Lady Beauchamp's Proposal (18 page)

The library door clicked and he sat up
straighter.

Beth
.

She hovered at the edge of the room, and he
immediately noticed she’d reverted back to the more somber style of
dress associated with full mourning. He raked his gaze over her—she
was wearing a severely cut, high-waisted gown of black bombazine,
with a sprinkling of jet beads around the square neckline that in
no way relieved its austerity. She’d pulled her ash blonde hair
back into a tight, high bun of some sort. His fingers itched to let
it down.

As for her expression, she looked wary, but
also defeated somehow. Something was definitely wrong. There was
some change within her, but casting his mind back throughout the
events of the afternoon, he couldn’t fathom what could have
precipitated such a dramatic turnaround in her demeanor.

Unless she was having second thoughts again
because of their earlier discussion about Isabelle. Could that be
the problem? Whatever it was, he was determined to find out.
Nothing, or no one, would stand in his way.

“My lord.” She greeted him with a stiff
curtsy.

“Mrs. Eliott,” he returned. He raised his
glass. “Care to join me in a wee dram?” He knew she would decline,
but he wanted to rattle her, shake her out of this strange, subdued
mood she was in. Why, she wouldn’t even come into the room.

“No thank you, my lord.”

Rothsburgh frowned. Clearly some other sort
of action was required. He stood and placed his half-finished
whisky on the side table, then moved toward her. She stayed
perfectly still, but as he advanced, he noticed she blushed and the
pace of her breathing quickened. Good. Despite her reversion to the
guise of chaste widow, it seemed she wasn’t completely immune to
him. He caught her hand and placed a gentle kiss on her fingertips,
watching her face all the while.

He was gratified to see her eyes widen, and
he heard her draw in a quick breath.

Struck with sudden inspiration, he smiled.
“Come now, Beth, and show me what you can do with these clever
fingers.”

* * * *

Elizabeth sat with her so-called clever
fingers resting on the keys of the pianoforte as the last notes of
Mozart’s Piano Sonata No. 11 rang out. In the ensuing silence all
she could hear was the lash of wind and rain against the
windowpanes. Why didn’t Lord Rothsburgh speak? Perhaps the piece
wasn’t to his liking.

She raised her eyes from the keyboard, and
chanced a look at him. The dark-eyed voluptuary was back. He was
leaning against the pianoforte beside her, wearing nothing but a
white linen shirt, open at the neck, form-fitting black breeches
and half-boots. His informal state of dress brought to mind the
first time she had met him. And he was still just as utterly
mesmerizing.

She clasped her hands together, and cast her
gaze downward. Ever since she had entered the library, she had
sensed the change in him. The gentleman she had spent the best part
of the morning and early afternoon with had vanished, to be
replaced by the man who made her tremble and blush, and think about
all manner of sinful things. Forbidden things.

She toyed with her silver wedding band and
berated herself as she had done before in her room.
Wake up,
Elizabeth
.
Lord Rothsburgh is grieving. He is lonely. He is
your employer. You are married and have nothing to offer
him.

But the words meant nothing when she could
feel his gaze upon her, and she wanted him so badly it hurt.

She suddenly felt Lord Rothsburgh’s hand on
her shoulder. Despite her earlier resolve, her traitorous body was
reacting of its own accord. The touch of his fingers seared the
bare skin along the neckline of her gown, and her heart began to
hammer wildly against her ribs.

“Beth…tell me what’s wrong.”

She raised her eyes to his dark, penetrating
stare.
What on earth can I say that won’t be a lie?
“I—”

He slid onto the piano seat beside her, his
thigh pressing against hers through the stiff fabric of her skirts.
He was half turned toward her, his wide chest within inches of her
shoulder.

“Beth.” His voice was a whispered caress
against her ear, making her shiver. She should go. “Beth, do you
have any idea how beautiful you are?”

Not as beautiful as your late wife.
Her gaze slid involuntarily to the tapestry where Lady Rothsburgh’s
portrait lay hidden.
Get up, Elizabeth. Go. Before he—

Too late.

