Lady Beauchamp's Proposal (23 page)

The cold light of early dawn was already
beginning to gild the edges around the curtains, as she watched
James pull on his breeches and boots.

“Stay in bed for as long as you like today,”
he said, retrieving his crumpled and well-used shirt from between
the twisted sheets. “I’ll tell the staff you’ve had a relapse.” He
then flashed her a wide grin. “I want you to regain your strength
for tonight, my sweet Beth.”

She pushed herself up and reached out to
touch his jaw, enjoying the heat of his skin and prickle of stubble
against her fingertips. She couldn’t deny she was beginning to care
for this man, far more than she should. And she suspected he felt
the same way. It seemed as if there was nothing that either of them
could do to stop themselves from slipping beneath a rising tide of
uncontrollable emotion. And for her, despite all of the risks, the
urge to dive in was irresistible.

She suddenly wanted James to know something
about her that was true. She caught his gaze. “Elizabeth,” she
whispered. “My given name is actually, Elizabeth.”

He smiled with such tenderness, her breath
hitched. “Hmm. Be that as it may, I think Beth suits you better, my
love.” He kissed her once more, with gentle swiftness, and then he
was gone.

My love.
How many times had he called
her that tonight? That was something she had definitely lost count
of. As she curled up in the bedclothes still warm from where his
body had just lain, she suddenly wished with all her foolish heart
that it really could be true.

That she could actually be, his love.

Over the next week, despite her nightly lack
of sleep and subsequent exhaustion, Elizabeth knew that she glowed
with a certain indefinable something. She saw it when she looked in
the mirror after she’d woken every morning—her grey eyes shone
softy, as if lit from within, and she couldn’t seem to stop
smiling.

Others seemed to notice the change in her
too. Mrs. Roberts smiled at her knowingly whenever Elizabeth went
into the kitchen to discuss the day’s menu. Roberts even winked at
her when he passed her in the hallway one day. Of course, Elizabeth
had blushed, but it truly did seem that Lord Rothsburgh was correct
when he had originally asserted that his staff would not condemn
her. It felt quite bizarre that others would be so accepting of the
fact she was the marquess’s mistress, especially when she could
hardly believe it herself.

Thankfully, James did not press her again on
the subject of quitting Eilean Tor and installing her somewhere
else as his mistress proper. Instead, they had fallen very quickly
and easily into a mutually satisfying pattern of existence. James
spent every night in her bed—although sleep was the furthest thing
on both their minds—until the morning light began to creep into her
room. Then she would rise late, and go through the charade of
pretending to be just the housekeeper with only domestic matters on
her mind, when really all she could think about was James and his
love-making.

But then James gave her little time to think
of anything else. Highly important and ‘confidential’ discussions
on household management behind locked doors invariably turned into
something else entirely. She quickly learned that one didn’t just
make love in a bed, but that desks, dining room tables, window
seats, battlements and even piano stools could all be used in a
number of unconventional ways to perform sexual feats that she had
never dreamed of.

Elizabeth had also given up using a copious
amount of hair pins to secure her coiffure; braiding and twisting
her hair into a tight knot at the nape of her neck with only the
barest number of pins turned out be the only sensible way to ensure
she didn’t leave a trail of them all over the castle. Not that it
really mattered, given it was obvious what James and she were up
to. But the conservative side of her still wanted to pretend she
was a decent woman.

One of the unexpected delights of this
arrangement was that Elizabeth experienced—for the first time in
her adult life—the simple pleasure of being with a man who
obviously enjoyed her company. James regarded her as an intelligent
equal in conversation—her opinion mattered to him. Sharing banter,
engaging in discussions about anything and everything, even trying
to trounce James at chess—he was a formidable player—all were
equally stimulating and enjoyable. Hugh had rarely even given her
the time of day.

