Lady Beauchamp's Proposal

by Secret Cravings Publishing

  But what of the others?

  Through the open doorway came the murmur of other voices again, but for the moment, no one else appeared, foxed or otherwise.

  James nodded once, seemingly satisfied with her response. She must have hidden her fear well enough. “Perhaps you could prepare three of the guest rooms and see to tonight’s menu, Mrs. Eliott. Lord Maxwell and Lord Markham have also decided to pay me a visit. It seems we have an impromptu hunting party on our hands.”

  Maxwell—that must be James’s brother-in-law. She wondered if he had news of another situation for her. But would James even tell her, now that he seemed so taken with her? And she wouldn’t dare ask Lord Maxwell herself. That would be much too forward.

  The name Markham she didn’t know at all. Perhaps everything would be all right. If only she could be sure about Lord Blaire though…

  James was frowning at her. Too caught up in her own tumultuous musings, she hadn’t acknowledged his request. She nodded slightly and dragged in a much needed breath before she spoke again. “Yes…my lord.”

  James turned toward the library, but then paused on the threshold and glanced back at her.

  “I’m sorry,” he mouthed, his dark eyes shadowed with something akin to regret before he disappeared.

  Elizabeth stared at the closed library door and tried to control the wave of panic rising within her. She had never anticipated anything like this happening—that James’s tonnish acquaintances would venture to this far-flung place. She had foolishly thought she could disappear, become someone else. But was one of her worst nightmares about to come true— that she would be exposed, and that Hugh would find her and reclaim her? If her husband found her—she couldn’t bear to think what he would do to her.

  The only reality that could be worse than that horrific turn of events would be that James discovered her duplicity. And that his regard for her would then die and be replaced by censure. Being the sinner that she was, she could hardly pray that it wouldn’t be so—because when all was said and done, James’s condemnation would be exactly what she deserved.

  Perhaps she should leave Eilean Tor right now.

  But where would she go? Even an offer of another situation via Lord Maxwell would do her no good if it was discovered she was Lady Beauchamp. The only thing that was clear to her right now, was that her mind was awhirl and she couldn’t think straight. Making rash decisions wasn’t going to help. She needed to calm down.

  Elizabeth rose from the stool, and with shaking hands, closed the pianoforte’s lid. Maybe she was over-reacting. Maybe Lord Blaire had only been a passing acquaintance, a society buck she had once danced with as a debutante. Or someone from Hugh’s club. In any case, he certainly wasn’t someone well known to her. The only sensible thing she could feasibly do was to try and remain as unobtrusive as possible for the duration of the hunting party. Her self-preservation must be paramount.

  Aside from no more pianoforte playing, there must be no more liaisons with James whatsoever and—oh, God—she really must move rooms, straightaway. Housekeepers didn’t sleep only a few doors away from the lord of the castle. Even if James’s friends never deduced that she was Lord Beauchamp’s wife, they would soon know she was Lord Rothsburgh’s mistress. And she couldn’t abide that either.

  As Elizabeth frantically checked all her buttons at her cuffs and on her bodice, and smoothed her hair, she realized that underneath her fear, another feeling lurked. A deep disappointment was settling within her like a sinking stone.

  She was simply the housekeeper again. She knew it had to be this way whilst James was entertaining guests, and the distance between them would be nothing but artifice. But nevertheless, it would hurt to see cool indifference in her lover’s gaze when she had grown used to him looking at her with such desire and dare she say it—affection. But then, wasn’t she going to hurt him anyway? And she would probably see a lot worse than indifference in his eyes when the time came to desert him.

  She closed her eyes tightly for a long moment to stem the unexpected welling of tears. Her fear of being discovered combined with this emerging feeling of desolation, and the certain knowledge that she must leave—all of it was almost too much to bear.

  You’d best get used to this, Elizabeth. This is how it will feel to be the hired help again.

  And you don’t have time to wallow in self-pity. You have things to do and plans to make. So just get on with it.

  Swallowing her tears, she quit the drawing room to search for Roberts and Maisie to help her relocate her things to the servants’ quarters before she carried out Lord Rothsburgh’s instructions—only to almost bump into the butler. Roberts had obviously been hovering by the door in the hall outside.

