Lady Beauchamp's Proposal

by Secret Cravings Publishing

  Still, her refined air, aristocratic bearing and accomplishments were the equivalent of any duchess in the realm. There was nothing middle-class about her at all as far as he could see. Mrs. Eliott was a conundrum indeed.

  The apple and blackberry pudding served with crème anglaise was just as delightful as he’d suspected, and the perfect end to the dinner. He was a man of simple tastes and Mrs. Roberts was an excellent cook. However, he rarely sat down to a full four-course meal in the dining room. A tray in the library was his usual habit.

  But he’d wanted to begin his courting of Beth in this more formal atmosphere. He sensed that the social mores associated with fine dining would provide an element of decorum that would help put her at ease.

  He glanced at her as she discreetly licked a small crumb from her sinfully full bottom lip—her tongue was stained ever so slightly from the blackberries and he fought to suppress a groan of frustration. He couldn’t go on like this much longer. She was driving him mad with wanting. Tomorrow he would take her on a tour around the castle. And he would insist she dine with him again. And play the piano. Perhaps he could even engage her in a game of chess. He was sure she was excellent at that too.

  Slowly and surely he would break down her resistance, until she was irrevocably his.

  For his own sanity, he prayed it wouldn’t take too long.

  Chapter Seven

  Elizabeth awoke the next day feeling both tense and exhausted. She’d had the worst sleep imaginable—when she’d actually been able to get to sleep. After she had retired to her bedchamber last night—Lord Rothsburgh had insisted that she retain the same one even though she’d offered to decamp to the servant’s quarters—she’d tossed and turned well into the early hours of the morning. But it was not because she’d experienced her usual nightmare about Hugh. Instead, she’d been troubled all night by visions of a different man.

  Lord Rothsburgh.

  She hadn’t been able to stop thinking about him. How he’d looked in her bed with an erection. How he’d almost kissed her by the walled garden. How his enigmatic eyes darkened with—dare she say the word even in her mind—desire whenever he looked at her. His slow, heart-stopping smile. And the touch of his lips and fingers upon her hand.

  She ached. Who would have thought that the boring, passionless Lady Beauchamp could ache with wanting? It was wrong. It was depraved. But she couldn’t help it.

  When she had climbed into her bed last night, she had wanted to touch the hidden, most secret parts of herself to ease the needy pressure. But she hadn’t been able to bring herself to do it. Surely such an act—to pleasure oneself whilst fantasizing about a man who wasn’t one’s husband—was adulterous.

  Now, as she stared at herself in the mirror, she barely recognized the woman looking back at her. There were shadows under her grey eyes, and her mouth was set in a grim line.

  She strongly suspected the marquess was trying to seduce her.

  She had no idea what he saw in her. Hugh had never desired her very much, even at the start of their marriage. She had tried to please him as a wife should, but whatever she had done, it had never seemed enough. For the longest time she had believed that there had been something lacking within herself, something fundamentally wrong with her.

  But now she wasn’t so sure. She couldn’t account for it, but she instinctively knew that Lord Rothsburgh wanted her. The worst, most shocking realization of all, was that she wanted him too. It was time she faced the ugly truth—she was an adulteress. There was no denying that she had already committed adultery with the marquess over and over again in her mind, if not in actual deed. She knew she had. She sinned every time she even looked at him. Every time she thought of him. And that was constantly.

  She couldn’t continue on like this. But what could she do?

  What should she do?

  The rational part of her brain told her to get dressed and pack her trunk, and depart on the next post-chaise for Edinburgh or Aberdeen before she damned herself to hell for being a shameless wanton. She would find another post. She was intelligent. She had a little money to sustain her for a few weeks, if not a month if she lived frugally.

  She picked up her brush and began to ruthlessly tug through the knots in her hair. A sensible, virtuous woman would do that. And she had always been both of those things. But she had also been dead inside for such a long time. Hugh’s callous disregard for her and their marriage vows had turned her into a pale ghost of her former self.

