Steeling herself to remain quietly confident yet amiable, she lifted her chin and took a few more steps into the room. On seeing her, Lord Rothsburgh immediately straightened and ran his dark gaze over her in obvious appreciation. “Good evening, Mrs. Eliott,” he said as he bowed gracefully and quite unnecessarily. “Thank you for joining me. I must say the sunshine and sea air must agree with you. You are looking quite splendid this evening.”
She curtsied. “Thank you, my lord.”
Lord Rothsburgh looked more than splendid himself she decided. He was dressed in the height of fashionable eveningwear—a black superfine evening jacket of superb cut was worn over a cream satin vest and ivory silk shirt; his cravat was arranged in such an elaborate style, even Hugh would have been envious.
Resisting the highly inappropriate desire to let her gaze wander lower to his tightly fitting breeches, she kept her eyes locked on his, and took a few steps closer. “I must admit, however, that I am more than a bit surprised by your very generous invitation to dine with you,” she added. “You are most kind.” If she could maintain a formal, business-like manner during dinner, she might yet survive the evening with her dignity and honor intact.
Lord Rothburgh’s mouth lifted into a slight smile. “Thank you. Although I must confess that it was not kindness that motivated me to extend the invitation—” He broke off and looked beyond her toward the door. “Ah, Roberts. Prompt as always.”
So what had motivated his invitation? She supposed she would find out in due course, but now was obviously not the time to pursue that particular topic. Lord Rothsburgh held out a mahogany Hepplewhite chair for her before he took his own seat to her left, at the head of the table. The silence extended as Roberts and the young Mr. Todd proceeded to serve the soup course and what looked to be an excellent French Chablis. Despite the appealing smell of the soup, Elizabeth really didn’t think she could eat at all.
Out of the corner of her eye, she was conscious of the marquess’s quiet study of her and she tried not to blush. She instead tried to concentrate on the exquisitely detailed tapestry that hung on the wall between the windows curtained in sage green velvet, directly opposite her. It depicted a very scantily clad Salome dancing with licentious abandon before Herod as his court looked on. To her annoyance, Lord Rothsburgh was smiling quite broadly now.
Despite her resolve not to blush, she found herself doing just that. “The tapestry. Is it Flemish?” she asked trying to deflect his attention away from her.
“You have a good eye, Mrs. Eliott. Yes, it is.”
“It’s…quite arresting.” She really couldn’t think of anything else to say.
Lord Rothsburgh’s gaze remained on her. “Yes. I quite agree.”
Oh my. Elizabeth’s pulse began to skitter about, and her cheeks flamed even more. She was certain he wasn’t referring to the tapestry. Her poise slipped even further when she noticed that both Roberts and Todd had quit the room—a most unusual situation, undoubtedly engineered by their master.
She suddenly felt like she was alone with a dangerously hungry lion in his den. Mrs. Roberts had assured her the marquess wouldn’t bite. But by the way he was looking at her right now, she really wasn’t convinced that he wouldn’t.
Lord Rothsburgh raised his glass in a toast and she reluctantly did the same. His dark eyes sought hers. “To new beginnings, Mrs. Eliott.”
“Yes. To new beginnings, my lord.” She was amazed her voice hadn’t trembled. She dropped her gaze and took a tiny sip of the Chablis. She mustn’t have too much. She needed to keep her wits about her.
“I hear you selected the menu for this evening,” Lord Rothsburgh remarked, picking up his silver soup spoon. “You really have the most excellent taste.”
“Thank you.” Elizabeth followed his lead and picked up her own spoon, but hesitated before dipping it in her bowl. “I would have checked with you personally if the menu was to your liking. However, Roberts informed me that you were spending most of the day in Blackhaven. I must admit that I am still finding my way in this new role. Perhaps, when it is convenient, I could discuss my duties with you in further detail. I really don’t wish to disappoint.”
Lord Rothsburgh frowned. “I seriously doubt you will disappoint me. But if it makes you feel any better, we shall indeed discuss my expectations of you tomorrow. And I shall also give you the grand tour that I promised.” He then gestured impatiently toward her soup bowl. “Now I suggest you eat before your soup gets cold. It really is quite delicious.”
