Lady Beauchamp's Proposal (6 page)

She raised a shaking hand to her fevered
brow and pushed a damp lock of hair out of her eyes. “I…I don’t
know what to say, Lord Rothsburgh.” There was a hard lump in her
throat and her eyes were suddenly misty. She bit her lip and willed
herself not to cry. It had been a mistake to come here. Perhaps she
was the fool the marquess thought she was.

She couldn’t stay. Perhaps the tide was
still low enough for her to return to Torhaven. She could beg Mr.
Geddes for a room—she would pay of course. “It’s probably best if I
go then, my lord.” She stood abruptly and the room swayed before
her eyes.

“Mrs. Eliott…”

Her name was the last thing she heard before
blackness descended.

“Mrs. Eliott…Christ.”

Rothsburgh leapt to his feet, but was not
fast enough to catch the crumpling form of the beautiful widow. She
sprawled face down across the rug before him.

Rosencrantz whined and nuzzled at her head.
Rothsburgh fell to his knees and after shooing away the hound, he
gently turned the woman onto her side. She was out cold.

He felt for a pulse at her neck—it was
strong—and he noted her breathing was slightly shallow yet steady.
As he had already suspected, she was burning up with fever. Her
smooth, alabaster skin was unnaturally hot beneath his fingers and
there was perspiration across her brow. There was no doubt in his
mind that she had contracted the dreadful ague that had recently
plagued this corner of Aberdeenshire.

He sighed heavily. She would be decidedly
ill for another three or four days until the fever broke. Then she
would develop a debilitating cough that would last for another week
or more. That meant he would be responsible for her care for at
least another fortnight.

How ironic, considering that after the death
of his faithless wife only six weeks ago, he had sworn that he
would never let another female who wasn’t family or a clanswoman
under his employ, cross his threshold again.

Confounded woman.
This was the last
thing he needed. He should never have let Mrs. Eliott through the
door in the first place.

The ague had arrived with devastating impact
in Torhaven about a fortnight ago and most of the staff at Eilean
Tor had succumbed to it as well; in fact the castle’s housekeeper
Mrs. Barrie, the wife of the gameskeeper, had sadly passed
away.

Rothsburgh thanked all the angels in heaven
that his sister Helena had taken his daughter, Annabelle, to
Edinburgh a month ago, well before the pestilence had arrived. He
was one of the few who had not contracted the illness. God only
knew why.

He ordered Rosencrantz and Guildenstern to
stay at the edge of the hearthrug, and then crossed the room to
ring for Roberts. He was reluctant to do so; the butler still had a
fearsome cough, as did his wife, the castle’s cook—in fact he had
ordered them to retire early this evening to assist with their
recuperation—but Rothsburgh would need the good man’s help to open
up and ready one of the guest rooms in the wing where his own suite
of rooms was located.

Roberts appeared in good time and took the
news of the unexpected arrival of Mrs. Eliott in his customary
stride. The man was loyal to a fault and truly unflappable.

Once he had quit the library, Rothsburgh
returned to Mrs. Eliott—Beth. She had not moved at all. He bent
down and easily lifted her into his arms. He had already noted when
he had first opened the door on her that she was of medium height
and very slender. In fact, she barely weighed anything at all.
Indeed, he suspected that half the weight he carried was sodden
wool.

Looking down at her, he noticed that her
head had lolled back at an awkward angle, so he adjusted her
position until she was better cradled in his arms with her head
resting against his shoulder. She murmured slightly and her eyelids
fluttered open for a second before she subsided into oblivion
again.

He couldn’t resist the temptation to study
her face for a moment; even though she was in a feverish,
disheveled state, he was helplessly arrested by her delicate
beauty.

She had the face of an angel
.

He guessed she was in her early twenties. In
his opinion, she was far too young to be a destitute widow—she
should be enjoying life to the full, instead of searching for work
in the middle of nowhere. But as he well knew, life was hardly ever
fair.

