Lady Beauchamp's Proposal (29 page)

In some ways, his bitter anger on
discovering she had single-mindedly duped him was easier to deal
with than witnessing his despair. He was justified in hating her.
It could be no more than she already hated herself.

Maisie had knocked on her door once in the
early stages of the evening. No doubt her wracking sobs had been
overheard. But Elizabeth had ignored the girl until she had at last
given up and gone away. After that, no one else had approached her.
She was thankful that James—she should probably refer to him as
Lord Rothsburgh—had not thrown her out straightaway. She knew she
didn’t deserve anything from him—other than his condemnation—so she
was immensely grateful for that concession.

Crossing to the small chest of drawers by
the bed, she checked her fob watch—ten o’clock. It wasn’t too late
to find Roberts and ask when it would be safe to cross the causeway
in the morning, and to check when the mail-coaches would pass
through Torhaven. If she could have, she would have left without
seeking assistance. Although Roberts and the other staff wouldn’t
know what had precipitated her sudden need to depart, she felt so
ashamed of what she had done, she felt thoroughly undeserving of
any kind of aid. But there was no feasible way to leave Eilean Tor
without it.

Elizabeth splashed icy water from the
pitcher into a bowl, and washed her sticky, tear-stained face
before beginning the painful and laborious process of getting
dressed with her bandaged hands. She could hardly leave in her
nightrail, and she refused to ask for any kind of help from Maisie
or Mrs. Roberts. Besides, she was going to have to manage by
herself from now on, so it was best that she started getting used
to it.

Her plan remained the same. She would try
her luck at securing the companion’s position with Lady Dunleven of
Dundee. However, it seemed she would have to rely on her memory for
the contact details of the baroness’s man-of-business. The
newspaper advertisement that she had so carefully hidden in the
pocket of her widow’s weeds had probably been destroyed by now.
After James had taken her to his chamber, he had carefully stripped
off her torn, bloodied and wine-stained garments, and Maisie had
later taken them away to have them burned.

After Elizabeth had dressed, and as she
clumsily slid the last pins into hair, she realized, there was
hardly anything left for her to do. She would speak with Roberts,
pack her trunk, and then write herself another reference letter
from the astute Lady Beauchamp.

Then she would simply sit and wait through
the long cold hours until dawn.

Alone.
And that was how she would
spend the rest of her nights until the end of her days.

* * * *

When consciousness returned, Rothsburgh
really wished it hadn’t. It wasn’t just because he was lying face
down on the hearth rug in the library with a blinding headache and
a churning stomach. It was because the stark reality of living
without Beth slammed into him with renewed force.

She can never be mine.

She belongs to someone else.

Last night, after she’d left his room, he’d
set about drinking himself into a stupor that he hoped never to
wake from, just so he wouldn’t have to deal with the agonizing
truth.

He clearly hadn’t drunk enough.

With a groan he rolled onto his back and
cracked open his eyes. Morning. Someone—probably bloody Roberts—had
drawn back the curtains, restoked the fire and had thoughtfully
thrown a tartan rug over him. Even the brandy decanter—the one he
was sure he had drained last night after polishing off all the
whisky in his room—had been refilled and was sitting on its tray
with a fresh balloon beside it, on his desk.

As much as he wanted to suffuse his brain
with the numbing fog of complete drunkenness again, he really
didn’t think his stomach could tolerate it right now. Water, plain
toast, and maybe some coffee were all that he was really up to. The
brandy would have to wait until later.

Rothsburgh lurched to his feet and managed
to make it to the bell-pull without losing the contents of whatever
was left in his gut—which was probably mostly roiling despair and
regret at how badly he’d treated Beth. Shock at her disclosure had
clearly rendered him incapable of thinking straight, but it was a
poor excuse for his blatantly self-indulgent, wounded dog behavior.
Christ, she’d almost been raped, was injured and in pain. Even
though she’d deceived him—played him for a fool—he shouldn’t have
driven her from the room without even offering to call on one of
the staff to provide her with assistance. There was no doubt about
it, he’d been a thoughtless brute.

