Lady Beauchamp's Proposal (7 page)

Feeling slightly more in control of his
baser urges, he snatched up one of his shirts and retraced his
steps to the guest room. Beth—although he should try to think of
her as Mrs. Eliott—had managed to kick off the covers and she had
started shivering again. It was imperative that he finish what he’d
started.

Clenching his jaw and focusing on the
practicalities of the task at hand rather than the beautiful body
being laid bare, Rothsburgh deftly pulled off Beth’s shift, before
pulling his nightshirt over her head and guiding her limp arms
through the sleeves. Then and only then did he remove her drawers
and stockings.

Breathing a sigh of relief, he went over to
the basin and dampened a washcloth to bathe the widow’s brow. She
was murmuring in her sleep now—her brow was creased and she tossed
her head a little. Perhaps she was having a bad dream.

He knew all about bad dreams, both real and
imagined.

He returned to her side, but he couldn’t
make out the words. “Beth,” he said softly, placing the cloth on
her forehead. “You’re quite safe.”

“Please…leave me be,” she whispered.

“It’s all right, Beth. No one will harm
you.” He didn’t know if she could hear him, but he wanted to ease
her distress. He pushed a strand of hair away from the corner of
her mouth, wondering who had frightened her so badly.

He prayed it wasn’t him.

Surprisingly, she rolled her cheek onto his
hand and stilled. He even thought he could detect the curve of a
faint smile on her lips. So maybe it wasn’t him. He suddenly felt
inordinately pleased that his voice and touch seemed to soothe
her.

Tread carefully, Rothsburgh. She may look
like the embodiment of heaven, but caring for her, like any woman,
will only lead you into hell.

You’ve already been there, and you can never
afford to go back again.

* * * *

“Please, for the love of God, go away…”

Rothsburgh sat bolt upright in the armchair
besides Beth’s bed, all senses on high alert. In the dim light of
the banked fire he could just make out Beth tossing beneath the
gold damask counterpane. Her nightmare had come back again. It was
the third night he’d spent by her bed. And this was the third time
she’d had the dream.

He reached out and touched her hand as he
had done each time before. “Beth, hush now lass. It’s all right.
You’re safe.”

She instantly became quiet, and her
breathing grew less ragged. He had no idea why he was able to
dispel the nightmare. Nevertheless, he was pleased that something
so simple seemed to ease her inner, if not her physical
turmoil.

For him, the only way to prevent the visions
of the blood-soaked and gore-strewn battlefields of Belgium
parading through his head every night was to imbibe enough wine and
whisky to knock him into a dreamless stupor. Not healthy or wise,
he knew, but sometimes it was the only thing that would help him to
sleep.

He sighed and subsided back into the
armchair where he’d been dozing prior to Beth’s outcry. Not for the
first time he wondered whom she entreated to leave her alone. Her
husband? But why would she still wear her wedding ring—a symbol of
devotion and affection—if he had been the abusive type? It didn’t
make sense if that was the case. But then she could just as easily
be dreaming about a stern parent figure, a combative sibling, even
an over-zealous teacher from her childhood.

Speculating in the dead of night wasn’t
going to get him anywhere and besides, was it really any of his
business? And would she even tell him, a virtual stranger, what
troubled her if he asked? He sighed and closed his eyes.

Probably not.

He yawned. Christ, he was tired. After three
nights keeping a bedside vigil, he wanted nothing more than to lie
down and try to get some sleep. He opened his eyes and looked
longingly at the space beside Beth. Would she even notice if he
stretched out beside her for a few hours? She had been barely
conscious for the last three days and nights. The problem was, even
though she might not be aware of him, his body would certainly be
aware of her.

Indeed, since she’d arrived, he seemed to be
in a perpetual state of fever himself. It took only a soft breath
sighing from her full pouting lips, or the sight of her slender
ankles and elegant bare feet to send the blood pounding through his
veins straight to his cock. How would he be, lying beside her with
his balls aching with wanting her? He probably wouldn’t get a wink
of sleep.

But then again, perhaps exhaustion would
just win out. And he’d never know unless he tried. Tired of his
fruitless, internal debate, he quietly pulled off his boots and
then eased himself onto the bed, very carefully avoiding any
contact with her, tempting though it was to take her hand in his
again. She didn’t stir at all.