Lord Rothsburgh reached out and tilted her
face toward his own. “You have the face of an angel,” he whispered,
his gaze roaming over her features. “Everything about you is
beautiful…Your hair.” He leant forward and pressed his lips against
her temple. “Your cheek.” Again, another feather-light kiss upon
her skin. “Your neck.” He bent and placed his firm, warm mouth
against the sensitive flesh between her ear and jaw, and a bolt of
heat shot through her all the way to the juncture between her
thighs. She sucked in a sharp breath, drawing in the intoxicating
scent of his skin, then pressed a shaking hand to his linen
shirtfront, unsure if she meant to push him away, or draw him
closer.

Heaven help her
. She couldn’t resist
this slow deliberate assault upon her senses.

“Your lips.” His mouth hovered over hers for
a moment. “Especially your lips.”

And then he kissed her. And it was unlike
anything she had ever known before. All rational thought fled as
his mouth slid over hers with tormenting, delicious slowness, his
tongue gently pushing against the seam of her lips, demanding
access. And she couldn’t refuse. With a moan she parted for him,
wanting him to taste her, wanting to taste him in return.

She swept her tongue against his, and he
groaned deeply in his throat. Lifting his head for an instant, he
drew in a ragged breath before he claimed her mouth a second time,
sucking her lower lip between his. She gasped at the decadently
sinful sensation, and taking advantage of her parted lips he thrust
his tongue into her again, boldly, blatantly exploring her. He
speared one of his hands into her hair whilst the other seized her
shoulder and dragged her closer, his mouth moving with an urgency
that made her blood pound and her head spin.

She was falling. She was swept away.

She was an adulteress
.
And for once
she didn’t care.

“Milord. Dinner is served.”

Elizabeth jerked away, her eyes frantically
darting to the door leading to the library.

Oh God. Roberts was there.

Lord Rothsburgh closed his eyes and a muscle
worked in his cheek. “Thank you, Roberts,” he called. He fixed his
gaze back on her, his eyes black and burning. “Don’t think for a
minute that you are going to escape answering my earlier question,
Beth, about what is bothering you. I think it’s time we both spoke
plainly, don’t you?”

Still reeling from the after effects of that
most earth-shattering kiss, and the shock of being almost
discovered, Elizabeth could do nothing but stare at the marquess,
who sat with one hand still cradling her head, and the other behind
her shoulder. Beneath her hand, she could feel the hard plane of
his chest rapidly rising and falling with each breath he took, and
with a jolt of surprise, she realized that he was still grappling
to control his own response to their kiss.

But he didn’t seem to mind the fact she was
insensible. His expression softened and he tucked a strand of her
dislodged hair behind her ear. “But perhaps we should dine first.”
He stood and offered his arm with a bow. “Would you care to join me
for dinner, Mrs. Eliott?”

Elizabeth placed her trembling hand on his
forearm, and somewhat shakily, rose to her feet. She didn’t think
she would be able to eat or drink a thing. Not when she knew what
was coming. Nevertheless, she let Lord Rothsburgh lead her through
to take a seat at the small oak dining setting that had been set up
to one side of the library fire.

They were alone again. Roberts, and perhaps
Todd, had come and gone, and she had the feeling they would not
make an appearance again unless summoned by the marquess. She
attempted a bite or two of the fillet of venison that Mrs. Roberts
had prepared so beautifully, but within a short space of time, she
realized she had no appetite for it. Her nerves were too tautly
stretched, her stomach too filled with butterflies. Against her
better judgment she picked up her wine glass instead, and took a
sizeable sip of the Burgundy, aware that Lord Rothsburgh watched
her.

“Not hungry, Beth?”

She attempted a smile and met his eyes at
last. “Not really.” She glanced at his plate and noticed he hadn’t
eaten much either. “And you?”

He smiled slowly and his gaze dropped to her
lips. “Not for venison.”

Oh dear Lord.
She rather suspected
the time for plain speaking had arrived.

Lord Rothsburgh pushed his plate aside, and
leaned forward in his chair, his gaze fixed unwaveringly on her
face. “Beth, you do not seem yourself this evening. Ever since you
walked in, you have seemed—and please forgive me for my
bluntness—both disheartened and guarded. And you were not so
earlier today. I find myself…confused and concerned that I have
done something during the course of the day that has upset you. I
had thought that you and I…were becoming closer. I know you must
sense the connection between us. And because of that, I hope you
feel that you can be honest with me. Especially after our kiss.” He
paused then reached forward, laying his warm hand upon her arm.
“Please tell me what is wrong. I cannot stand seeing you this
way.”

