Lady Beauchamp's Proposal (24 page)

James turned toward the library, but then
paused on the threshold and glanced back at her.

“I’m sorry,” he mouthed, his dark eyes
shadowed with something akin to regret before he disappeared.

Elizabeth stared at the closed library door
and tried to control the wave of panic rising within her. She had
never anticipated anything like this happening—that James’s
tonnish
acquaintances would venture to this far-flung place.
She had foolishly thought she could disappear, become someone else.
But was one of her worst nightmares about to come true— that she
would be exposed, and that Hugh would find her and reclaim her? If
her husband found her—she couldn’t bear to think what he would do
to her.

The only reality that could be worse than
that horrific turn of events would be that James discovered her
duplicity. And that his regard for her would then die and be
replaced by censure. Being the sinner that she was, she could
hardly pray that it wouldn’t be so—because when all was said and
done, James’s condemnation would be exactly what she deserved.

Perhaps she should leave Eilean Tor right
now.

But where would she go? Even an offer of
another situation via Lord Maxwell would do her no good if it was
discovered she was Lady Beauchamp. The only thing that was clear to
her right now, was that her mind was awhirl and she couldn’t think
straight. Making rash decisions wasn’t going to help. She needed to
calm down.

Elizabeth rose from the stool, and with
shaking hands, closed the pianoforte’s lid. Maybe she was
over-reacting. Maybe Lord Blaire had only been a passing
acquaintance, a society buck she had once danced with as a
debutante. Or someone from Hugh’s club. In any case, he certainly
wasn’t someone well known to her. The only sensible thing she could
feasibly do was to try and remain as unobtrusive as possible for
the duration of the hunting party. Her self-preservation must be
paramount.

Aside from no more pianoforte playing, there
must be no more liaisons with James whatsoever and—oh, God—she
really must move rooms, straightaway. Housekeepers didn’t sleep
only a few doors away from the lord of the castle. Even if James’s
friends never deduced that she was Lord Beauchamp’s wife, they
would soon know she was Lord Rothsburgh’s mistress. And she
couldn’t abide that either.

As Elizabeth frantically checked all her
buttons at her cuffs and on her bodice, and smoothed her hair, she
realized that underneath her fear, another feeling lurked. A deep
disappointment was settling within her like a sinking stone.

She was simply the housekeeper again. She
knew it had to be this way whilst James was entertaining guests,
and the distance between them would be nothing but artifice. But
nevertheless, it would hurt to see cool indifference in her lover’s
gaze when she had grown used to him looking at her with such desire
and dare she say it—affection. But then, wasn’t she going to hurt
him anyway? And she would probably see a lot worse than
indifference in his eyes when the time came to desert him.

She closed her eyes tightly for a long
moment to stem the unexpected welling of tears. Her fear of being
discovered combined with this emerging feeling of desolation, and
the certain knowledge that she must leave—all of it was almost too
much to bear.

You’d best get used to this, Elizabeth. This
is how it will feel to be the hired help again.

And you don’t have time to wallow in
self-pity. You have things to do and plans to make. So just get on
with it.

Swallowing her tears, she quit the drawing
room to search for Roberts and Maisie to help her relocate her
things to the servants’ quarters before she carried out Lord
Rothsburgh’s instructions—only to almost bump into the butler.
Roberts had obviously been hovering by the door in the hall
outside.

“Mrs. Eliott, I’m so verra sorry to have
startled you.” His face was bright red with an uncharacteristic
flush, and he couldn’t quite meet her eyes. “I was just comin’ to
see you, to let you know tha’ yer things are bein’ taken to the
servants’ quarters as we speak. Maisie is settin’ up a room fer
you. I didna think you would mind given the change
in...circumstances.”

“That’s quite all right, Roberts,” Elizabeth
tried very hard not to blush herself, although at the same time,
she breathed an inward sigh of relief. “That is most sensible. I am
most grateful for your…foresight.”

“Verra good, Mrs. Eliott.” He offered her a
smile, and then at last met her gaze, his expression sincere.
“Although it isna really my place to say so, Mrs. Eliott, I just
wanted to let you know tha’ it is verra good to have you here. His
lordship…well let me just say tha’ in all my time at the castle, I
havena seen Lord Rothsburgh lookin’ so weel. Ever. An’ it’s all
thanks to you.”

