Lady Beauchamp's Proposal

by Secret Cravings Publishing

  “You are expecting him to come back as well? Really? I think not, madam. In fact, Roberts was attending to some matter for Lord Markham when I left my room. And I saw Rothsburgh leave here not two minutes ago, heading for his chambers. I’m sure you won’t be missed, my dear, if that’s what you’re intimating.” He reached forward and brushed her bottom lip with the tip of one long finger. “You have a pretty mouth, but a lying, wicked tongue, Mrs. Eliott. Does your master know how naughty you are?”

  “I…I must protest, Lord Blaire.” She tried to take a step back, but was caught up against the wine rack—bottles clanked and threatened to fall. “Lord Rothsburgh would not condone—”

  He laughed and grasped her chin roughly, angling it upward to study her face. “You’re a trumped up little bitch, aren’t you? Feisty too I’d warrant. All icy hauteur on the outside, but ready and willing for a fuck at the drop of any man’s trousers, aren’t you, Mrs. Eliott?”

  With the heavy basket of wine between them, she hadn’t noticed that Lord Blaire had been busy with his other hand, undoing the placket at the front of his breeches. Not until he seized one of her hands and pushed it against his exposed, alarmingly-erect penis.

  Oh God, no.

  A wave of nausea rose up, burning her throat. She had to get away. She wasn’t going to be this man’s whore. But she had nowhere to go but forward. And Lord Blaire was barring her way. Hot anger lanced through her, replacing her terror, and with a guttural cry, she thrust her basket forward into the general vicinity of Lord Blaire’s midriff and groin, as hard as she could.

  “Oof.” Blaire took a step backwards, the momentum of the heavy basket driving him back just enough that there was sufficient space to push past him. The basket hit the floor and glass shattered around their ankles, wine gushing everywhere like blood.

  “Fuck. You bitch.” Blaire clutched his groin as she stumbled past, heading for the stairs. But she wasn’t quite fast enough. He caught at her skirts and she was jerked backwards. With a scream, she slipped on the broken glass and the wine pooling on the stone floor, then fell onto her hands and knees. Glass sliced into her, but she was barely away of the pain as she struggled to wrench herself away from Lord Blaire’s grasp.

  Somewhere, as if from a great distance, she was vaguely aware of other noises above the sound of Lord Blaire’s grunts and swearing, and her own sobs—a dog’s frenzied barking. A man shouting.

  Please, God, save me. Whatever my sins, I don’t deserve this.

  The door at the top of the stairs flew open, and in the next instant, Rosencrantz hurtled down the stairs past her. The hound knocked Lord Blaire flat onto his back, then growled and ripped at his cravat.

  “Christ. Beth.” James was beside her, gripping her shoulders. “Are you all right? What did the bastard do to you? Tell me.”

  She was going to be all right. James was here. She opened her mouth to speak but the words wouldn’t come.

  “Fuck. Rothsburgh. Get this dog off me.” Blaire scrabbled backwards through the wine and shards of glass, trying to fend off Rosencrantz who was now firmly fastened to the sleeve of his jacket.

  James ignored him, focusing only on her. “Beth, look at me. What did he do?”

  Her teeth had started to chatter, but somehow she managed to formulate words. “He… he…t-tried to f-f-force me to…But I…p-pushed him away. And then the b-bottles broke…”

  James nodded, kissed her forehead, then stood. “Rosencrantz. Heel.” The dog immediately released Blaire’s arm and retreated to Beth’s side. Crossing over to Blaire, James then seized him by the lapels and hauled him to his feet. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t kill you right now.”

  “You’ve got it all wrong, Rothsburgh. She offered to fu—”

  James’s fist connected with Blaire’s jaw and the man stumbled backward into the stack of port barrels. He doubled over at the waist, spitting blood. “Jesus. Whatever she told you, she’s a lying bi—”

  This time, when James’s fist slammed into the middle of Blaire’s torso, he slumped to his knees, gasping.

  “Wrong answer, Blaire,” growled James.