  But Lord Rothsburgh—James—made her feel alive.

  And she so wanted to live.

  She placed her brush carefully back on the dresser, and rose to select a gown for the day from the carved walnut wardrobe. Which one would it be? Her travelling gown of stiff black wool, or her lavender and pale grey striped silk that was suited for the period of half-mourning.

  She reached for the silk.

  * * * *

  Lord Rothsburgh had requested that she meet with him mid-morning in the library so they could discuss her housekeeping duties before he took her on a guided tour around the castle.

  Standing outside the door, she now realized how superfluous this meeting would be. Nevertheless, she would show the marquess the suggested menu for his light luncheon and dinner today. And ask him a myriad of inconsequential questions about such things as regimens for maintaining the smooth running of the household, staff management including the recruitment of several more maids to help with cleaning and kitchen duties, and the plans for the walled garden. Perhaps she could even ask him about reopening the drawing room. Even though it was presumptuous of her, she would dearly love to play that beautiful pianoforte again.

  But while she discussed these things with him, she would be wondering the whole time when he might reveal his true intentions toward her.

  Gripping the menu in one slightly damp palm, she took a deep breath, raised her other hand, and knocked. And nearly fell over when the marquess himself opened the door a moment later.

  He smiled, looking her up and down. “Mrs. Eliott. I was just about to come looking for you.”

  “Oh, am I late?”

  “No, not at all. It’s just that it looks like the weather is about to take a turn for the worse, and I really did want to take you up to the battlements to admire the view. Do you have something warm to put over your gown? Lovely though it is, you’ll freeze without a coat or pelisse.” He reached for her hand and noticed the menu. “What’s this then?”

  She offered it to him, and he ran his eyes over it briefly before grinning at her. “It looks wonderful, but I swear you are trying to fatten me up, Mrs. Eliott.”

  She blushed. Just thinking about Lord Rothsburgh’s lean and athletic looking body made her feel hot all over. But she couldn’t imagine that he ever really had to be careful about what he ate.

  “Oh…well…” she stammered. “Perhaps if I—”

  “A tray in the library for luncheon and dinner this evening will be sufficient.” He took her hand and tucked it into the crook of his arm before guiding her toward the stairs that led to the bedchambers. At the head of the stairs they encountered Roberts, who had just emerged from Lord Rothsburgh’s room.

  “Roberts. Please pass this menu onto your wife. Tell her that I would like two trays sent up to the library at midday with,” he glanced at the menu again, “the bouef en croute. Mrs. Eliott will be taking lunch with me today. We have a lot to discuss.”

  Roberts bowed, his expression completely neutral; Elizabeth was amazed at the older man’s sang-froid. “Of course, milord. An’ dinner?”

  “Mrs. Eliott will be down later to go over the menu with Mrs. Roberts. But again we will only require trays in the library.” The marquess then turned to her. “And perhaps you might be so kind as to go down to the cellar with Roberts later to match a bottle of wine or two with whatever you choose for us to eat. Whatever you wish.”

  “Yes, my lord.” Elizabeth was flabbergasted. He wanted to have both lunch and dinner with h
er—alone again. And he obviously didn’t care who knew. Despite her resolve earlier this morning to stay on at Eilean Tor, she really didn’t know if she could cope with Lord Rothsburgh’s brazen interest in her being scrutinized by all and sundry, on an ongoing basis.

  Roberts, to his credit, simply bowed and menu in hand, took his leave.

  Lord Rothsburgh started to propel her down the hall again.

  “My lord,” she said, hoping she didn’t sound as breathless as she suddenly felt. “Whilst I am flattered that yet again you are showing me untold kindness…I am concerned that the rest of your staff will perhaps misconstrue the situation…and look upon me as—”

  Lord Rothsburgh halted abruptly and she almost stumbled, but he reached out and held her steady at the waist. He was looking at her intently. “Yes? As what?”

