But he didn’t seem to mind the fact she was insensible. His expression softened and he tucked a strand of her dislodged hair behind her ear. “But perhaps we should dine first.” He stood and offered his arm with a bow. “Would you care to join me for dinner, Mrs. Eliott?”
Elizabeth placed her trembling hand on his forearm, and somewhat shakily, rose to her feet. She didn’t think she would be able to eat or drink a thing. Not when she knew what was coming. Nevertheless, she let Lord Rothsburgh lead her through to take a seat at the small oak dining setting that had been set up to one side of the library fire.
They were alone again. Roberts, and perhaps Todd, had come and gone, and she had the feeling they would not make an appearance again unless summoned by the marquess. She attempted a bite or two of the fillet of venison that Mrs. Roberts had prepared so beautifully, but within a short space of time, she realized she had no appetite for it. Her nerves were too tautly stretched, her stomach too filled with butterflies. Against her better judgment she picked up her wine glass instead, and took a sizeable sip of the Burgundy, aware that Lord Rothsburgh watched her.
“Not hungry, Beth?”
She attempted a smile and met his eyes at last. “Not really.” She glanced at his plate and noticed he hadn’t eaten much either. “And you?”
He smiled slowly and his gaze dropped to her lips. “Not for venison.”
Oh dear Lord. She rather suspected the time for plain speaking had arrived.
Lord Rothsburgh pushed his plate aside, and leaned forward in his chair, his gaze fixed unwaveringly on her face. “Beth, you do not seem yourself this evening. Ever since you walked in, you have seemed—and please forgive me for my bluntness—both disheartened and guarded. And you were not so earlier today. I find myself…confused and concerned that I have done something during the course of the day that has upset you. I had thought that you and I…were becoming closer. I know you must sense the connection between us. And because of that, I hope you feel that you can be honest with me. Especially after our kiss.” He paused then reached forward, laying his warm hand upon her arm. “Please tell me what is wrong. I cannot stand seeing you this way.”
Elizabeth closed her eyes and tried to assemble her roiling thoughts. There were so many things that were wrong. And what could she possibly say to this man? I want you, but I’m married. I know you want me, but you shouldn’t. She didn’t want to lie, not to him, not after the kiss they had shared.
But she had to. She couldn’t let him know about Hugh. Remaining Mrs. Beth Eliott was the only way she could ensure her safety. It was the only way she could stay. And even though it was wrong, part of her wanted to stay more than anything.
She felt like she was being torn in two—and perhaps she was.
The heavy silence between them stretched, and she was suddenly conscious of the storm that raged beyond the windows along with the thundering crash of breakers against the cliffs below.
“Beth?”
She drew a steadying breath and forced herself to look at Lord Rothsburgh again. There was one thing that bothered her that she could reveal. “When I was in the drawing room today, I came upon a portrait of a woman that had been placed behind one of the tapestries,” she said, watching his too handsome face. “I know I probably shouldn’t even be asking this, but is it of your wife, my lord?”
The muscles around his eyes pulled imperceptibly tighter, and Elizabeth thought she saw a momentary flash of pain in his dark gaze. “Yes it is. It should have been stored away by now. I shall get Roberts to see to it first thing tomorrow.”
So she had been right. Lord Rothsburgh was still grieving. That meant he was still very vulnerable. He was probably only trying to seek solace with her to ease his own pain. Any way she looked at the situation, her conscience howled at her to go.
“Your wife, she was very beautiful,” she said softly. Lord Rothsburgh had called her beautiful too—an angel—right before he’d kissed her, but she didn’t quite believe him. It really shouldn’t matter, but for some silly and wholly feminine reason, she knew deep down that it did.
The marquess’s hand slid down her arm to cover her hand. Her skin tingled beneath the touch of his bare palm.
“Believe me, Beth,” he said gravely. “Appearances can be deceiving. I meant what I said earlier today. Isabelle and I…well, let me just say that by the end of our six year marriage, she no longer wore my wedding ring.” He looked down at her hand, and his fingers lightly brushed her own wedding band. “Not like you.”