He suspected she had blonde hair, although
it was so wet, it was difficult to tell the exact shade. Whatever
hairstyle she had previously arranged it into, had largely
collapsed. Nevertheless, he could tell it was luxuriously thick; it
curled damply in natural waves about her cheeks and across her
forehead. Long, surprisingly dark eyelashes fanned over her flushed
cheeks, and although hidden from his view now, he also knew she had
large grey eyes. The irises were a clear, silver-grey, rimmed with
a darker grey; he had registered their exceptional shade during her
interview, such as it was.

Next, his eyes drifted lower to her
rose-pink lips, now slightly parted as she breathed softly against
his neck. Her lower lip was quite full, even sinfully full he
thought, when compared to the rest of her angelic fairness; it
pouted in such a way that he had to suppress the sudden, dangerous
urge to suck the tantalizing curve into his mouth and kiss her.

Cursing himself for being both a cad and the
worst kind of fool—it had been a long time since he’d been so
captivated by a woman’s physical beauty—he roused himself from his
unashamed perusal and strode out into the hall, and then up the
stairs to the east wing.

Faint light spilled from one of the open
doors. Roberts had obviously got the fire going and set the candles
alight. Entering the room, he found the butler turning down the
bedclothes. Nearby was a pile of fresh towels and additional
blankets. There was also a bowl and ewer filled with fresh water,
warming by the fire.

“Can I get ye anything else, milord?” asked
Roberts. His voice was strained and slightly breathless. Rothsburgh
could see that he was trying very hard to suppress a fit of
coughing. His butler was not a young man by any means, and still
sick as a dog; he clearly needed to go back to bed himself.

“No, that will be all, Roberts. I’ll take
care of things from here.”

“Weel, if ye are sure, milord—” Roberts
covered his mouth and gave into the urge to cough.

Rothsburgh gave him a mock frown. “Go, man,
and get back to bed. Don’t make me come and tuck you in.”

Roberts bowed his thanks and swiftly left
the room, closing the door behind him. Rothsburgh wasn’t sure if
the subsequent barking sound coming from the corridor was coughing,
laughter, or both.

He crossed the room to the large four-poster
bed, and gently laid the young widow upon the exposed sheets. She
did not make a sound. He straightened and then crossed his arms,
staring down at her. What he needed to do—which was to get her warm
and dry—would be difficult without her being conscious. He wished
to God the woman would wake up.

He placed a hand on her shoulder and shook
her gently. “Mrs. Eliott. Beth. Open your eyes. Can you hear me?”
She didn’t stir at all. He squeezed one of her hands. Her fingers
were hot and clammy at the same time.

A glint of something silver caught his eye.
Lifting her right hand, he noticed a wedding band. It was a
delicately wrought piece—an intricate filigree design—and quite
beautiful. He didn’t miss the significance of her wearing it on her
right ring finger; Mrs. Eliott obviously still honored the memory
of her husband. She’d intimated he’d perished at Waterloo so he
would have died less than four months ago. She would still be in
deep mourning.

A cynical smile quirked the corner of his
mouth. He, on the other hand, barely grieved for Isabelle, even
though her death was recent. But then, his love for her had died
long ago. Indeed, he didn’t even know where Isabelle’s gold wedding
band was. Even sadder was the realization that he didn’t really
care. How could he, when Isabelle had hardly ever worn it? Like
holding to her marriage vows, the ring had obviously meant little
to her.

He brushed his thumb across Beth’s silver
wedding ring, and tried to rouse her again by calling her name. Her
eyelids did not flicker in the slightest.

Hell and damnation.
He was going to
have to undress her himself.

Aside from Mrs. Roberts—the butler’s
wife—who was currently indisposed, there were no other female
servants at Eilean Tor. After Isabelle’s death, her lady’s maid had
secured another position, and the nursemaid who looked after
Annabelle had gone with his daughter to Edinburgh. And the few
scullery maids from the village who Mrs. Roberts saw fit to employ
within the kitchen, were all currently in Torhaven caring for their
own sick families, or they were unwell themselves.

She’s sick and unconscious, man—just
bloody get on with it.
He’d fought at Waterloo himself for
Christ’s sake. Why should he hesitate when it came to carrying out
such a simple task? Hadn’t he undressed women hundreds of times? He
knew what to do—could do it with his eyes closed in fact. But the
difference was, the women had always been awake and willing.