He closed his eyes, content to listen to the
soft rhythm of her breathing. He had been wrong; for once his
desire for the oblivion of sleep was greater than his physical
desire for Mrs. Beth Eliott. At last, he felt his tension starting
to ebb away…

* * * *

By slow degrees, Elizabeth became aware of
herself again. Her mouth was dry, her throat was painful, her
entire body ached. There was a dull, insistent throb somewhere in
the vicinity of her left temple, and she instinctively knew it
would hurt to open her eyes. Wherever she was, it was dark,
although she sensed a fire burning somewhere near; there was a
faint glow against her eyelids and she heard the soft ashy crumble
of a log disintegrating. Somehow, she knew that she was safe.

Grimacing, she swallowed and arched her
stiff back. Even though she was still drowsy, she was aware that
she was lying on her side in a large comfortable bed. Except her
cheek was resting against something incongruously hard, as was one
of her legs. She drew in a breath and was suddenly overwhelmed with
the scent of warm male and rich, spicy soap—cloves and
sandalwood…musk.

Oh, no
. Her eyes flew open and her
heart seized as the shocking reality of her situation penetrated
her foggy brain.
I’m curled up in bed with Lord
Rothsburgh
.

She gasped, and immediately pushed herself
away from his body as horrified confusion seized her. The marquess
was fast asleep, but that hardly mattered.
This was wrong, so
wrong.
But how on earth had this situation come to pass? That
within a fortnight of leaving Hugh, she’d ended up in another man’s
bed.

She cast her mind back, desperately trying
to recall what had happened to her. She clearly remembered talking
with the marquess in the library and then his scathing appraisal of
her reference. Hadn’t she tried to leave? Then there was no clear
memory of anything much at all—until now.

She knew she had been ill—in fact, given the
way she felt, she still was. But for how long? And why was she in
bed with Lord Rothsburgh?

Carefully, slowly, she rolled away from his
large, disturbingly masculine form and gently pushed herself
upright. She was wearing one of her own nightrails, and Lord
Rothsburgh was clothed as well, albeit somewhat informally. His
loose linen shirt had partially rucked up around his waist
revealing a tantalizing glimpse of a taut abdomen, and a thin line
of dark hair that disappeared into beige Kerseymere trousers.

Cheeks burning, her eyes drifted lower and
she noticed his long feet were bare. Their mutual state of
dishabille
and current situation suggested they had perhaps
engaged in sex. However, although her body ached and she felt
spent, she could not detect any of the usual sensations associated
with having taken part in such an act. She didn’t think that the
marquess had taken advantage of her in her weakened state.

And sick or not, surely she would remember
having intimate relations with someone as overpoweringly male as
Lord Rothsburgh.

Feeling slightly breathless, she tore her
gaze away from him to look around the room. They were in a
spacious, well-appointed bedchamber with a high vaulted ceiling.
The bed they shared was a large four-poster, curtained with swathes
of rich amber velvet. A golden damask counterpane and fine cotton
sheets were crumpled at the end of the bed as if she or Lord
Rothsburgh had kicked them away.

Despite the grand proportions of the room,
it was warm enough—as she’d suspected, a fire burnt low in the
substantial ivory marble fireplace opposite the foot of the bed. It
gave off a soft glow and illuminated the rest of the furniture that
was elegant enough to grace a French boudoir; a delicately carved
walnut dresser and wardrobe stood against the stone walls, a chaise
longue upholstered in ivory brocade was positioned before the
hearth, and a matching armchair sat nearby on her side of the
bed.

Her gaze skittered across the room to a pair
of windows. Faint light seeped in around the edges of the drawn
amber velvet curtains, but it was impossible to tell if it was
morning or afternoon. She thought she could hear the sea.

She also spied her travelling trunk in a
dark corner beside the armchair.
When on earth did that
arrive?
Her clothes spilled out of the top, as if the contents
had been hastily rummaged through—a large shawl of pale, grey
cashmere was uppermost in the pile.