Elizabeth nodded and proceeded to taste the creamy, rich and slightly salty soup. He was right; it was indeed delicious. She suddenly found she had quite an appetite and despite her previous nervousness, she found she was able to finish the entire bowl.
She began to relax a little when she realized that the marquess really didn’t seem to be about to launch himself across the table at her, but rather, he was a most entertaining and convivial host. She found he was quite happy to talk about quite innocuous, but nevertheless interesting topics such as his recent trip to Edinburgh, as well as the fascinating history of his family and his clan, Clan Huntly—a branch of the much larger Gordon Clan.
She was also quietly relieved that he didn’t seem to want to pursue the topic of her own situation and background, given this morning he had seemed intent on discovering more about her. She had actually rehearsed what she would say in case he had thought to probe further, but for the moment, he seemed quite content to regale her with his own stories and amusing anecdotes.
The fish course—a delicate smoked trout mousse—followed by the main course of roast pheasant accompanied by a juniper and port wine sauce, and roast root vegetables, were delivered at appropriate intervals, and served discreetly by Roberts and Todd. Lord Rothsburgh again proclaimed how inspired the menu was, and insisted she try a full-bodied claret with the pheasant.
“What do you think?” he asked, eyeing her intently over the rim of his glass.
She took a sip and closed her eyes, savoring the rich berry flavors, and dry yet silky smooth finish. Although she didn’t drink wine or any other type of alcohol on a regular basis, she occasionally permitted herself a glass of fine red wine. And this was indeed fine. She opened her eyes and smiled at the marquess. “Very smooth with a hint of oak at the end, my lord. I think you have chosen well.”
“Hmm. You seem to have quite a palate.” Lord Rothsburgh’s eyes had a speculative look in them, and with dawning horror, she realized she had been duped into revealing too much about herself. He was suspicious of her background.
How utterly, utterly stupid of me to have said such a thing. How would a lowly governess or housekeeper know anything at all about the qualities of wine?
She took another quick sip, seeking to arm herself with a plausible explanation for her singular knowledge, all the while conscious that Lord Rothsburgh watched her closely. “My husband, George Eliott, was an officer…a lieutenant in fact, with the 28th Foot Regiment from Gloucestershire.” She had decided to mention Hugh’s regiment as it was the one she was most familiar with. She drew in a shaky breath and continued with the lie. “He…he quite enjoyed a good red wine on occasion. Claret was his particular favorite.”
She hoped her apparent discomposure would be interpreted by the marquess as a reluctance to talk about her supposedly deceased husband, rather than the fact she was in over her head in this dangerous game of subterfuge she was playing.
Lord Rothsburgh stroked the stem of his wine glass, drawing attention to his long, well-shaped fingers. “Ah, I see. I suspected as much.” He then threw her an almost apologetic smile. “I know it must pain you to talk of such things, but…well I must confess I find you quite an enigma. As I said this morning, you are indeed fascinating.”
He smiled again and she saw the lion stir. He had been lying in wait the whole time, waiting for his chance to draw her out, to trick her into revealing things about herself that she didn’t want to. He was far too clever.
He
picked up his fork and knife. “Come, let us eat this fine fare before it too grows cold.” Cutting off a sizeable piece of breast, he then forked it into his mouth with relish. Unlike herself, he clearly still had an appetite.
Elizabeth forced herself to take a bite then swallow a small piece of the pheasant. But her mind buzzed with so many anxious thoughts, she couldn’t stomach any more. She suspected that Lord Rothsburgh had been a much higher-ranking officer with one of the Highland regiments—perhaps the 92nd Gordon Highlanders. He couldn’t possibly have known all of the subaltern officers that had served in Wellington’s army; so he wouldn’t know Lieutenant Eliott didn’t really exist.
Slightly reassured that her fictitious self would continue to stand up to any further scrutiny, she relaxed enough to continue eating. Until Lord Rothsburgh spoke again.
“The Gloucestershire Regiment. I do believe your benefactress’s husband, Lord Beauchamp served with them.”
