Lady Beauchamp's Proposal (27 page)

A muscle worked in James’s jaw as he studied
her face, contemplating what she’d said. “Beth—”

“Rothsburgh! What the deuce?” Maxwell
appeared at the top of the stairs along with Markham. Roberts
lurked close behind.

James tipped his head toward the wine racks
where Blaire still lay sprawled and moaning, clutching at his jaw.
“Blaire disgraced himself in more ways than one. Get rid of him
before I do something others may regret.” Then he muttered under
his breath so only Elizabeth could hear. “But I certainly
won’t.”

Maxwell and Markham descended into the
cellar, collected Blaire, and then disappeared with him up the
stairs.

Roberts cleared his throat. “Milord? Is
there anythin’ I can do other than arrange fer a cleanup of the
accident down here?”

“Have Lord Maxwell’s carriage sent around
first. I want Blaire gone from here before the tide comes back
in.”

“Yes, milord.”

The door to the wine cellar closed again and
James hugged her close, murmuring soothing words into her hair.
There, in the circle of his arms, breathing in his familiar male
essence, her trembling started to subside, and she barely noticed
the stinging of her palms and knee.

Until James reached for one of her hands.
She gasped.

James swore. “Sweet Jesus, Beth. You’re
hurt.” He uncurled her left hand and exposed a long jagged cut on
her palm that extended from the base of her thumb to her wrist.
Aside from a few cuts to her fingers, her right hand was relatively
unscathed in comparison.

“It happened when I fell amongst the broken
bottles,” she said shakily. “I think my left knee is cut as
well.”

“Let me look. Sit down on the stairs.” He
helped to lower her down, then he knelt and lifted her skirts. And
swore again.

“I’m sure half of what you’re looking at is
red wine and Madeira, not blood,” she said, trying to make light of
the situation as he carefully rolled up her hopelessly stained and
torn drawers. Despite her attempt at levity, nausea swelled within
her again, and she felt giddy with light-headedness. She was
suddenly glad she was sitting down.

“I think there’s still a sliver of glass in
the cut in your knee, Beth, but I’ll have to take a better look at
it upstairs. It’s as dark as Hades down here. But before I move
you, let’s get this bleeding under control first.”

He swiftly removed the cravat from his
throat and deftly ripped it into two before gently yet firmly
wrapping one length around her left hand, and then the other around
her knee.

She tried very hard not to make a sound
during his ministrations, to smother her gasps of pain. To be
strong. But it was the sight of James, tending to her injuries with
such care that was eventually her undoing. Yet again, she was
reminded of the oceans of difference between this man and her
husband. Hugh was supposed to be the man who loved and cherished
her above all others. But he never had, and he never would.

Despite her best efforts not to cry, a tear
escaped. And then another. Tucking her right hand into her cuff,
she raised her sleeve to her cheek, to try to hide the evidence of
her weakness. She didn’t think she could bear any more of James’s
sympathy lest she turn into a blithering, sobbing mess—but the
movement caught his attention.

He focused his all too perceptive gaze on
her face. Even in the gloom of the cellar, she couldn’t hide.

Reaching forward, he brushed a third tear
away with his thumb, a look of inexpressible tenderness in his dark
eyes. “No more servants’ quarters for you, Mrs. Eliott. I think
it’s about time you spent some time where you belong—with me in my
chambers, my love.”

Ignoring the rage clawing at his gut at the
sight of her injuries, Rothsburgh held out a tumbler of whisky to
Beth. “Here, my love. Drink this.”

“Thank you,” she murmured as she carefully
took it from him with her bandaged hands. She dutifully took a
small sip then grimaced. “I really hate this stuff you know. I’d
much rather have a cup of tea.”

He forced himself to smile. “I know but this
will help to ease the shaking.”

Like him, she was not herself and he hated
seeing her like this—in pain, with a haunted look in her beautiful
grey eyes. Dressed in one of her virginal white nightrails, tucked
up in a Clan Huntly tartan wool blanket on a leather settee in
front of the fireplace in his room, she looked small and
fragile.

Vulnerable
.

