Lady Beauchamp's Proposal (9 page)

But then, how could he be expected to mourn
the death of a woman—a woman he had once loved beyond all
reason—when she had turned out to be utterly faithless? When, with
malice of forethought, she had brazenly tried to pass another man’s
bastard off as his own child within the first year of their
marriage?

Of course, when he was newly wedded and in
the first mad throes of love, he’d never envisaged that things
would turn out so disastrously.

Lady Isabelle March had been as dazzling as
any of the stars in heaven’s firmament when he’d first met her
during her second Season in London six years ago. Black-haired and
gentian eyed, she’d had a sparkling wit and beauty beyond compare.
She was always dressed in the height of fashion, rode like an
Amazon through Hyde Park, and her dance card was always full. She
also had an impeccable lineage—her father, the Earl of Granthorpe,
was extremely well off, and her maternal grandfather was a Duke.
She seemed to be a diamond of the first water. And after he’d first
seen her, he’d been determined to win her.

Who’d have thought that she’d be as wild as
a gypsy and completely lacking in principles?

He’d heard the whispered warnings; that
despite her apparent suitability as a prospective partner for any
male in the upper echelons of society, she was also rumored to be
fickle with her attentions. Hence the lack of an engagement by the
end of her debut Season.

Stupidly, blindly, he’d ignored all the
speculation and gossip; he hadn’t cared. The worldly, rakish,
Marquess of Rothsburgh had been well and truly besotted by the
incomparable Lady Isabelle. But he’d been nothing more than
Isabelle’s cuckold.

It had taken him a long time to crawl out of
the black void of despair and disillusionment that Isabelle had
flung him into. He’d learned to exist as man who was really only
half-alive and up until three days ago he had been relatively
content to carry on that way. But now…perhaps Mrs. Beth Eliott had
revived his long dead heart.

And he didn’t like it one little bit.

He finished his whisky, then paced over to
the bay windows again to watch the sun slowly ascend through
scattered shreds of cloud over the perpetually cold, dark sea. The
question was, what was Beth going to do now? That she needed to
stay at Eilean Tor until she had completely recovered from her
illness, was a foregone conclusion. But after that…

There was no longer a governess’s position
here. He hated to think that Beth had travelled all this way in
good faith, for nothing. She was clearly alone in the world and
desperate.

He cast about in his mind, trying to think
of friends or acquaintances of his that had children and required a
teacher, but he could think of none. It was a shame that Lady
Beauchamp’s intelligence about the position was old. He supposed
that Isabelle must have enlisted the services of the Widows of
Waterloo Trust to try to secure a suitable applicant before her
death. Perhaps he could enlist his sister’s aid in finding another
situation. He certainly had no suitable position of an honorable
nature to offer Beth.

He doubted that she’d consent to becoming
his mistress.

As much as he was loath to say farewell to
Mrs. Eliott, he knew it would be for the best if she left this
cursed place—for both their sakes.

Much to her consternation, Elizabeth quickly
discovered that Lord Rothsburgh’s prognosis about her current state
of malaise, and the expected rate of her recovery, was entirely
accurate.

After he’d left her alone, the only activity
she’d had the strength for was returning to bed where she’d
alternately dozed and worried over her future; until Mrs. Roberts
had arrived with a pot of tea and a bowl of stodgy, salty porridge
to ‘build up her strength’. Elizabeth was dismayed to find that she
barely had the energy to lift her spoon or her teacup. As much as
it frustrated her, the grim reality was, she wasn’t going anywhere
for the next few days.

As promised, Lord Rothsburgh arranged a bath
for her. Mrs. Roberts returned mid-morning and pulled the amber
velvet curtains around the bed before the tub was discreetly set up
by several—Elizabeth assumed—male servants. She felt grateful, but
also a little self-conscious for such a luxury being bestowed when
she was really nothing more than an interloper at the castle.

Mrs. Roberts, a grey-haired, stout woman
with the type of dour countenance that brooked no argument, shooed
the men from the room before she drew open the curtains again.
“It’s verra good to see you are much better, Mrs. Eliott,” the
older woman commented as she ran her shrewd grey-green eyes over
Elizabeth. “Would you like me to help ye with yer bath?”

