Lady Beauchamp's Proposal

by Secret Cravings Publishing

  How had he found out her true identity? But more importantly, would he tell anyone?

  “Please,” her voice was no more than a choked whisper. “Please, I beg you. Don’t call me that! Nobody can know…”

  Dark spots suddenly peppered her vision, and there was a strange rushing sound in her ears as Rothsburgh’s alarmed face started to fade behind a dark mist.

  “Beth!”

  There was a crash of china—the water pitcher striking the floorboards—and suddenly she felt Rothsburgh’s arms about her, dragging her up from the black abyss she had started to tumble into.

  “God, Beth. It’s all right. I’m sorry I startled you. Your secret’s safe.” He swept her up into his arms, cradling her against the solid wall of his chest, his face buried in her hair. “I’m going to put you on the bed. I don’t want you to faint on me again.”

  As he carried her across the room, she pressed her face to his shoulder and took a shuddering breath, inhaling his distinctive masculine scent. Despite her confusion and terror at being discovered, she was flooded with a longing so acute, it hurt.

  Stupid, Elizabeth. Always wanting what you can’t have.

  When Rothsburgh released her from his hold and drew away, she bit her lip to stop herself whimpering aloud. No, don’t let me go. Not yet.

  Common sense had clearly deserted her.

  But then to her relief, Rothsburgh—she daren’t think of him as James again—sat down beside her and took one of her trembling hands between his. His dark, intent gaze travelled over her face—even lingered on her lips for a moment—before returning to search her eyes. As if he still cared for her, in spite of the fact she had deceived him, and that she was a fool who had married a man he clearly reviled.

  “Beth, I’m such an idiot. Please forgive me for surprising you like that. I promise you, I won’t give you away. I assure you that’s not why I came here.”

  She nodded, wanting so much to believe the sincerity in his voice, and in his eyes. She swallowed, moistening her dry mouth, still desperate to know how he had discovered her secret, and why he had sought her out. She had to know before treacherous hope took hold of her.

  But of course there was no hope for them at all.

  She swallowed and forced herself to speak. “How…how did you discover who I am?” she asked, her voice little more than a hoarse, choked whisper. “How did you find me?”

  Rothsburgh’s wide, beautiful mouth tipped into a gentle smile—dear Lord, a display of tenderness was the very thing she craved, yet the last thing she needed—as he brushed a lock of her hair away from her cheek. “Finding you was the easy part. Maisie had discovered the advertisement for the companion’s position in your ruined gown before she burnt it, and Geddes saw you board the mail-coach that headed south. As for discovering that you were not Mrs. Eliott and really Lady Beauchamp…after I found out that you had gone, I wanted to make certain that you would be…all right. But you had left your reference letter behind. Then when I saw that the countess’s handwriting was exactly the same as the writing in your letter of farewell, I realized the truth, about who you really are. And I had to let you know that I understood your…situation. More than you realize.”

  Elizabeth shook her head, still not understanding why Lord Rothsburgh would bother to look for her after all that she had done, or how his anger had melted as quickly as snow that had been exposed to the summer sun. “But it doesn’t matter whether you know me as Mrs. Eliott, or the Countess of Beauchamp. Either way, I’m still married. A wicked adulteress. I left my husband, and I betrayed my marriage vows. I’m not…I’m not the woman you thought I was…I deceived you…I hurt you. I’m despicable—”

  “Shhh.” Rothsburgh touched her lips with his finger, compassion lighting his eyes. “Yes, you left your husband. But you are not despicable—”

  Elizabeth jerked away from his touch, turning her head as tears of self-loathing threatened. She didn’t deserve this kindness. “Yes. I am,” she whispered. “What I did was wrong.”

  “It’s not wrong to try to save yourself from becoming another one of Hugh’s victims, my love.”

  What?

  Her gaze flew back to Rothsburgh’s. It was impossible that he would know the reason she had left Hugh. And what did he mean another victim?

  “I don’t understand—how could you know?” she asked shakily, confused yet intrigued by his canny intelligence that bordered on the preternatural.

  “That your husband has syphilis?”

