Lady Beauchamp's Proposal (2 page)

Though what he had intended to say mattered
little. What mattered was, it was not like Hugh to be inarticulate,
or melancholy, or in her room. His behavior was troubling. And it
disturbed her that she could not predict what he would do next.

Elizabeth didn’t know what to do either.
Terror trickled an icy trail down her spine and rendered her mute.
All she knew was that regardless of his mood, she could not let him
touch her. If he did, she would be damned just as much as he
was.

Hugh didn’t seem to notice her petrified
silence. Perhaps he was distracted by his own personal demons. She
knew all too well that he had many. But there was one in particular
that plagued her. The words of the letter her husband’s lover sent
to her a mere fortnight ago had tainted her mind as surely and
insidiously as the contagion Hugh now undoubtedly carried.

Your husband has the great pox, my lady.

Elizabeth did not doubt the veracity of the
writer, anonymous though she was. She had already seen traces of
the telltale sore on the ring finger of Hugh’s left hand—the lesion
was so inflamed, he no longer wore his favorite sapphire-set signet
ring. Dr. Morton had called the sore a chancre, after she had
described it to him.

She could not see it now because Hugh still
had his gloves on.

Her husband drew in a deep breath. “I’ve
been thinking…” he began then trailed off as if the attempt to
clarify where this out of the ordinary encounter was heading, was a
struggle for him. “Elizabeth…” He at last met her gaze. “I think it
is time that I got you with child.”

She stifled a gasp and somehow managed to
stay upright. Her hands gripped the sides of her velvet covered
seat. Surely he jested.

But no—he was deadly serious. He took off
his gloves and removed the sapphire pin from his cravat. From this
distance, she could see the mark of the pox—the chancre.
Didn’t
he know that he had the disease? How could he not know?

Elizabeth suspected he must know yet did not
care. And what scared her most at this particular moment was that
she believed he was fully capable of acting with depraved
indifference toward her. He had always been selfish. It obviously
mattered little to him that he would be exposing her to the
infection in the attempt to conceive an heir, a namesake. Dr.
Morton had warned her that any child resulting from their union
would also be inflicted with the pox. She could not countenance
such a diabolical act.

She had to get away, now more than ever. If
only she could make it through the next few hours without Hugh
touching her.

Strange to think she’d once longed for his
touch…

As he stood and moved toward her, she
summoned what she hoped was a convincing smile. “As you wish, my
lord.” Her voice was husky but not with desire. She prayed he
couldn’t discern the difference.

He laid a hand upon her shoulder. His touch
was hot, heavy.

Deadly.

She smiled up at him. “Hugh, it has been
such a long time, and clearly you have taken me by surprise. I feel
at a…disadvantage. If you would indulge me, I would like to change
into something more...pleasing to the eye. I know how you loathe
these nightrails.”

Hugh’s eyes locked with hers. Speculation,
perhaps even interest flared in the sapphire blue depths. A corner
of his wide mouth lifted in a sensual smile. “Of course, my
lady.”

He brushed the pale curtain of her hair
aside and dropped a hot, open-mouthed kiss onto her neck. She
struggled to suppress a shudder. She couldn’t even recall the last
time he’d kissed her. He didn’t even kiss her goodbye before he
left for Belgium to serve in Wellington’s army in April. It was now
September.

She swallowed and dredged up her voice
again. “Give me a few minutes. I will come to you in your
room.”

He drew back. She could clearly see his
erection, pushing impatiently against the fall of his navy blue
superfine breeches.

“I look forward to it, Elizabeth,” he said
with another slow smile.

Then, thank the Lord, he left.

She hadn’t much time. Opening the top drawer
of her dresser, Elizabeth retrieved her household keys before
slipping out of the door leading to the hallway. She didn’t bother
to close it. She was afraid he would hear it. Picking up the hem of
her nightrail she rushed down the hall, grateful that the plush
Aubusson carpet deadened her footfalls.

Where to hide, where to hide, that was
the question?
She headed for the servants’ quarters. She knew
there was a spare room. One of the footmen had left their service
just recently.