The only testing part of the whole scenario
was taking care to avoid slips of the tongue about who she really
was. She had manufactured a history for herself—that she was the
well-educated, middle class daughter of a university lecturer from
Oxford. When she came of age, she had then married the younger son
of an equally middle-class family—Lieutenant George Eliott.
However, she needn’t have worried. Despite James’s pronouncement
that he wanted to know everything about her, he never pressed her
for information and she never volunteered more than the barest and
vaguest of details. And that suited her no end.

Her secrets were safe.

As for Lord Rothsburgh—James—he
seemed…
smitten
. She could think of no other word to describe
the way he looked at her, although she tried to tell herself it was
only ever lust she saw in his gaze. His appetite for her seemed
insatiable, like he was a newly wedded groom. He was everything
that she had once hoped Hugh would be—attentive, witty, teasing,
tender…
loving
. The irony that James was everything she’d
ever wanted in a husband was indeed bittersweet.

If only these halcyon days could last.

That was the thought that drifted through
Elizabeth’s bliss fogged mind as she lay spent and gasping upon one
of the chaise-lounges in the drawing room, her skirts pushed
indecorously up around her waist. James’s head lay upon her naked
lower belly, his warm breath caressing her oh-so sensitive flesh.
She pushed her fingers into his silky black hair and caressed the
nape of his neck, enjoying the feel of bone, and strong muscles and
tendons beneath her fingertips.

It was early afternoon and their lunch lay
cold and neglected upon the small dining table in the library. She
rather doubted that it would get eaten at all.
Who needs food
when one can feel like this?

But she shouldn’t feel like this. Despite
the untold, heady satisfaction she derived from being Lord
Rothsburgh’s mistress, her guilt—for forsaking her marriage vows
and deceiving James—followed her like an ever-present shadow. She
was able to push it aside temporarily whenever she and James made
love. But in quiet moments such as this, after the ecstasy had
ebbed away, and sanity returned, it settled over her again like a
heavy pall.

Before her troubled thoughts could envelope
her completely, James sat up and leant over her to place a
lingering kiss upon her mouth. Raising his head, his eyes gleamed
with mischievous intent, and she knew he had something else in mind
to while away the afternoon.

“I think, my sweet Beth that we should—”

An unexpected knock at the drawing room
door, made her start. James scowled.

“Damn,” he muttered when the knocking
continued and Roberts’s voice could be heard.

“Forgive me, milord. I wouldna interrupt
unless it ‘twere of some importance.”

With an exasperated sigh, James helped her
to stand and straighten her skirts back into place. Elizabeth then
quickly adjusted his cravat and smoothed his rumpled hair.

“Thank goodness we didn’t undress,” she
whispered with a smile, attempting to lighten James’s mood.

“Hmph. Roberts better have a good reason for
this,” he said gruffly. He kissed her cheek then called out. “I’ll
meet you in the library in a moment, Roberts.” Clasping her face
between his hands, he kissed her again, soundly. “Stay here, my
love, while I sort this out. I promise I won’t be long.”

After the connecting door to the library
clicked shut, Elizabeth wandered over to one of the windows to gaze
at the vast, lonely expanse of sea and sky. It was a blowy,
overcast afternoon and the sea’s dull pewter surface was broken by
choppy white-capped waves. The elements and the sea seemed as
unsettled as her thoughts.

Pressing her hand to one of the smooth
diamond panes, the biting cold of the day penetrated the glass and
made her shiver. She suspected it wouldn’t be long before the first
snows fell. It would undoubtedly be a bleak and cold existence here
during the seemingly endless winter—unless you had a lover to keep
you occupied.

But how long should she stay? The question
weighed heavily upon her, perhaps even more heavily than her
guilt.

When she’d impulsively given into the
temptation to become James’s mistress, she had told herself that
this
affaire
should only be short-lived. But now that winter
was coming, she needed to seriously contemplate the question—how
long should she remain at Eilean Tor? Or more to the point—how long
should she continue to be James’s lover? Another week, two weeks?
Should she go before the castle became snowbound and it was
impossible to leave for months? Months in which her entire
existence would become so enmeshed with James’s that when it was
time for her to go—she knew it would hurt both of them—deeply.

