Lady Beauchamp's Proposal (26 page)

She licked her lips slowly—deliberately—and
ran a finger over the slit at the end of his cock, smiling when
James jerked and a droplet of moisture appeared. Bending forward,
she placed one hand on his heavily muscled thigh, whilst the other
cupped his swollen balls. As she began to stroke his hot, iron-hard
shaft from base to head, she glanced up at him through her
lashes—he was holding his breath, waiting for her to take him. But
she knew that making him wait would make this all the sweeter.

“Christ, Beth,” he gritted out, and she
capitulated—she didn’t want to be cruel. She delicately flicked at
the bead of moisture with the tip of her tongue, and he groaned. He
tasted and smelled wonderful, the spicy scent of hot, aroused male
filled her senses, and she could no longer resist the temptation to
take him—as much as she possibly could—into her mouth. He gripped
her shoulders as she bent her head and slid up and down his
throbbing shaft slowly, almost languidly at first, taking her time,
occasionally swirling her tongue around the slippery engorged head
of his cock before returning to plunge rhythmically up and down
again. Teasing him. Building the pace, increasing the pulling,
torturous suction. Driving him wild.

“I can’t…hold back…” His voice was a ragged
gasp, and he started to thrust his hips to match her rhythm. Her
heart sang; this was what she wanted—to push him over the edge, to
take him to the heights of ecstasy as he never failed to do for
her. He started to swell and she deliberately drew him in, as far
as she could and sucked hard one last time—and as she’d
anticipated, he erupted. His hot seed flooded her mouth and she
swallowed again and again, until his shuddering eased and he was
empty and spent.

She released him and straightened,
delighting in the glorious sight of him reclining upon the barrel,
drowsy-eyed and loose-limbed.
Satisfied.
She would store
this memory away as she had all the other memories of their
love-making. When she was gone from here—as she soon would
be—memories would be all that she had to sustain herself over the
long lonely years ahead.

She reluctantly stepped back and began to
adjust her shift, and refasten her bodice.

“Beth.” James pulled himself upright and
slid to the floor, reaching for her. He pulled her to him, then
cradled her face between his hands, capturing her gaze with his.
His eyes, fiercely intent, searched hers. “This…what we have…we
both deserve more than this. I don’t know how you feel, Beth, but
I’m going mad not being with you. Not being able to look at you,
touch you, kiss you the way I want to every moment of every
day…it’s torture. As soon as I can send these friends of mine
packing, I will.” Then before she could do anything more than cover
one of his hands with hers, he kissed her—a deep searing kiss, a
possessive kiss that she felt all the way to her bones. A kiss that
touched her very soul.

What we have…
James’s words echoed in
her mind.

But what did James think they had? Was it
more than just sex to him? After a kiss like that…Elizabeth knew
with all her being that this man had feelings for her, deep
feelings. And very soon, she was going to crush him.

Earlier this morning—after she had finished
assisting the other staff with clearing away the breakfast
service—she had noticed an advertisement in one of the newspapers
that had been left out on the dining table A middle-aged, dowager
noblewoman, the Baroness of Dunleven, was seeking the services of a
companion—a young woman of good standing with suitable references
etc., preferably aged between twenty-one and thirty years of age.
Applicants were advised to apply directly to a Mr. Innes, Lady
Dunleven’s man-of-business in Dundee.

Elizabeth had surreptitiously removed the
page and secreted it in the pocket of her gown—the gown she was
wearing now. She touched her pocket and felt the paper crinkle. A
paid companion—how could she contemplate leaving this man, for
that?

But it was the right thing to do. For
herself and for James.

Drawing herself away from James’s embrace,
Elizabeth fought to control the sudden prick of hot tears behind
her eyelids. Unable to speak, lest she betray her emotions, she
instead bent her head and helped James to fix his clothing. He
likewise helped her to re-don her drawers, before stepping back to
check the arrangement of her hair.

“Hardly a hair out of place, Mrs. Eliott,”
he said with a lop-sided smile and dark mischief glinting in his
eyes. “No one will suspect a thing. I’ll leave first, and you
follow in a few minutes.”

She nodded and forced a smile in return. “I
still need to choose the wine. Something to go with grouse, I
believe.” She prayed her voice sounded light to his ears, not
brittle and tight as it had sounded to her. But he was distracted
now, glancing toward the door. One of the hounds was whining.

