Lady Beauchamp's Proposal (5 page)

He stared down at her, a look of disdainful
incredulity on his face. She was suddenly struck by the fact that
he was handsome underneath his shabby façade. “Well, Mrs. Eliott,
are you insane? You must be if you rode that hack of a pony across
the causeway in this weather. Bloody Geddes should be flogged.”

Elizabeth bristled again at the man’s use of
foul language. “Well, perhaps I am mad,” she snapped. “But I’d
rather be that, than just plain rude.”

Mr. James ran a hand through his unruly
black hair in a gesture of resigned exasperation. “Hmph. My
apologies. I’m afraid we don’t receive many visitors here, Mrs.
Eliott, so perhaps my manners are a bit rusty. But seeing as you’ve
made it this far, you’d best come in all the way.” A glint of
mischief sparked in his dark eyes. “Mind your step now.”

She shot him what she hoped was a venomous
look, then proceeded past him into the hall.

And froze. The space ahead of her was dark
and cavernous. The lantern held by Mr. James revealed glimpses of a
wide area of stone-flagged floor that disappeared into dark
corners, and a high vaulted ceiling that was filled with flickering
shadows. The steel of ancient weaponry mounted on stone walls
glimmered dully, and a suit of armor stared blindly at her from a
wall recess. Elizabeth was unsure in which direction she should
turn. It struck her anew how dark and apparently devoid of life the
castle was.

“This way, Mrs. Eliott.” Perhaps sensing her
uncertainty, Mr. James strode past her.

Elizabeth picked up her skirts again and
followed him with careful haste. Within a few moments she could see
they were heading for a wide stone staircase that swept upwards
into darkness. She followed Mr. James, trying her best to keep up
with his long-legged stride. But her legs were trembling, and her
heart and head were pounding by the time she gained the top of the
stairs. She paused for a moment, her hand on the carved stone
balustrade, fighting a sudden wave of dizziness.

Mr. James turned back. The lantern cast
strange shadows over the angular planes of his face, giving him a
distinctly saturnine expression. She shivered.

“Are you all right, madam?”

She nodded. “I think so…I have travelled
such a long way…Perhaps I am a little fatigued…that is all.”

Mr. James cocked an eyebrow. “Well, if
you’re sure. It’s not much farther.” He then turned and continued
on down the corridor without glancing back.

Elizabeth hurried to keep up, but was
relieved that the footman-cum-butler was as good as his word.
Within a short space of time, he ushered her into another vast room
that appeared to be a library. She paused on the threshold,
astounded by the magnificent proportions and opulence of the room.
She hadn’t expected such grandeur considering the starkness of the
Great Hall—the sections she had been able to see at any rate.

A large fire roared in an enormous fireplace
that was surrounded by a black marble mantelpiece, elaborately
carved with fluted columns, scrollwork and motifs of all manner of
wild creatures—lions, stags and eagles. On a sumptuous Turkish
carpet before the hearth, lay two massive deerhounds; they blinked
at her sleepily before lowering their heads back onto their paws,
clearly disinterested in her arrival.

The room was relatively well-lit with
strategically placed lamps and wrought-iron candelabra that held
clusters of fat, beeswax candles. By their light, Elizabeth could
see that the library had two levels; towering bookshelves covered
two of the walls on the lower level where she had entered, whilst
the upper level was comprised of shelves entirely. Heavy,
Jacobean-style side tables in dark oak, and armchairs upholstered
in dark brown leather or gold and burgundy damask, were
strategically arranged around the hearth and other places about the
room.

Directly opposite to where she stood was a
solid oak desk, also elaborately carved. A tapestry of a hunting
scene hung directly behind it. On either side of the desk, thick
curtains of burgundy velvet framed wide, arched mullioned windows
that were set in deeply recessed embrasures. All she could see
beyond the diamond-shaped panes at this moment was inky blackness,
although she could just detect the muted pounding of waves. She
imagined that during the day, the windows would look out across the
sea.

Mr. James marched in and placed the lamp on
the desk, then turned to scowl at her. “Why are you hovering there?
You’re not afraid of the dogs, are you? The last governess that was
here—Miss Lark, I think her name was, or maybe it was Miss
Goose—turned tail and ran when she saw them.”