  “Yes,” she gasped. This didn’t make sense. Nobody knew that Hugh had the disease except herself, Dr. Morton. And Hugh’s mistress…

  Rothsburgh’s eyes suddenly hardened to the cold black of obsidian. “I know because he gave it to my wife.”

  * * * *

  Beth’s already pale face blanched to the color of the linen sheets upon the bed, and her next question emerged as an almost inaudible whisper. “Isabelle had syphilis?”

  Rothsburgh’s throat was suddenly tight as he stared into Beth’s wide grey eyes. It was hard to admit something so humiliating, so personal. That your wife had taken a lover and had then contracted the pox. He felt like he was scourging off a layer of flesh, leaving him raw and exposed, more vulnerable than he had ever been before in his life.

  But Beth had a right to know the truth, no matter how ugly and painful it was. “Yes, she did.”

  Beth’s eyes sparked with comprehension. “But that would mean that Hugh and Isabelle were—”

  “Lovers. Yes, they were, Beth.”

  Beth suddenly grasped his arm tightly with her bandaged hand, and he winced for her—the cut beneath must sting like hell—but she seemed oblivious as she caught his gaze, and when she spoke, her voice held a note of urgent sincerity. “I want you to know that even though Hugh has it, I don’t…I don’t have syphilis. When I agreed to become your mistress, I meant it when I told you that I hadn’t been with my husband for months. In fact it has been over a year since he last…demanded anything of me.” Her eyes suddenly widened with a look of panic and her pale cheeks were marked with hectic color. “God, I hope you don’t think that I was the kind of woman who would ignore something like that. You must know that I would never have had sex with you if—”

  Rothsburgh placed his fingers over her lips. “Hush now. I know you don’t have it, Beth. I’ve seen you, all of you remember.” He tried not to smile when her blush deepened. “But more than that, I know who you are inside, regardless of the name you bear. And you are not that sort of woman. Just as I am not that sort of man.”

  He brushed her cheek with his fingers, his heart swelling with tenderness, wanting to reassure her that he was a different man to her husband. That she could trust him. “I don’t have the pox either.”

  “Thank you for telling me that. And believing in me,” she said on a shaky breath, as if she had only just started to breathe again. “After all of the lies I’ve told, that you would still trust my word, even just a little…well, it means a lot to me.”

  “You only lied to protect yourself, Beth. I could never condemn you for that,” he said gravely. “We’ve both been betrayed by the people we loved.”

  “Yes, it seems we have.” Beth suddenly shook her head. “It’s seems so bizarre though. I still don’t understand how you know all this? How can you be sure that it was Hugh that gave your wife syphilis? I mean, I don’t want to defend my husband, far from it. He’s had mistresses aplenty. But what you are telling me…It’s…incredible.”

  Rothsburgh sighed and ran a hand down his face. Beth was right. It was indeed incredible. And he’d never wanted to believe any of it either. But he’d lived with Isabelle’s faithlessness for such a long time, and he’d seen things—things he’d much rather forget—that proved beyond any doubt the truth of the matter. Beth’s husband had indeed infected Isabelle with syphilis. And syphilis was the reason Isabelle had died.

  Rothsburgh carefully clasped Beth’s hands between his. “Believe me. I know. It def
ies belief. But I will attempt to explain the truth as far as I know it. If you want me to. I will warn you though. There are things that I will disclose that will…shock you...more than you have been shocked already.”

  Beth squeezed his hands, and her grey gaze was clear and steady as she regarded him. “Tell me everything.”

  Rothsburgh took a steadying breath. He could do this—tell Beth what she needed to know because she had asked him to, and he would do anything for her. But where to start with this whole sad and sordid tale that had affected both of them so profoundly?

  Damn. This was going to be harder than he thought.

  It wasn’t long before Beth prompted him with her own question, saving him from his agonized musings. “How…how exactly did you find out that Isabelle had syphilis? And that my husband had given it to her?” she asked quietly. “Did she tell you?”

  “Yes, she did,” he said, not able to suppress the note of grim weariness in his tone. “But… not directly…I didn’t find out until I returned from the Continent. After she had died.”