Elizabeth closed her eyes and tried to
assemble her roiling thoughts. There were so many things that were
wrong. And what could she possibly say to this man
? I want you,
but I’m married. I know you want me, but you shouldn’t.
She
didn’t want to lie, not to him, not after the kiss they had
shared.

But she had to. She couldn’t let him know
about Hugh. Remaining Mrs. Beth Eliott was the only way she could
ensure her safety. It was the only way she could stay. And even
though it was wrong, part of her wanted to stay more than
anything.

She felt like she was being torn in two—and
perhaps she was.

The heavy silence between them stretched,
and she was suddenly conscious of the storm that raged beyond the
windows along with the thundering crash of breakers against the
cliffs below.

“Beth?”

She drew a steadying breath and forced
herself to look at Lord Rothsburgh again. There was one thing that
bothered her that she could reveal. “When I was in the drawing room
today, I came upon a portrait of a woman that had been placed
behind one of the tapestries,” she said, watching his too handsome
face. “I know I probably shouldn’t even be asking this, but is it
of your wife, my lord?”

The muscles around his eyes pulled
imperceptibly tighter, and Elizabeth thought she saw a momentary
flash of pain in his dark gaze. “Yes it is. It should have been
stored away by now. I shall get Roberts to see to it first thing
tomorrow.”

So she had been right. Lord Rothsburgh was
still grieving. That meant he was still very vulnerable. He was
probably only trying to seek solace with her to ease his own pain.
Any way she looked at the situation, her conscience howled at her
to go.

“Your wife, she was very beautiful,” she
said softly. Lord Rothsburgh had called her beautiful too—an
angel—right before he’d kissed her, but she didn’t quite believe
him. It really shouldn’t matter, but for some silly and wholly
feminine reason, she knew deep down that it did.

The marquess’s hand slid down her arm to
cover her hand. Her skin tingled beneath the touch of his bare
palm.

“Believe me, Beth,” he said gravely.
“Appearances can be deceiving. I meant what I said earlier today.
Isabelle and I…well, let me just say that by the end of our six
year marriage, she no longer wore my wedding ring.” He looked down
at her hand, and his fingers lightly brushed her own wedding band.
“Not like you.”

Elizabeth’s breath caught in her throat.
No, not like me
. He was right. Appearances could be
deceiving. Everything Lord Rothsburgh knew about her was entirely
fabricated. And the weight of her dishonesty was so heavy, it felt
like she was being crushed.

She tried to pull her hand away but Lord
Rothsburgh caught it and lifted it to his lips. He kissed each
fingertip gently, then turned her hand over and placed a lingering,
tender kiss on the sensitive flesh on the inside of her wrist.

She couldn’t think clearly. She couldn’t
breathe. She was drowning beneath the rising tide of her own
desire.

He raised his gaze to her face; his eyes
fairly smoldered and she couldn’t look away. When he spoke, his
voice was husky with need. “Beth, I have a proposition for you. I
know you have only been recently bereaved yourself. And you are
free to reject me outright.”

She knew what he was going to ask her, even
before he uttered the words. He mustn’t say the words. A kiss was
one thing. But anything more? Now the moment was upon her, she
didn’t think she could go through with it.

She dragged in a much needed breath. “Lord
Rothsburgh—”

“Beth, please hear me out.”

She was astonished at the urgency in his
voice and he held onto her hand so tightly, she didn’t think she
could pull away even if she wanted to. “I know this is sudden, but
try as I might, I can’t stop thinking about you. Since you came
here, since you literally fell into my arms, I find that I can
think of nothing else but having you back there. I can’t let you
continue on as my housekeeper. Beth, I want you to be my
mistress.”

Oh God.

Elizabeth wrenched her hand away and pushed
away from the table. Her mind, her conscience, her better self
screamed at her to flee. Her blood, her pounding heart, her entire
body urged her to stay, to fling herself into Lord Rothsburgh’s
arms and never let him go.