Steadfastly refusing to rise to this man’s
bait again, Elizabeth willed herself not to scowl back. “N-not at
all Mr. James. I quite like d-dogs. It’s just that I am still
soaking wet, and I do not think Lord Rothsburgh would appreciate it
if I drenched his f-fine carpets.”

“Nonsense. You’re obviously freezing.” He
moved across the room to a leather settee by the fire, and held up
a blanket of green, dark blue, and black patterned tartan. “Why
don’t you remove your bonnet and pelisse then sit before the fire
with something warm and dry around you? I swear you are turning
blue as we speak.”

Elizabeth gritted her teeth to stop them
chattering and undid the bonnet’s ribbons at her throat, before
unbuttoning her pelisse. She dropped both water-logged items onto
the flags outside the library door, then with as much dignity as
she could muster, crossed to the hearth and took the proffered
blanket. She was, to her dismay, icily cold and shivering
uncontrollably.

Mr. James frowned at her. “Sit down, Mrs.
Eliott. I will fetch you some tea and summon the marquess. He won’t
be long.”

She placed her damp reticule beside her and
perched on the edge of the settee before wrapping the blanket about
her shoulders. “Th-thank-you.”

“You’re welcome.”

As soon as the library door snicked shut,
Elizabeth let herself relax against the back of the chair. Heavens,
she felt decidedly unwell. Her head throbbed and her throat felt
raw. She was ill, there was no denying it. But how in God’s name
was she to sway the marquess when she looked like a bedraggled cat
and could barely sit upright?

She reached for her reticule and retrieved
her reference, relieved to find it was relatively dry. She would
just have to let the words of The Right Honorable, Countess of
Beauchamp, impress Lord Rothsburgh. The way she currently looked
and felt, she would be lucky if the marquess didn’t toss her out
onto the doorstep.

Long minutes passed in which she fought the
urge to sink into the welcoming arms of sleep. Surprisingly, one of
the deerhounds stood, stretched his rangy body, and then came and
placed his large shaggy head on her lap. She stroked one of his
silky ears, and the hound let out a contented sigh.
If only Lord
Rothsburgh could be so easily pleased
.

“Mrs. Eliott.”

Elizabeth opened her eyes to find Mr. James
had returned. He was placing a tea tray onto the low table beside
her.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I seem to have drifted off,”
she said, forcing herself to sit upright. She dropped the blanket
from her shoulders as she had begun to feel decidedly warm. A bead
of perspiration trickled between her shoulder blades. “Is Lord
Rothsburgh coming?”

Mr. James cocked an eyebrow and smiled.
“Yes. In fact he’s already here.”

Elizabeth glanced about the room. There was
no one else in the library besides herself and Mr. James. It was
then that she noticed the butler was wearing a superbly tailored
coat of black superfine with a neatly tied cravat at his
throat.

Pure, undiluted horror swept over her.

“Oh, no.” She couldn’t believe she had been
so stupid. How could she not have realized that Mr. James was in
fact James Huntly, the sixth Marquess of Rothsburgh? She had
researched his lineage in Debrett’s Baronetage and Peerage before
she’d left London. Her heart in her mouth and cold dismay gripping
her belly, she forced herself to stand, then dropped into a deep
curtsy. “Lord Rothsburgh. I’m so deeply sorry for my lack of—”

“Don’t be silly, Mrs. Eliott,” interrupted
the marquess. “How were you to know that I, Lord Rothsburgh, would
answer the door? Now sit back down before you fall down.”

She subsided onto the settee again, her
cheeks burning. In her wildest imaginings, she could not have
envisaged anything as nightmarish as this. “I…I don’t know what to
say, my lord,” she said. “Please forgive my presumption—”

“Mrs. Eliott, I think I preferred it when
you were rude to me.” Lord Rothsburgh smiled at her, a decided
spark of amusement in his dark brown eyes. He bent over the tea
tray and deftly poured her a steaming cup. “How do you take your
tea?”

“A little milk. No sugar thank you,” she
replied meekly as she removed her gloves.

Lord Rothsburgh handed her a cup and saucer
of the finest bone china—the pattern was Wedgwood if she wasn’t
mistaken. She took a sip and closed her eyes, savoring the soothing
liquid. She could have sworn that the tea was a smoky Lapsang
Souchong, her favorite blend.