  She felt warmth suffuse her cheeks. “An interloper perhaps, quite undeserving of your favor…I…I wouldn’t want to create any discord…or for my actions to be judged as… improper.”

  Lord Rothsburgh sighed and his mouth tilted into a gentle smile. “Mrs. Eliott. Or may I call you, Beth?” He didn’t wait for her to acquiesce. “No one on my staff, from Mr. or Mrs. Roberts down to the scullery maid or stable lad, will look upon you with anything but the utmost respect. While I grant you that most masters would not cultivate such a close working relationship with their housekeeper, I think you should know that here at Eilean Tor, indeed in much of the Highlands, most clans-folk have a more—shall we say—liberal view of such matters. And I know my staff are loyal to a fault. They do not gossip. Rest assured your reputation is safe.”

  So everyone would know about her unconventional relationship with the marquess. But no one would say anything. Could she live with that while she resided here? Although the marquess obviously trusted his staff, she was sure some of them would privately censure her for her actions.

  But did she really care about the reputation of the fictitious widow, Mrs. Beth Eliott, any more? Now that something new and oh, so exhilarating was almost within her reach?

  Lord Rothsburgh was watching her closely, his eyes focused on her mouth. She realized she was biting her bottom lip again. He must like it when she did that. The thought sent a decidedly illicit thrill through her, unlike anything she’d ever felt before. This uncharacteristically, naughty version of Elizabeth decided that she didn’t care that she flirted with danger.

  “I believe you,” she said softly. “And to answer your earlier question, I don’t mind if you call me Beth. In private.” It had been her pet name as a child and she especially liked how it had sounded just now on Lord Rothsburgh’s lips.

  His brown eyes grew imperceptibly darker and yet softer at the same time. And something inside her, perhaps it was her heart, flipped over.

  “All right then, Beth.” His mouth lifted into that slow, easy smile again that made her ache for something more. “Now that’s settled, let’s fetch your coat, and get up to the battlements while we still can.”

  * * * *

  “The view is magnificent, my lord. It’s like being on the edge of the world.”

  Elizabeth peered out between one of the crenellated parapets on the north-eastern edge of the castle. She had to narrow her eyes against the strong gale that whipped around them, and tore at her black wool pelisse and hair with icy, briny fingers. But she didn’t mind a bit. Not when Lord Rothsburgh stood beside her with his hand at the small of her back.

  “Yes, I rather think so too.” Lord Rothsburgh leaned in close to her to speak, perhaps so he didn’t have to project his voice above the sound of wind and the waves crashing on the cliffs below. But then again perhaps not. Regardless of the reason, she could feel his warm breath against her cheek. And she liked it.

  He pointed to the north. “Can you see the headland farther along the coast? Blackhaven is not too far beyond there. Although the shopping doesn’t compare to Edinburgh, it’s much better than what Torhaven has to offer. I would be happy to take you there next time I make a trip to see my solicitor, if you’d like.”

  Elizabeth stretched up a little to speak in his ear, and she caught the now all too familiar scent of his exotic soap. “That would be…most considerate, my lord.” She was surprised that her voice sounded relatively normal given that at the same time she had spoken, she’d had to fight the sudden, uncharacteristic urge to place her lips against the distinct line of dark stubble on the edge of the marquess’s jaw. He obviously had a habit of missing the same spot when shaving. Shocked at the rate with which her brazen thoughts were increasing, now that she’d seriously contemplated throwing all caution to the wind, she determinedly returned her gaze to the seascape. If she wasn’t careful, she’d be on her back beneath the marquess before the day was through.

  But isn’t that what you want, Elizabeth?

  The unrelenting wind was churning the sea into choppy, white-capped waves, and she could see a bank of ominous, dark grey clouds looming closer to the shore. The unmistakable low growl of thunder carried across the water toward them.

  Following her gaze, Lord Rothsburgh frowned. “It won’t be long before that hits us.” He took her hand and clasped it against his proffered forearm. “Walk with me to the western side? I’ll be able to point out a few more points of interest before we need to beat a retreat.”

