Lady Beauchamp's Proposal (10 page)

“Good God, Mrs. Eliott. What are you doing
out of bed?”

Elizabeth’s eyes flew open. Her back was to
Lord Rothsburgh, but that didn’t stop her from blushing at being
caught in such an unladylike pose upon the window seat. Why did
this man always seem to have the uncanny knack of catching her at a
disadvantage?

As she hastily tried to turn around and get
down from seat with as much decorum as possible, she felt his hand
upon her arm.

“Allow me,” he said, his touch and the warm
baritone of his voice making her shiver. His hand steadied her as
she slid one leg, then the other off the seat, and she was acutely
aware that he was probably getting a good glimpse of her
stocking-clad ankles. Not that it really mattered.
He’s probably
already seen more of you than your ankles, Elizabeth.

“You didn’t answer my question,” he
prompted, his hand still on her arm. His touch burned her even
through the wool of her sleeve. She glanced up at his face to find
his dark eyes studied her intently. Despite her resolve not to be
affected by this man’s physical attractiveness, she realized it was
hopeless as heat scorched her cheeks and her breathing became
uneven.

Not able to return his searching gaze any
longer, her gaze dropped to his freshly shaved jaw line and his
beautifully sculpted mouth. A mistake because she immediately
wondered what it would be like to be kissed by him. She closed her
eyes and bit her lip.

No, no, no. Don’t ever think it.
You are a married woman
.
And the only reason he’s holding
your arm is to make sure you don’t trip over, or faint at his feet
again.

Stupid, wicked Elizabeth.

Thank God, she would be gone from here
within a week.

“I…I needed to speak with you, my lord,” she
said, annoyed with herself for sounding so obviously breathless and
flustered. She took a step away from him and to her relief, his
hand dropped from her arm.

He cocked a dark eyebrow. “Haven’t you heard
of ringing for the butler? You’ll only delay your recovery, you
know, if you try to do too much too soon.”

“Of course I know how to summon the staff,”
she snapped back before she could stop herself. She should feel
ashamed of her shrewish behavior—it was entirely inappropriate for
someone of her assumed social status and current dependent
situation. But in truth, she was relieved to be trading barbed
comments with the marquess again. It helped her to maintain her
distance. “I…just didn’t want to be a bother.”

Lord Rothsburgh didn’t seem offended though.
The corner of his wide mouth quirked with wry amusement. “You are
not a bother at all,
my lady
.”

Elizabeth paled at his teasing use of the
title. She had come across as too imperious, too rude. She
immediately felt contrite. “I apologize for my waspishness, Lord
Rothsburgh. I am not usually so inclined. I think perhaps my ill
humor is related to…my current indisposition in general.”

“I’m sure that’s the case.” Amusement still
tugged at the corner of his mouth. “And let me assure you that no
offense has been taken. But would you please humor me and take a
seat? You seem quite breathless and your continued rest is of
paramount importance.” He gestured toward the arrangement of chairs
before the hearth where the hounds now sat. Rosencrantz thumped his
tail when she glanced his way.

She smiled at the dog. Inviting as the wing
chairs and the company of Rosencrantz looked, she wanted to retain
a modicum of formality during her discussion with the marquess. She
almost had to remind herself why she had sought the man out to
begin with. He had the alarming effect of scattering her thoughts
like the shredded clouds drifting on the horizon over the sea.

“Perhaps we could sit…at your desk, my
lord.” The wide expanse of magnificently carved oak would provide a
natural barrier between them, as well as create the atmosphere of
decorum she was looking for.

He raised a quizzical eyebrow, but
nevertheless inclined his head. “As you wish.”

Elizabeth crossed to an oak Jacobean style
chair before the desk, and sat as gracefully as she could,
smoothing her skirts as she mentally prepared her thoughts. Lord
Rothsburgh followed her, but instead of sitting behind the desk, he
simply leaned in elegant negligence against it, not far from where
she sat.

She straightaway lost her train of thought,
all her senses focused on the way his long muscular legs, tightly
encased in buckskin breeches, extended out beside her, and how he
casually crossed his black Hussar boots at the ankle. Had he been
riding? When he’d helped her from the window seat, she’d been too
rattled at first, and then too exasperated to really notice what
he’d been wearing.