“I can see you have made friends with
Rosencrantz.”

Elizabeth opened her eyes and looked down.
The deerhound that had been resting his head on her knee earlier
was now lying at her feet, his head on her boots. She smiled then
glanced over to where Lord Rothsburgh sat in a leather wing chair
opposite her.

“Guildenstern, I take it, obviously prefers
your company, my lord.” The other deerhound had moved over to his
master’s side, his head on the marquess’s lap.

“More fool him,” replied Lord Rothsburgh,
his dark gaze roaming over her.

Elizabeth felt her already feverish cheeks
grow hotter, and she glanced toward the dog at her feet. A
misanthrope she could deal with, but a darkly handsome voluptuary?
She had not anticipated the marquess would be such a man; which was
quite short-sighted really—men of his class often lived a
hedonistic lifestyle.

She should know considering she was married
to one of the worst offenders.

But perhaps Lord Rothsburgh was only testing
her mettle, to see if she was made of sterner stuff than her
predecessors. Despite her throbbing head and raw throat, she would
just have to show the marquess that she was not some withering
violet.

She looked up to find that the marquess was
still watching her. He had stretched back in his chair; his long
muscular legs, encased in form-fitting breeches were extended out
before him, his booted lower legs crossed at the ankle. He was the
personification of the arrogant, indolently graceful aristocrat. In
one long fingered hand he held a glass of amber-colored
liquor—whisky perhaps.

Noticing the direction of her gaze, he
raised the glass and took a sizeable sip. “Would you like some?” he
asked, arching a black-winged eyebrow. His voice was low and soft,
like velvet.

She swallowed. “No thank you, my lord.” Her
voice emerged as a husky croak. She took another quick sip of tea,
then placed the cup and saucer on the table. They rattled faintly
against each other. She was shivering again and she could feel a
sheen of cold perspiration on her brow. Banter was all well and
good, but she needed to get down to business to secure her position
as governess.

She reached for her reference and offered it
to the marquess. “P-perhaps we could speak about the governess’s
p-post, Lord Rothsburgh,” she said, although she inwardly cursed
her chattering teeth. It made her sound nervous. “This is my letter
of reference from the C-Countess of B-Beauchamp.”

Lord Rothsburgh leant forward and took the
letter from her, frowning. “Are you sure you are all right, Mrs.
Eliott? You look a little flushed.”

She shrugged. “I think I must have caught a
chill, my lord. I will be f-fine.”

He sat back, his dark eyes lingering on her
a moment more before he turned over the envelope and broke the wax
seal. “This is from Lady Beauchamp, you say.”

“Yes. She is one of the p-patronesses of the
Widows of Waterloo Trust, my lord. It is a charity that aims to
f-find paid, decent work for wives who have lost their husbands at
Waterloo and n-no longer have a source of income.”

Lord Rothsburgh sought her gaze. His eyes
were somber. “Then I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs. Eliott.”

Elizabeth inclined her head in
acknowledgement of the condolence, yet felt herself flushing a
little more—if that was at all physically possible. Although she
had uttered the lie about her situation with relative ease, once
spoken it was as if a bitter taste still lingered in her mouth.

The marquess returned to perusing her
reference. “You come highly recommended,” he said thoughtfully when
he had finished reading it. He put the letter aside and fixed his
gaze on her again. “Although I do hope that Lady Beauchamp isn’t
tied to that first-class bounder, the Earl of Beauchamp, Hugh
Harcourt. Her recommendation isn’t worth much if she is. Only a
fool would have married a prat like that.”

Elizabeth gasped. He knew Hugh, but he
obviously didn’t know her. She quickly scanned her mind for any
memory of having met Lord Rothsburgh before, but she could not find
one. Her real identity was safe.

But even though what he had just said about
Hugh was accurate, his comments about her true self—Lady
Beauchamp—still stung. That meant her reference was worthless. Lord
Rothsburgh had dismissed her well-chosen words outright. And it was
not as if what she had stated about Mrs. Beth Eliott was an entire
fabrication; she did truly possess the personal qualities and
attainments delineated within the letter that made her more than
suitable governess material. And she did really want and need the
work.

She sat dumbfounded, searching for something
to say that would convince this mercurial man she was the right
person to teach his daughter. But nothing came to mind.