He crossed over to his desk and collapsed
into his chair, clutching his spinning, aching head in his hands.
As much as it would pain both of them—in fact he’d much rather face
the prospect of having a limb amputated—and maybe it should be his
head, it throbbed like the very devil—he knew he’d have to speak
with Beth sometime today, if only to arrange an alternative
situation for her. Despite what had transpired between them, he
wasn’t completely heartless—he would never throw her out with no
means of support, and nowhere to go.

But where
would
she go?

Would she want to return to her husband?

His gut told him that she wouldn’t.

In the long dark hours of the night as he’d
single-mindedly worked his way through one of his strongest single
malts, he had gone through their last fraught conversation in his
head, over and over again before his thoughts had become too
addled. What he’d failed to grasp then, and still didn’t understand
now, was
why
. Why had Beth done what she’d done?

The question was like a burning bullet in
his brain, and he wouldn’t be satisfied until he knew the
answer.

One thing was certain, there had to be more
to Beth’s ‘complicated’ situation than she had cared to admit. But
then, he hadn’t given her a chance to explain anything. The more he
thought about what she’d said—or hadn’t said last night—the
stronger his instinct became that the Beth he knew—sweet, caring,
intelligent, loving—wouldn’t have left her husband on a whim. She
must have had a damn good reason. But after his behavior last
night—he cringed at the memory of how he’d lashed out at her—would
she share it with him?

And neither did he think that becoming his
lover was an inconsequential matter for her. Now, in the cold light
of day, he realized he’d been wrong to think of Beth as some cruel,
calculating jade. Beth was nothing like Isabelle. And fool that he
was, he’d been too quick to judge. He hadn’t been fair to her. No,
not at all.

After everything they’d shared, he couldn’t
turn his back on Beth. However much it hurt to see her, he would
help her in whatever way he could.

Rothsburgh was roused from his tumultuous
thoughts by the arrival of Roberts—brilliant man that he
was—bearing an already assembled tray of refreshments; a jug of
water, a pot of coffee, and fresh warm baps with butter and
marmalade.

“I didna think you would mind tha’ I took
the liberty of bringin’ you a few things for breakfast, milord,” he
said with the quiet gravity befitting a reverend at a funeral.
Roberts obviously knew he had a splitting head. “’Tis close to
eleven o’clock, an’ as you missed dinner last night…”

“It’s quite all right, Roberts. I appreciate
your…thoughtfulness.” Rothsburgh gestured at the desk. “No need to
set up the dining table. I’ll just have it here.”

“Verra good, milord…” Roberts carefully laid
out each item, clearly taking care not to clatter the china or
cutlery, but when he was done, he hesitated by the end of the desk,
empty tray in hand, looking uncharacteristically uncertain.
“Milord…”

Rothsburgh glanced up from buttering one of
Mrs. Roberts’s excellent baps. “Yes, my good man?” He wasn’t sure
why, but judging by the expression on Roberts’s face, what his
butler was about to say wasn’t going to be something he wanted to
hear. He put down his knife. “What is it?”

“I just thought ye should know that Mrs.
Eliott…” The butler started to fidget and the sinking sensation in
the pit of Rothsburgh’s stomach only intensified. “Weel, she left
this mornin’, milord.”

“What?” Rothsburgh surged to his feet and
gripped the table, partly to support himself, but also to prevent
himself from throttling Roberts. “When?”

“At first light, milord, as soon as the tide
was far enough oot. Todd took her over in the carriage to The Black
Barnacle wi’ her trunk to wait fer the eight o’clock mail-coach
south. I’m sorry, milord. I verra much wanted to tell you, but Mrs.
Eliott made me swear no’ to. She said tha’ she wasna’ fit to be
employed here any longer. Tha’ she had to go. An’ after the
incident wi’ Lord Blaire yesterday…weel, I didna know wha’ to make
of things. She seemed…no’ herself. I didna like to pry…” He reached
into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a parchment envelope.
“But she asked me to give you this, milord…when you awoke.”

Rothsburgh took the letter, not able to hide
the shaking of his hand. “Before you go, Roberts, do you know…did
she mention to you or to Todd, where she might be headed other than
just south?”