Before she could say anything else, the
butler inclined his head, then retreated down the corridor in the
direction of the staircase to the Great Hall where faint sounds of
activity could be heard.

Elizabeth shook her head, overcome with
gratitude. Who would’ve thought that she could have garnered such
support in such a short space of time? It was unexpected and
humbling, and made the prospect of leaving—as she must—even
harder.

A boisterous laugh coming from the direction
of the library roused her. She had things to attend to. Wiping her
eyes and lifting her chin, she set off for the servants’
stairs.

* * * *

“Mrs. Eliott isn’t it? Might I have a word
with you? It’s about my room.”

Elizabeth froze mid-step on the sweeping
stone staircase leading down to the Great Hall, her blood turning
to ice, her heart stuttering to a stop.

Lord Blaire was behind her. How absolutely
stupid of her not to have taken the servants’ stairs. Since the
hunting party’s arrival the day before, she had been extremely
careful, and had managed to avoid any direct contact with James’s
friends during the rest of that afternoon and evening. She had
assumed that it would be safe to use the main stairs this early in
the morning when the sun had barely risen, and breakfast was still
being laid out in the dining room. How wrong she’d been.

But it was no use berating herself now. At
least she looked the part of the nondescript, unassuming servant
with her hair pulled back tightly in a severe bun, and her plain,
dark grey widow’s weeds on. She didn’t look anything like the
expensively attired and elaborately coiffured Countess of
Beauchamp. If she kept her wits about her and acted demurely,
everything would be fine.

Keep calm, keep calm. You don’t know him. He
doesn’t know you.

Elizabeth turned carefully around to face
the rakish, now entirely sober nobleman who was obviously about to
head out for an early morning ride. He stood at the top of the
stairs, looking down at her, his head cocked slightly to one side
as he tapped his riding crop against his lean thigh. His
hazel-brown gaze was decidedly speculative as it ran over her.
Clenching her fists in her skirts, Elizabeth willed herself to
remain impassive beneath his regard.

“Of course, my lord.” She dropped a small
curtsy then raised her eyes to his arrogantly handsome face. “What
seems to be the problem?” She still couldn’t recall if she had ever
made his acquaintance before. He reminded her of so many men of his
class with his fashionably cropped brown hair, lean hawkish
features, and confident smile. Perhaps…

His gaze sharpened on her face and flushing,
she dropped her own gaze to the stone steps at her feet. It had
been inappropriate of her to stare at him so. She really must
remember how to behave like someone in service. She couldn’t afford
to draw undue interest—now more than ever.

“I think it would be easier if I showed
you,” he replied, then turned on his heel to stride back down the
corridor in the direction of the stairs that led to the guest
rooms.

Fear prickled along her spine. Elizabeth
seriously doubted that there was anything wrong with the man’s
room. The way he had looked at her…although there had been no light
of recognition in his eyes, there had been a spark of another kind
of interest that was almost as dangerous. Male lust. She was
certain of it.

She didn’t want to follow him. But she was
the housekeeper and convention dictated that she must accede to his
seemingly reasonable request, despite her reservations. Besides,
James’s room was nearby. Surely Lord Blaire wouldn’t behave
untowardly when his friend and host resided in the same wing.

“I haven’t got all day, Mrs. Eliott.” He’d
paused to wait for her at the bottom of the next set of stairs.
Heavens, now she’d made him cross. All senses on alert, she picked
up her skirts and hurried to catch up, which was not easy given his
long-legged stride. By the time she’d followed him up the next
staircase and along the hall to his already open door, she was
quite breathless.

He frowned at her with a concern that was
undoubtedly feigned. “Are you all right, Mrs. Eliott?” He turned
slightly and placed a proprietorial hand upon the small of her
back. “Perhaps you should come in and rest a moment.”

“I’m truly…fine…Lord Blaire,” she said,
trying to regain both her breath and composure, especially now that
it seemed she was about to be forcibly ushered into his room. “You
still haven’t told me what’s wrong.”

