But clearly it hadn’t just been the older woman who had cared for her…
Elizabeth’s gaze drifted over to the bed again. Lord Rothsburgh was sleeping peacefully—for a moment she’d been worried that he had also been struck down with the ague, but she could see no signs of fever or restlessness. He was lying on his back, one arm tucked behind his head, while the other lay relaxed at his side. She was struck again by how tall the man was—and muscular. She didn’t mean to, but she couldn’t help but compare him to Hugh; her husband was also tall and lean, but in a coltish way, whereas Lord Rothsburgh appeared to be broader and harder; a man who was obviously accustomed to physical exertion. He was certainly not an indolent nobleman.
Her gaze roamed over his wide shoulders, his bulging upper arms that were barely contained by his linen sleeves, and the broad plane of his chest that she now knew from experience, was as unyielding as rock. Her eyes then drifted lower to where his shirt was still rumpled up around his lean hips, and her breath caught in her throat—the man had a rampant erection.
Oh, my Lord. Blushing furiously, she ripped her gaze away from the tented fabric at his groin and glanced at his face; thankfully he was still fast asleep. At least he wouldn’t know she had seen him in such an unguarded state.
Stop looking at him, Elizabeth. But it seemed her eyes wouldn’t obey her. A strange nervous curiosity held her in its grip. Regardless of the danger—the marquess might wake at any moment and catch her out—and the certain knowledge that what she did was wrong, she couldn’t seem to resist the temptation to continue her blatant study.
Despite his body’s obvious physical prowess, and ruggedly handsome looks, Lord Rothsburgh appeared strangely vulnerable in sleep. But when he was awake…Raven-haired and almost olive-skinned, Elizabeth couldn’t decide whether the marquess reminded her more of a gypsy, a pirate or Lucifer himself. She knew already that even a fleeting glance of his brown-black eyes was enough to put her to the blush.
Yes, for all his apparent softness now, Lord Rothsburgh was dangerous indeed. Frowning, she continued to trace over his features, trying to ascertain why just looking at him made her heart beat as wildly as that of a silly young girl. Of course, there were his high slashing cheekbones, his straight blade of a nose, and wide, firmly sculpted mouth. Or perhaps it was the wing of sleep-ruffled black hair that perpetually flopped across his brow, making her fingers itch to push it out of his eyes.
It most certainly couldn’t be the fact that he badly needed a shave. His lean, square jaw was so shadowed with dark stubble, she could only just make out the slight indentation in his chin. She clenched her hands into fists. No, she wouldn’t think about what his smooth jaw would feel like under her fingertips after he’d used a razor.
What on earth was wrong with her? Maybe the fever had addled her brain.
Just at that moment, Lord Rothsburgh began to stir. She started guiltily, and turned her gaze to the fire. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed that he rolled to his side and one of his arms reached toward the side of the bed where she had been.
“Beth…” he murmured sleepily. His use of her Christian name was telling; it implied an intimacy between them that she knew nothing about. How much had he been involved in her care? It was frustrating in the extreme that she couldn’t remember.
His hand ran over the sheets and then he opened his dark eyes. “Beth?” He quickly pushed himself up to a sitting position, looking around the room—for her.
His eyes quickly came to rest upon her and he smiled sleepily. She was surprised that it seemed to be in genuine pleasure. “Beth…I mean, Mrs. Eliott. You’re up. How are you feeling?”
“I’ve been better.” Her voice emerged as a hoarse rasp. It hurt to talk.
Lord Rothsburgh frowned and immediately got up from the bed. She was grateful that his loose shirt now concealed his inopportune arousal, especially when he poured her a glass of water from a jug on the nightstand and brought it over to her.
“Here, drink this, Be—Mrs. Eliott.”
She dutifully took the glass, taking care not to brush her fingers against his, and took a much needed drink. After a few painful sips she paused.
“Razor blade throat?” he asked.
“Very much so,” she croaked.
“You don’t have to talk.” To her surprise, he suddenly reached out and tenderly felt her brow. “At least your fever has broken,” he said with a smile, his gaze wandering over her face.