Elizabeth politely declined the older
woman’s kind offer. “I’m sure you have enough to do, Mrs. Roberts,
what with cooking all the meals here and hardly any staff to help.
And from what I’ve discovered this morning, I have already claimed
too much of your time. You must be exhausted.”

The cook shrugged. “It doesna matter.
There’s no’ many to feed at the moment. Wha’ wi’ Lady Annabelle
gone to live in Edinburgh wi’ her aunt—thank the Lord and sweet
Jesus, the child left afore this wretched ague came to Eilean
Tor—there’s only Lord Rothsburgh left to cook anything special for.
’Tis only a wee bit o’ work.”

Elizabeth’s breath caught in her chest as
the import of what Mrs. Roberts had just said, sank into her brain.
Lady Annabelle wasn’t here?
Surely she hadn’t heard
correctly. Somehow she managed to suck a quick shallow breath into
her constricted lungs in order to speak. “Excuse me, Mrs. Roberts,
but what did you just say about Lord Rothsburgh’s daughter? She’s
in Edinburgh?”

Mrs. Roberts nodded. “Weel, yes. The poor
wee mite has gone to live wi’ Lord and Lady Maxwell.” The cook
suddenly frowned and looked wary. “But perhaps I shouldna have said
anything. ’Tis no’ my place to discuss any matter to do wi’ his
lordship. Mr. Roberts is always tellin’ me to watch my tongue.”

Elizabeth’s head suddenly buzzed with
dizziness and nausea swirled in her belly. She was grateful she was
still sitting in the bed as she didn’t think her legs would support
her. Why hadn’t Lord Rothsburgh told her there was no governess’s
post here as soon as she’d arrived? No wonder he had laughed at her
when she’d first announced her intentions on his doorstep. And then
to go through the bizarre charade of pretending to be the butler
before conducting a sham interview. It made no sense. Why was he
playing these strange games with her? She didn’t understand this
man. No, not at all.

Elizabeth reached out and grasped the older
woman’s arm. “Please, Mrs. Roberts. It was not my intention to draw
you into gossip. You are obviously a very loyal servant.” She
studied the cook’s expression, trying to detect if there was any
degree of suspicion or judgment hardening the woman’s gaze. What on
earth did Mrs. Roberts make of her?

It only just occurred to Elizabeth that her
arrival must appear odd indeed if there was no longer the need for
a governess here. So what
had
the marquess told his staff
about her? Surely they must know their master had been looking
after her, attending to her every personal need…that he’d shared
her bed.

Oh God. Do they think I am his mistress?

She couldn’t bear it if Mrs. Roberts or the
other staff thought she was some high-class whore. Panic started to
squeeze her chest, making her breathless. “It’s just that…I’m a
little confused…and I’m not sure what Lord Rothsburgh has told you
about my…presence here, which I know must seem highly unusual. You
see, I came here to apply for the governess’s position…”

Understanding and perhaps compassion
suddenly appeared in Mrs. Roberts eyes. “Och, Mrs. Eliott. Dinna
worry aboot how things look.” She patted Elizabeth’s hand. “His
lordship explained tha’ there was a misunderstandin’—tha’ yer
London committee fer widows referred ye fer the job here, even
though ye wasna needed. Such a shame too. Ye wouldha’ suited her
young ladyship verra well.”

Elizabeth closed her eyes and breathed a
sigh of relief. She wasn’t convinced the staff wouldn’t look
askance at her because of Lord Rothsburgh’s attentions during her
illness. But at least they all knew why she had come here. Even
though she was Mrs. Beth Eliott, she couldn’t countenance the idea
of being branded as a man’s mistress, no matter how rich and titled
that man was.

With a sinking heart, she realized her
continued presence at Eilean Tor was more precarious than she’d
originally thought. With no charge requiring a governess, she had
no business being here at all. Her stomach began to churn again
with a tumult of emotions; anger at Lord Rothsburgh’s lack of
honesty, acute embarrassment at the whole, strangely burdensome
situation. And fear of what was to become of her.

She was going to have start afresh…again.
And soon.