Elizabeth’s breath caught in her throat. No, not like me. He was right. Appearances could be deceiving. Everything Lord Rothsburgh knew about her was entirely fabricated. And the weight of her dishonesty was so heavy, it felt like she was being crushed.
She tried to pull her hand away but Lord Rothsburgh caught it and lifted it to his lips. He kissed each fingertip gently, then turned her hand over and placed a lingering, tender kiss on the sensitive flesh on the inside of her wrist.
She couldn’t think clearly. She couldn’t breathe. She was drowning beneath the rising tide of her own desire.
He raised his gaze to her face; his eyes fairly smoldered and she couldn’t look away. When he spoke, his voice was husky with need. “Beth, I have a proposition for you. I know you have only been recently bereaved yourself. And you are free to reject me outright.”
She knew what he was going to ask her, even before he uttered the words. He mustn’t say the words. A kiss was one thing. But anything more? Now the moment was upon her, she didn’t think she could go through with it.
She dragged in a much needed breath. “Lord Rothsburgh—”
“Beth, please hear me out.”
She was astonished at the urgency in his voice and he held onto her hand so tightly, she didn’t think she could pull away even if she wanted to. “I know this is sudden, but try as I might, I can’t stop thinking about you. Since you came here, since you literally fell into my arms, I find that I can think of nothing else but having you back there. I can’t let you continue on as my housekeeper. Beth, I want you to be my mistress.”
Oh God.
Elizabeth wrenched her hand away and pushed away from the table. Her mind, her conscience, her better self screamed at her to flee. Her blood, her pounding heart, her entire body urged her to stay, to fling herself into Lord Rothsburgh’s arms and never let him go.
“Beth?” Lord Rothsburgh stood and took a step toward her. She backed away and his face fell. He looked haunted. Stricken.
“I’m sorry, Beth,” he whispered. “I’ve shocked you.”
“Yes.” Her breath was coming in short ragged gasps. “I…I just need some air…I need to think.” She took another step back, and then another.
And then she turned and fled.
* * * *
Elizabeth didn’t stop until she reached her bedchamber. She shut the door and sank to the floor. Her legs were shaking and she realized she was crying. She felt so unlike herself, it was as if she didn’t know who she was anymore.
What, in God’s name, am I going to do?
The only sensible, sane thing to do, was pack her trunk and leave here first thing tomorrow morning, as soon as the tide was safely out, as she should have done this morning.
But she didn’t feel sensible, or the least bit sane. She felt as if she’d broken into a thousand pieces. The image of Lord Rothsburgh’s tortured expression when she’d rejected him, kept entering her mind. As well as the memory of his heart-stopping, bone-melting kiss. She had never, ever been kissed like that before. And probably never would again.
How could she walk away from that?
But she must. She pushed herself up and brushed the tears from her eyes. Crying wouldn’t do her any good. She must be strong. She would endure this set back because there really was no other choice.
Elizabeth crossed to the wardrobe and began to remove, and neatly fold her gowns before placing them into her travelling trunk. She could do this. See, it was easy. S
he’d only been here two weeks. She would soon forget about the too handsome, too charismatic, too tempting Lord Rothsburgh and his kisses.
I’m such a hopeless liar, even to myself.
She dropped her dark grey, wool gown onto the pile in the trunk, and stared at her right hand. Her wedding band glimmered dully. What she suddenly couldn’t work out, was why she kept lying to herself that her marriage to Hugh mattered at all? She had truly loved Hugh at the start, and had tried so hard to make it work, but he had forsaken her and their marriage vows long ago. So why was she still trying so hard to remain faithful to a man who had never valued her love or commitment in the first place, and had broken his own promises to her countless times; a man who would have carelessly infected her with a deadly disease?
She had no idea.
Before she could stop herself, she slid off the ring and dropped it into her trunk. Then turned to go back to the library.
As she traversed the hall and descended the stairs, her footsteps quickened. She was being reckless. She was being wicked. This new shameless Elizabeth—the woman who no longer wore a wedding ring—decided that she didn’t care that what she was doing was dangerous, not when she was standing on the brink of something that promised to be the most profound experience that she would probably ever have.
