“Her ladyship wasna interested in gardens, even when she was here,” the cook had informed Elizabeth with a shake of her head when they had first discussed the plan a week ago. “An’ Lord Rothsburgh…Weel, he was often away with his Highland Regiment, or attending to the rest of the estate’s matters. I didna like to bother him with somethin’ as trivial as weeding an’ such.”
A gnarled rosemary bush was about the only useful plant that had managed to live on in the garden. As Todd carefully dug around its roots and jiggled the branches, the breeze carried the pungent scent of its leaves toward her. She inhaled deeply, and was suddenly reminded of another strong, spicy scent. The heady scent of a man—Lord Rothsburgh.
She closed her eyes, and willed herself to banish the unbidden image of him lying asleep and aroused in her bed from her thoughts. Although she had been trying to ruthlessly bury her misplaced regard and wanton attraction for the marquess during his absence, it seemed she was fighting a losing battle. When she least expected it, wild, libidinous and altogether shameful imaginings entered her mind. She had never experienced such feelings or thoughts before. She felt unsettled and strangely needy—like a vixen on heat.
Lord Rothsburgh has offered you this post out of pity, nothing more, she sternly reminded herself. She needed to remember that, just as much as the fact that she was a married woman.
“Och, I do believe his lordship has come home,” announced Roberts, startling her out of her tumultuous reverie. “It’s a good thing the tide’s out. If ye dinna mind, Mrs. Eliott, I will leave ye, to attend to Lord Rothsburgh.”
Elizabeth whirled around and looked toward the causeway. Sure enough, a fine black coach pulled by two pairs of fine greys, barreled along the road toward Eilean Tor. At the pace they were setting, the marquess would be here within a few minutes. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern were already bounding up the hill toward the castle’s courtyard.
“Of course, Roberts,” she replied. “Todd and I will get on quite nicely.” She was amazed her voice sounded quite normal even though her heart had kicked into an unsteady gallop.
Don’t worry, Elizabeth. Lord Rothsburgh’s sure to have more pressing matters to attend to than inspecting his garden. Or seeing you.
Unless of course he had been able to find another governess’s position for her. But it would be useless to speculate further. No doubt she would find out about any such possibilities when the marquess was good and ready to see her. Until then, it was best if she kept herself busy.
She took a deep breath and turned back to watch Todd finish releasing the rosemary bush from its bed of long-spent soil. Tomorrow, after the footman had replanted it, she would prune back its straggling branches. Perhaps Mrs. Roberts could dry the off-cuts in the kitchen, and use the leaves in her casseroles. And Elizabeth could always infuse a little oil with some of the leaves to run through the ends of her hair when they became dry—
“Mrs. Eliott. It’s wonderful to see you up and about.” Lord Rothsburgh’s rich baritone carried easily to her on the sea breeze.
Elizabeth planted what she hoped was a pleasantly neutral smile on her face, and turned around. And her breath caught in her throat.
Her memories of the marquess didn’t do the man justice at all. Now, as he strode toward her up the slope, she realized she’d underestimated how tall and powerfully built he was. How devilishly handsome. He made her ache in ways she shouldn’t.
And then before she could draw another breath, he was standing before her, while she was struck dumb like a silly debutante on her first foray into society. She dropped a quick curtsy while from somewhere behind her, she heard Todd greet his master.
The marquess acknowledged the footman before he turned his gaze back to her. He was but an arm’s length away, dressed in snug-fitting, ivory colored breeches that clung to the long lean muscles of his thighs, shiny Hussar boots, and a well-cut morning coat of black kerseymere. The wind picked up the black wing of hair that perpetually flopped over his brow; however, she noticed that he’d had the back and sides cropped into a fashionable cut.
His dark gaze roamed over her face. As she was facing into the sun, her black straw bonnet afforded her no protection from his keen scrutiny. To her consternation, she felt herself blushing.
“Roberts was right,” he said softly as his mouth tipped into a smile. “You look very well, Mrs. Eliott. You have color in your cheeks.”
