Lady Beauchamp's Proposal (14 page)

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 nonjudgmental—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.

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.”