By the time she reached the fourth floor,
she was breathless. She paused for a moment, trying to control her
ragged gasps. It wouldn’t do to wake the servants. She recalled
that the spare room was at the beginning of the corridor, adjacent
to the landing where she now stood.

Fumbling, she pulled out her keys, trying to
find the right one. The only light she had to work by was a frail
shaft of moonlight that spilled through a small window at the head
of the stairs.

A door slammed. Hugh was coming. She tried
key after key, her shaking fingers making the metal rattle in the
lock. Someone would hear her. She brutally choked back a sob. Then
mercifully, a key slid in and turned easily, tumbling the lock. She
pushed open the door, offering a silent prayer of thanks to their
butler that it did not squeak. Jenkins was worth his weight in
gold.

Shutting the door as silently as she could,
she then locked it again from the inside. It was so dark, she could
hardly see at all. But there seemed to be a closet on the opposite
side of the small, barely furnished room. She swiftly skirted the
narrow single bed and tried to open the door, her sweaty palms
slipping on the handle.
No, no, no
. It was locked and there
was no key.

“Elizabeth!”

Hugh sounded closer. Too close. She could
hear his heavy footsteps on the stairs. How had he tracked her so
easily? Swallowing down a wave of nausea, she glanced about the
room; aside from the closet, the bed and a wooden chair, there was
no other furniture. But there were floor length curtains partly
drawn across a small window to the left of the bed. She slipped
behind the dusty, moth-eaten fabric and waited, barely breathing.
Trembling.

And then she heard it. The door knob rattled
slightly. She bit her lip to stop herself crying out.

Please, for the love of God, go away, leave
me be. Don’t come in, don’t come in…

Aberdeenshire, Scotland, Two weeks
later…

Please, for the love of God, go away, leave
me be. Don’t come in, don’t come in ...

“Wake ye up, madam. You are havin’ a bad
dream.”

Elizabeth’s eyes flew open and she swallowed
the scream threatening to escape her throat. One of her fellow
travellers, Mrs. McKenzie, was shaking her by the shoulder, but
when the woman saw she had awakened, she quickly released her
grip.

“Hmph.” The older woman sat back down on the
carriage seat opposite her, a deep frown of concern—or perhaps it
was disapproval—creasing her brow. The rest of the carriage’s
occupants—Mrs. McKenzie’s husband—who had introduced himself as the
vicar of Kintore at the commencement of their journey, and their
daughter—were obviously embarrassed by the situation. The vicar
studied the toes of his muddy boots with great interest, and Miss
McKenzie, who sat next to her, promptly looked out the window when
Elizabeth glanced her way.

Elizabeth cleared her throat and addressed
the glowering Mrs. McKenzie. “I’m sorry to have…discommoded you
all,” she said, aiming for grave sincerity but sadly missing the
mark given that her voice was husky with sleep and barely contained
emotion. The remnants of the nightmare still clouded her brain,
making it difficult to focus. She felt as if she was still hidden
behind dusty curtains, in fear for her life, in her former home in
London, not being jostled about in a mail-coach in the wilds of
Scotland.

With a decided effort, she strove to calm
her breathing and slow her racing pulse as she reassured herself
that she was safe. She suddenly wondered if she had cried out. She
had a strong suspicion that she must have, given the strained
atmosphere in the carriage.

Mrs. McKenzie nodded slightly in
acknowledgement of her apology. “You say ye are a governess,” she
said, her disbelief evident. It was more a query than a
statement.

“Yes, I am,” Elizabeth replied, steadily
holding Mrs. McKenzie’s gaze. “But it is very much a new endeavor
for me. You see, I lost my husband in the Battle of Waterloo and
given my situation, I must now make my own way in the world.”

She was surprised how easily the lie rolled
off her tongue. She had never been one to lie, and truly hated
being forced into carrying out such a grand deception. But sadly,
her use of deceit was a necessary evil; she needed to accept that
it was a vice she would have to employ for the rest of her life, in
order to have any life at all. She had become Mrs. Beth Eliott,
widow of a British infantry officer, forced to seek employment as a
governess in the far reaches of Scotland.