She slanted a sideways look at him and
confirmed her supposition—he was wearing a superbly cut, navy blue
riding jacket of superfine over an ivory linen shirt with a simply
tied cravat at his throat. His overlong black hair was hopelessly
ruffled as though he’d been out in the wind.

He caught her gaze and raised his eyebrows,
a faintly knowing smile playing about his lips.
Curse him
—he
knew she’d been assessing his appearance. She sternly reminded
herself that he was probably as vain as Hugh, and about as safe as
Lucifer, the Great Tempter himself.

“Now, what is it that you wish to speak
about, Mrs. Eliott?” he asked, crossing his arms over the broad
expanse over his chest, a hint of amusement still glinting in his
dark eyes. “It must be of great import if it has prompted you to
leave your sickbed to come in search of me.”

Harnessing her wayward thoughts into some
semblance of order by focusing on her annoyance with him, she drew
in a shaky breath to speak. “Yes, it is of great import—to me at
any rate considering it is about my whole future.”

Understanding replaced the humor in his
gaze. “Ah, I see.” A muscle flickered in his jaw and he even looked
a trifle guilty. But he held her gaze, waiting for her to
continue.

Elizabeth swallowed past the rawness in her
throat, trying to clear a sudden tickle. “Why did you not tell me
that you no longer require a governess, Lord Rothsburgh?” she
accused. To her chagrin, her voice had emerged as a hoarse croak
instead of with the confident gravitas she had been aiming for. But
she wouldn’t be deterred in her quest for an explanation. “I
understand that your daughter, Lady Annabelle, now resides with
your sister, Lady Maxwell in Edinburgh. Why did you let me…go
through a farcical interview? I don’t like games…my lord…especially
when they involve my life.” She stopped, too short of breath to
continue, her eyes watering. The urge to cough was overwhelming.
Damn the marquess for being right about the course of her illness.
She threw him a furious glance as she tried to regroup and catch
her breath.

He was watching her, concern etched across
his features. “Can I get you some water, Be—Mrs. Eliott?” he asked
quietly.

She nodded and accepted the glass gratefully
when he returned from the drinks tray. After she’d taken a few
sips, he moved to the other side of the desk and sat with his long
fingers steepled against his chin. His dark, disconcerting gaze
settled on her.

“What was I to do, Mrs. Eliott?” His deep
voice contained a serious, almost bitter edge to it. “You arrive on
my doorstep, wet and shivering—I’m amazed you didn’t get swept into
the North Sea at the time you crossed. And believe me, I’ve had
words with Mr. Geddes about that. How could I turn you away at that
point without hearing you out? Then, before I can enlighten you
about the change in circumstances at Eilean Tor—your widow’s
committee obviously had erroneous intelligence—you promptly pass
out. And up until this morning, you were hardly in a state to be
informed about anything of consequence, or otherwise.”

His dark brown eyes suddenly softened as
well as his tone. “Believe me, I have nothing but the best of
intentions when it comes to your well-being. It is not my intent,
nor has it ever been…to toy with you, so to speak.”

Elizabeth inwardly conceded that he spoke
sense, yet she was too tautly strung to let him off the hook
entirely. “Yet…you let me assume you were the butler here when you
answered the door. And you appeared to read my reference with due
regard…until you saw who had written it. Tell me, Lord Rothsburgh,
is it your habit to mock those with earnest intentions and sincere
need?’

The marquess winced at this last accusation.
“Mrs. Eliott, may I say without a hint of a lie that I never meant
to patronize or ridicule you, and I am truly sorry if you feel that
I have been less than hospitable or reasonable. I fully intended to
discuss your circumstances with you, but I was waiting for an
appropriate opportunity. It seems I have underestimated your degree
of concern and tenacity.”

Elizabeth studied his face and could only
detect sincerity. His gaze was steady upon her. Perhaps she had
been too hasty in judging his actions up until this point.