“Thank you, my lord. I am much recovered, thanks to you and Mr. and Mrs. Roberts.” She glanced away, frustrated with her inopportune physical reactions. She didn’t want to make a fool of herself. “I trust your visit to Edinburgh was…rewarding.”
“Yes…and no.” The marquess moved slightly so that he was in her line of vision again. His large frame now shielded her eyes from the sun. “My daughter and my sister, Lady Maxwell, are well, as are the rest of my sister’s family.” He paused, his eyes seeking hers again before he spoke. “However, I’m afraid my sister isn’t aware of any other vacant governess’s positions at the moment. Of course, she will keep her ears and eyes open for any hint of an opportunity. But until then…” He gave her a crooked smile, and shrugged a broad shoulder. “Well, I suppose you will just have to make do with us all at Eilean Tor.”
He turned back toward the garden and placed a booted foot upon the stones of a nearby raised border, watching Todd as the lad turned over the soil in the bed intended for the root vegetables. “Roberts told me you were rejuvenating the garden.”
She couldn’t see his face anymore, but his expression sounded equable enough. “Yes...I hope you don’t mind, my lord. Mrs. Roberts already had the seeds on hand, so it hasn’t made any difference to the household budget. And hopefully there will be a yield of some of the vegetables and herbs before the heavy frosts set in…I’d be happy to go through the plans with you, whenever you’d like. That is, if you’re interested…” She almost bit her tongue to make herself stop babbling. She hated being inarticulate, awkward beyond measure. She slid a glance the marquess’s way and found he had turned back toward her. And he was smiling broadly.
He might be laughing at her, but at least he wasn’t displeased with what she’d done. “I’d be very interested to see your plans,” he said, taking a step closer. “Tell me, is gardening something you enjoy? I feel I know very little about you—aside from what your reference states. I would like to know more.”
“Yes…I do…enjoy gardening that is.” She paused. Was he fishing for details of her life before she came here? But what could she say? She didn’t want to make up false stories. But in talking about herself, she might accidently betray some detail about who she really was. Oh, she was walking on thin ice indeed.
Lord Rothsburgh was watching her, waiting for her to say something more. She summoned a slight smile that she hoped looked self-deprecating rather than nervous. “As for anything else about me…Well, I suppose there’s not much to tell that would be of any interest.”
Lord Rothsburgh took another step closer—he was almost certainly too close now. She was suddenly all too aware of his decidedly masculine, spicy scent, and she noticed a hint of dark stubble along his jaw line that he must have missed when shaving.
His dark eyes fixed on hers. “Hmm. I beg to differ, Mrs. Eliott. I think you are very interesting indeed.”
Her cheeks flamed with a hot blush, and she dipped her head so her bonnet shielded her face a little. Was Lord Rothsburgh flirting with her? No, he couldn’t be. Hugh’s voice suddenly sounded in her head. You may be pretty, my dear wife, but you really are far too dull for words.
Why would the rakish Lord Rothsburgh think any differently? He was obviously teasing her again for sport. It was hardly fair. Frustration and embarrassment rose swiftly. Even though it was unladylike to do so, she bit her lip to stop herself accusing him of toying with her again. She must remember that housekeepers didn’t argue with their employers.
Struggling to find something else to say, she lifted her gaze to Lord Rothsburgh’s fac
e again. But he didn’t seem to notice the heated expression in her eyes. His gaze was completely focused on her mouth. He swayed toward her, and she sucked in a startled breath.
And then he paused.
Frowned and took a step back.
“Mrs. Eliott. Forgive me…” He ran a hand down his face, and then glanced toward Todd who was still busily tilling the soil. “I must go...An appointment in Blackhaven with my solicitor and steward.”
As Lord Rothsburgh strode away from her, Elizabeth realized how truly immoral she was. Five minutes in his company and lust coursed through her veins, throbbed low in her belly. It didn’t matter that he had teased her. Or that she might be as dull as Hugh had always proclaimed. Or that she was married.
In the moment Lord Rothsburgh had looked at her as if he was about to kiss her, she had realized the awful truth about herself—she had wanted him to.
* * * *
His sister was wrong. He was no saint. He was a sinner to the depths of his dark soul. Why else would he attempt to seduce Beth in broad daylight in front of one of his footmen?