  Blaire scowled as he gripped his belly. “What’s…the matter…with you? Why…don’t you just…call me out?”

  James dragged Blaire to his feet again. “Because that privilege is reserved for gentlemen, Blaire. And the way I see it…” he landed another punch in Blaire’s gut, winding him again, “…doing so…” another punch thrown upward struck Blaire’s nose—, “…will just deny me the pleasure…” James’s knee connected with Blaire’s groin—, “…of beating you to a pulp.”

  He wrenched Blaire up and landed another punch on his jaw with such force, Elizabeth clearly heard the crunch of bone, and she closed her eyes. When she looked again, Blaire lay groaning and barely conscious in a heap at James’s feet.

  “James?” Elizabeth pulled herself to her feet. Her legs felt as unsteady as a new-born foal’s and she had to support herself against the side of the stairs. “Don’t. P-please stop…he’s not worth it.”

  James whirled around. “Beth. I’m so sorry.” He was immediately at her side, cradling her in his arms. “You shouldn’t have to watch this. You shouldn’t have been subjected to any of this.”

  She raised her head from his shoulder and sought his gaze, searching for the right words, to convince him he didn’t have to do this for her. To put himself at risk. There was no doubt in her mind that if she didn’t stop him, he could quite possibly kill Blaire. And the resultant scandal would not only be dire for him, but for her as well. “I…I don’t want…I don’t want you to do anything rash…I’m all right…truly.”

  A muscle worked in James’s jaw as he studied her face, contemplating what she’d said. “Beth—”

  “Rothsburgh! What the deuce?” Maxwell appeared at the top of the stairs along with Markham. Roberts lurked close behind.

  James tipped his head toward the wine racks where Blaire still lay sprawled and moaning, clutching at his jaw. “Blaire disgraced himself in more ways than one. Get rid of him before I do something others may regret.” Then he muttered under his breath so only Elizabeth could hear. “But I certainly won’t.”

  Maxwell and Markham descended into the cellar, collected Blaire, and then disappeared with him up the stairs.

  Roberts cleared his throat. “Milord? Is there anythin’ I can do other than arrange fer a cleanup of the accident down here?”

  “Have Lord Maxwell’s carriage sent around first. I want Blaire gone from here before the tide comes back in.”

  “Yes, milord.”

  The door to the wine cellar closed again and James hugged her close, murmuring soothing words into her hair. There, in the circle of his arms, breathing in his familiar male essence, her trembling started to subside, and she barely noticed the stinging of her palms and knee.

  Until James reached for one of her hands. She gasped.

  James swore. “Sweet Jesus, Beth. You’re hurt.” He uncurled her left hand and exposed a long jagged cut on her palm that extended from the base of her thumb to her wrist. Aside from a few cuts to her fingers, her right hand was relatively unscathed in comparison.

  “It happened when I fell amongst the broken bottles,” she said shakily. “I think my left knee is cut as well.”

  “Let me look. Sit down on the stairs.” He helped to lower her down, then he knelt and lifted her skirts. And swore again.

  “I’m sure half of what you’re looking at is red wine and Madeira, not blood,” she said, trying to make light of the situation as he carefully rolled up her hopelessly stained and torn drawers. Despite her attempt at levity, nausea swelled within her again, and she felt giddy with light-headedness. She was suddenly glad she was sitting down.

  “I think there’s still a sliver of glass in the cut in your knee, Beth, but I’ll have to take a better look at it upstairs. It’s as dark as Hades down here. But before I move you, let’s get this bleeding under control first.”


  He swiftly removed the cravat from his throat and deftly ripped it into two before gently yet firmly wrapping one length around her left hand, and then the other around her knee.

  She tried very hard not to make a sound during his ministrations, to smother her gasps of pain. To be strong. But it was the sight of James, tending to her injuries with such care that was eventually her undoing. Yet again, she was reminded of the oceans of difference between this man and her husband. Hugh was supposed to be the man who loved and cherished her above all others. But he never had, and he never would.