As if to belie his pronouncement, she felt her whole face flush. She couldn’t bear his close scrutiny and gentle touch. It was a stark reminder that Hugh had never touched her with care or kindness. Her heart was pounding in her chest—surely Lord Rothsburgh must hear it and suspect how affected she was by him. His raw masculine beauty was difficult to deal with even at a distance. This closeness was too much.
To break the moment, she suddenly thrust the glass toward him. “I’ve had enough. Thank you.”
He quirked an eyebrow then to her relief, he moved away to replace the glass on the nightstand. Then he sat on the edge of the bed directly opposite her, a thoughtful expression in his eyes.
He’d said she didn’t need to talk but she had to. She needed to find out exactly what had happened, and perhaps even more importantly, she needed to work out what she would do next.
But first she needed to convey her thankfulness to the marquess for taking her in—before she lost her nerve. She drew in a shaky breath and met his eyes. “I’m at a loss as to what to say, Lord Rothsburgh, other than I’m so sorry to have inconvenienced you—”
He snorted. “What nonsense, Mrs. Eliott. You really don’t need to apologize. It’s not as if you contracted the ague intentionally.”
She frowned. “Nevertheless, my lord, I feel I must apologize for having put you and your staff out at such a difficult time. My arrival on your doorstep was without invitation. That, in and of itself, was presumptuous of me to say the least. And then to force such a burden of care upon you…whatever you say, my lord, I feel compelled to express my gratitude. I am in your debt.”
Lord Rothsburgh inclined his head. “Your thanks is duly noted, Mrs. Eliott. But I must insist there is no indebtedness on your part.”
She nodded. His words were reassuring but she still felt awkward beyond imagining. And flustered. She supposed that being clothed only in a shawl and nightrail in front of a very casually dressed Lord Rothsburgh, wasn’t helping matters. Nevertheless, she needed to broach the next difficult topic on her mind.
Dredging up her courage, she spoke again. “Thank you for your graciousness. However, I must say, my lord, that I am more than a bit troubled by the circumstances which I find myself in.”
He raised a quizzical eyebrow.
She gestured at herself, and then toward him and the rest of the room. “This seems…highly inappropriate…to say the least.”
Lord Rothsburgh shook his head, his wide mouth tilting into a wry smile. He rested his forearms on his thighs and looked up at her. “You’ve been gravely ill, Mrs. Eliott, and you’re worried about propriety?”
She blushed in flustered indignation. “Well, yes…when I woke up…you and I were…I’m sure you know what I mean.”
The marquess’s eyes had grown darker, his gaze more intense as she spoke. “I can assure you that your virtue is intact,” he said with grave sincerity. “I apologize that I…fell asleep on the job so to speak.”
Elizabeth’s cheeks were burning now. “I’m afraid I don’t recall much…”
“I’m not surprised. You’ve been barely conscious for three days.”
“Three days?” She was aghast. She had indeed been ill. Her mind reeled at the implications, and despite the marquess’s assurances to the contrary, she certainly did owe him more than mere gratitude.
Lord Rothsburgh watched her steadily. “I can see you are shocked. And as you have perhaps already surmised, I have taken part in a great deal of your care—out of necessity, not by design I assure you.
Mrs. Roberts, Eilean Tor’s cook, also assisted when she was able. Unfortunately she is still recovering from the ague also. And as all of the other female servants have been similarly indisposed, and are not currently at the castle, I thought it best that I attend you. There really was no one else.”
Elizabeth swallowed and clutched her shawl more tightly about herself. This was far worse than she had thought. A maelstrom of questions whirled around her mind. Had Lord Rothsburgh gotten her out of her wet clothes? How much had he seen of her body? How had he touched her? How many times had she curled up against him in sleep? She glanced toward the garderobe. For heaven’s sake, had he taken her to the privy?
“Oh…that must have been…arduous for you, my lord.”