Rothsburgh set a fast pace as he stalked back to the castle, determined to put as much distance between him and Beth as possible. He had only been back a few minutes, and it seemed he couldn’t control himself in her presence. Deliberately flirting with her was bad enough—he knew she disliked it when he teased her—but to actually go so far as attempting to kiss her?
She was his housekeeper for God’s sake.
The most beautiful housekeeper in Christendom.
Now that he’d seen her again, he suddenly realized what a waste it was for someone like her to be worrying about gardens, and menus, and linen inventories, or whatever the hell else it was that housekeepers occupied their time with. He should never have made her the foolish offer. He couldn’t abide it. She was too beautiful, too refined and clever. Not for the first time he wondered about her life before she came here. Her husband, whoever he had been, had certainly been one lucky bastard. It was time he faced the truth—he wanted her—more than he’d wanted any other woman before in his life. One look at her beautiful face in the clear light of day, and he had been overcome with a longing so strong it hurt. Ten days away from her had obviously done nothing to quell his physical desire. Nor his yearning for her smile, and the simple pleasure of her company. He hadn’t lied when he’d told her he wanted to learn more about her. He wanted to know everything about her.
He passed Roberts in the Great Hall, and ordered for his horse to be saddled before he raced to his room. He needed to get away from Eilean Tor before the tide came back in. Before he did something stupid like returning to the walled garden, dismissing Todd and ravishing Beth on the hillside until he lost himself in her, and she called out his name in ecstasy.
What the hell was he going to do? Christ, he was a mess.
When had this itch he needed to scratch become a full-blown, mad fever?
Once in his room, he resisted the urge to down a whisky or two, and instead, began to change into his riding clothes. A good hard ride cross-country should help ease his rampant lust to some extent.
But it would only be a temporary respite. How was he going to deal with his urges tonight, and all the other nights when he sat alone in his library with only his dogs and a bottle of whisky for company? Or when he woke in the night shuddering with frustrated need as he spilled himself upon the sheets like an adolescent boy?
He tugged off his boots, and changed into buckskin breeches, steadfastly buttoning the placket over his half-aroused cock. He couldn’t go on like this. He should have secured another mistress whilst he was in Edinburgh. But he just hadn’t been able to summon the interest.
Ignoring the urge to examine the reason why that might be the case, he roughly pulled on his boots again, and then changed into a dark brown riding coat. As he loosened and retied his constrictive cravat into a less elaborate knot, he realized that perhaps his problem—his obsession with Beth—was largely due to the fact that he hadn’t been with a woman since well before Waterloo. In fact, he’d farewelled his last mistress in London some eight months ago, and he hadn’t had sex since.
Yes, that was what his problem was, the main source of his overwhelming frustration. It was that simple. He’d been too long without a woman. He wasn’t falling in love with Beth. He was just randy as hell.
Crop in hand, he flung open his bedroom door then charged down the stairs, his dogs at his heels.
There was nothing else for it. He had to have Beth as his mistress.
Perhaps when he’d had his fill of her, the raging need inside him would be appeased. There would be sexual gratification—yes. Affection—most probably. But love? No, he wouldn’t fall in love. He’d already learned an invaluable lesson long ago. Love was for fools.
Once he’d mounted his horse and exited the castle courtyard, he couldn’t ignore the impulse to glance back at the small isolated figure in black on the slope to the south of the keep. His mouth twisted into a ruthless smile. He didn’t care that Isabelle was barely cold in her grave, just as he didn’t care that Beth was still a widow in deep mourning.
Both hell and heaven be damned, he was going to seduce the chaste Mrs. Eliott.
Oh, he was a sinner indeed.
* * * *
“Lord Rothsburgh wants me to dine with him?” Elizabeth couldn’t hide the note of incredulous shock from her voice as she stared at Mrs. Roberts who was putting the final touches to the marquess’s first course of cream of oyster soup. It was about an hour until the staffs’ dinner service, and she had come down to the kitchen to see if Mrs. Roberts required any additional assistance.