Elizabeth almost choked on her mouthful of pheasant. She hastily took an unlady-like swig of her claret to clear her throat. How did he know so much about Hugh when she had never even heard of the Marquess of Rothsburgh until a month ago? Again she scanned her mind for any memories of having encountered the marquess before she had come here, but she could find none.
She decided to risk making her own observation. “Really? I did not realize that.” She kept her gaze fixed on her plate as with apparent nonchalance, she neatly sliced through a portion of roasted parsnip. “You do not appear to think much of Lord and Lady Beauchamp, my lord. I am still quite amazed that you wanted to employ me given that my reference obviously meant very little to you.”
Her barb struck home. Lord Rothsburgh grimaced and he looked decidedly uncomfortable.
It served him right.
“Perhaps I was too hasty passing judgment on Lady Beauchamp,” he said casting a glance her way. “It is true I do not think well of her husband, but as for her…Well, I must confess I have never met the poor woman.”
He suddenly put down his knife, and placed his large warm hand over hers. Startled, Elizabeth dropped her fork. Despite her earlier resolve not to react to Lord Rothsburgh in any way, her skin seemed to burn beneath his touch, and her heart began to race.
“Mrs. Eliott—Beth—I was wrong to say such things about your reference.” There was an earnest, almost urgent edge to the marquess’s voice. “I do truly believe you possess all of the skills and attributes so carefully detailed by Lady Beauchamp. And more. Please forgive me.”
Elizabeth slid him a glance. Then found her gaze was locked with his. The expression in his dark eyes was intense. She believed him to be sincere.
Unable to summon her voice, she nodded once to acknowledge her acceptance of his apology; she was not used to such focused interest from a man. And he’d called her Beth again. Perhaps that explained why her pulse still fluttered wildly—surely he must feel it.
But he seemed satisfied with her simple response. His wide mouth curved into a smile. “Good.” He released her hand then relaxed back in his chair, his gaze lingering on her face. “So, Lady Beauchamp states that you are quite accomplished on the pianoforte. I should very much like to hear you play after dinner…If you would be so gracious.”
“Yes, of course.” She placed her cutlery neatly upon her plate, and glanced about the room. There was no pianoforte here. Indeed, during her brief exploration of Eilean Tor, she had not come across a pianoforte at all.
Lord Rothsburgh smiled and cocked an eyebrow. “There is a piano in the drawing room adjacent to here.” He inclined his head toward a set of oak-paneled double doors on the far side of the room. “Would you like to see it?”
Elizabeth smiled with genuine pleasure. “Yes, I would indeed, my lord.”
He suddenly stood and seized the silver candelabra off the table in front of them. “Come then, Mrs. Eliott.” He offered her his arm. “Let me escort you through. Your instrument awaits.”
Bemused and at the same time disconcerted by the marquess’s impulsive invitation, Elizabeth rose from her seat, and placed her hand on his muscular forearm. She loved to play the pianoforte—and was in fact quite good at it. Nevertheless, she suddenly felt an unaccountable surge of nerves as Lord Rothsburgh led her toward the drawing room. Placing the candelabra on a nearby table, he paused to unlatch the door. He then tucked her hand more firmly into the crook of his arm; it was almost as if he was still making sure that she wouldn’t try to escape.
“You’ll have to excuse the state of the room I’m afraid,” he said softly as he retrieved the candles. “It hasn’t been used in a while. I prefer my library.”
Stepping into the room, Elizabeth could immediately see what the marquess meant. Every piece of furniture was shrouded in dustsheets like so many misshapen ghosts. The weak flickering light of the candles imbued the room with an eerie, other-worldly glow. She shivered.
Lord Rothsburgh must have felt the tremor of her hand. “I’m sorry there’s no fire and it’s so cold in here. Do you think you will be able to play by the light of the candles alone?”
She nodded. “Yes. The lighting, or lack thereof, won’t be a problem.” She knew she could play her favorite pieces with her eyes closed.
“Excellent.” He steered her toward one of the larger covered shapes, and after passing the candelabra to her, he pulled off the cloth with a flourish.