He clasped his hands together and leant forward, his arms still resting on his long muscular legs. His penetrating gaze locked with hers. “Please forgive me for mentioning it, but I was at Waterloo like your husband, Mrs. Eliott. Nothing really daunts me anymore after surviving that. Caring for you was not onerous at all.” He smiled gently then. “Even helping you to the privy.”
Mortification swept over her in a great wave. She dropped her head, unable to look at Lord Rothsburgh any longer. Hardened soldier or not, he shouldn’t have had to—no, she didn’t want to think about it. There was absolutely no way on earth that she could find employment here now, knowing the marquess had been her nursemaid. She couldn’t endure it.
But where was she to go? What was she to do now?
She raised a shaking hand and pushed her snarled hair away from her face—it felt like a matted bird’s nest. What a sight she must look. Then she realized the marquess had probably seen her in a far worse state over the last few days. She closed her eyes, fighting the unexpected urge to cry.
“Beth, it’s all right.” Lord Rothsburgh’s hand grasped one of hers. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m a complete dolt with words sometimes. I speak too plainly.”
Elizabeth opened her eyes. Lord Rothsburgh was kneeling before her. He was too close to her again, his dark brown eyes regarding her too softly. She was not used to such behavior from a man. She couldn’t bear it. She must go.
She bit her lip hard and swallowed back the tears. “I’m just a bit…overwhelmed. Perhaps you could send Mrs. Roberts to help me when she is able, and then I will prepare to go. I’ve been too much trouble already. Do you know when the next mail-coach comes?”
Lord Rothsburgh scowled. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re not going anywhere. The disease has yet to run its full course. Your fever may have broken, but you will be as weak as a kitten for many more days to come. And then the cough will set in. It will be another week or so before you are up to even getting dressed.” His expression then softened. “But I will send Mrs. Roberts to you later this morning, and arrange for a bath to be sent up if you’d like.”
She nodded. “Yes, I would like that.” She dropped her gaze to her lap where Lord Rothsburgh still held her right hand. His long tanned fingers completely covered her own pale ones, concealing her wedding ring. She felt small, frail and, oh, so weak in more ways than she cared to admit.
She determined that the sooner she recovered and found herself another position the better.
It seemed she had been doomed to fail at Eilean Tor before she’d even started.
* * * *
Rothsburgh strode away from the guest room, cursing himself with every expletive he knew for being such a tactless blockhead. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern ran at his heels. At least they didn’t mind foul language. He smiled ruefully as he entered the library. His dogs were about the only company he was fit to keep.
He made straight for the sideboard and poured himself a double whisky, before pacing to one of the bay windows that overlooked the North Sea to watch the sun rise. He couldn’t believe he had managed to shock, wound and embarrass Beth so badly in such a short space of time.
Waking up in her bed with a rampant erection had been the first of his blunders. He prayed that she hadn’t noticed. But he was certain that she had.
He grimaced and took a decent sip of the whisky hoping to dispel his own acute embarrassment. Christ, he hoped he hadn’t reached for her in his sleep. She must think him the worst kind of lascivious beast. In fact, he was surprised she hadn’t screamed blue murder and struck him over the head with the poker, just for finding him in her bed. It was probably no less than he deserved though, given that for once he hadn’t been dreaming of hand to hand combat on the battlefield, but of action of an entirely different kind—with Beth. God help him, his cock was already starting to twitch again at the memory.
Of course, his second mistake had been to reveal how much of her care he had administered. He should have realized that she would not react well to the idea of a man—a complete stranger—caring for her in such a personal way. But let the devil take him, what else could he have done given the circumstances?
He had anticipated that she would have periods of memory loss. Over the last three days and nights she’d done little more than toss and turn in a perpetual state of feverish sleep. There had been one or two times, however, when Beth had seemed partially aware of her surroundings. He’d obviously been wrong. When he’d told her that he’d been her main caregiver, she’d reacted with genuine shock, as if she hadn’t any recollection of the last few days at all.
And then he’d gone and mentioned the bloody war. He’d only meant to reassure her that caring for her had not been testing or burdensome. Instead, all he’d done was completely humiliate her and tactlessly remind her of her husband’s death, in one fell swoop.
