Lady Beauchamp's Proposal (38 page)

She would never be able to work him out. But
for her own piece of mind she had to try.

“Hugh…” Her voice sounded raw, like her
throat had been scraped out.

He took a sip of brandy and continued to
stare into the fire, as if she wasn’t there.

She took a deep breath, tried again. “Hugh.
What I did…what I’ve done…I can’t change it. Any of it. All I can
do is offer you a promise that I won’t abandon you again.”

Hugh shrugged. “Your promises don’t matter
because I won’t let you go.”

“I just want to make sure Rothsburgh’s all
right, Hugh. And to say goodbye.”

He gave a snort of laughter, the red livid
rash standing out against the paleness of the skin beneath. “What,
one last poke before you’re ripped apart forever?”

“Stop it.” Elizabeth stood abruptly, her
voice shaking with barely contained anger. “Don’t you dare laugh at
me, Hugh. Not after everything you did with Isabelle. For years and
years.”

Hugh’s blue eyes narrowed and he gave her a
cool, speculative look. She couldn’t be certain but perhaps there
was also a hint of respect in his expression. “You’ve changed,
Elizabeth,” he said quietly, a smile suddenly lifting the corner of
his mouth. “I think I like this version of you better.”

Elizabeth opened her mouth to speak, then
closed it again. Of all the things Hugh could have said, she had
not expected that. “Do you know,” she said at last, “that’s the
first time in our married life that you’ve said something to me
that’s even close to a compliment?”

Hugh lifted his brandy balloon and studied
the amber-brown liquid before taking another sip. “I know you’ve
been unhappy,” he said quietly. “But I’ve always been a sick
bastard, Elizabeth. You should be pleased that I left you alone…for
the most part.”

Elizabeth sat again. This was also the first
time that Hugh actually seemed to be engaging in something that
approximated an honest conversation.

“You should have married Isabelle,” she said
softly, studying his face.

He looked back at her. “Yes. I should have.
But I was too young, and selfish, and stupid at the time.” He took
a sip of brandy and she noticed the glint of a sapphire in the
folds of his scarf. “How much did Rothsburgh tell you?”

She considered his question for a moment but
there seemed no point in lying. “Everything.”

“Hmm.” His gaze returned to her. “So you
know about Annabelle?”

She swallowed. “Yes. I met her today. She
looks just like you, Hugh.”

“Well that’s something, isn’t it?” There was
a decided trace of bitterness in his voice. “There’ll be someone on
this earth who carries my blood, even if she can’t bear my name.”
He closed his eyes and she fancied that she saw a glimmer of tears
in the long lashes that fanned across his pock-marked cheeks.

Although she knew she was being unkind by
pressing him for information when he was so clearly upset, there
was something she needed to know. Something that had been plaguing
her ever since she had left him. “Hugh, that last night when you
came to my room…did…did you know you had syphilis?”

He put down his brandy and swiped at his
eyes with his sleeve. “No…maybe…” He drew in a shaky breath and
lifted his gaze to hers. “I was an arrogant prick, Elizabeth, and I
didn’t want to know. I just never thought something like this could
happen to me. It wasn’t until I’d heard that Isabelle had died…and
then you left…I started to feel unwell and I went to see Dr.
Morton. That’s when I found out for certain.”

His face suddenly contorted into a rictus of
anguish. “I killed her, didn’t I, Elizabeth? Isabelle died because
of me.” He dropped his face into his gloved hands and his shoulders
began to heave with wracking sobs.

Despite everything she’d endured during
their marriage—his indifference, his cruel comments, his rampant
infidelity—Elizabeth’s heart ached to see her husband brought so
low. And there was nothing she could say that would help to
mitigate his culpability. Even so, she sank to her knees beside him
and placed a gloved hand on his back, on his coat.

“No…stay away from me.” Hugh shrugged her
off. “The rash…it’s contagious.”

“I know,” she said softly, replacing her
hand. “But I’m sure it’s all right to touch you like this.”

They stayed that way for some time until
Hugh’s sobs eased and all that could be heard was the quiet crackle
of logs in the grate.

Hugh was the first to break the almost
companionable silence. “It was probably for the best that you got
away, Elizabeth…before I took you to bed…because I would have you
know. With the shock of hearing that Isabelle had died, I wanted an
heir. But you of all people…you don’t deserve this…any of
this.”

