Lady Beauchamp's Proposal (8 page)

What on earth was wrong with her? Maybe the
fever had addled her brain.

Just at that moment, Lord Rothsburgh began
to stir. She started guiltily, and turned her gaze to the fire. Out
of the corner of her eye, she noticed that he rolled to his side
and one of his arms reached toward the side of the bed where she
had been.

“Beth…” he murmured sleepily. His use of her
Christian name was telling; it implied an intimacy between them
that she knew nothing about. How much had he been involved in her
care? It was frustrating in the extreme that she couldn’t
remember.

His hand ran over the sheets and then he
opened his dark eyes. “Beth?” He quickly pushed himself up to a
sitting position, looking around the room—for her.

His eyes quickly came to rest upon her and
he smiled sleepily. She was surprised that it seemed to be in
genuine pleasure. “Beth…I mean, Mrs. Eliott. You’re up. How are you
feeling?”

“I’ve been better.” Her voice emerged as a
hoarse rasp. It hurt to talk.

Lord Rothsburgh frowned and immediately got
up from the bed. She was grateful that his loose shirt now
concealed his inopportune arousal, especially when he poured her a
glass of water from a jug on the nightstand and brought it over to
her.

“Here, drink this, Be—Mrs. Eliott.”

She dutifully took the glass, taking care
not to brush her fingers against his, and took a much needed drink.
After a few painful sips she paused.

“Razor blade throat?” he asked.

“Very much so,” she croaked.

“You don’t have to talk.” To her surprise,
he suddenly reached out and tenderly felt her brow. “At least your
fever has broken,” he said with a smile, his gaze wandering over
her face.

As if to belie his pronouncement, she felt
her whole face flush. She couldn’t bear his close scrutiny and
gentle touch. It was a stark reminder that Hugh had never touched
her with care or kindness. Her heart was pounding in her
chest—surely Lord Rothsburgh must hear it and suspect how affected
she was by him. His raw masculine beauty was difficult to deal with
even at a distance. This closeness was too much.

To break the moment, she suddenly thrust the
glass toward him. “I’ve had enough. Thank you.”

He quirked an eyebrow then to her relief, he
moved away to replace the glass on the nightstand. Then he sat on
the edge of the bed directly opposite her, a thoughtful expression
in his eyes.

He’d said she didn’t need to talk but she
had to. She needed to find out exactly what had happened, and
perhaps even more importantly, she needed to work out what she
would do next.

But first she needed to convey her
thankfulness to the marquess for taking her in—before she lost her
nerve. She drew in a shaky breath and met his eyes. “I’m at a loss
as to what to say, Lord Rothsburgh, other than I’m so sorry to have
inconvenienced you—”

He snorted. “What nonsense, Mrs. Eliott. You
really don’t need to apologize. It’s not as if you contracted the
ague intentionally.”

She frowned. “Nevertheless, my lord, I feel
I must apologize for having put you and your staff out at such a
difficult time. My arrival on your doorstep was without invitation.
That, in and of itself, was presumptuous of me to say the least.
And then to force such a burden of care upon you…whatever you say,
my lord, I feel compelled to express my gratitude. I am in your
debt.”

Lord Rothsburgh inclined his head. “Your
thanks is duly noted, Mrs. Eliott. But I must insist there is no
indebtedness on your part.”

She nodded. His words were reassuring but
she still felt awkward beyond imagining. And flustered. She
supposed that being clothed only in a shawl and nightrail in front
of a very casually dressed Lord Rothsburgh, wasn’t helping matters.
Nevertheless, she needed to broach the next difficult topic on her
mind.

Dredging up her courage, she spoke again.
“Thank you for your graciousness. However, I must say, my lord,
that I am more than a bit troubled by the circumstances which I
find myself in.”

He raised a quizzical eyebrow.

She gestured at herself, and then toward him
and the rest of the room. “This seems…highly inappropriate…to say
the least.”

Lord Rothsburgh shook his head, his wide
mouth tilting into a wry smile. He rested his forearms on his
thighs and looked up at her. “You’ve been gravely ill, Mrs. Eliott,
and you’re worried about propriety?”

