Lady Beauchamp's Proposal (15 page)

“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 28
^th
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 92
^nd
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. It 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.

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.

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.