs. Eliott. I just hope Mr. Roberts does no’ catch us. He will be more than a wee bit jealous.” She poured herself a cup of tea then sat down in the armchair across from Elizabeth. “Now m’dear, what is it tha’ you would like to ken?”

  * * * *

  Rothsburgh stood by the set of French doors in the drawing room that overlooked the walled garden of his brother-in-law’s Edinburgh townhouse, watching his daughter laughing with glee as her five-year old cousin, Lord Charlie Latimer, chased her around the parterres of flowers and neatly trimmed shrubs. The bright banner of her hair caught the late afternoon sunlight; burnished to guinea gold, it was a painful reminder that Annabelle was not really his. Just like her mother had never been his.

  “Even though she misses you, she has settled in quite well, James.”

  Rothsburgh turned and smiled fondly at his sister, Helena, Lady Maxwell. She stood beside him, studying him closely. He knew he must look thoroughly disreputable in his travel-stained clothes with his overly long hair curling over his collar, but he hadn’t wanted to waste time visiting his favorite barber in the High Street in the Old Town before he arrived.

  “I’m pleased to hear it,” he replied then frowned. “Does she ask about her mother?”

  Helena’s brown eyes darkened with sadness. “Hardly at all. But from what you’ve already told me, that’s not surprising given Annabelle never saw that much of Isabelle anyway. Her nurse—Miss MacFarlane—is excellent as you would already know. And Annabelle seems to have taken to our governess, Miss Palmer, quite nicely.” Her wide mouth curved into a smile as she watched her niece jump out from behind a hedge, making Charlie squeal. “Aside from having boundless energy, your daughter seems to have quite a curious mind. I think she will do well at her lessons.”

  “Good.” He caught his sister’s gaze. “I can’t thank you enough, Helena, for taking her in,” he said with grave sincerity. “Lord knows, I certainly haven’t been in a fit state to take care of her adequately. It’s such a relief to know the poor child has a proper family life now.”

  Helena grasped his arm and her brown eyes sparked fiercely. “James Huntly. I know you love Annabelle as if she was your own. So don’t you dare blame yourself for Isabelle’s neglect of her, or any of the other appalling choices that dreadful woman made. She was selfish through and through.”

  “I know.” He sighed and ran a hand down his face. “I just wish that I had been there for Annabelle when Isabelle…when it all happened. It can’t have been easy for my staff, what with their mistress dead and I….Well, I’ve been little more than an absentee father and landlord for the best part of this year.”

  “James, you were still on the Continent, tidying up after Wellington when Isabelle died. I’m sure all your staff understands. It’s not your fault, any of it. You must try to stop feeling guilty.”

  Rothsburgh gave his sister a wry smile. “You give me too much credit for being a good man, Helena. If you knew of the things I’d done…” He shook his head, thinking of all the times he had sought satisfaction outside of his marriage with mistresses. And worse. A vivid memory of the butchery he’d committed against Napoleon’s troops at the battles of Quatre-Bras and Waterloo as he’d fought with the 92nd regiment of the Gordon Highlanders, flashed through his mind. He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to master the feelings of disgust and horror that always accompanied the recollection. “Believe me, you’d think differently, dear sister.”

  He felt Helena’s hand on his arm again. “You are a good man, James. I know you. But I have a feeling we aren’t talking about your marriage anymore. Tell me, are you still having nightmares about your time on the battlefield?”

  “Not as often.” Especially when he drank enough to plunge himself into a dreamless stupor. He dredged up a smile for Helena. He didn’t want to alarm her with how troubled he really was. “But you’ll be pleased to know that I’ve recently resigned my commission. And writing my memoires, like you suggested, is helping.”

  As well as dreaming about making love to an angelically beautiful blonde widow. Not that he could tell his sister that.

  “Good.” Helena smiled and patted his arm. “And I’m sure the whisky helps too.” Her expression changed, becoming serious. “But remember, James, whatever you’ve done, you are a saint compared to Isabelle. I know you loved her at the beginning, whereas she…I don’t like to speak ill of the dead, but I doubt she was ever capable of feeling such a fine emotion…even for Annabelle.”

  They watched the children play for a few minutes in companionable silence before Helena fixed her all too perceptive gaze on him again. “Now tell me, James. Aside from reassuring yourself that Annabelle is all right, why have you really come to Edinburgh?”

  Chapter Six

  “Where would ye like the rosemary bush moved to, Mrs. Eliott?”

  Elizabeth turned to Roberts and shielded her eyes against the bright glints of morning sunlight dancing on the deep blue surface of the sea behind him. There was barely a cloud in the sky, and for once, the wind had only a slight chill rather than a freezing edge to it. It was a rare, fine autumn day—a wonderful opportunity for gardening.

  “Against the south wall, don’t you think?” she suggested. “That way we can plant the bare-rooted roses against the north wall when we acquire some.”

  Roberts’s deeply lined face creased into a smile. “Verra good, ma’am. I’ll instruct Todd to start digging.”

  Elizabeth
stood in Eilean Tor’s much-neglected walled garden with the butler and one of the footmen. Rosencrantz leaned against her leg while somewhere beyond the wall, Guildenstern nosed about for rabbits to chase. The garden, which she had first noticed from her bedroom window over a week ago, lay on one of the few, relatively sheltered and gentle slopes on the headland, just to the south of the castle’s main wall. During her daily meetings with Mr. and Mrs. Roberts, she had discovered that it had been more than five years since there had been a gardener employed at the castle. And it showed.

  On her initial inspection, Elizabeth had discovered the garden’s dry-stone walls and slate paving were still relatively intact, but the garden beds had been hopelessly overrun with machair grass, weeds and thistles. Indeed, it had taken Mr. Todd, one of the young footmen, the better part of two days to clear the overgrowth.

  Elizabeth hoped the marquess wouldn’t mind that she had embarked on this project without his express permission. It had been ten days since he’d left Eilean Tor, and now that she was almost completely recovered from the ague—apart from the occasional cough at night—she had decided that she needed a task to keep herself busy until he returned. Reviving the walled garden seemed like a worthwhile activity to engage in, in the absence of any other direction from her employer. It helped that Mr. and Mrs. Roberts had oftentimes reassured her that the marquess would be very pleased to have a functioning castle garden once more.

  She had mapped out a tentative plan for the garden beds with Mrs. Roberts on the basis of what was most needed in the kitchen. As luck would have it, the cook had purchased packets of seeds for a good range of vegetables—carrots, turnips, onions, cabbages and potatoes—as well as herbs—mint, sage, parsley, sorrel and thyme—in the previous year, but she had never managed to have any of them planted.