Yet he knew that she was made of sterner
stuff. Aside from the fact that she had managed to fend off Blaire,
she had been nothing but brave whilst he had removed the glass from
the gash in her knee; had barely made a sound when he had bathed
and then bandaged all her cuts—large and small. Thank God, they
were all quite shallow and didn’t require stitches. He suspected
only the laceration on her knee would leave a scar.

If only her emotional scars would heal so
cleanly. He wanted to hold her, bury his face in her soft,
ash-blonde hair. Kiss the graceful arch of her neck. Undo the
buttons at her throat and lay bare her full breasts…Hell, despite
the fact that she’d nearly been raped, the rapacious male beast in
him wanted to make love to her, possess her, until she forgot about
everything else except for the reality of the rapture they shared
whenever they were together.

But he wouldn’t. It was too soon. He knew
that. As much as it pained him not having her in his arms, he would
wait—because she was worth waiting for.

Sitting down beside her on an ottoman with
his own whisky, Rothsburgh immediately noticed how Beth’s hands
trembled as she raised her glass to her lips again. Even though her
ordeal was over, she was clearly still in shock.

And underneath his own misbegotten lust for
her, he was still angry as hell. Angry enough to rip Blaire apart
with his bare hands. He tossed back a sizeable mouthful of the
fiery single malt, enjoying the scorch at the back of his throat.
He knew it would take much more than a dram or two to quell the
burning urge to call for his horse, and give chase to the
blackguard. However, now that it was late afternoon, he suspected
that the tide had already flooded the causeway. If it weren’t for
the vicissitudes of the sea, and Beth’s earlier plea to stay his
hand, he would have whole-heartedly given into the dark impulse to
seek bloody vengeance.

But for now, it seemed he would be denied
the satisfaction; and that meant he would somehow have to deal with
his own self-directed anger and loathing—a veritable tempest of
emotions engendered by his failure to anticipate that Blaire would
assault Beth in the most monstrous, despicable way.

His guilt sat like acid in his gut along
with the whisky. He should have known from the moment Blaire had
stumbled across Beth in the library that the bastard was too
interested in her. And after Blaire’s comments about her at dinner
two nights ago, Rothsburgh should have thrown the craven cur out
then and there. But he’d been too dismissive, too laissez-faire.
And now his beautiful, sweet Beth was paying the price for his
carelessness and stupidity.

His Beth.

“Beth…”

She’d been nursing her whisky, staring
absently into the fire, but at the sound of his voice, turned to
regard him with solemn grey eyes. “Yes?”

“I…Beth…I owe you an apology. More than an
apology in fact. I should be on my knees right now begging for your
forgiveness.”

Confusion clouded her eyes. “I don’t
understand…”

He removed her tumbler of whisky, then
carefully took her right hand between his, taking care not to brush
the bandaged cuts on her fingers. He didn’t want to add to her
pain—physical or emotional—by dredging up what had happened
earlier, but he needed to do this. Admit that he’d failed her.

His precious Beth.

He sought her gaze and swallowed past the
bitter taste of self-recrimination in his throat. “What happened to
you this afternoon. It shouldn’t have. I knew that Blaire had his
eye on you from the very beginning—”

“James. Stop this.” Beth reached out with
her heavily bandaged left hand and gently touched his cheek. Her
eyes narrowed and her forehead dipped into a frown. “It’s not your
fault. So don’t you dare feel guilty.”

“But if I had turned him away at the
start—”

“You weren’t to know—”

“Or had stayed with you in the cellar—”

“You were trying to protect my reputation.
Hide what I am…”

“Yes…” Rothsburgh stumbled to a halt and
stared into Beth’s beautiful eyes as comprehension struck him like
a cannonball.
Hide what I am
, she’d said.

His mistress.

The unspoken words crashed into the silence
between them.

Beth dropped her gaze from his, but in the
moment before she did, the expression in her eyes changed
imperceptibly—the clear grey had become clouded with shadows.

Beth was his mistress.
Only his
mistress
.

Was that the reason she hid away from him
now? As if she was ashamed? Why hadn’t he seen it before?