Perhaps she should go now, before the fallen
woman she was, fell any further in love.

There.
She’d finally admitted it to
herself.

She’d fallen in love with Lord Rothsburgh.
Hopelessly, foolishly, madly.

She’d tried so hard to deny the emotion
building up inside her since she’d arrived—was it only three weeks
ago? But now, she just couldn’t. It suffused her being, had changed
the very fabric of who she was. Although she’d become James’s
mistress to experience fulfilling sex at least once in her life, it
wasn’t just about that anymore. And because she cared so deeply for
this man, she suspected that was why her deceit bothered her more
than ever.

Part of Elizabeth prayed that she would soon
hear word of another governess’s situation from James’s sister Lady
Maxwell, because then she would have no choice but to leave. Even
though it would be difficult, she knew that ultimately it was best
for her sake as well as James’s if she did just that—go—sooner
rather than later.

Before James felt too much for her as well.
Because nothing could come of this. Because she wasn’t free. To
wish for anything more was like wishing for the stars, the sun and
the moon to be laid at her feet.

It was quite simply, impossible.

Tired of staring at the grey day with only
her circling, troubled thoughts for company, she abandoned the
window seat and seated herself at the pianoforte. Closing her eyes,
she emptied her mind and let her fingers find the notes for her
favorite Mozart piece—the second movement of his hauntingly lovely
Piano Concerto No. 21.

She’d perhaps made her way through the first
half of the piece when she was suddenly roused by the sound of
unfamiliar voices—loud male voices—that carried to her over the
sound of her playing, through the closed door to the library. As
she paused to listen, the door burst open and an unfamiliar young
man virtually fell into the room. He grabbed the back of a chair to
keep from falling, then eyed her with a peculiar mix of male
appreciation and consternation.

“Good God, Rossburgh…Where’d the hell
didshou find this beauty?”

James suddenly appeared in the doorway,
looking like thunder. “Blaire,” he growled and seized the obviously
exceedingly drunk gentleman by the scruff of his neck like a stray
cat, before thrusting him back into the library.

He then turned and bowed his head to
Elizabeth. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Eliott, for Lord
Blaire’s…interruption,” he said quite loudly, then he mouthed, “Are
you all right?” His gaze lingered on her face, assessing her, his
brow furrowed with concern.

Elizabeth forced herself to appear outwardly
calm, relieved that the piano shielded her white knuckled grip on
the edge of the keyboard. “It’s quite all right I assure you, Lord
Rothsburgh,” she said stiffly; although, she was quietly amazed
that she could speak at all given that panic had stolen her breath,
and her heart had leapt into the vicinity of her mouth.

Were these men James’s friends? Friends from
the
ton
? Good Lord in heaven, did any of them know her? The
name Blaire seemed vaguely familiar. Elizabeth prayed he wasn’t one
of Hugh’s cronies that she may have met before. She hadn’t
immediately recognized the inebriated, disheveled nobleman who had
so unceremoniously burst in. Nor had he seemed to recognize her.
But then he was horrendously drunk.

But what of the others?

Through the open doorway came the murmur of
other voices again, but for the moment, no one else appeared, foxed
or otherwise.

James nodded once, seemingly satisfied with
her response. She must have hidden her fear well enough. “Perhaps
you could prepare three of the guest rooms and see to tonight’s
menu, Mrs. Eliott. Lord Maxwell and Lord Markham have also decided
to pay me a visit. It seems we have an impromptu hunting party on
our hands.”

Maxwell—that must be James’s brother-in-law.
She wondered if he had news of another situation for her. But would
James even tell her, now that he seemed so taken with her? And she
wouldn’t dare ask Lord Maxwell herself. That would be much too
forward.

The name Markham she didn’t know at all.
Perhaps everything would be all right. If only she could be sure
about Lord Blaire though…

James was frowning at her. Too caught up in
her own tumultuous musings, she hadn’t acknowledged his request.
She nodded slightly and dragged in a much needed breath before she
spoke again. “Yes…my lord.”