Lady Beauchamp's Proposal

by Secret Cravings Publishing

Lord Rothsburgh’s wife had died only eight weeks ago.

  Why, he had probably only arrived back at Eilean Tor within the last month.

  Elizabeth reached out and gripped the rough, cold stones of the castle wall before her. What on earth was she doing here? She was indeed an intruder. How could she even be thinking about becoming Lord Rothsburgh’s mistress? She’d been having improper—nay, positively shameless thoughts about a poor vulnerable man who was in the very initial stages of deepest mourning.

  She must have misunderstood his intentions all along. He was lonely and grieving. That was all. She was nothing more than a silly, blind fool who obviously knew nothing about men.

  “Beth. Are you all right?”

  Somehow she focused her gaze back on the marquess.

  Her employer.

  “My lord…I really shouldn’t be here if that is the case. You are so recently bereaved. I feel terrible…How insensitive of me to turn up like I did…I…I don’t know what to say…except I’m so, so sorry.”

  He seized her hand and pressed it between both of his. A spark of what she thought might be desperation was in his eyes. “Beth. No. Don’t say that. It’s quite all right. Believe me. I don’t want you to go. Far from it.”

  She frowned and searched his eyes. “Are you certain, Lord Rothsburgh? My presence here…in your home. It doesn’t seem right somehow, given the circumstances.”

  The marquess returned her gaze levelly. “It’s perfectly all right, Beth. I should explain.”

  “You really don’t need to—”

  “Yes. I do.” He sighed and his expression grew solemn. “This is going to sound dreadful…but my wife and I…we had grown apart a long time ago. Her death was tragic, yes. And I grieve for the fact that Annabelle no longer has a mother. But as for myself…I have regrets and I am deeply saddened, but I am not mortally grief-stricken. And as terrible as that sounds, that’s the truth of the matter.”

  “Oh…” Elizabeth’s brows rose slightly. She knew all about the distance that could develop between spouses over time. But despite her own experience of marriage, she couldn’t deny that she was surprised by Lord Rothsburgh’s disclosure.

  She suddenly wondered if she would feel the same when Hugh died. Would there be only sadness and regret? But then, there was a difference between Lord Rothsburgh’s situation and her own. She knew her husband was going to die.

  She recalled her wedding vows. In sickness and in health. When the end came for Hugh, would she also feel guilty because she had effectively abandoned her husband to endure his fate alone? Perhaps in time, but right here and right now, she did not. She was certain that if she’d stayed with Hugh, an early and ignoble death would have been her fate also. Surely she didn’t deserve that. She wouldn’t feel guilty about saving her own life.

  But there are other things you should feel guilty about.

  A strong gust of wind suddenly howled through the crenellations, and flung the first stinging drops of rain at them. Lord Rothsburgh grasped her hand and started to guide her back to the tower where the stairs were located. “It looks like it’s time we went below and returned to the real world, Beth. Besides I wouldn’t want you to catch the ague again.”

  Following him along the ramparts, Elizabeth bent her head against the gathering tempest and was grateful when they began to descend the spiraling stairwell that led back to the Great Hall. Lord Rothsburgh had said they were returning to the real world.

  But little did he know that in the real world, she was really Lady Beauchamp, the wife of someone he despised. A woman who had seriously contemplated being unfaithful to her husband.

  She prayed that Lord Rothsburgh would never find out.

  * * * *

  The rest of Elizabeth’s afternoon passed in a relatively ordinary fashion—if one considered sharing lunch with a man as tempting as the devil himself to be ordinary. However, there was nothing devilish about the marquess’s behavior. He had conducted himself in a perfectly gentlemanly manner the whole time she was in the library, whilst Rosencrantz and Guildenstern had chaperoned.

  She had discussed her plans for managing the staff and hiring two additional maids, as well as her ideas for the walled garden. All had met with his approval. She had even—although somewhat nervously—broached the subject of opening up the drawing room. Now that she knew the pianoforte was right next door, her fingers quite itched to play it.