He was such a blind, selfish fool.

Right from the very beginning of this
affaire
, he’d known that Beth had wrestled with the idea of
becoming his mistress. Just as he’d also known that she’d been
troubled about other things. Things that she still resisted being
drawn into conversation about. The grief she felt for her deceased
husband was the most obvious cause of her secret sorrow. And
despite her avowals to the contrary, he knew that there must be
much more to the story behind her nightmare of being pursued.

But until this moment—perhaps because he’d
been so caught up in the all-consuming, passionate rapture of being
with her—he’d never really considered that he was to blame, that
perhaps the source of her ongoing disquiet was that she couldn’t
reconcile herself with what she had become. Something she had never
really wanted to be—a kept woman.

And he was solely responsible for pushing
her into this situation. He didn’t want her to see herself as a
whore. Didn’t she know she had never been that?

He reached out and carefully took her right
hand and raised it to his lips. He suddenly knew how he could make
this right. Because what he had with Beth wasn’t just about sex.
And what he felt for her was more than just affection.

He’d tried damned hard to close his eyes and
ignore this feeling that had been growing inside him—from the
moment he’d first laid eyes on this woman if he was perfectly
honest with himself—but right now, he knew he couldn’t any longer.
Not after today. Never before had he felt such a tumult of complex
and powerful emotions—lust, tenderness, protectiveness, and out and
out blind rage when the woman he cared about had been not only
threatened, but hurt.

He had long ago sworn to himself that he
would never fall in love again—not after Isabelle.

But what he shared with Beth—this was
different. It had always been different. There was no escaping the
truth. And he had to let her know.

“Beth. I need to tell you something…”

* * * *

James was kissing her hand, the touch of his
lips feather-light against her skin. And his intense gaze was
filled with such undisguised longing—Elizabeth’s heart clenched and
her breath froze in her chest.

James was looking at her as though he loved
her. Like he was about to tell her that he loved her.

Please Lord, no.

After what had happened this afternoon,
Elizabeth didn’t think she had the strength to face this. She
needed to say something—anything—to distract James from the
confession he was about to make. To put off this moment.

The moment when she had to break his
heart.

“Beth. I need to tell you something…”

Oh no, no, no.
Elizabeth broke away
from James’s gaze and pulled her hand from his. She was shaking,
her mind in roiling chaos. Words escaped her. She wanted to get up
and leave James’s chamber, but her knee was bandaged almost to the
point of immobility, and she was tucked up securely in a heavy
blanket. And James was sitting directly in front of her, barring
any escape. She couldn’t look at his face. She despised herself for
not only her deceit, but her cowardice. James deserved so much more
than she could ever be.

“Beth, what’s wrong?”

Obfuscate. Dissemble. These were the only
tools she could think to gather together, to keep him at arm’s
length. Until she could think of another way to distract him from
making any type of declaration. A declaration that she could never
reciprocate aloud because that would be too cruel—to tell him that
she loved him before she walked away.

Somehow she dragged in enough breath to
speak. She forced herself to meet his eyes. “The whisky is not
sitting well with me, I’m afraid…And the fire is so hot…I need some
air…”

Oh Elizabeth. You lie so badly.

Nevertheless, to her relief, her weak ploy
worked.

The expression of hurt confusion in James’s
eyes was immediately replaced with one of concern. “Of course.” He
rose and as he crossed the room to open one of the bay windows, she
took the opportunity to free her legs from the confines of the
blanket before shakily standing up.

What are you going to do, Elizabeth? Run
away? Fly out the window?

A strange bubble of sound—something between
a sob and a gasp of laughter—lodged in her throat. She must be
going mad. Indeed, she did feel quite light-headed, not like
herself at all. She reached for the back of the chair.

“Beth…” James was at her side again, his
strong hands grasping her upper arms. His touch burned through the
thin cotton of her nightrail, and she felt her nipples harden to
throbbing points. This was worse, so much worse. She couldn’t think
if he touched her. She fastened her gaze on the strong column of
his throat—she didn’t want to meet his eyes.