Lady Beauchamp's Proposal

by Secret Cravings Publishing

  “Can I get ye anything else, milord?” asked Roberts. His voice was strained and slightly breathless. Rothsburgh could see that he was trying very hard to suppress a fit of coughing. His butler was not a young man by any means, and still sick as a dog; he clearly needed to go back to bed himself.

  “No, that will be all, Roberts. I’ll take care of things from here.”

  “Weel, if ye are sure, milord—” Roberts covered his mouth and gave into the urge to cough.

  Rothsburgh gave him a mock frown. “Go, man, and get back to bed. Don’t make me come and tuck you in.”

  Roberts bowed his thanks and swiftly left the room, closing the door behind him. Rothsburgh wasn’t sure if the subsequent barking sound coming from the corridor was coughing, laughter, or both.

  He crossed the room to the large four-poster bed, and gently laid the young widow upon the exposed sheets. She did not make a sound. He straightened and then crossed his arms, staring down at her. What he needed to do—which was to get her warm and dry—would be difficult without her being conscious. He wished to God the woman would wake up.

  He placed a hand on her shoulder and shook her gently. “Mrs. Eliott. Beth. Open your eyes. Can you hear me?” She didn’t stir at all. He squeezed one of her hands. Her fingers were hot and clammy at the same time.

  A glint of something silver caught his eye. Lifting her right hand, he noticed a wedding band. It was a delicately wrought piece—an intricate filigree design—and quite beautiful. He didn’t miss the significance of her wearing it on her right ring finger; Mrs. Eliott obviously still honored the memory of her husband. She’d intimated he’d perished at Waterloo so he would have died less than four months ago. She would still be in deep mourning.

  A cynical smile quirked the corner of his mouth. He, on the other hand, barely grieved for Isabelle, even though her death was recent. But then, his love for her had died long ago. Indeed, he didn’t even know where Isabelle’s gold wedding band was. Even sadder was the realization that he didn’t really care. How could he, when Isabelle had hardly ever worn it? Like holding to her marriage vows, the ring had obviously meant little to her.

  He brushed his thumb across Beth’s silver wedding ring, and tried to rouse her again by calling her name. Her eyelids did not flicker in the slightest.

  Hell and damnation. He was going to have to undress her himself.

  Aside from Mrs. Roberts—the butler’s wife—who was currently indisposed, there were no other female servants at Eilean Tor. After Isabelle’s death, her lady’s maid had secured another position, and the nursemaid who looked after Annabelle had gone with his daughter to Edinburgh. And the few scullery maids from the village who Mrs. Roberts saw fit to employ within the kitchen, were all currently in Torhaven caring for their own sick families, or they were unwell themselves.

  She’s sick and unconscious, man—just bloody get on with it. He’d fought at Waterloo himself for Christ’s sake. Why should he hesitate when it came to carrying out such a simple task? Hadn’t he undressed women hundreds of times? He knew what to do—could do it with his eyes closed in fact. But the difference was, the women had always been awake and willing.

  Sighing heavily in resignation, Rothsburgh moved down to the end of the bed and unlaced Mrs. Eliott’s black ankle boots, before tugging them off. Despite his best intentions not to pay attention to particular details about her, he noticed that beneath her fine silk stockings, she had small, delicate feet and slender ankles. Blowing out another exasperated breath, he placed her boots by the hearth to dry, and then returned to sit next to her.

  “Mrs. Eliott…Beth, wake up.”

  Still, there was no response.

  Now comes the hardest part—taking off her dress and undergarments. He couldn’t help but smile ruefully at himself for his choice of words, because despite his best efforts, his part was growing exactly that—hard as a bloody rock. At least Mrs. Eliott wouldn’t notice.

  Gritting his teeth, he set about undoing the jet buttons of her black woolen spencer. He eased her forward, trying to ignore the feel of her breath against his cheek as he slid the jacket off. Whilst he was not overly au fait with the fashions of the day, he noticed that her clothes were well-cut and of high quality.