He tossed back the whisky and then poured himself another. He’d had too many breakfasts like this. But then what did it matter, if he drank too much or at inappropriate times, when there was no one to naysay him, when no one cared?
Turning from the window, he threw himself into one of the leather wing chairs, and the hounds settled at his feet. He stared into the dead embers in the grate—he’d often feared his soul was just as cold and dark. Until Beth had crossed his doorstep. Somehow she had reignited his long dormant soul and had set his heart beating again. He might be physically exhausted right now, but he also felt more alive, more energized than he could recall feeling for the longest time.
He must be mad; he barely knew the woman. The baser, masculine side of him liked to think that it was pure sexual attraction that had set him afire. Beth was beautiful—despite the disheveled state in which she had arrived and her illness ravaged state now, he thought she was one of the loveliest women he’d ever laid eyes on. He hated to think how overcome he’d be when she was well and looking her best.
If he was honest with himself, he should also acknowledge that it was more than her looks that attracted him, little that he knew of her. He sensed spirit and a keen intelligence…and honor. Her adherence to the convention of wearing the staid garments associated with deep mourning, as well as her wedding ring, suggested she wished to pay due respect to her husband’s memory. She possessed qualities he found both admirable and…refreshing.
This morning he’d also learned that she obviously valued her virtue, given her shocked reaction at finding him in her bed. But then, he had also sensed a reluctant attraction to him if her shy sideways glances and her blushes were anything to go by. Perhaps she wasn’t completely immune to him.
He sighed heavily. Not that it mattered. He really shouldn’t be harboring any sort of interest in the woman, sexual or otherwise. Corrupting chaste widows was not his usual style. His mouth twisted into a mirthless smile as he leant his head back against the headrest of the chair. Tumbling ready and willing courtesans was more to his taste. But even though he was a hardened reprobate to the very core, his own transgressions paled into insignificance when he compared them to the sins of his wife.
Isabelle.
He took another slug of whisky, trying to deaden the old pain. It had faded with time but invariably came back at unexpected moments like this, to stab him anew. Ironic t
hat the pain of betrayal still hurt him more than the battle wounds—both physical and emotional—that he’d sustained at Waterloo. And to his shame, even the actual death of the woman herself.
But then, how could he be expected to mourn the death of a woman—a woman he had once loved beyond all reason—when she had turned out to be utterly faithless? When, with malice of forethought, she had brazenly tried to pass another man’s bastard off as his own child within the first year of their marriage?
Of course, when he was newly wedded and in the first mad throes of love, he’d never envisaged that things would turn out so disastrously.
Lady Isabelle March had been as dazzling as any of the stars in heaven’s firmament when he’d first met her during her second Season in London six years ago. Black-haired and gentian eyed, she’d had a sparkling wit and beauty beyond compare. She was always dressed in the height of fashion, rode like an Amazon through Hyde Park, and her dance card was always full. She also had an impeccable lineage—her father, the Earl of Granthorpe, was extremely well off, and her maternal grandfather was a Duke. She seemed to be a diamond of the first water. And after he’d first seen her, he’d been determined to win her.
Who’d have thought that she’d be as wild as a gypsy and completely lacking in principles?
He’d heard the whispered warnings; that despite her apparent suitability as a prospective partner for any male in the upper echelons of society, she was also rumored to be fickle with her attentions. Hence the lack of an engagement by the end of her debut Season.
Stupidly, blindly, he’d ignored all the speculation and gossip; he hadn’t cared. The worldly, rakish, Marquess of Rothsburgh had been well and truly besotted by the incomparable Lady Isabelle. But he’d been nothing more than Isabelle’s cuckold.
It had taken him a long time to crawl out of the black void of despair and disillusionment that Isabelle had flung him into. He’d learned to exist as man who was really only half-alive and up until three days ago he had been relatively content to carry on that way. But now…perhaps Mrs. Beth Eliott had revived his long dead heart.
Lady Beauchamp's Proposal Page 6