  To her relief, Lord Rothsburgh had been quite amenable to the suggestion, and so she had spent the best part of the afternoon with Todd and Maisie—one of the young maids who had recently returned to work—restoring the drawing room to its original splendor.

  As Elizabeth helped to pull away and fold all the dustsheets, and adjust the placement of lamps and other ornaments around the room, she realized again what a fool she’d been in thinking the marquess had been trying to seduce her. The idea must have been a product of her over-active imagination. He was handsome and charismatic, undoubtedly, but after spending a completely uneventful, albeit pleasant few hours with him, it had become rapidly apparent that her shameful lust was indeed, all one-sided.

  By the time the mantle clock struck five, all had been arranged to her satisfaction. She dismissed Todd and Maisie, and took one last look around. Not for the first time, she wondered why Lord Rothsburgh had closed up the room. She supposed that it might have something to do with his wife. But then again, perhaps now he was a widower, he simply didn’t feel the need to occupy such a large living space.

  It really was a beautiful room. The fire and candles had been lit during the course of the afternoon to dispel the pervading gloom engendered by the incessant rain outside. The warm atmosphere was further enhanced by the sumptuous furnishings—aside from the exquisite piano that was positioned by one of the bay windows, chairs upholstered in crimson brocade along with Adams-style mahogany tables were clustered around the similarly hued Turkish rug before the fire, whilst various other mahogany cabinets filled with all manner of eye-beckoning curios stood in strategic positions around the edges of the room.

  Just as she was turning to leave, she noticed a dustsheet peaking out from underneath a tapestry that hung by the red marble fireplace. Maisie and Todd had obviously missed it, as had she. She gently nudged the tapestry to one side and noticed a large flat, rectangular item, possibly a mirror or painting resting against the oak-paneled wall. Curious, she lifted the dustsheet away to reveal a portrait of the most breathtakingly beautiful woman she had ever seen.

  As soon as set eyes on it, she instinctively knew it was a likeness of the late Isabelle Huntly, the Marchioness of Rothsburgh. Lord Rothsburgh must have had the portrait removed after her death—perhaps because it evoked too many painful memories—but then he had forgotten to have it stored away.

  The woman was depicted against a rather ordinarily rendered pastoral background, reminiscent of a typical Reynolds or Gainsborough painting. But then anything would look ordinary in comparison to such a sylph-like creature. She was simply dressed in a gauzy, almost transparent gown of white chiffon that clung to her slender curves, almost as if the fabric was slightly damp. Her hair was raven black and tumbled about her bare, elegant shoulders in abundant curls. Aside from a pair of pearl drop earrings, the only other adornment the woman wore was an ornate sapphire and pearl brooch pinned above her left breast. But it was the woman’s eyes that one noticed the most; they were a startling blue—even more vividly blue than Hugh’s she thought—and were fringed with long, curling black lashes. The marchioness looked out from the painting with an enigmatic expression, as if she was smiling to herself about something that was a secret.

  She was mysterious and alluring.

  She was everything Elizabeth wasn’t.

  A squall of rain hit one of the windows and Elizabeth jumped. She suddenly felt like she was sneaking a look at something that wasn’t meant for her eyes. She quickly dropped the dustsheet back into place, and then after making sure it was tucked neatly behind the tapestry
out of sight again, she hurriedly quit the room. She should put it out of her mind. It really wasn’t any of her business.

  When she returned to her bedchamber to change for dinner, she caught a glimpse of her own wan face and nondescript grey eyes in the dressing-table mirror, and sighed. It was abundantly clear that she was but a pale shadow compared to the sylvan Lady Rothsburgh. The marquess—a man who must be grieving the recent loss of his wife, despite his assertions to the contrary—would never be really interested in his all but destitute housekeeper. It was all for the best, really, because now she no longer needed to worry about being unfaithful.

  She sat and began to re-dress her hair. She should be relieved. She should be happy.

  So why did disappointment settle over her like a cold, dark shroud?