  Interesting. Perhaps her husband had been an officer. She must have had a little money at some point. He guessed she must hail from the middle-classes. That would also explain her perfect annunciation and genteel accomplishments, although not so much her brusque manner. He smiled, recalling the flash of her silver-grey eyes when she’d stood up to his deliberate taunting. She had spirit, he’d give her that much.

  He cast his eyes over the bodice of her travelling dress, more black wool, trimmed about the modest neckline with black lace. No buttons; the gown obviously did up at the back. As gently as he could, he rolled her onto her side, then quickly released the small jet fastenings. As each one slid open, he exposed her fine linen shift and lightly boned stays that also laced down the back.

  He’d been right when he’d assumed that she was slender; perhaps she was even a little too thin. He could clearly see the outline of her elegant spine and her small waist as he unlaced her stays. However, as he rolled her back then gently eased off the garments, he was surprised to see that she had quite an ample bust, despite her slimness. Through her wet shift, he couldn’t help but notice that her breasts were perfectly rounded and her peaked nipples were a dusky pink beneath the flimsy, transparent fabric. He swallowed and returned his gaze to her face, suddenly feeling as guilty as a youth caught spying through a keyhole at a woman attending to her toilette.

  But she was still asleep, thank God. He was as randy as a stallion, his balls in sheer agony. And he hadn’t even taken off her wet shift.

  To distract himself, he picked up her discarded clothes and draped them over a chair before the fire. Turning back was a mistake. Perhaps she had moved—he wasn’t sure—but her shift had rucked up around her legs, revealing linen drawers that clung to long, slender thighs. Christ, he would come before he’d even finished the job.

  It suddenly occurred to him that he had nothing to dress her in once all of her wet things were removed. He couldn’t leave her naked. Swearing under his breath, he returned to the bed and pulled the covers up over her. He would have to hunt for something for her to wear.

  He left the room and strode down the corridor to his own bedchamber. On entering, he immediately noticed that Roberts had also thoughtfully ignited the fire and candles for him before retiring as instructed. He made straight for the sideboard and poured himself a double whisky before tossing it back in one gulp. He knew he shouldn’t drink too much but, God in heaven, he needed something to douse the fire in his loins before he returned to Mrs. Eliott.

  He poured himself another dram. Whilst sipping this one, he racked his brains to think of some garment he could easily procure to preserve a little of the widow’s dignity, and his own sanity. He assumed the blasted woman had luggage—she’d probably been forced to leave it at The Black Barnacle. Of course, her things could be retrieved tomorrow, but that wasn’t going to help him tonight. Isabelle’s clothing had all been disposed of by his sister. And he could hardly go knocking on Roberts’s door to request one of his wife’s nightrails.

  He downed the last mouthful of whisky and realized that he would just have to dress her in one of his nightshirts for the time being; it was better than nothing—marginally.

  Feeling slightly more in control of his baser urges, he snatched up one of his shirts and retraced his steps to the guest room. Beth—although he should try to think of her as Mrs. Eliott—had managed to kick off the covers and she had started shivering again. It was imperative that he finish what he’d started.

  Clenching his jaw and focusing on the practicalities of the task at hand rather than the beautiful body being laid bare, Rothsburgh deftly pulled off Beth’s shift, before pulling his nightshirt over her head and guiding her limp arms through the sleeves. Then and only then did he
remove her drawers and stockings.

  Breathing a sigh of relief, he went over to the basin and dampened a washcloth to bathe the widow’s brow. She was murmuring in her sleep now—her brow was creased and she tossed her head a little. Perhaps she was having a bad dream.

  He knew all about bad dreams, both real and imagined.

  He returned to her side, but he couldn’t make out the words. “Beth,” he said softly, placing the cloth on her forehead. “You’re quite safe.”

  “Please…leave me be,” she whispered.

  “It’s all right, Beth. No one will harm you.” He didn’t know if she could hear him, but he wanted to ease her distress. He pushed a strand of hair away from the corner of her mouth, wondering who had frightened her so badly.

  He prayed it wasn’t him.