  “Mrs. Eliott, I’m so verra sorry to have startled you.” His face was bright red with an uncharacteristic flush, and he couldn’t quite meet her eyes. “I was just comin’ to see you, to let you know tha’ yer things are bein’ taken to the servants’ quarters as we speak. Maisie is settin’ up a room fer you. I didna think you would mind given the change in...circumstances.”

  “That’s quite all right, Roberts,” Elizabeth tried very hard not to blush herself, although at the same time, she breathed an inward sigh of relief. “That is most sensible. I am most grateful for your…foresight.”

  “Verra good, Mrs. Eliott.” He offered her a smile, and then at last met her gaze, his expression sincere. “Although it isna really my place to say so, Mrs. Eliott, I just wanted to let you know tha’ it is verra good to have you here. His lordship…well let me just say tha’ in all my time at the castle, I havena seen Lord Rothsburgh lookin’ so weel. Ever. An’ it’s all thanks to you.”

  Before she could say anything else, the butler inclined his head, then retreated down the corridor in the direction of the staircase to the Great Hall where faint sounds of activity could be heard.

  Elizabeth shook her head, overcome with gratitude. Who would’ve thought that she could have garnered such support in such a short space of time? It was unexpected and humbling, and made the prospect of leaving—as she must—even harder.

  A boisterous laugh coming from the direction of the library roused her. She had things to attend to. Wiping her eyes and lifting her chin, she set off for the servants’ stairs.

  * * * *

  “Mrs. Eliott isn’t it? Might I have a word with you? It’s about my room.”

  Elizabeth froze mid-step on the sweeping stone staircase leading down to the Great Hall, her blood turning to ice, her heart stuttering to a stop.

  Lord Blaire was behind her. How absolutely stupid of her not to have taken the servants’ stairs. Since the hunting party’s arrival the day before, she had been extremely careful, and had managed to avoid any direct contact with James’s friends during the rest of that afternoon and evening. She had assumed that it would be safe to use the main stairs this early in the morning when the sun had barely risen, and breakfast was still being laid out in the dining room. How wrong she’d been.

  But it was no use berating herself now. At least she looked the part of the nondescript, unassuming servant with her hair pulled back tightly in a severe bun, and her plain, dark grey widow’s weeds on. She didn’t look anything like the expensively attired and elaborately coiffured Countess of Beauchamp. If she kept her wits about her and acted demurely, everything would be fine.

  Keep calm, keep calm. You don’t know him. He doesn’t know you.

  Elizabeth turned carefully around to face the rakish, now entirely sober nobleman who was obviously about to head out for an early morning ride. He stood at the top of the stairs, looking down at her, his head cocked slightly to one side as he tapped his riding crop against his lean thigh. His hazel-brown gaze was decidedly speculative as it ran over her. Clenching her fists in her skirts, Elizabeth willed herself to remain impassive beneath his regard.

  “Of course, my lord.” She dropped a small curtsy then raised her eyes to his arrogantly handsome face. “What seems to be the problem?
” She still couldn’t recall if she had ever made his acquaintance before. He reminded her of so many men of his class with his fashionably cropped brown hair, lean hawkish features, and confident smile. Perhaps…

  His gaze sharpened on her face and flushing, she dropped her own gaze to the stone steps at her feet. It had been inappropriate of her to stare at him so. She really must remember how to behave like someone in service. She couldn’t afford to draw undue interest—now more than ever.

  “I think it would be easier if I showed you,” he replied, then turned on his heel to stride back down the corridor in the direction of the stairs that led to the guest rooms.

  Fear prickled along her spine. Elizabeth seriously doubted that there was anything wrong with the man’s room. The way he had looked at her…although there had been no light of recognition in his eyes, there had been a spark of another kind of interest that was almost as dangerous. Male lust. She was certain of it.

  She didn’t want to follow him. But she was the housekeeper and convention dictated that she must accede to his seemingly reasonable request, despite her reservations. Besides, James’s room was nearby. Surely Lord Blaire wouldn’t behave untowardly when his friend and host resided in the same wing.