Although she knew she sounded quite blunt,
her manner even bordering on rudeness, she really didn’t want to
enter this man’s bedchamber. It was at the very end of the hall,
six doors down from James’s room. And the thick oak door and stone
walls were so solid, she would never be heard if she needed to call
for aid. And the way Lord Blaire was running his gaze over her
right now, lingering on her mouth and then her chest, her instincts
screamed at her not to take another step forward.

“Well, there is a frightful draft coming in
through a gap in the casement window for one thing,” he said
bending toward her ear. He slid his hand from her back to grip her
firmly about the elbow, and attempted to steer her across the
threshold again. “And then, there’s the bed—”

A nearby door clicked shut. “Milord, might I
be of some assistance?”

Roberts.
Thank God
. He must have been
attending Lord Maxwell across the hall.

Blaire cursed under his breath, and as he
relinquished his hold on her arm, giddy relief swept through
Elizabeth. She immediately stepped back into the hallway out of
Blaire’s reach and turned to face the advancing butler.

Roberts bowed stiffly to Lord Blaire before
fixing him with a dour stare.

“Lord Blaire has concerns about his
bedchamber,” Elizabeth explained to her unexpected champion. “A
draft as well as a problem with the bedding I believe.”

Roberts glanced beyond Blaire’s shoulder
into the room before returning his poker-faced gaze to the
bristling nobleman. “I’m sure his lordship willna mind if I see to
it, Mrs. Eliott. Mrs. Roberts will be wantin’ you in the kitchen no
doubt.”

Elizabeth curtsied to Lord Blaire. “My
lord.” She risked a glance at his face and noticed he was glaring
at Roberts, his lips compressed into a thin line.

Lord Blaire’s eyes darted to her and he
inclined his head slightly. “Mrs. Eliott.” She was dismissed…for
now…

As Elizabeth walked away, she could feel the
nobleman’s gaze following her. Next time, he would not be put off
so easily. So there must not be a next time.

Her only consolation was, he didn’t know
her—she was definitely a stranger to him. Lord Blaire had studied
her face and had not recognized who she really was. She was still
safe.

And that was all that really mattered.

* * * *

“Bloody hell, Rothsburgh. Are you sure
you’re not doing over your housekeeper? I know I would.”

Rothsburgh forced himself to smile urbanely
at Lord Rupert Blaire—one of his brother-in-law’s erstwhile
acquaintances from his long-ago Cambridge days—when all he really
wanted to do was slam his fist into the man’s inanely grinning
face. At this particular moment, for the life of him, Rothsburgh
couldn’t fathom why Maxwell was still friends with the tosser.

He unclenched one hand from the handle of
his knife, and took a swig of the excellent claret that Beth had
selected to serve with their main course of duck. He wondered if
he’d ever get the chance to see her—make love to her—whilst his
well-meaning friends hung about the castle like a trio of pesky
vermin.

Phillip Latimer, Lord Maxwell, had
instigated the surprise visit to pull him out of the fug of
self-pity his sister had declared him to be in, after he’d last
visited Edinburgh. Rothsburgh would happily wring Helena’s pretty
neck when he saw her again.

They’d only been here for two and a half
days—fifty-five hours and twenty-six minutes according to the
ormolu clock on the mantle—and yet he couldn’t wait for them to
leave.

“She’s in mourning,” Rothsburgh said as
off-handedly as he could. “And besides, it has never been my
inclination to sleep with the staff.”

Blaire smirked. “Why would you want to sleep
with her when you could just bend her over the nearest chair
and—”

“Wasn’t she the governess that applied for
the post here?” interjected Maxwell. “I’ll concede she’s uncommonly
pretty, but she also seems very refined—much more so than you’d
expect from someone of her station. I imagine she’d make an
excellent teacher.”

Rothsburgh nodded, grateful Maxwell had
interrupted Blaire’s ribald commentary. A man of honor, his
brother-in-law would not condone such callous and disrespectful
treatment of a woman in his employ. It was a pity that their
current governess, Miss Palmer, was so damned efficient, then
perhaps Beth could have worked within his sister’s and
brother-in-law’s household.