Lady Beauchamp's Proposal (17 page)

“I promise,” she replied just as gravely,
unsure what had precipitated such a stern speech.

He nodded once. “Good.” He sighed and ran a
hand through his already hopelessly wind ruffled black hair. His
gaze was now softer. “I apologize if I seem overly high-handed and
protective, Beth. You see, it’s just that my wife…Isabelle…She was
swept off the causeway…out to sea.”

“Oh my God,” Elizabeth gasped, her hand
flying to her throat. She now understood why Lord Rothsburgh had
been so cross with Geddes when she had arrived here on the back of
Auld Fern. The weather and the sea state had been atrocious that
afternoon. “I mean…how terrible…I’m so sorry, my lord…I had no
idea…I had heard there had been an accident but…as to the exact
nature of it…”

He cocked an eyebrow. “You heard my wife had
died in an accident? From whom?”

Damn.
She’d slipped up again. She
really was a hopeless liar. But she couldn’t very well reveal that
her source of information had been Lady Airlie from the Widows of
Waterloo Trust. That would invite too many inconvenient
questions.

“It wasn’t your staff, I assure you,” she
replied whilst her mind frantically scrabbled about for another
plausible response. “It was…when I first arrived in Torhaven.
Perhaps Mr. Geddes mentioned it. I can’t quite recall…”

Lord Rothsburgh nodded and then turned back
to stare at the deadly waters still boiling around in the channel
like a brew in a witch’s cauldron. When he spoke again his voice
was quieter, and she needed to lean closer to catch the words. “I
was away on the Continent …Belgium, to be precise…tidying up after
Waterloo for Wellington when I received word…I believe Isabelle had
been missing for several days until her body washed up in a cove
about a mile from here.” He turned back to Elizabeth and ran his
gaze over her face. “I apologize, Beth, if I’ve shocked you with my
candor. As I’ve said before, I often speak without thinking.”

She swallowed. “I don’t know what to say, my
lord, other than I’m so sorry for your loss. It is…such a tragedy.
And your daughter, Lady Annabelle—”

“Was here when it happened. It was eight
weeks ago, to be precise. But Mrs. Roberts and her nurse, Miss
McFarlane, took good care of her until my sister, Lady Maxwell
arrived. And then of course myself.”

Eight weeks.
Elizabeth’s mind reeled
in shock.

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?

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.