  “As you wish, my lord.”

  He led her to the west facing battlement and she was able to see Blackhaven Wood a mile or so to the north-west, as well as all of Lord Rothsburgh’s other holdings that extended as far as the eye could see, and beyond. She suddenly realized how vast the estate was. The Marquess of Rothsburgh was undoubtedly a very rich and powerful man.

  “When was the castle first built?” she asked after he had finished pointing out the very southern edge of Torhaven’s cove that wasn’t obscured by the Tor itself. He’d relinquished her hand at some point during the discussion, and she found it odd how in such a short space of time she had become so used to his touch that now she noticed its absence.

  “The battlements and the main keep where the Great Hall is located were constructed by my ancestor, Sir Malcolm Huntly, in the fifteenth century. But various other descendants have added extensions and improvements over the years. In fact, the main apartments that adjoin the Great Hall were added in the sixteenth century by the first Marquess of Rothsburgh. My grandparents then set about modernizing the interiors of the rooms when my father was a boy. So despite the great age of the place, it is quite comfortable to live at Eilean Tor, if one doesn’t mind the isolation of course.”

  “I can see the causeway must have been a most effective moat in days gone by,” she observed. The tide was in and the dark sea roiled angrily in the channel between the headland the castle sat upon, and the Tor. “Though it must be very difficult when you need to get across, but cannot.”

  Lord Rothsburgh shrugged. “One learns to live with it.” He turned to face her, and she immediately noticed that his eyes held a deadly serious expression. “Promise me, Beth, that you will never attempt to go out on that causeway again unless you check with Roberts or myself about when it is safest to cross. And if you are not in my carriage, you must always take a decent mount from my stables. It can be a death trap at the wrong time in the wrong conditions.”

  “I promise,” she replied just as gravely, unsure what had precipitated such a stern speech.

  He nodded once. “Good.” He sighed and ran a hand through his already hopelessly wind ruffled black hair. His gaze was now softer. “I apologize if I seem overly high-handed and protective, Beth. You see, it’s just that my wife…Isabelle…She was swept off the causeway…out to sea.”

  “Oh my God,” Elizabeth gasped, her hand flying to her throat. She now understood why Lord Rothsburgh had been so cross with Geddes when she had arrived here on the back of Auld Fern. The weather and the sea state had been atrocious that afternoon. “I mean…how terrible…I’m so sorry, my lord…I had no idea…I had heard there had been an accident but…as to
the exact nature of it…”

  He cocked an eyebrow. “You heard my wife had died in an accident? From whom?”

  Damn. She’d slipped up again. She really was a hopeless liar. But she couldn’t very well reveal that her source of information had been Lady Airlie from the Widows of Waterloo Trust. That would invite too many inconvenient questions.

  “It wasn’t your staff, I assure you,” she replied whilst her mind frantically scrabbled about for another plausible response. “It was…when I first arrived in Torhaven. Perhaps Mr. Geddes mentioned it. I can’t quite recall…”

  Lord Rothsburgh nodded and then turned back to stare at the deadly waters still boiling around in the channel like a brew in a witch’s cauldron. When he spoke again his voice was quieter, and she needed to lean closer to catch the words. “I was away on the Continent …Belgium, to be precise…tidying up after Waterloo for Wellington when I received word…I believe Isabelle had been missing for several days until her body washed up in a cove about a mile from here.” He turned back to Elizabeth and ran his gaze over her face. “I apologize, Beth, if I’ve shocked you with my candor. As I’ve said before, I often speak without thinking.”

  She swallowed. “I don’t know what to say, my lord, other than I’m so sorry for your loss. It is…such a tragedy. And your daughter, Lady Annabelle—”

  “Was here when it happened. It was eight weeks ago, to be precise. But Mrs. Roberts and her nurse, Miss McFarlane, took good care of her until my sister, Lady Maxwell arrived. And then of course myself.”

  Eight weeks. Elizabeth’s mind reeled in shock.