  Despite her best efforts not to cry, a tear escaped. And then another. Tucking her right hand into her cuff, she raised her sleeve to her cheek, to try to hide the evidence of her weakness. She didn’t think she could bear any more of James’s sympathy lest she turn into a blithering, sobbing mess—but the movement caught his attention.

  He focused his all too perceptive gaze on her face. Even in the gloom of the cellar, she couldn’t hide.

  Reaching forward, he brushed a third tear away with his thumb, a look of inexpressible tenderness in his dark eyes. “No more servants’ quarters for you, Mrs. Eliott. I think it’s about time you spent some time where you belong—with me in my chambers, my love.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Ignoring the rage clawing at his gut at the sight of her injuries, Rothsburgh held out a tumbler of whisky to Beth. “Here, my love. Drink this.”

  “Thank you,” she murmured as she carefully took it from him with her bandaged hands. She dutifully took a small sip then grimaced. “I really hate this stuff you know. I’d much rather have a cup of tea.”

  He forced himself to smile. “I know but this will help to ease the shaking.”

  Like him, she was not herself and he hated seeing her like this—in pain, with a haunted look in her beautiful grey eyes. Dressed in one of her virginal white nightrails, tucked up in a Clan Huntly tartan wool blanket on a leather settee in front of the fireplace in his room, she looked small and fragile.

  Vulnerable.

  Yet he knew that she was made of sterner stuff. Aside from the fact that she had managed to fend off Blaire, she had been nothing but brave whilst he had removed the glass from the gash in her knee; had barely made a sound when he had bathed and then bandaged all her cuts—large and small. Thank God, they were all quite shallow and didn’t require stitches. He suspected only the laceration on her knee would leave a scar.

  If only her emotional scars would heal so cleanly. He wanted to hold her, bury his face in her soft, ash-blonde hair. Kiss the graceful arch of her neck. Undo the buttons at her throat and lay bare her full breasts…Hell, despite the fact that she’d nearly been raped, the rapacious male beast in him wanted to make love to her, possess her, until she forgot about everything else except for the reality of the rapture they shared whenever they were together.

  But he wouldn’t. It was too soon. He knew that. As much as it pained him not having her in his arms, he would wait—because she was worth waiting for.

  Sitting down beside her on an ottoman with his own whisky, Rothsburgh immediately noticed how Beth’s hands trembled as she raised her glass to her lips again. Even though her ordeal was over, she was clearly still in shock.

  And underneath his own misbegotten lust for her, he was still angry as hell. Angry enough to rip Blaire apart with his bare hands. He tossed back a sizeable mouthful of the fiery single malt, enjoying the scorch at the back of his throat. He knew it would take much more than a dram or two to quell the burning urge to call for his horse, and give chase to the blackguard. However, now that it was late afternoon, he suspected that the tide had already flooded the causeway. If it weren’t for the vicissitudes of the sea, and Beth’s earlier plea to stay his hand, he would have whole-heartedly given into the dark impulse to seek bloody vengeance.

  But for now, it seemed he would be denied the satisfaction; and that meant he would somehow have to deal with his own self-directed anger and loathing—a veritable tempest of emotions engendered by his failure to anticipate that Blaire would assault Beth in the most monstrous, despicable way.

  His guilt sat like acid in his gut along with the whisky. He should have known from the moment Blaire had stumbled across Beth in the library that the bastard was too interested in her. And after Blaire’s comments about her at dinner two nights ago, Rothsburgh should have thrown the craven cur out then and there. But he’d been too dismissive, too laissez-faire. And now his beautiful, sweet Beth was paying the price for his carelessness and stupidity.

  His Beth.

  “Beth…”

  She’d been nursing her whisky, staring absently into the fire, but at the sound of his voice, turned to regard him with solemn grey eyes. “Yes?”

  “I…Beth…I owe you an apology. More than an apology in fact. I should be on my knees right now begging for your forgiveness.”

  Confusion clouded her eyes. “I don’t understand…”

  He removed her tumbler of whisky, then carefully took her right hand between his, taking care not to brush the bandaged cuts on her fingers. He didn’t want to add to her pain—physical or emotional—by dredging up what had happened earlier, but he needed to do this. Admit that he’d failed her.