“I dinna think so, milord. But I could ask
Mrs. Roberts or Maisie per’aps. Might I also add, milord, even
though it’s probably no’ my place to say, we are all
verra…surprised an’ saddened to see Mrs. Eliott go. She is…a bonnie
woman, milord. We shall all miss her.”

Rothsburgh cleared his throat, but failed to
conceal the hoarse emotion in his voice. “Yes. Indeed.”
Bonnie
didn’t even come close to summing up the rare diamond
that was Beth, but he appreciated the sentiment behind what Roberts
had just said all the same. “That will be all, Roberts.”

As soon as the library door shut, Rothsburgh
tore open the envelope.

Lord Rothsburgh,

God, she’d gone back to using his bloody
title.

Although I am probably the last person you
would ever want to hear from, now, at the hour of my leaving, I
felt that I couldn’t go without expressing my sincere and humble
gratitude for your care and kindness.

I will remember you always.

B.

Fuck
. He didn’t want her sincere and
humble gratitude. He wanted her love.

Rothsburgh flung the letter down onto the
desk and pinched the bridge of his nose as biting despair
threatened to take hold.

He was solely to blame for driving Beth
away. If he had been able to rein in his anger. If he had shown
some compassion and offered to help her instead of turning his back
on her…

When Beth had said that she would go last
night, he didn’t realize that she meant to abandon Eilean
Tor—him—completely.

Despite everything, this couldn’t be the
end.

He had to find her.

He drew in a shuddering breath and picked up
the letter again, tracing the finely-executed, elegantly flowing
letters with the tip of one finger as if they could provide him
with some clue as to Beth’s whereabouts.

He didn’t even know where to forward her
wages. Hell, the last thing he wanted to do was treat her like some
common doxy by paying her for her ‘services rendered’. He wanted to
give her his name, indeed everything he had. But he couldn’t, and
if she wasn’t going back to her husband—as he suspected she
wouldn’t—she would need a way to support herself. For that reason
alone he had to locate her.

Christ, she probably didn’t even have a
reference now.

Rothsburgh started to rifle through the
stack of papers on one corner of his desk, praying that Lady
Beauchamp’s letter hadn’t been lost. If Roberts or the other staff
could recall any detail of where Beth was headed, when the tide was
out he could attempt to return her reference to her. Or provide her
with one from himself for that matter—if she’d accept it.

He’d do anything she wanted.

He’d almost given up, when at last, he spied
the single sheet of thick cream parchment embossed with the
Countess of Beauchamp’s own distinctive monogram, on the very
bottom of the pile. He scanned the page quickly, looking for any
piece of information that might give him another clue about Beth,
where she came from, any former employers whom he could contact
that might have a better idea of her background. If he had to, he
would go all the way to bloody London to speak with Lady Beauchamp
herself.

But there was nothing in the letter that he
didn’t already know about Beth.

Releasing an exasperated sigh, he cast the
reference down onto the desk beside Beth’s all too brief goodbye
letter. Then blinked. Ran a hand over his eyes and looked again,
hardly daring to trust what he saw before him.

Beth’s handwriting and Lady Beauchamp’s were
exactly
the same.

What the hell?

He picked up both pieces of paper, his mind
reeling from the implications. There were only two possibilities;
either Beth had forged herself a reference from a peeress of the
realm—a seemingly impossible feat given that it was written on Lady
Beauchamp’s own personal stationary, and the wax seal bore the
imprint of the Beauchamp coat-of-arms.

Or the woman professing to be Mrs. Beth
Eliott was actually Elizabeth, the Countess of Beauchamp.

And he’d stake his life on the second
scenario.

It was as if he’d suddenly found the key to
the puzzle box. Everything that had both intrigued and mystified
him about Beth suddenly made sense; her innate poise and elegance
in everything she did and said; her natural knowledge of staff
management and running such a large household as Eilean Tor—unusual
skills for a woman from the middle classes to have, but natural for
a countess who probably ran at least two households; her
intelligence and quiet confidence, her superb skills as a pianist.
He’d always sensed she was someone from his own class, not the just
the wife of a middle-class subaltern.