Fighting a wave of tears, she dismissed Mrs.
Roberts with sincere thanks for her assistance before she shakily
disrobed, and then climbed into the steaming bath. As the lavender
scented vapors rose about her, she immediately felt a little
calmer. It was reassuring to know she had a few days’ grace to
recover some of her strength and formulate a new plan of action for
her future.

But even though she was grateful to the
marquess for his continued care, she resolved to seek him out. No
matter how unwell she felt, she would demand that he explain his
perplexing actions thus far. She would not be able to rest until
she did.

* * * *

It was late afternoon when Elizabeth finally
set forth from her sick bed in order to locate Lord Rothsburgh. She
hadn’t seen him since he’d quit her room earlier. Part of her was
relieved that he hadn’t returned given she’d still been abed,
whilst another part of her was impatient to demand why he’d strung
her along.

Indeed, it was her indignance alone that
helped her to summon sufficient energy to don her least crushed set
of widow’s weeds, and to arrange her freshly washed and dried hair
into a simple chignon. Even these simple actions left her
breathless and shaking. She hated feeling so weak.

Emerging from her room, she found herself in
a completely unfamiliar hallway. A thick Oriental runner extended
the length of the polished wooden floor and absorbed the sound of
her footsteps as she made her way down the long gallery toward a
staircase. Richly colored tapestries and portraits of glowering men
and woman in antiquated dress—ancestors of the Huntly line she
supposed—were interspersed between tall arched windows that
afforded glimpses of wind-lashed sea, and a horizon of pale,
blue-grey sky.

Again she was struck by the absolute
isolation of this place. It was little wonder that the marquess had
the reputation for being a lone wolf given his place of
residence.

He was definitely an enigma. Her experience
of his company might be limited, but she did not think he
completely eschewed the companionship of others. He was
unconventional in his behavior at times, and his moods seemed
somewhat unpredictable, but he was certainly not the misanthrope
Lady Airlie had deemed him. So why was the marquess such a recluse?
She suddenly wondered if he was ever lonely.

She halted her thoughts right there. She
would be on dangerous ground if she suddenly started to feel any
sort of sympathy for the man. She already found him devilishly
attractive in a physical sense. Cultivating any sort of tender
feeling for him would be unwise indeed. She must always remember
that she was married, and not a witless green girl. More than
anyone, she should know that she needed to keep her head.

She’d had her head turned before by a
handsome man, and it had ended in disaster.

She slowly descended the wide staircase,
holding onto the stone balustrade for support—even this brief walk
was making her feel heavy-chested and breathless—and noted a
vaguely familiar set of double doors in carved oak ahead. She
guessed she’d found the library. It was as good a place as any to
search for Lord Rothsburgh. She certainly didn’t have the stamina
to look any further afield for him, and she suspected it would be
very easy to get lost within the environs of Eilean Tor.

Elizabeth slipped through the door—she had
indeed gained the library—but it was deserted. Not even the
deerhounds, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, lurked about the hearth.
The grate contained logs that were yet unlit, as were the candles
and lamps.

Contrary emotions assailed her again—she was
relieved, yet oddly disappointed that Lord Rothsburgh wasn’t
present. She’d half expected him to be ensconced in one of the
leather wing chairs, nonchalantly sipping a tumbler of whisky as
he’d done on her first evening here. The evocative memory made her
shiver—with either apprehension or feminine appreciation, she
wasn’t sure.

She just prayed she didn’t lose her nerve
before the marquess made an appearance.

Remember you’re annoyed with him. And he
owes you a decent explanation.

The clock on the black marble mantle
suddenly proclaimed the hour to be four o’clock. The light was
starting to fade, but it would be sufficient to read by while she
waited. However, instead of choosing a book from the substantial
collection of leather bound volumes on display, she was drawn
across the room to the bay windows where a magnificent view of sea
and sky beckoned to be admired. Kneeling upon the brocade covered
window seat, she looked down a plunging granite cliff face to where
grey-green breakers exploded against slick, black rocks far below.
A sudden wave of dizziness swept over her. Sitting back on her
heels, she closed her eyes, waiting for the sensation of falling to
ebb. She’d had no idea that Eilean Tor was situated on the very
edge of the headland. It felt as if the whole castle was about to
slip off the end of the world.