She blushed in flustered indignation. “Well,
yes…when I woke up…you and I were…I’m sure you know what I
mean.”

The marquess’s eyes had grown darker, his
gaze more intense as she spoke. “I can assure you that your virtue
is intact,” he said with grave sincerity. “I apologize that I…fell
asleep on the job so to speak.”

Elizabeth’s cheeks were burning now. “I’m
afraid I don’t recall much…”

“I’m not surprised. You’ve been barely
conscious for three days.”

“Three days?” She was aghast. She had indeed
been ill. Her mind reeled at the implications, and despite the
marquess’s assurances to the contrary, she certainly did owe him
more than mere gratitude.

Lord Rothsburgh watched her steadily. “I can
see you are shocked. And as you have perhaps already surmised, I
have taken part in a great deal of your care—out of necessity, not
by design I assure you. Mrs. Roberts, Eilean Tor’s cook, also
assisted when she was able. Unfortunately she is still recovering
from the ague also. And as all of the other female servants have
been similarly indisposed, and are not currently at the castle, I
thought it best that I attend you. There really was no one
else.”

Elizabeth swallowed and clutched her shawl
more tightly about herself. This was far worse than she had
thought. A maelstrom of questions whirled around her mind. Had Lord
Rothsburgh gotten her out of her wet clothes? How much had he seen
of her body? How had he touched her? How many times had she curled
up against him in sleep? She glanced toward the garderobe. For
heaven’s sake, had he taken her to the privy?

“Oh…that must have been…arduous for you, my
lord.”

He clasped his hands together and leant
forward, his arms still resting on his long muscular legs. His
penetrating gaze locked with hers. “Please forgive me for
mentioning it, but I was at Waterloo like your husband, Mrs.
Eliott. Nothing really daunts me anymore after surviving that.
Caring for you was not onerous at all.” He smiled gently then.
“Even helping you to the privy.”

Mortification swept over her in a great
wave. She dropped her head, unable to look at Lord Rothsburgh any
longer. Hardened soldier or not, he shouldn’t have had to—no, she
didn’t want to think about it. There was absolutely no way on earth
that she could find employment here now, knowing the marquess had
been her nursemaid. She couldn’t endure it.

But where was she to go? What was she to do
now?

She raised a shaking hand and pushed her
snarled hair away from her face—it felt like a matted bird’s nest.
What a sight she must look. Then she realized the marquess had
probably seen her in a far worse state over the last few days. She
closed her eyes, fighting the unexpected urge to cry.

“Beth, it’s all right.” Lord Rothsburgh’s
hand grasped one of hers. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m a
complete dolt with words sometimes. I speak too plainly.”

Elizabeth opened her eyes. Lord Rothsburgh
was kneeling before her. He was too close to her again, his dark
brown eyes regarding her too softly. She was not used to such
behavior from a man. She couldn’t bear it. She must go.

She bit her lip hard and swallowed back the
tears. “I’m just a bit…overwhelmed. Perhaps you could send Mrs.
Roberts to help me when she is able, and then I will prepare to go.
I’ve been too much trouble already. Do you know when the next
mail-coach comes?”

Lord Rothsburgh scowled. “Don’t be
ridiculous. You’re not going anywhere. The disease has yet to run
its full course. Your fever may have broken, but you will be as
weak as a kitten for many more days to come. And then the cough
will set in. It will be another week or so before you are up to
even getting dressed.” His expression then softened. “But I will
send Mrs. Roberts to you later this morning, and arrange for a bath
to be sent up if you’d like.”

She nodded. “Yes, I would like that.” She
dropped her gaze to her lap where Lord Rothsburgh still held her
right hand. His long tanned fingers completely covered her own pale
ones, concealing her wedding ring. She felt small, frail and, oh,
so weak in more ways than she cared to admit.

She determined that the sooner she recovered
and found herself another position the better.

It seemed she had been doomed to fail at
Eilean Tor before she’d even started.

* * * *

Rothsburgh strode away from the guest room,
cursing himself with every expletive he knew for being such a
tactless blockhead. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern ran at his heels.
At least they didn’t mind foul language. He smiled ruefully as he
entered the library. His dogs were about the only company he was
fit to keep.