  Chapter Eight

  Rothsburgh sat alone before the fire in the library, a glass of whisky in hand, waiting for Beth to join him for dinner. Through the connecting door to the drawing room, he could see the results of her handiwork this afternoon. The chamber was just as beautiful as it had always been. It was a pity that it reminded him of too many things that were better left buried.

  But perhaps, now that Beth was here, there would be an opportunity to create new memories. And he rather thought that she already had. The way she had looked as she’d played that poignant nocturne last night—with her eyes closed and her mouth curved into a rapturous smile. It was like watching and listening to an angel—an angel with a sinfully pouting bottom lip that he couldn’t wait to kiss.

  He sipped at his whisky, hoping the fiery liquid would calm the building anticipation within him. And more surprisingly, nerves.

  He was certain that Beth detected the simmering tension between them, and that she was aware of his intent. Indeed, this morning she had seemed more than accepting of the touch of his hand at her back, his voice at her ear. She had even willingly conceded to his use of her Christian name. Rothsburgh had been heartened by the increasing familiarity between them—right up until the moment he had mentioned his wife.

  Beth’s subsequent offer to leave straightaway had alarmed him no end, but he couldn’t, wouldn’t let her go. He had obviously shocked her with his revelations, and as a result he had been more circumspect with her for the rest of the day. As he also suspected she was still nervous about what his staff would think of her, he had made sure that he’d behaved with the utmost decorum, especially when Roberts or anyone else made an appearance. As long as he and Beth didn’t openly flaunt their affair, he could count on their discretion. He was their master and Clan Chief, and they would never show him anything less than absolute loyalty.

  He looked at his whisky glass and grimaced. For once, the uisge beatha wasn’t dispelling his tension. The truth was, he needed Beth. It was that simple. It was definitely time to ask her to be his mistress. And if all went well, by tonight’s end, she wouldn’t just be greeting him by his first name. She would be crying it to the heavens.

  The library door clicked and he sat up straighter.

  Beth.

  She hovered at the edge of the room, and he immediately noticed she’d reverted back to the more somber style of dress associated with full mourning. He raked his gaze over her—she was wearing a severely cut, high-waisted gown of black bombazine, with a sprinkling of jet beads around the square neckline that in no way relieved its austerity. She’d pulled her ash blonde hair back into a tight, high bun of some sort. His fingers itched to let it down.

  As for her expression, she looked wary, but also defeated somehow. Something was definitely wrong. There was some change within her, but casting his mind back throughout the events of the afternoon, he couldn’t fathom what could have precipitated such a dramatic turnaround in her demeanor.

  Unless she was having second thoughts again because of their earlier discussion about Isabelle. Could that be the problem? Whatever it was, he was determined to find out. Nothing, or no one, would stand in his way.

  “My lord.” She greeted him with a stiff curtsy.

  “Mrs. Eliott,” he returned. He raised his glass. “Care to join me in a wee dram?” He knew she would decline, but he wanted to rattle her, shake her out of this strange, subdued mood she was in. Why, she wouldn’t even come into the room.

  “No thank you, my lord.”

  Rothsburgh frowned. Clearly some other sort of action was required. He stood and placed his half-finished whisky on the side table, then moved toward her. She stayed perfectly still, but as he advanced, he noticed she blushed and the pace of her breathing quickened. Good. Despite her reversion to the guise of chaste widow, it seemed she wasn’t completely immune to him. He caught her hand and placed a gentle kiss on her fingertips, watching her face all the while.

  He was gratified to see her eyes widen, and he heard her draw in a quick breath.

  Struck with sudden inspiration, he smiled. “Come now, Beth, and show me what you can do with these clever fingers.”

  * * * *

  Elizabeth sat with her so-called clever fingers resting on the keys of the pianoforte as the last notes of Mozart’s Piano Sonata No. 11 rang out. In the ensuing silence all she could hear was the lash of wind and rain against the windowpanes. Why didn’t Lord Rothsburgh speak? Perhaps the piece wasn’t to his liking.

  She raised her eyes from the keyboard, and chanced a look at him. The dark-eyed voluptuary was back. He was leaning against the pianoforte beside her, wearing nothing but a white linen shirt, open at the neck, form-fitting black breeches and half-boots. His informal state of dress brought to mind the first time she had met him. And he was still just as utterly mesmerizing.