  Surprisingly, she rolled her cheek onto his hand and stilled. He even thought he could detect the curve of a faint smile on her lips. So maybe it wasn’t him. He suddenly felt inordinately pleased that his voice and touch seemed to soothe her.

  Tread carefully, Rothsburgh. She may look like the embodiment of heaven, but caring for her, like any woman, will only lead you into hell.

  You’ve already been there, and you can never afford to go back again.

  * * * *

  “Please, for the love of God, go away…”

  Rothsburgh sat bolt upright in the armchair besides Beth’s bed, all senses on high alert. In the dim light of the banked fire he could just make out Beth tossing beneath the gold damask counterpane. Her nightmare had come back again. It was the third night he’d spent by her bed. And this was the third time she’d had the dream.

  He reached out and touched her hand as he had done each time before. “Beth, hush now lass. It’s all right. You’re safe.”

  She instantly became quiet, and her breathing grew less ragged. He had no idea why he was able to dispel the nightmare. Nevertheless, he was pleased that something so simple seemed to ease her inner, if not her physical turmoil.

  For him, the only way to prevent the visions of the blood-soaked and gore-strewn battlefields of Belgium parading through his head every night was to imbibe enough wine and whisky to knock him into a dreamless stupor. Not healthy or wise, he knew, but sometimes it was the only thing that would help him to sleep.

  He sighed and subsided back into the armchair where he’d been dozing prior to Beth’s outcry. Not for the first time he wondered whom she entreated to leave her alone. Her husband? But why would she still wear her wedding ring—a symbol of devotion and affection—if he had been the abusive type? It didn’t make sense if that was the case. But then she could just as easily be dreaming about a stern parent figure, a combative sibling, even an over-zealous teacher from her childhood.

  Speculating in the dead of night wasn’t going to get him anywhere and besides, was it really any of his business? And would she even tell him, a virtual stranger, what troubled her if he asked? He sighed and closed his eyes.

  Probably not.

  He yawned. Christ, he was tired. After three nights keeping a bedside vigil, he wanted nothing more than to lie down and try to get some sleep. He opened his eyes and looked longingly at the space beside Beth. Would she even notice if he stretched out beside her for a few hours? She had been barely conscious for the last three days and nights. The problem was, even though she might not be aware of him, his body would certainly be aware of her.

  Indeed, since she’d arrived, he seemed to be in a perpetual state of fever himself. It took only a soft breath sighing from her full pouting lips, or the sight of her slender ankles and elegant bare feet to send the blood pounding through his veins straight to his cock. How would he be, lying beside her with his balls aching with wanting her? He probably wouldn’t get a wink of sleep.

  But then again, perhaps exhaustion would just win out. And he’d never know unless he tried. Tired of his fruitless, internal debate, he quietly pulled off his boots and then eased himself onto the bed, very carefully avoiding any contact with her, tempting though it was to take her hand in his again. She didn’t stir at all.

  He closed his eyes, content to listen to the soft rhythm of her breathing. He had been wrong; for once his desire for the oblivion of sleep was greater than his physical desire for Mrs. Beth Eliott. At last, he felt his tension starting to ebb away…

  * * * *

  By slow degrees, Elizabeth became aware of herself again. Her mouth was dry, her throat was painful, her entire body ached. There was a dull, insistent throb somewhere in the vicinity of her left temple, and she instinctively knew it would hurt to open her eyes. Wherever she was, it was dark, although she sensed a fire burning somewhere near; there was a faint glow against her eyelids and she heard the soft ashy crumble of a log disintegrating. Somehow, she knew that she was safe.

  Grimacing, she swallowed and arched her stiff back. Even though she was still drowsy, she was aware that she was lying on her side in a large comfortable bed. Except her cheek was resting against something incongruously hard, as was one of her legs. She drew in a breath and was suddenly overwhelmed with the scent of warm male and rich, spicy soap—cloves and sandalwood…musk.

  Oh, no. Her eyes flew open and her heart seized as the shocking reality of her situation penetrated her foggy brain. I’m curled up in bed with Lord Rothsburgh.