He made straight for the sideboard and
poured himself a double whisky, before pacing to one of the bay
windows that overlooked the North Sea to watch the sun rise. He
couldn’t believe he had managed to shock, wound and embarrass Beth
so badly in such a short space of time.

Waking up in her bed with a rampant erection
had been the first of his blunders. He prayed that she hadn’t
noticed. But he was certain that she had.

He grimaced and took a decent sip of the
whisky hoping to dispel his own acute embarrassment. Christ, he
hoped he hadn’t reached for her in his sleep. She must think him
the worst kind of lascivious beast. In fact, he was surprised she
hadn’t screamed blue murder and struck him over the head with the
poker, just for finding him in her bed. It was probably no less
than he deserved though, given that for once he hadn’t been
dreaming of hand to hand combat on the battlefield, but of action
of an entirely different kind—with Beth. God help him, his cock was
already starting to twitch again at the memory.

Of course, his second mistake had been to
reveal how much of her care he had administered. He should have
realized that she would not react well to the idea of a man—a
complete stranger—caring for her in such a personal way. But let
the devil take him, what else could he have done given the
circumstances?

He had anticipated that she would have
periods of memory loss. Over the last three days and nights she’d
done little more than toss and turn in a perpetual state of
feverish sleep. There had been one or two times, however, when Beth
had seemed partially aware of her surroundings. He’d obviously been
wrong. When he’d told her that he’d been her main caregiver, she’d
reacted with genuine shock, as if she hadn’t any recollection of
the last few days at all.

And then he’d gone and mentioned the bloody
war. He’d only meant to reassure her that caring for her had not
been testing or burdensome. Instead, all he’d done was completely
humiliate her and tactlessly remind her of her husband’s death, in
one fell swoop.

He tossed back the whisky and then poured
himself another. He’d had too many breakfasts like this. But then
what did it matter, if he drank too much or at inappropriate times,
when there was no one to naysay him, when no one cared?

Turning from the window, he threw himself
into one of the leather wing chairs, and the hounds settled at his
feet. He stared into the dead embers in the grate—he’d often feared
his soul was just as cold and dark. Until Beth had crossed his
doorstep. Somehow she had reignited his long dormant soul and had
set his heart beating again. He might be physically exhausted right
now, but he also felt more alive, more energized than he could
recall feeling for the longest time.

He must be mad; he barely knew the woman.
The baser, masculine side of him liked to think that it was pure
sexual attraction that had set him afire. Beth was
beautiful—despite the disheveled state in which she had arrived and
her illness ravaged state now, he thought she was one of the
loveliest women he’d ever laid eyes on. He hated to think how
overcome he’d be when she was well and looking her best.

If he was honest with himself, he should
also acknowledge that it was more than her looks that attracted
him, little that he knew of her. He sensed spirit and a keen
intelligence…and honor. Her adherence to the convention of wearing
the staid garments associated with deep mourning, as well as her
wedding ring, suggested she wished to pay due respect to her
husband’s memory. She possessed qualities he found both admirable
and…refreshing.

This morning he’d also learned that she
obviously valued her virtue, given her shocked reaction at finding
him in her bed. But then, he had also sensed a reluctant attraction
to him if her shy sideways glances and her blushes were anything to
go by. Perhaps she wasn’t completely immune to him.

He sighed heavily. Not that it mattered. He
really shouldn’t be harboring any sort of interest in the woman,
sexual or otherwise. Corrupting chaste widows was not his usual
style. His mouth twisted into a mirthless smile as he leant his
head back against the headrest of the chair. Tumbling ready and
willing courtesans was more to his taste. But even though he was a
hardened reprobate to the very core, his own transgressions paled
into insignificance when he compared them to the sins of his
wife.

Isabelle.

He took another slug of whisky, trying to
deaden the old pain. It had faded with time but invariably came
back at unexpected moments like this, to stab him anew. Ironic that
the pain of betrayal still hurt him more than the battle
wounds—both physical and emotional—that he’d sustained at Waterloo.
And to his shame, even the actual death of the woman herself.