  His precious Beth.

  He sought her gaze and swallowed past the bitter taste of self-recrimination in his throat. “What happened to you this afternoon. It shouldn’t have. I knew that Blaire had his eye on you from the very beginning—”

  “James. Stop this.” Beth reached out with her heavily bandaged left hand and gently touched his cheek. Her eyes narrowed and her forehead dipped into a frown. “It’s not your fault. So don’t you dare feel guilty.”

  “But if I had turned him away at the start—”

  “You weren’t to know—”

  “Or had stayed with you in the cellar—”

  “You were trying to protect my reputation. Hide what I am…”

  “Yes…” Rothsburgh stumbled to a halt and stared into Beth’s beautiful eyes as comprehension struck him like a cannonball. Hide what I am, she’d said.

  His mistress.

  The unspoken words crashed into the silence between them.

  Beth dropped her gaze from his, but in the moment before she did, the expression in her eyes changed imperceptibly—the clear grey had become clouded with shadows.

  Beth was his mistress. Only his mistress.

  Was that the reason she hid away from him now? As if she was ashamed? Why hadn’t he seen it before?

  He was such a blind, selfish fool.

  Right from the very beginning of this affaire, he’d known that Beth had wrestled with the idea of becoming his mistress. Just as he’d also known that she’d been troubled about other things. Things that she still resisted being drawn into conversation about. The grief she felt for her deceased husband was the most obvious cause of her secret sorrow. And despite her avowals to the contrary, he knew that there must be much more to the story behind her nightmare of being pursued.

  But until this moment—perhaps because he’d been so caught up in the all-consuming, passionate rapture of being with her—he’d never really considered that he was to blame, that perhaps the source of her ongoing disquiet was that she couldn’t reconcile herself with what she had become. Something she had never really wanted to be—a kept woman.

  And he was solely responsible for pushing her into this situation. He didn’t want her to see herself as a whore. Didn’t she know she had never been that?

  He reached out and carefully took her right hand and raised it to his lips. He suddenly knew how he could make this right. Because what he had with Beth wasn’t just about sex. And what he felt for her was more than just affection.

  He’d tried damned hard to close his eyes and ignore this feeling that had been growing inside him—from the moment he’d first laid eyes on this woman if he was perfectly honest with himself—but right now, he knew he couldn’t any longer. Not after today. Never before had he felt
such a tumult of complex and powerful emotions—lust, tenderness, protectiveness, and out and out blind rage when the woman he cared about had been not only threatened, but hurt.

  He had long ago sworn to himself that he would never fall in love again—not after Isabelle.

  But what he shared with Beth—this was different. It had always been different. There was no escaping the truth. And he had to let her know.

  “Beth. I need to tell you something…”

  * * * *

  James was kissing her hand, the touch of his lips feather-light against her skin. And his intense gaze was filled with such undisguised longing—Elizabeth’s heart clenched and her breath froze in her chest.

  James was looking at her as though he loved her. Like he was about to tell her that he loved her.

  Please Lord, no.

  After what had happened this afternoon, Elizabeth didn’t think she had the strength to face this. She needed to say something—anything—to distract James from the confession he was about to make. To put off this moment.

  The moment when she had to break his heart.

  “Beth. I need to tell you something…”

  Oh no, no, no. Elizabeth broke away from James’s gaze and pulled her hand from his. She was shaking, her mind in roiling chaos. Words escaped her. She wanted to get up and leave James’s chamber, but her knee was bandaged almost to the point of immobility, and she was tucked up securely in a heavy blanket. And James was sitting directly in front of her, barring any escape. She couldn’t look at his face. She despised herself for not only her deceit, but her cowardice. James deserved so much more than she could ever be.

  “Beth, what’s wrong?”

  Obfuscate. Dissemble. These were the only tools she could think to gather together, to keep him at arm’s length. Until she could think of another way to distract him from making any type of declaration. A declaration that she could never reciprocate aloud because that would be too cruel—to tell him that she loved him before she walked away.