She gasped. A beautiful mahogany pianoforte was revealed. It was not just an upright version like her own instrument at Harcourt House, but a sizeable grand style pianoforte with an inlaid parquetry design of leaves, fruit and flowers in paler shades of wood all over the lid. It was exquisite. “What a divine instrument.” She ran one of her hands across the smooth, gleaming wood before she tested one of the ivory keys. A note rang out, pure and clear. “Do you play, my lord?”
He grinned back at her. “Only very badly.” He pulled out the velvet-covered stool for her to sit upon. “It was tuned less than a year ago. Annabelle was learning to play. But I’m afraid she really didn’t have the patience for it.”
He then took the candelabra from her and placed it on top of the pianoforte before he leaned against the instrument’s side, his eyes alight with expectation. “Play away, Mrs. Eliott. I’m dying to hear a good tune.”
She sat as gracefully as she could, aware of his gaze on her. She prayed that she wouldn’t disappoint. She closed her eyes and took a moment to decide what to play. A nocturne. That would do.
She reached forward and carefully placed her fingers on the keyboard, feeling for the notes she needed. And then began to play—the cold dark room was suddenly filled with the hauntingly beautiful music that she loved so well. The melody rippled over her and through her like a gentle wave, transporting her away to another sphere of existence, to a place where she was at peace. As the last notes faded away, she sighed then opened her eyes to find Lord Rothsburgh staring at her in open-mouthed awe.
“Beth…I mean, Mrs. Eliott…That was utterly beautiful. I have never heard a John Field nocturne played with such…finesse. You have a remarkable gift.” He seized one of her hands and raised it to his firm, sculptured lips before glancing a light kiss across her fingers. It was the courtly kiss of a gentleman, yet…why did a shaft of heat shoot from her fingertips straight to her lower belly?
She knew exactly why.
She just didn’t want to—nay, she mustn’t pay heed to it.
But her discomposure wasn’t eased at all when Lord Rothsburgh then raised his dark head to seek her gaze. “Thank you. I am honored that you played for me.” His deep voice was like a soft caress in the darkness.
Elizabeth blushed deeply, hoping that it wouldn’t show in the uncertain light. She was used to compliments about her playing. But not like this. His admiration—or was it some other emotion?—gleamed in the deep brown, almost black depths of his eyes. Why didn’t he let go of her hand? She couldn’t bear it. He was as tempting as the Prince of Darkness himself.
“Thank you. I
t was my pleasure.” Her voice was husky, and so unlike her own, she almost didn’t recognize it.
His mouth curved into a slow smile. “No, the pleasure was all mine, Mrs. Eliott.”
Oh no, oh no, oh no.
No, Elizabeth. You must not think of pleasure. Of any kind. Ever.
* * * *
The pleasure was all mine, Mrs. Eliott.
Damn. He had pressed her too far.
As soon as he had uttered the words, he’d seen panic flare in the soft grey of Beth’s beautiful eyes. And as much as he wanted to drag her up into his arms and kiss her senseless right at this moment, he knew it was too soon. He needed to tread slowly, carefully, lest he frighten her off completely.
The sudden clatter of china and silverware being moved about in the next room broke the tense intimacy between them. Roberts and Todd were back, clearing the remnants of their main course away before serving the pudding course no doubt. He was not in the least bit hungry for food, however. He hungered only for Beth.
Beth had heard the servants as well. She glanced nervously toward the dining room door and with reluctance, he let go of her hand. He knew he had already pushed well past the boundaries of what was considered acceptable behavior between a master and his housekeeper, but he knew his staff would be discreet.
They always had been, even when Isabelle had been at her worst.
But Beth wouldn’t know that.
He picked up the candelabra and gestured toward the open door, smiling with what he hoped was mere politeness. “I believe pudding is served. I wonder what gastronomic delight you have in store for me this time.”
Aside from Beth’s positively brilliant skills as a pianist, her impeccable knowledge of food and wine was yet something else about her that astounded him. He had managed to draw out of her that her husband had been a lieutenant—the second lowest ranked officer in the British military—so he supposed she had attended her fair share of military formal dinners. That might explain why she knew how to plan a perfectly balanced meal.
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