The Countess of Beauchamp, Elizabeth
Harcourt, was no more.

Hugh must never find me.

Mrs. McKenzie had the good grace to look
suitably mortified. “Och, I’m so verra sorry, my dear. No wonder ye
have nightmares. I do hope you find yer new occupation a rewardin’
one. Why, there must be hundreds of poor creatures like you across
the whole country with no real income to speak of. It is a verra
sad time for so many, despite Wellington’s victory. My condolences
to ye, madam.”

Elizabeth inclined her head in
acknowledgement. She knew only too well the desperate straits the
many wives of fallen British soldiers found themselves in when
their husbands had failed to return home. Indeed, up until a
fortnight ago, she had been one of the patronesses of the
London-based Widows of Waterloo Trust, a charity that she and
several of her friends had established shortly after the campaign
abroad had ended.

It did not sit well with her that she had
abused her privileged position in the Trust; she had effectively
‘stolen’ a governess’s post that could have been offered to another
woman who had lost her husband and no longer had a source of
income. But in a way, she too was desperate.

Even though Hugh was as rich as Croesus, she
had no personal fortune. And with no immediate family left on this
earth to help—her parents, Lord and Lady Lydenhurst, had passed
away shortly after she’d wed Hugh—Elizabeth needed to disappear, to
become someone else. A woman of independent means. She just prayed
that come judgment day, she would be forgiven for her
duplicity.

The travellers all lapsed into silence
again. Elizabeth, or Beth as she now styled herself, looked out of
the carriage window at the desolate scenery. They were travelling
along a fairly decent road that ran parallel with the rocky
coast-line. Under a lowering grey sky, sheer cliffs fell away to
great piles of tumbled boulders and shingle-strewn coves. Like the
mail-coach, the sea-grass, whin bushes and purple heather clinging
to the cliff-tops were being buffeted by a strong gale blowing
straight off the North Sea. The wind would be cold and astringent
with brine, of that she had no doubt.

She glanced at the small silver fob watch
pinned to the bodice of her black widow’s weeds—it was
mid-afternoon. The mail-coach had left the coastal town of Montrose
at first light so she estimated it wouldn’t be long before they
reached her destination—the village of Torhaven and God-willing,
her new place of employment and residence, Eilean Tor Castle.

Leaning forward a little, Elizabeth squinted
at a narrow rocky promontory in the far distance. She could just
discern the grey bulk of a medieval fortress and wondered if it was
Eilean Tor. Its name fitted its appearance exactly if that was the
case; the castle looked to be a great rocky pile on a headland that
could almost be an island. Waves crashed against the cliffs upon
which it sat, sending great plumes of spray into the air around
it.

It was isolated, inhospitable.
It was
perfect.

Now she just had to convince its master, the
Marquess
of Rothsburgh,
that he required her services.

She sighed and rested her head back against
the squabs, stretching her stiff back and limbs. She was so very
tired. Her flight from London had begun almost two weeks ago and
since then she had been travelling constantly on mail-coaches from
dawn until dusk. She had already suffered the same nightmare about
Hugh’s pursuit of her through their London home, several times
during her journey, but until this afternoon, the dream had only
come when she had been alone at the dead of night. The long days of
travel and weeks of poor sleep were obviously taking their toll if
she was falling asleep heavily enough to dream on public
conveyances.

If only the nightmare would dissipate when
she awoke.

It had started innocuously enough a month
ago with the arrival of a letter. She had barely noticed the
creased and travel-stained parchment envelope in amongst the pile
of other pristine invitations and letters on the silver salver that
Jenkins brought in to her when she was partaking in her first cup
of tea at breakfast. Strange how something so inconspicuous could
be so noxious.

Now the words of the letter had taken root
in her brain like a canker.

Dear Lady Beauchamp,

You won’t believe me, but I write this
missive with the best of intentions. It is not out of a malicious
wish to inflict pain, or out of spite that I share this certain
knowledge with you, but out of a sense of moral decency; although I
will freely admit, it is an attribute that I have never possessed,
up until this point in my life.