  “I haven’t got all day, Mrs. Eliott.” He’d paused to wait for her at the bottom of the next set of stairs. Heavens, now she’d made him cross. All senses on alert, she picked up her skirts and hurried to catch up, which was not easy given his long-legged stride. By the time she’d followed him up the next staircase and along the hall to his already open door, she was quite breathless.

  He frowned at her with a concern that was undoubtedly feigned. “Are you all right, Mrs. Eliott?” He turned slightly and placed a proprietorial hand upon the small of her back. “Perhaps you should come in and rest a moment.”

  “I’m truly…fine…Lord Blaire,” she said, trying to regain both her breath and composure, especially now that it seemed she was about to be forcibly ushered into his room. “You still haven’t told me what’s wrong.”

  Although she knew she sounded quite blunt, her manner even bordering on rudeness, she really didn’t want to enter this man’s bedchamber. It was at the very end of the hall, six doors down from James’s room. And the thick oak door and stone walls were so solid, she would never be heard if she needed to call for aid. And the way Lord Blaire was running his gaze over her right now, lingering on her mouth and then her chest, her instincts screamed at her not to take another step forward.

  “Well, there is a frightful draft coming in through a gap in the casement window for one thing,” he said bending toward her ear. He slid his hand from her back to grip her firmly about the elbow, and attempted to steer her across the threshold again. “And then, there’s the bed—”

  A nearby door clicked shut. “Milord, might I be of some assistance?”

  Roberts. Thank God. He must have been attending Lord Maxwell across the hall.

  Blaire cursed under his breath, and as he relinquished his hold on her arm, giddy relief swept through Elizabeth. She immediately stepped back into the hallway out of Blaire’s reach and turned to face the advancing butler.

  Roberts bowed stiffly to Lord Blaire before fixing him with a dour stare.

  “Lord Blaire has concerns about his bedchamber,” Elizabeth explained to her unexpected champion. “A draft as well as a problem with the bedding I believe.”

  Roberts glanced beyond Blaire’s shoulder into the room before returning his poker-faced gaze to the bristling nobleman. “I’m sure his lordship willna mind if I see to it, Mrs. Eliott. Mrs. Roberts will be wantin’ you in the kitchen no doubt.”

  Elizabeth curtsied to Lord Blaire. “My lord.” She risked a glance at his face and noticed he was glaring at Roberts, his lips compressed into a thin line.

  Lord Blaire’s eyes darted to her and he inclined his head slightly. “Mrs. Eliott.” She was dismissed…for now…

  As Elizabeth walked away, she could feel the nobleman’s gaze following her. Next time, he would not be put off so easily. So there must not be a next time.

  Her only consolation was, he didn’t know her—she was definitely a stranger to him. Lord Blaire had studied her face and had not recognized who she really was. She was still safe.

  And that was all that really mattered.

  * * * *

  “Bloody hell, Rothsburgh. Are you sure you’re not doing over your housekeeper? I know I would.”

  Rothsburgh forced himself to smile urbanely at Lord Rupert Blaire—one of his brother-in-law’s erstwhile acquaintances from his long-ago Cambridge days—when all he really wanted to do was slam his fist into the man’s inanely grinning face. At this particular moment, for the life of him, Rothsburgh couldn’t fathom why Maxwell was still friends with the tosser.

  He unclenched one hand from the handle of his knife, and took a swig of the excellent claret that Beth had selected to serve with their main course of duck. He wondered if he’d ever get the chance to see her—make love to her—whilst his well-meaning friends hung about the castle like a trio of pesky vermin.

  Phillip Latimer, Lord Maxwell, had instigated the surprise visit to pull him out of the fug of self-pity his sister had declared him to be in, after he’d last visited Edinburgh. Rothsburgh would happily wring Helena’s pretty neck when he saw her again.

  They’d only been here for two and a half days—fifty-five hours and twenty-six minutes according to the ormolu clock on the mantle—and yet he couldn’t wait for them to leave.

  “She’s in mourning,” Rothsburgh said as off-handedly as he could. “And besides, it has never been my inclination to sleep with the staff.”