  Beth’s usually smooth brow dipped into a confused frown as she tried to make sense of what he’d just said, but she didn’t comment. She simply watched his face and waited for him to continue.

  Rothsburgh dragged in another fortifying breath, mentally preparing himself to reopen old wounds. “Forgive me. I’m not being very clear. I don’t think I’ve told you this, but Isabelle had been in Belgium with me during the campaign. That’s when she contracted the pox from Hugh. But as said, I didn’t find out then. As you know, I was wounded at Waterloo and Isabelle…well, she left shortly after the battle was over and returned to Eilean Tor. The last time I saw her was at the Duchess of Richmond’s ball, the evening before the Battle of Quatre-Bras.”

  “Oh, James. She left you there? Without seeing you when you were wounded?” Beth’s grey eyes suddenly glimmered with tears. He was deeply touched by her grief for him. It was a sign she still cared. And it was the first time she had uttered his Christian name again. It felt like a blessing to hear her say his name—like water in the desert for a dying man.

  “It’s of no consequence, Beth. My injuries weren’t that bad. And to be honest, I didn’t want to see her. Isabelle and I, we weren’t on the best of terms then. In fact, we hadn’t been for a long time, as you already know.”

  Beth’s expression was puzzled again. “Then if you never saw her, or spoke to her…How did you find out about her and Hugh, and the pox?”

  “Isabelle left me a letter—on my desk in the library at Eilean Tor—confessing all to me; that Hugh had given her the pox after she had…been with him in Brussels. And that she was sorry for not being the mother she should have been. I suspect that writing that letter was probably one of the last things she ever did, Beth—before she went down to the causeway when the tide was coming in.”

  Beth gasped and gripped his hands so tightly it hurt. “Oh my God. You mean…It sounds like her death...It wasn’t an accident.”

  “No. I don’t think it was.”

  “Oh, James.”

  “She wrote that she couldn’t bear the shame of having the pox. Dr. Addison—the physician from Blackhaven who visited you—he confirmed that Isabelle had been suffering from the most virulent form of second stage syphilis he’d ever seen. He’d attended her sick bed at Eilean Tor the day before she…went down to the causeway—and he told me that aside from having a terrible fever, her body had been covered in a red rash, and wart-like sores. Apparently her hair had also started to fall out in large clumps. Isabelle would have hated that. She’d always been so proud of her looks.”

  “Anyway, I suspect that what Isabelle told me in her letter was true—that Hugh had only just recently contracted the pox, and that neither of them knew he had it when they—” He almost said fucked, but clamped his jaw shut for an instant; he didn’t want to utter that profanity in front of Beth. “When they coupled. And that may have been the case. The surgeon attached to my Regiment informed our Commanding Officer shortly after our arrival in mid-May, that some of the local prostitutes were spreading the pox to the soldiers. And by all reports it was also quite a nasty strain. Colonel Cameron ordered our men not to fraternize with the women, but perhaps not everyone—the men from the other Regiments—knew that.”

  Beth shrugged. “Perhaps. But I suspect that even if Hugh heard the rumors he would have dismissed them. He has always been reckless and arrogant, thinking he knows better than everyone else. And as humiliating as it is to admit to you, James, I know my husband has not only kept a mistress from time to time, but that he also has a penchant for prostitutes. It doesn’t surprise me at all that he would have taken up with one of them.”

  She glanced down at her hands, still clasped in his. “He didn’t want me to go with him to Belgium as I knew some of the other officer’s wives were doing,” she said quietly. “Not to keep me safe. It was because—and this is hard to say—he just didn’t want me…at all, for anything. And that has been a Godsend in a way…after considering everything that has happened.” She raised her eyes again. “Given what you’ve told me about your relationship with Isabelle, I’m surprised she went with you.”

  Rothsburgh grimaced. “She didn’t accompany me at my invitation, Beth. When the orders came for the Regiment to join Wellington, I was in London and I asked Isabelle to return home to be with Annabelle at Eilean Tor. Looking back, that was stupid of me to do. Isabelle always hated the place—claimed it was no more than a pile of rocks. I should have known that she’d do exactly as she pleased, which was often the exact opposite to what I had suggested. From what I understand, after I’d departed for the Continent with the Regiment in early May, she joined the Duke and Duchess of Richmond’s entourage and travelled with them to Brussels. I had no idea what she was planning until she arrived on the doorstep of my billet. I was angry with her of course, but being angry with Isabelle was always a useless enterprise. She didn’t give a damned fig about what I thought. Or what her daughter needed.”

