Lady Beauchamp's Proposal (16 page)

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 her—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.”