Trying hard not to disturb Lord Rothsburgh,
Elizabeth slowly moved toward the edge of the bed, swung her feet
over and stood up. The room tipped with a sickening lurch, and she
was forced to steady herself against one of the carved walnut
bedposts before she took the few steps to her trunk. Never before
had she felt so unwell. It was highly disturbing to say the
least.

With shaking hands she pulled her shawl
around herself, and sank into the armchair, tucking her cold bare
feet up beneath the hem of her nightrail. A brief glance back
toward the bed confirmed that Lord Rothsburgh was still asleep.
Thank heavens
.

She felt like she could breathe again.

One thing she needed right now was time—time
to gather her wits before she spoke with the marquess about what
had happened. And more importantly, what would happen next. How
could she even consider working here after waking up in bed with
him? She was not fit to play the part of the upright governess when
for all intents and purposes it now appeared she was a woman of
ill-repute.

She released a shaky sigh and clasped her
arms more tightly about herself, trying to recollect any detail, no
matter how small, about her lost hours. She suddenly wondered where
all the other servants were. When she had first arrived, it had
seemed as if she and Lord Rothsburgh were the sole inhabitants of
this vast, lonely place. But then an image of another, older woman
with grey hair suddenly materialized in her mind’s eye—she was a
servant, Elizabeth was sure of it. She had a vague memory of the
woman bathing her brow, holding a glass of water to her lips and
assisting her to the privy. Yes—she knew there was a garderobe
through the door to the right of the bed and the older woman had
helped her to get there.

But clearly it hadn’t just been the older
woman who had cared for her…

Elizabeth’s gaze drifted over to the bed
again. Lord Rothsburgh was sleeping peacefully—for a moment she’d
been worried that he had also been struck down with the ague, but
she could see no signs of fever or restlessness. He was lying on
his back, one arm tucked behind his head, while the other lay
relaxed at his side. She was struck again by how tall the man
was—and muscular. She didn’t mean to, but she couldn’t help but
compare him to Hugh; her husband was also tall and lean, but in a
coltish way, whereas Lord Rothsburgh appeared to be broader and
harder; a man who was obviously accustomed to physical exertion. He
was certainly not an indolent nobleman.

Her gaze roamed over his wide shoulders, his
bulging upper arms that were barely contained by his linen sleeves,
and the broad plane of his chest that she now knew from experience,
was as unyielding as rock. Her eyes then drifted lower to where his
shirt was still rumpled up around his lean hips, and her breath
caught in her throat—the man had a rampant erection.

Oh, my Lord.
Blushing furiously, she
ripped her gaze away from the tented fabric at his groin and
glanced at his face; thankfully he was still fast asleep. At least
he wouldn’t know she had seen him in such an unguarded state.

Stop looking at him, Elizabeth.
But
it seemed her eyes wouldn’t obey her. A strange nervous curiosity
held her in its grip. Regardless of the danger—the marquess might
wake at any moment and catch her out—and the certain knowledge that
what she did was wrong, she couldn’t seem to resist the temptation
to continue her blatant study.

Despite his body’s obvious physical prowess,
and ruggedly handsome looks, Lord Rothsburgh appeared strangely
vulnerable in sleep. But when he was awake…Raven-haired and almost
olive-skinned, Elizabeth couldn’t decide whether the marquess
reminded her more of a gypsy, a pirate or Lucifer himself. She knew
already that even a fleeting glance of his brown-black eyes was
enough to put her to the blush.

Yes, for all his apparent softness now, Lord
Rothsburgh was dangerous indeed. Frowning, she continued to trace
over his features, trying to ascertain why just looking at him made
her heart beat as wildly as that of a silly young girl. Of course,
there were his high slashing cheekbones, his straight blade of a
nose, and wide, firmly sculpted mouth. Or perhaps it was the wing
of sleep-ruffled black hair that perpetually flopped across his
brow, making her fingers itch to push it out of his eyes.

It most certainly couldn’t be the fact that
he badly needed a shave. His lean, square jaw was so shadowed with
dark stubble, she could only just make out the slight indentation
in his chin. She clenched her hands into fists. No, she wouldn’t
think about what his smooth jaw would feel like under her
fingertips after he’d used a razor.