But what he had stated so far had not in any
way eased her mind about what she was going to do once she left. He
had only confirmed that there really
was
nothing here for
her. Her continued unemployment and lack of prospects threatened to
overwhelm her as surely as one of the breakers dashing against
Eilean Tor’s causeway at high tide.

She’d rather die than go back to
Hugh
.

She swallowed past a sudden lump in her
throat, and dropped her tear-misted gaze to her lap; she clasped
her hands so tightly, her bones and knuckles stood out stark white
beneath her pale skin. Her wedding band cut into her finger,
reminding her of the painful reality of both her own and Hugh’s
failure in their travesty of a marriage. She knew Lord Rothsburgh
still watched her. She could feel the weight of his gaze upon her
like a physical touch.

She needed to speak, to break the tense
silence, but for the moment words escaped her.

“Mrs. Eliott, I have a proposal for
you.”

Elizabeth looked up sharply, alert, her body
stiff with tension. Lord Rothsburgh was leaning forward on the
burgundy leather blotter of the desk, his large hands clasped
together in an earnest gesture; the firm curves of his biceps were
clearly visible beneath his jacket’s sleeves. She forced herself to
keep her eyes fixed on his.

Be careful, Elizabeth
.

“It is entirely up to you whether you accept
my offer or not,” he continued in an almost matter-of-fact tone of
voice that belied the mischievous spark in his eyes. She wished she
could keep up with this man’s swift changes in mood. “Under no
circumstance do I want you to feel obligated to take on this role.
While it is entirely true that I no longer require a governess, I
find that I have need of your services after all—when you are well,
of course—and if you agree.”

Although she willed herself not to,
Elizabeth blushed hotly. Lord Rothsburgh was teasing her again. She
should be shocked at his implied and highly inappropriate use of
the word ‘service.’ Instead she was piqued.

She struggled to keep her tone neutral.
“What do you mean, my lord? Please speak plainly. Although you just
professed you do not play games, it seems you are doing exactly
that.”

His gaze grew darker, heavier. “Oh my
proposal is entirely serious, Mrs. Eliott. Lady Beauchamp’s
reference certainly sings your praises. It appears you have all
manner of high attainments. And from what I have seen of you so
far, you strike me as not only keenly intelligent, but also highly
spirited, and well up to taking on any sort of task that you set
your mind to.”

Elizabeth fairly bristled with anger now.
And the damned, irritating tickle was back in her throat. “I must
insist that you stop…obfuscating, Lord Rothsburgh. What exactly is
it, that you want me to do?”

He paused and sighed, running a hand down
his face. “On second thought…”

“Lord Rothsburgh!” She broke into a fit of
uncontrolled coughing that robbed her voice and stole her
breath.

The marquess was suddenly kneeling at her
side, his hand alternately rubbing and patting her back. “Beth, I’m
sorry. I was teasing you. I shouldn’t have. Please forgive me.”

When she regained enough breath to speak,
she looked up to meet his gaze. His dark eyes were on level with
hers, his brow creased with concern.

“You really are…the most frustrating man I
have ever met,” she gasped.

He smiled back at her. “No doubt.”

* * * *

Rothsburgh forced himself to remove his hand
from Beth’s back. Strange how within such a short space of time, it
had become such an ingrained habit—this need to touch her. But now
propriety dictated that he shouldn’t.

When he’d entered the library and found Beth
struggling to get down from the window seat, he hadn’t thought
twice about reaching for her arm to help her. Indeed, at this
moment, he had to ruthlessly quell another impulse to reach forward
and push a loose tendril of her soft, ash blonde hair away from her
pale cheek. He realized that it felt more natural for him to have
physical contact with her than not.

Even when he noticed that her breathing had
started to settle into a semblance of a more normal rhythm, he
still remained by her side. He didn’t want to move away. He didn’t
want her to go either.

God, you are a hopeless case,
Rothsburgh.

Despite his earlier resolution—the sooner
Beth left Eilean Tor, the better it would be for both of them—the
sight of her so desperate and on the verge of tears, had been his
undoing. He couldn’t turn her away when she apparently had nowhere
else to go. The question was—would she accept his proposal when he
stated it clearly? It was not something she had any previous
experience of, and she may reject the idea outright.