“Yes. I’ll leave it in your more than
capable hands, my love.” He kissed her quickly, yet softly. And
then he leapt up the steps, disappearing through the door without a
backward glance.

Wine. Focus on that, Elizabeth. Not on the
false reference you will write for yourself when you go back to
your room.

She retrieved the basket she used to hold
the wine, and randomly chose two bottles of Madeira to go with the
entrée of goose-liver parfait, and several bottles of Burgundy to
accompany the main course of roast grouse. She would send Roberts
back down later for the Champagne to go with the oysters—she really
couldn’t carry anymore.

The sound of the door scraping open and
latching shut again caught Elizabeth’s attention, and she turned,
expecting to see Roberts or James again.

But it wasn’t.

It was Lord Blaire
.

“Mrs. Eliott, fancy finding you down here.”
A study in nonchalance—except for the intent expression in his
eyes—Lord Blaire sauntered down the stairs toward her.

Elizabeth swallowed past the sudden
constriction in her throat and tried to keep her breathing even.
Be sensible, Elizabeth. You don’t know what he really
wants.

From what she’d already seen of him since
his arrival, Lord Blaire seemed to be a man who was clearly fond of
a drink or two. Perhaps he had just come in search of another
bottle of his favorite spirit. But there was always an ample supply
of port, whisky and brandy in the library and dining room…

As the nobleman drew closer, his gaze lewdly
raking over her—she couldn’t ignore the icy stab of fear in her
belly. Just as she couldn’t ignore the fact that he had tried to
inveigle her into his room two days ago on blatantly false
pretenses. Roberts had later informed her that there was nothing at
all wrong with the viscount’s bed, and there was certainly no
draft. As much as she didn’t want it to be true, it was fast
becoming apparent that Blaire was the type of aristocrat who did
indeed like to harass the hired help for sexual favors.

The question was—how far would he press
her?

She really didn’t want to find out.

She started to move toward the stairs and
the relative safety of the Great Hall above, but Lord Blaire was
too quick for her, and within moments she found herself trapped up
against a wine rack and a stack of port barrels.

She cleared her throat. She needed to stay
calm and talk her way out of this situation—just as she had talked
her way out of a potentially deadly situation with Hugh in her
bedroom at Harcourt House. But staying calm was proving difficult
when Lord Blaire was standing far too close for comfort with a
falsely casual smile on his wide mouth—a smile that didn’t quite
reach his hazel eyes, as hard as topaz. Tiger’s eyes.

And he’d been drinking brandy.
Oh,
no
. She could smell it on his breath. It would be hard to
reason with an inebriated man, especially one who was obviously so
single-minded and egocentric. But the added problem was, she really
didn’t know Lord Blaire, didn’t know what ploys would work on him.
Fear of falling out with his host and friend perhaps? The threat of
an untimely interruption?

She had to try something—now—before her
rising fear rendered her incapable of anything.

“Can I help you with something, my lord?”
she asked, failing to keep the telltale note of nervous breathiness
from her voice. “I’m expecting Lord Rothsburgh at any moment to
check on what Roberts and I have chosen to accompany tonight’s
dinner. And Roberts—”

“You are expecting him to come back as well?
Really? I think not, madam. In fact, Roberts was attending to some
matter for Lord Markham when I left my room. And I saw Rothsburgh
leave here not two minutes ago, heading for his chambers. I’m sure
you won’t be missed, my dear, if that’s what you’re intimating.” He
reached forward and brushed her bottom lip with the tip of one long
finger. “You have a pretty mouth, but a lying, wicked tongue, Mrs.
Eliott. Does your master know how naughty you are?”

“I…I must protest, Lord Blaire.” She tried
to take a step back, but was caught up against the wine
rack—bottles clanked and threatened to fall. “Lord Rothsburgh would
not condone—”

He laughed and grasped her chin roughly,
angling it upward to study her face. “You’re a trumped up little
bitch, aren’t you? Feisty too I’d warrant. All icy hauteur on the
outside, but ready and willing for a fuck at the drop of any man’s
trousers, aren’t you, Mrs. Eliott?”

With the heavy basket of wine between them,
she hadn’t noticed that Lord Blaire had been busy with his other
hand, undoing the placket at the front of his breeches. Not until
he seized one of her hands and pushed it against his exposed,
alarmingly-erect penis.