  “But that was always her way. She craved drama, danger even. And she’d grown bored of London. All the interesting crowd was now on the Continent she told me, when she turned up.” He felt the muscles in his jaw tighten at the memory of her self-centered flippancy. “It was as if she was attending the ton’s latest form of entertainment. It was a novelty for her, a grand adventure. It didn’t enter into her head at all that this was a war against the French. That men were about go to their deaths, or at the very least get horrifically maimed.”

  “Like you.” Beth placed a hand on the side of his damaged thigh and her touch seared him as though his leg was bare. Blood immediately began to throb toward his cock, and he shifted slightly to ease the building ache in his balls. Sweet Jesus, how could she so effortlessly arouse him? But now was not the time to explore if anything could still exist between them. Perhaps later when all their revelations had been made, their secrets shared. If Beth still wanted him…God help him, he prayed that she did, because he still wanted her, married or not.

  With an effort, he forced himself to ignore the effects of her incendiary touch in order to respond to her comment. “’Twas no more than a scratch—a sizeable one to be certain, but not all that bad, all things considered. I sustained it during the second battle—Waterloo—when things were nearly over. And it didn’t put me out of commission for too long—only a week or two. I’m a tough old war horse.”

  Beth’s lovely mouth quirked into a gentle smile. “Thirty is not old at all. And you can’t fool me. I know you try to hide your battle scars by making light of all you endured. But I know they’re still there, James. You are too noble and stalwart for your own good.” Her smile suddenly changed, grew rueful and her grey eyes hardened. “My husband has never been the noble sort. He may have fought with honor on the battlefield, but that is probably as far as it goes. He certainly never behaved in an honorable way toward me during our marriage.”

  Her forehead suddenly creased into a frown a
gain. “But now I’m wondering, James…When did Hugh and your wife begin their affaire? Did Isabelle say in her letter?”

  Rothsburgh sighed, rallying the will to continue. His next secret was going to be one of the hardest to reveal, as it was a disclosure that would strike Beth deeply. He sought her gaze and held it steadily. “Beth, I knew my wife was unfaithful to me long before she made her confession. And as hard as this is to admit, the reason I didn’t want to see Isabelle after I was wounded was that I actually saw her…with your husband…at the Duchess of Richmond’s ball.”

  Beth’s eyes widened and her cheeks flamed. “You saw Hugh and Isabelle…together? Do you mean that they were—”

  “Yes, Beth. I caught them in flagrante delicto during the ball. They were outside, in the yard behind the stables. I’d had a bit too much brandy, and I’d gone to get some fresh air.” He closed his eyes briefly as the obscene image of Hugh fucking his wife from behind as she leant over a pile of crates—like she was some common whore—intruded into his mind. If it hadn’t been for the tumultuous arrival of the messenger bringing word to Wellington of Bonaparte’s advancement across the French-Belgian border, Rothsburgh was certain that he would’ve run the bastard through with his short sword on the spot.

  “Oh, heavens…” Beth’s fingers bit into his. “I’ve heard many a story of the Duchess of Richmond’s ball. How grand it was before it came to such an abrupt end when all the troops and officers were called away.” She shook her head. “I can scarcely believe that Hugh and your wife would do something like that, in such a public place, with the ton all around them. It’s depraved. And you were there…You must have been so angry. How utterly shocking that you had to go into battle, after having seen something like that.”

  Rothsburgh shrugged. “I was angry, yes, which ironically always helps when you are in the thick of things on the battlefield. But now, I just feel…saddened. It was the last time I ever saw Isabelle alive. Sometime during the week I was recovering from my wound, she decamped back to England. I like to think she felt ashamed and sorry for what she had done, but I’m not sure. She never apologized in her letter. She only admitted that Hugh had infected her…and that she couldn’t live with it.”