Perhaps she would be damned, but right here, right now she was willing to risk all for the chance to have something that she’d always been denied—the physical fulfillment of her desire. She suddenly knew who she wanted to be. Not Elizabeth, the Countess of Beauchamp. Not Mrs. Beth Eliott.
She would be Lord Rothsburgh’s mistress.
* * * *
After Beth had fled from the library—from him—Rothsburgh had taken the bottle of Burgundy and his glass over to his chair by the fire with the intention of getting as drunk as humanly possible. Anything to drown his frustration and anguish at Beth’s rejection. She said she’d needed air, time to think, but he knew she’d only said those things out of desperation so she could leave. She wouldn’t be back.
He’d shocked her. In fact, he’d made a complete hash of everything. Come morning, he suspected Beth would be packed and waiting to cross the causeway at the earliest opportunity to go back to Torhaven, in order to catch the mail-coach to Edinburgh or Aberdeen. He’d see that his man-of-business paid her for her first quarter. No, to hell with that paltry amount—he’d pay her a six month wage. She would need some funds to sustain herself until she found another situation. A better situation. At least one where her employer didn’t proposition her to become his mistress.
How had he got it all so wrong?
Because you are an arrogant, selfish brute that’s why. He’d thought to reduce a lovely, virtuous woman into something less than she deserved to be—a means of relieving his tension, an entertaining diversion. And now she was gone.
Rothsburgh didn’t want to think of it, how much it bothered him that he’d treated her so shabbily. He especially didn’t want to think about the kiss he’d stolen from her; a kiss that had shaken him to his very core and had left him craving so much more.
But there would be no more kisses. There would be no more Beth at all.
He’d perhaps made his way through two-thirds of the Burgundy when he heard the door to the library open, then shut. Even though he’d instructed Roberts not to bother coming back to clear the dinner trays, sometimes the man couldn’t help himself, and would return to check if his master required anything else before retiring for the night.
“It’s all right, Roberts,” he called, not bothering to turn around in his chair. “I don’t need anything tonight. Just take yourself to bed, man.”
“It’s…it’s not Roberts, my lord.”
Beth.
Rothsburgh sprang from his seat. He couldn’t believe it. But there she was, coming slowly toward him, her cheeks flushed and her ash blonde hair spilling in hopeless disarray from its fearsome bun, courtesy of his careless predation during their kiss.
“I…I thought…I didn’t think you’d come back.” His voice sounded cracked, broken. What did she want from him? He couldn’t even allow himself to think she’d changed her mind. He wouldn’t believe she had until she said the words.
She paused before him, but an arm’s length away and he noticed then that she was just as breathless as he was. Her luminous grey eyes locked with his. “I…I have considered your proposition, my lord.”
“And?” He was on a knife’s edge. The suspense was killing him. “What did you decide, Mrs. Eliott?”
She smiled softly and reached out her hand, placing it against his cheek. “I want to be your mistress,” she murmured. “That is, if you still want me.”
There was only one suitable response to her statement as far as Rothsburgh was concerned. He caught her against his chest and kissed her, his mouth laying claim to her so completely that she would not doubt his need for her—or that he did indeed, still want her.
She gasped against him, but surrendered to the demands of his lips and questing tongue. She tasted delicious. More intoxicating and heady than wine or whisky could ever be. Sweeter than honey.
He felt one of her hands, the one that had cupped his cheek, rise to tangle in his hair while the other pressed against his chest. But he wanted, needed her closer to him. He slid one of his hands from her elegant shoulder downwards, mapping the curve of her full breast, her delicate ribs, her narrow waist, and then behind her to cup one cheek of her deliciously rounded derriere. He pulled her hips against him, so she would feel how she affected him so completely, and he was gratified to hear her moan as her hand twisted in the linen of his shirt.
He couldn’t believe it. She wanted him just as much as he wanted her. But kisses were soon not enough; the thunder of his blood, through his veins, in his heart demanded more, so much more.