  Blaire smirked. “Why would you want to sleep with her when you could just bend her over the nearest chair and—”

  “Wasn’t she the governess that applied for the post here?” interjected Maxwell. “I’ll concede she’s uncommonly pretty, but she also seems very refined—much more so than you’d expect from someone of her station. I imagine she’d make an excellent teacher.”

  Rothsburgh nodded, grateful Maxwell had interrupted Blaire’s ribald commentary. A man of honor, his brother-in-law would not condone such callous and disrespectful treatment of a woman in his employ. It was a pity that their current governess, Miss Palmer, was so damned efficient, then perhaps Beth could have worked within his sister’s and brother-in-law’s household.

  Not that it mattered now. All governess’s positions be damned. The delectable Mrs. Eliott was his, and she wasn’t going anywhere as far as he was concerned.

  “Yes, she did apply for the position,” Rothsburgh replied neutrally to Maxwell. “She came highly recommended by the Countess of Beauchamp.”

  “What? Hugh Harcourt’s wife?” asked Blaire. “I’ve only met her once or twice, but she’s another priggish blonde I’d love to fu—”

  “What time shall we go hunting tomorrow, gentlemen?” interrupted Lord Rafe Markham. A quietly shrewd, steely-eyed man, he obviously wasn’t keen on Blaire’s current line of conversation either. “I must confess, I’m a trifle tired after skulking around the moors for deer at the crack of dawn.”

  Rothsburgh grinned. “Not going soft in your old age are you, Markham?” The man had only recently returned from Europe and it was rumored in certain circles that he’d been a spy for the British Government in the campaign against Bonaparte.

  Markham simply shrugged and smiled, not bothering to bite back. He didn’t need to.

  Rothsburgh admired the man’s sang-froid. Markham probably knew ways to kill a man that he’d never even heard of. Perhaps he could quietly ask him to take care of Blaire if he stepped over the line with Beth. “Gentlemen’s hours shall we say then, Markham? There’ll still be plenty of grouse to be had a bit later in the morning.”

  Markham inclined his head. “Agreed.”

  Maxwell then steered the conversation toward horse flesh, and Rothsburgh breathed a silent sigh of relief. The coil of tension in his belly was as tight
as ever. If he didn’t have Beth to himself soon, he’d snap. There was no chance he could arrange a rendezvous tonight. Despite Markham’s admission of tiredness, he knew it was likely that they would be up until the wee hours drinking and playing cards.

  Besides, Beth was now sleeping in a tiny room, right next door to one of the maids. Any assignation would be noticed for certain. And it wasn’t as if he could entice Beth back to his own bedchamber—the chance of her being spotted by one of his guests would be high also.

  Anyway Rothsburgh looked at the situation, it was hopeless. He reached for his claret again and eyed his companions over the rim of his glass.

  As uncharitable as it sounded, the sooner they were gone, the better.

  Chapter Eleven

  To Rothsburgh’s relief, his chance to catch Beth alone came the very next day. On his return from grouse shooting, he’d entered the Great Hall with his dogs at his heels, and had spotted Roberts and Beth disappearing down the corridor that led to Eilean Tor’s wine cellar. As luck would have it, Maxwell, Markham and Blaire had already disappeared upstairs, obviously not caring to linger whilst he’d been outside in the courtyard talking to the head groom about the need to re-shoe his horse.

  Rosencrantz whined and thumped his tail.

  “I know boy, I want to see her too,” Rothsburgh said quietly, ruffling the hound’s head. He probably should go upstairs and change out of his hunting clothes before he approached Beth, but then again, if he didn’t act now, he might not have another opportunity to see her alone for another day or two. To have but a brief exchange with her everyday about something completely mundane and inconsequential, to pretend she was nothing to him—it was killing him.

  He bid Rosencrantz and Guildenstern to stay, and then he all but ran across the hall and down the corridor to the cellar. The door was ajar and he slipped inside, pausing at the top of the stairs for a moment to let his eyes adjust to the sudden gloom. The cold, cavernous space, hewn from the rock-bed beneath Eilean Tor, was barely lit by the soft glow of several lanterns.