Elizabeth bit her lip hard, willing herself
not to cry. What if she’d stayed? What if she’d tried harder to
make him see reason? Insisted that he see the doctor. Shown him the
letter. “I tried to talk to you about it Hugh…after I found
out—”

“I know.” He suddenly frowned and shot her a
searching look. “How
did
you find out, by the way? It
couldn’t just have been the sore on my hand that made you
suspicious.”

Her breath caught. Guilt felt like a heavy
stone in her chest. How would he react to her disclosure? “I
received a letter, warning me. The writer claimed to be your
mistress. I only found out recently that it was penned by Isabelle.
After I showed it to James.”

A tense silence followed. Hugh bowed his
head and his gloved hands clenched into fists on his thighs.

God, had she been too quick to judge her
husband?
“If I’d shown you—”

“I would have told you it was rubbish.” He
fixed his bloodshot eyes on her. “I told Isabelle the same thing
when she accused me of having the pox, the last time I ever saw
her. It was in London, just after we got back from the Continent,
after Waterloo. We fought, and she went back to Scotland. Like I
said, Elizabeth, I didn’t want to know. I understand that you felt
you had no other option but to leave. But what I don’t understand,”
and his gaze suddenly became disdainful, “is what you see in that
soft-cock Rothsburgh. It certainly didn’t take you too long to lift
your skirts for him.”

Elizabeth winced. “You probably won’t
believe me, but when I left you, Hugh, I never set out to be
unfaithful. I just wanted to be…safe. It was pure chance that led
me to Scotland. I applied for the governess’s post at Eilean Tor. I
heard about it through the Trust.”

Hugh ran his eyes over her. “Hence the guise
of virtuous widow…I’m sure that appealed no end to Rothsburgh. I
always thought he was a self-righteous prig.”

Elizabeth stood up, her cheeks burning.
“That’s enough, Hugh,” she bit out. “You have no right to judge
him.”

“Are you pregnant?” His gaze dropped to her
belly.

Her cheeks grew even hotter, but she held
his gaze. “I don’t know…perhaps.”

His mouth twisted into a mirthless smile.
“Now that would be ironic. Rothsburgh’s by-blow as my heir.”

“Hugh—”

“Don’t worry, Elizabeth. If you are, I’ll
acknowledge the child as mine. It’d serve Rothsburgh bloody right,
though, if his bastard child ended up with my name. That would piss
him off no end, I would imagine. It would be poetic justice for
both of us, don’t you think?”

Tears pricked and she turned away. She
probably deserved Hugh’s censure. And she should be grateful to him
for his…consideration, crudely stated though it was. Nevertheless,
it hurt to hear him talk so cruelly about the man she loved,
especially because James had taken such wonderful care of
Annabelle.

“For God’s sake, Elizabeth, if I give you
until dawn tomorrow to say goodbye to him, will you stop
blubbering?”

She swung around to face him again, relief
and fragile hope flickering within her. “So James is all right
then?”

“As far as I know…Well that’s not strictly
true,” he smirked. “I’m sure Rothsburgh’s got more than a few
bruises and a sore head.” His eyes narrowed and he raised an
eyebrow, his expression now cynical. “It may surprise you, but I’m
not entirely stupid, Elizabeth. If I only have a decade or so left
on this earth, I certainly don’t want to cut it short by having
Rothsburgh’s murder on my hands. He’s not worth swinging for,
believe me.”

She frowned then shook her head. “I don’t
understand. Why would you do this?” She didn’t trust him. He must
have some other agenda. It was not like him to make concessions.
Especially about something like this.

He gave her a mocking smile. “So
distrustful, my dear wife. But you’re right. I’m not giving you
this opportunity out of the goodness of my heart.”

“Then why?”

He cast her a flat look, his contempt clear.
“Well, it’s not like I’m in any fit state to get a healthy child on
you now, am I? You said a moment ago you might be pregnant. Well, I
intend to make sure that you are. I’ll be buggered before I let the
title go to some thin-blooded distant cousin of mine that I’ve
never even met. I’d rather have a bastard for an heir than none at
all.”