Oh God, no.

A wave of nausea rose up, burning her
throat. She had to get away. She wasn’t going to be this man’s
whore. But she had nowhere to go but forward. And Lord Blaire was
barring her way. Hot anger lanced through her, replacing her
terror, and with a guttural cry, she thrust her basket forward into
the general vicinity of Lord Blaire’s midriff and groin, as hard as
she could.

“Oof.” Blaire took a step backwards, the
momentum of the heavy basket driving him back just enough that
there was sufficient space to push past him. The basket hit the
floor and glass shattered around their ankles, wine gushing
everywhere like blood.

“Fuck. You bitch.” Blaire clutched his groin
as she stumbled past, heading for the stairs. But she wasn’t quite
fast enough. He caught at her skirts and she was jerked backwards.
With a scream, she slipped on the broken glass and the wine pooling
on the stone floor, then fell onto her hands and knees. Glass
sliced into her, but she was barely away of the pain as she
struggled to wrench herself away from Lord Blaire’s grasp.

Somewhere, as if from a great distance, she
was vaguely aware of other noises above the sound of Lord Blaire’s
grunts and swearing, and her own sobs—a dog’s frenzied barking. A
man shouting.

Please, God, save me. Whatever my sins, I
don’t deserve this.

The door at the top of the stairs flew open,
and in the next instant, Rosencrantz hurtled down the stairs past
her. The hound knocked Lord Blaire flat onto his back, then growled
and ripped at his cravat.

“Christ. Beth.” James was beside her,
gripping her shoulders. “Are you all right? What did the bastard do
to you? Tell me.”

She was going to be all right. James was
here. She opened her mouth to speak but the words wouldn’t
come.

“Fuck. Rothsburgh. Get this dog off me.”
Blaire scrabbled backwards through the wine and shards of glass,
trying to fend off Rosencrantz who was now firmly fastened to the
sleeve of his jacket.

James ignored him, focusing only on her.
“Beth, look at me. What did he do?”

Her teeth had started to chatter, but
somehow she managed to formulate words. “He… he…t-tried to
f-f-force me to…But I…p-pushed him away. And then the b-bottles
broke…”

James nodded, kissed her forehead, then
stood. “Rosencrantz. Heel.” The dog immediately released Blaire’s
arm and retreated to Beth’s side. Crossing over to Blaire, James
then seized him by the lapels and hauled him to his feet. “Give me
one good reason why I shouldn’t kill you right now.”

“You’ve got it all wrong, Rothsburgh. She
offered to fu—”

James’s fist connected with Blaire’s jaw and
the man stumbled backward into the stack of port barrels. He
doubled over at the waist, spitting blood. “Jesus. Whatever she
told you, she’s a lying bi—”

This time, when James’s fist slammed into
the middle of Blaire’s torso, he slumped to his knees, gasping.

“Wrong answer, Blaire,” growled James.

Blaire scowled as he gripped his belly.
“What’s…the matter…with you? Why…don’t you just…call me out?”

James dragged Blaire to his feet again.
“Because that privilege is reserved for gentlemen, Blaire. And the
way I see it…” he landed another punch in Blaire’s gut, winding him
again, “…doing so…” another punch thrown upward struck Blaire’s
nose—, “…will just deny me the pleasure…” James’s knee connected
with Blaire’s groin—, “…of beating you to a pulp.”

He wrenched Blaire up and landed another
punch on his jaw with such force, Elizabeth clearly heard the
crunch of bone, and she closed her eyes. When she looked again,
Blaire lay groaning and barely conscious in a heap at James’s
feet.

“James?” Elizabeth pulled herself to her
feet. Her legs felt as unsteady as a new-born foal’s and she had to
support herself against the side of the stairs. “Don’t. P-please
stop…he’s not worth it.”

James whirled around. “Beth. I’m so sorry.”
He was immediately at her side, cradling her in his arms. “You
shouldn’t have to watch this. You shouldn’t have been subjected to
any of this.”

She raised her head from his shoulder and
sought his gaze, searching for the right words, to convince him he
didn’t have to do this for her. To put himself at risk. There was
no doubt in her mind that if she didn’t stop him, he could quite
possibly kill Blaire. And the resultant scandal would not only be
dire for him, but for her as well. “I…I don’t want…I don’t want you
to do anything rash…I’m all right…truly.”