Mrs. Roberts shrugged, clearly unfazed by her master’s bizarre request. “Aye, Mrs. Eliott. He rang fer Mr. Roberts but a short time ago, an’ asked tha’ we pass on the message to you. His lordship says ye are to meet wi’ him at seven sharp in the dining room.”
“But...I don’t understand. It seems highly unusual.” What on earth would the rest of the staff think? Elizabeth doubted Mrs. Barrie had ever dined with the marquess.
They will think that you are his mistress…
She suddenly recalled how Lord Rothsburgh had looked this morning when it seemed he had been about to kiss her. She had tried all day to convince herself that she had been mistaken. Now, she wasn’t so sure. His invitation—nay order—to join him for dinner was suspicious to say the least.
Her hands curled into fists. This wouldn’t do. No, not all. Given that she now recognized her own hopeless attraction to the marquess, she feared that if he pressed her, she would succumb to temptation. She really shouldn’t spend time alone with him.
But how could she refuse her employer?
The cook carefully ladled the soup into a silver tureen. “His lordship has a certain way aboot him, I’ll give ye tha’, Mrs. Eliott. But there’s no naysayin’ him. Once he’s made his mind up aboot somethin’, there’s verra little ye can do to change it. It’s best if ye just go along wi’ whatever he says, if ye ken wha’ I mean.”
Elizabeth’s face grew hot. It sounded as if Mrs. Roberts knew exactly what Lord Rothsburgh had in mind. Even more astonishing was the fact she seemed quite fatalistic about it. It suddenly occurred to her that it really didn’t matter if anything did or didn’t happen between her and the marquess. The staff would assume the worst about her—that she was his bit on the side. The problem was, this newly awakened wanton creature within her almost wished she was.
Mrs. Roberts placed the lid on the tureen, and then glanced over at her. Her grey-green eyes held a compassionate light. “Och, Mrs. Eliott. He willna bite, I swear it. He is probably just a wee bit lonely, that’s all. We Highland folk are a no’ as stuffy as most Sassenachs, so I wouldna fash yerself. If I were you, I’d just enjoy yer dinner. It’ll be a whole lot better than the mutton stew we are goin’ to have.”
Elizabeth offered a weak smile. Mrs. Roberts was obviously more perceptive than she had realized. And surprisingly nonjudgme
ntal—at least where Lord Rothsburgh was concerned.
“Your cooking is wonderful, Mrs. Roberts,” she offered. “I am sure I will enjoy every mouthful.”
After excusing herself from the kitchen—it was already a quarter to seven—Elizabeth returned to her room to make a hasty change for dinner. Whatever Lord Rothsburgh’s intentions, she couldn’t very well present herself in the same widow’s weeds she’d worn when she had been grubbing about in the walled garden earlier today. There was little to choose from in her wardrobe. In the end, she chose the only gown that seemed appropriate to wear to dinner with a marquess—a simple sheath of midnight blue silk with a matching chiffon fichu that she tucked into the sweeping neckline to provide a modicum of modesty.
Hurriedly smoothing her hair into a neater chignon, she eyed her reflection fiercely.
Thou shalt not commit adultery, Lady Beauchamp.
Remember you are the wife of the Earl of Beauchamp—no matter your husband’s own transgressions.
Satisfied that she had at last gained a tight control on her desire, if not her nerves, she quit her bedchamber and made her way to the dining room. She had no difficulty locating it as Roberts had given her a brief tour of Eilean Tor’s main living quarters the day before. She already knew it was another spacious apartment with a high-vaulted ceiling and wide windows that afforded magnificent sea views, just like the library.
When she entered, it was to find Lord Rothsburgh leaning against the grey and green-veined marble fireplace near the head of the vast mahogany dining table. He stared so intently into the leaping flames he did not seem to notice her at first.
How alone he seemed. Perhaps Mrs. Roberts was right—he had invited her to dine with him simply because he desired a little company. He was such a vital, charismatic man. She wondered why he hadn’t stayed in Edinburgh for longer. Surely there would be more in that bustling city that would arouse his interest. But then, he did have a well-known reputation for being reclusive. Perhaps this was just his way.
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