  She clasped her hands together, and cast her gaze downward. Ever since she had entered the library, she had sensed the change in him. The gentleman she had spent the best part of the morning and early afternoon with had vanished, to be replaced by the man who made her tremble and blush, and think about all manner of sinful things. Forbidden things.

  She toyed with her silver wedding band and berated herself as she had done before in her room. Wake up, Elizabeth. Lord Rothsburgh is grieving. He is lonely. He is your employer. You are married and have nothing to offer him.

  But the words meant nothing when she could feel his gaze upon her, and she wanted him so badly it hurt.

  She suddenly felt Lord Rothsburgh’s hand on her shoulder. Despite her earlier resolve, her traitorous body was reacting of its own accord. The touch of his fingers seared the bare skin along the neckline of her gown, and her heart began to hammer wildly against her ribs.

  “Beth…tell me what’s wrong.”

  She raised her eyes to his dark, penetrating stare. What on earth can I say that won’t be a lie? “I—”

  He slid onto the piano seat beside her, his thigh pressing against hers through the stiff fabric of her skirts. He was half turned toward her, his wide chest within inches of her shoulder.

  “Beth.” His voice was a whispered caress against her ear, making her shiver. She should go. “Beth, do you have any idea how beautiful you are?”

  Not as beautiful as your late wife. Her gaze slid involuntarily to the tapestry where Lady Rothsburgh’s portrait lay hidden. Get up, Elizabeth. Go. Before he—

  Too late.

  Lord Rothsburgh reached out and tilted her face toward his own. “You have the face of an angel,” he whispered, his gaze roaming over her features. “Everything about you is beautiful…Your hair.” He leant forward and pressed his lips against her temple. “Your cheek.” Again, another feather-light kiss upon her skin. “Your neck.” He bent and placed his firm, warm mouth against the sensitive flesh between her ear and jaw, and a bolt of heat shot through her all the way to the juncture between her thighs. She sucked in a sharp breath, drawing in the intoxicating scent of his skin, then pressed a shaking hand to his linen shirtfront, unsure if she meant to push him away, or draw him closer.

  Heaven help her. She couldn’t resist this slow deliberate assault upon her senses.

  “Your
lips.” His mouth hovered over hers for a moment. “Especially your lips.”

  And then he kissed her. And it was unlike anything she had ever known before. All rational thought fled as his mouth slid over hers with tormenting, delicious slowness, his tongue gently pushing against the seam of her lips, demanding access. And she couldn’t refuse. With a moan she parted for him, wanting him to taste her, wanting to taste him in return.

  She swept her tongue against his, and he groaned deeply in his throat. Lifting his head for an instant, he drew in a ragged breath before he claimed her mouth a second time, sucking her lower lip between his. She gasped at the decadently sinful sensation, and taking advantage of her parted lips he thrust his tongue into her again, boldly, blatantly exploring her. He speared one of his hands into her hair whilst the other seized her shoulder and dragged her closer, his mouth moving with an urgency that made her blood pound and her head spin.

  She was falling. She was swept away.

  She was an adulteress. And for once she didn’t care.

  “Milord. Dinner is served.”

  Elizabeth jerked away, her eyes frantically darting to the door leading to the library.

  Oh God. Roberts was there.

  Lord Rothsburgh closed his eyes and a muscle worked in his cheek. “Thank you, Roberts,” he called. He fixed his gaze back on her, his eyes black and burning. “Don’t think for a minute that you are going to escape answering my earlier question, Beth, about what is bothering you. I think it’s time we both spoke plainly, don’t you?”

  Still reeling from the after effects of that most earth-shattering kiss, and the shock of being almost discovered, Elizabeth could do nothing but stare at the marquess, who sat with one hand still cradling her head, and the other behind her shoulder. Beneath her hand, she could feel the hard plane of his chest rapidly rising and falling with each breath he took, and with a jolt of surprise, she realized that he was still grappling to control his own response to their kiss.