He dragged his head up for air. “Beth.” He was panting, but he didn’t care.
And so was she. She stared up at him through her long lashes, her beautiful mouth glistening and swollen from his kisses.
“Beth, I want you to do something for me.”
Her lips tilted in a shy, yet almost coquettish smile. He’d never seen her smile like that before, and he felt himself grow harder, if that was at all physically possible.
“Of course, my lord.” She sounded deliciously breathless. “I suppose this is when a mistress should say, whatever you desire.”
He smiled. There was plenty of time for him to make salacious requests, but his first one was quite simple and not salacious at all. “I want you to call me by my first name. James. Like you did when you first arrived. Would you do that for me, Beth?”
Her smile lit her eyes. “James,” she murmured.
He didn’t think he’d ever heard anything quite so beautiful. His gaze fell to her mouth again, and to his amazement, she seemed to quite deliberately press her perfect white teeth into her full lower lip. That simple act was the equivalent of setting tinder to a fire. He groaned and hauled her against him, crushing her mouth with his, plundering her mercilessly with his tongue until she was moaning and frantically tugging his shirt from the waistband of his breeches. Her fingers slid beneath the linen to make contact with the bare skin of his stomach and then she skimmed her hand upward to his chest. Her touch was like fire, a brand upon his already heated flesh.
She suddenly pulled away from the kiss to rasp against his throat. “James, will you take your shirt off for me?”
He was more than happy to oblige. He took a step back then ripped the linen garment over his head, tossing it onto the floor.
Beth stared at him with wide eyes. “Oh my,” she whispered and closed the gap between them, one hand coming up to trace the line of his collar bone with her fingers before descending across his heaving pectorals to the ridges across his abdomen. “James…you are utterly beautiful.”
He felt like a pagan god beneath her fascinated gaze. But one that was about to burst into flame if he didn’t have her in his arms again.
He reached for her and she didn’t hesitate; she crashed into his chest, propelling him forward, deliberately pulling him down to the hearth rug until she was lying on top of him, loose tresses of her hair falling about his face as she kissed him with equal ferocity. The strength of her ardor astonished him, thrilled him, aroused him beyond all reason. But he wanted to touch her skin too. He reached out a hand to fiddle with the buttons at the back of her gown, but she suddenly sat up, straddling him and his hand fell away.
“Not yet, my lord.” She wriggled herself down his body until she was positioned over his thighs, and then her hand reached for the buttons fastening the fall front of his breeches. Her delicious pink tongue slid along her lower lip.
Surely she couldn’t mean to pleasure him like that. Not the chaste Mrs. Eliott. He caught her wrist. “Beth? You don’t need to do that for me.”
She frowned slightly. “You don’t like being pleasured that way?”
“Yes, but—”
“I want to.” She smiled and placed her other hand against the rock-hard length of him, her fingers gently stroking him up and down through the fabric at his groin. He was a large man, and right at this moment, fit to burst. Whilst part of his brain screamed at him to stop her—he didn’t want to scare her with the fierceness of his arousal—another part of him was intrigued that she would willingly want to do this. For him.
He let go of her wrist and rested back on his bent elbows. “All right.”
Using both hands, she had him free in no time. His cock was so swollen, and his balls throbbed so much, he wasn’t sure that he wouldn’t lose himself before she even started.
He gritted his teeth and stopped breathing as she looked down at him; she was biting her lip again. Christ, what was she waiting for? He was in agony. He was in hell.
“Beth.” His voice fell somewhere between a plea and a groan. He lifted his hips slightly, and then at long last, she wrapped her hand around his pulsating shaft, then lowered her head and took him into her mouth. He bucked and cried out from the pure, exquisite torture she inflicted on him as she slid her fist and hot wet mouth up and down, up and down in a perfect rhythmic counterpoint. Every now and again she paused to swirl her tongue around the head, or lick the entire length of his shaft before returning to rhythmically suck him again. Where the devil had she learnt how to do this? Her skill even surpassed that of any of his previous mistresses.
Lady Beauchamp's Proposal Page 14