Sighing heavily in resignation, Rothsburgh
moved down to the end of the bed and unlaced Mrs. Eliott’s black
ankle boots, before tugging them off. Despite his best intentions
not to pay attention to particular details about her, he noticed
that beneath her fine silk stockings, she had small, delicate feet
and slender ankles. Blowing out another exasperated breath, he
placed her boots by the hearth to dry, and then returned to sit
next to her.

“Mrs. Eliott…Beth, wake up.”

Still, there was no response.

Now comes the hardest part
—taking off
her dress and undergarments. He couldn’t help but smile ruefully at
himself for his choice of words, because despite his best efforts,
his
part was growing exactly that—hard as a bloody rock. At
least Mrs. Eliott wouldn’t notice.

Gritting his teeth, he set about undoing the
jet buttons of her black woolen spencer. He eased her forward,
trying to ignore the feel of her breath against his cheek as he
slid the jacket off. Whilst he was not overly
au fait
with
the fashions of the day, he noticed that her clothes were well-cut
and of high quality.

Interesting
. Perhaps her husband had
been an officer. She must have had a little money at some point. He
guessed she must hail from the middle-classes. That would also
explain her perfect annunciation and genteel accomplishments,
although not so much her brusque manner. He smiled, recalling the
flash of her silver-grey eyes when she’d stood up to his deliberate
taunting. She had spirit, he’d give her that much.

He cast his eyes over the bodice of her
travelling dress, more black wool, trimmed about the modest
neckline with black lace. No buttons; the gown obviously did up at
the back. As gently as he could, he rolled her onto her side, then
quickly released the small jet fastenings. As each one slid open,
he exposed her fine linen shift and lightly boned stays that also
laced down the back.

He’d been right when he’d assumed that she
was slender; perhaps she was even a little too thin. He could
clearly see the outline of her elegant spine and her small waist as
he unlaced her stays. However, as he rolled her back then gently
eased off the garments, he was surprised to see that she had quite
an ample bust, despite her slimness. Through her wet shift, he
couldn’t help but notice that her breasts were perfectly rounded
and her peaked nipples were a dusky pink beneath the flimsy,
transparent fabric. He swallowed and returned his gaze to her face,
suddenly feeling as guilty as a youth caught spying through a
keyhole at a woman attending to her toilette.

But she was still asleep, thank God. He was
as randy as a stallion, his balls in sheer agony. And he hadn’t
even taken off her wet shift.

To distract himself, he picked up her
discarded clothes and draped them over a chair before the fire.
Turning back was a mistake. Perhaps she had moved—he wasn’t
sure—but her shift had rucked up around her legs, revealing linen
drawers that clung to long, slender thighs. Christ, he would come
before he’d even finished the job.

It suddenly occurred to him that he had
nothing to dress her in once all of her wet things were removed. He
couldn’t leave her naked. Swearing under his breath, he returned to
the bed and pulled the covers up over her. He would have to hunt
for something for her to wear.

He left the room and strode down the
corridor to his own bedchamber. On entering, he immediately noticed
that Roberts had also thoughtfully ignited the fire and candles for
him before retiring as instructed. He made straight for the
sideboard and poured himself a double whisky before tossing it back
in one gulp. He knew he shouldn’t drink too much but, God in
heaven, he needed something to douse the fire in his loins before
he returned to Mrs. Eliott.

He poured himself another dram. Whilst
sipping this one, he racked his brains to think of some garment he
could easily procure to preserve a little of the widow’s dignity,
and his own sanity. He assumed the blasted woman had luggage—she’d
probably been forced to leave it at The Black Barnacle. Of course,
her things could be retrieved tomorrow, but that wasn’t going to
help him tonight. Isabelle’s clothing had all been disposed of by
his sister. And he could hardly go knocking on Roberts’s door to
request one of his wife’s nightrails.

He downed the last mouthful of whisky and
realized that he would just have to dress her in one of his
nightshirts for the time being; it was better than
nothing—marginally.