So there it was. She was nothing but a brood
mare to him after all. It shouldn’t surprise her that he was
willing to do just about anything, or let her do anything, to
ensure the Beauchamp line continued on, even if the child she bore
wasn’t his.

She bit her lip again with the effort it
took to stem the sudden sting of bitter tears. She was relieved
that he didn’t want to take her to bed. She should be thankful that
she was going to see James one last time. But Hugh was making her
feel…dirty…and worthless.

This was more like the man she knew. She had
been foolish in the extreme to expect anything else from her
husband.

He was right
.
He was nothing but a
self-centered, arrogant prick.

Hugh sighed heavily, as if bored. “Devil
take you, Elizabeth. Will nothing please you? I’ve given you
permission to fuck yourself stupid all night, and still you’re not
happy.”

“I will do as you bid, husband.” Try as she
might, she couldn’t hide the note of sarcasm in her voice.

“Yes, you damn well will.” He gave her a
long look. “There will be terms, though. I won’t have you running
off again. You owe me. I won’t be made the laughing stock of the
ton
like Rothsburgh.”

“Of course, my lord. I wouldn’t want to be
the one to dishonor your family name after all.”

His cool blue gaze hardened. “Even though I
said before that I preferred this feistier version of you, I’d
watch my tongue if I were you.” He picked up his brandy and eyed
her over the glass. “Now go and summon a footman. There are things
that need to be arranged.”

Elizabeth inclined her head, then turned
away. There was nothing left to say, because in the end, she
couldn’t turn down the only chance she would ever have to say
goodbye to James. Whatever the terms. Whatever the reason.

She would seize happiness while she still
could, because come tomorrow, it may never be hers again.

* * * *

“I’m verra sorry to disturb you, milord, but
there’s a footman at the door, claimin’ to be from the Earl of
Beauchamp’s household. An’ he’s most insistent tha’ he hand
delivers a message to you, and only you.”

What the hell?

Rothsburgh cast aside the tumbler of whisky
he’d been drinking in a pitiful attempt to deaden his physical, if
not emotional pain, and leapt from his seat. Striding past Malcolm,
he quit the library and made straight for the vestibule. Sure
enough, just outside the door stood a poker-faced servant attired
in the Beauchamp household livery.

“I’m Lord Rothsburgh. What do you want?” he
demanded. It was eight o’clock at night, almost exactly four hours
since he’d last seen Beth.

Four hours since his life had been ripped
apart.

After he’d come to in the abbey—he suspected
he’d only been unconscious for a short time—he’d spent the next few
hours single-mindedly pouring as many resources as he possibly
could, into locating Beth—only to be informed an hour ago by
Colonel Dixon of the Scots Guard that Lord Beauchamp was indeed in
Town and that he, Rothsburgh, didn’t have a hope in hell of getting
Beth back. She was another man’s wife, and that’s all there was to
it. Dixon could do nothing.

His friend wouldn’t even tell him where
bloody Beauchamp was staying.

“I dinna want a duel, or any other crime of
passion on my doorstep, Rothsburgh,” he’d said sternly. “My advice
to you, my friend, is to forget her. Go home an’ drown yer sorrows.
I’m afraid ye canna do anythin’ else.”

Despite what Dixon had decreed, Rothsburgh
couldn’t let it lie. He would find Beth, if it was the last thing
he did. No matter the cost. Even if he could never see her again,
he had to know that she was safe. He’d already sent his own spies
out into the night to find her. But now, ironically, there was one
of Beauchamp’s lackeys at his very door.

So what the devil was Beauchamp up to
now?

“My lord.” The man bowed and offered him a
sealed envelope.

Rothsburgh snatched it from him—he was
beyond caring about appearances—and hastily scanned the
parchment.

It was from Beth. Thank God.
He
dropped his head. He felt like he could breathe again.

He read the message again and then addressed
the footman. “I agree to the terms,” he said tersely.

“Very good, my lord.”

Rothsburgh then turned to Malcolm, who had
been lurking at a discrete distance during the odd exchange. “I’m
going out,” he said in a voice loud enough for Beauchamp’s footman
to hear. “If I’m not back by seven o’clock tomorrow morning, you
are to inform Colonel Dixon of the Scots Guard. And tell him it
would be best to check with Lord Beauchamp about my whereabouts as
the first port of call. Is that understood?”