  She gasped, and immediately pushed herself away from his body as horrified confusion seized her. The marquess was fast asleep, but that hardly mattered. This was wrong, so wrong. But how on earth had this situation come to pass? That within a fortnight of leaving Hugh, she’d ended up in another man’s bed.

  She cast her mind back, desperately trying to recall what had happened to her. She clearly remembered talking with the marquess in the library and then his scathing appraisal of her reference. Hadn’t she tried to leave? Then there was no clear memory of anything much at all—until now.

  She knew she had been ill—in fact, given the way she felt, she still was. But for how long? And why was she in bed with Lord Rothsburgh?

  Carefully, slowly, she rolled away from his large, disturbingly masculine form and gently pushed herself upright. She was wearing one of her own nightrails, and Lord Rothsburgh was clothed as well, albeit somewhat informally. His loose linen shirt had partially rucked up around his waist revealing a tantalizing glimpse of a taut abdomen, and a thin line of dark hair that disappeared into beige Kerseymere trousers.

  Cheeks burning, her eyes drifted lower and she noticed his long feet were bare. Their mutual state of dishabille and current situation suggested they had perhaps engaged in sex. However, although her body ached and she felt spent, she could not detect any of the usual sensations associated with having taken part in such an act. She didn’t think that the marquess had taken advantage of her in her weakened state.

  And sick or not, surely she would remember having intimate relations with someone as overpoweringly male as Lord Rothsburgh.

  Feeling slightly breathless, she tore her gaze away from him to look around the room. They were in a spacious, well-appointed bedchamber with a high vaulted ceiling. The bed they shared was a large four-poster, curtained with swathes of rich amber velvet. A golden damask counterpane and fine cotton sheets were crumpled at the end of the bed as if she or Lord Rothsburgh had kicked them away.

  Despite the grand proportions of the room, it was warm enough—as she’d suspected, a fire burnt low in the substantial ivory marble fireplace opposite the foot of the bed. It gave off a soft glow and illuminated the rest of the furniture that was elegant enough to grace a French boudoir; a delicately carved walnut dresser and wardrobe stood against the stone walls, a chaise longue upholstered in ivory brocade was positioned before the hearth, and a matching armchair sat nearby on her side of the bed.

  Her gaze skittered across the room to a pair of windows. Faint light seeped in around the edges of the drawn amber velvet curtains, but it was impossible to tell if it was morning or afternoon. She thought she could hear the sea.

&
nbsp; She also spied her travelling trunk in a dark corner beside the armchair. When on earth did that arrive? Her clothes spilled out of the top, as if the contents had been hastily rummaged through—a large shawl of pale, grey cashmere was uppermost in the pile.

  Trying hard not to disturb Lord Rothsburgh, Elizabeth slowly moved toward the edge of the bed, swung her feet over and stood up. The room tipped with a sickening lurch, and she was forced to steady herself against one of the carved walnut bedposts before she took the few steps to her trunk. Never before had she felt so unwell. It was highly disturbing to say the least.

  With shaking hands she pulled her shawl around herself, and sank into the armchair, tucking her cold bare feet up beneath the hem of her nightrail. A brief glance back toward the bed confirmed that Lord Rothsburgh was still asleep. Thank heavens.

  She felt like she could breathe again.

  One thing she needed right now was time—time to gather her wits before she spoke with the marquess about what had happened. And more importantly, what would happen next. How could she even consider working here after waking up in bed with him? She was not fit to play the part of the upright governess when for all intents and purposes it now appeared she was a woman of ill-repute.

  She released a shaky sigh and clasped her arms more tightly about herself, trying to recollect any detail, no matter how small, about her lost hours. She suddenly wondered where all the other servants were. When she had first arrived, it had seemed as if she and Lord Rothsburgh were the sole inhabitants of this vast, lonely place. But then an image of another, older woman with grey hair suddenly materialized in her mind’s eye—she was a servant, Elizabeth was sure of it. She had a vague memory of the woman bathing her brow, holding a glass of water to her lips and assisting her to the privy. Yes—she knew there was a garderobe through the door to the right of the bed and the older woman had helped her to get there.