Lady Beauchamp's Proposal by Secret Cravings Publishing Read Free Book Online Page A

In
his opinion, she was far too young to be a destitute widow—she
should be enjoying life to the full, instead of searching for work
in the middle of nowhere. But as he well knew, life was hardly ever
fair.
    He suspected she had blonde hair, although
it was so wet, it was difficult to tell the exact shade. Whatever
hairstyle she had previously arranged it into, had largely
collapsed. Nevertheless, he could tell it was luxuriously thick; it
curled damply in natural waves about her cheeks and across her
forehead. Long, surprisingly dark eyelashes fanned over her flushed
cheeks, and although hidden from his view now, he also knew she had
large grey eyes. The irises were a clear, silver-grey, rimmed with
a darker grey; he had registered their exceptional shade during her
interview, such as it was.
    Next, his eyes drifted lower to her
rose-pink lips, now slightly parted as she breathed softly against
his neck. Her lower lip was quite full, even sinfully full he
thought, when compared to the rest of her angelic fairness; it
pouted in such a way that he had to suppress the sudden, dangerous
urge to suck the tantalizing curve into his mouth and kiss her.
    Cursing himself for being both a cad and the
worst kind of fool—it had been a long time since he’d been so
captivated by a woman’s physical beauty—he roused himself from his
unashamed perusal and strode out into the hall, and then up the
stairs to the east wing.
    Faint light spilled from one of the open
doors. Roberts had obviously got the fire going and set the candles
alight. Entering the room, he found the butler turning down the
bedclothes. Nearby was a pile of fresh towels and additional
blankets. There was also a bowl and ewer filled with fresh water,
warming by the fire.
    “Can I get ye anything else, milord?” asked
Roberts. His voice was strained and slightly breathless. Rothsburgh
could see that he was trying very hard to suppress a fit of
coughing. His butler was not a young man by any means, and still
sick as a dog; he clearly needed to go back to bed himself.
    “No, that will be all, Roberts. I’ll take
care of things from here.”
    “Weel, if ye are sure, milord—” Roberts
covered his mouth and gave into the urge to cough.
    Rothsburgh gave him a mock frown. “Go, man,
and get back to bed. Don’t make me come and tuck you in.”
    Roberts bowed his thanks and swiftly left
the room, closing the door behind him. Rothsburgh wasn’t sure if
the subsequent barking sound coming from the corridor was coughing,
laughter, or both.
    He crossed the room to the large four-poster
bed, and gently laid the young widow upon the exposed sheets. She
did not make a sound. He straightened and then crossed his arms,
staring down at her. What he needed to do—which was to get her warm
and dry—would be difficult without her being conscious. He wished
to God the woman would wake up.
    He placed a hand on her shoulder and shook
her gently. “Mrs. Eliott. Beth. Open your eyes. Can you hear me?”
She didn’t stir at all. He squeezed one of her hands. Her fingers
were hot and clammy at the same time.
    A glint of something silver caught his eye.
Lifting her right hand, he noticed a wedding band. It was a
delicately wrought piece—an intricate filigree design—and quite
beautiful. He didn’t miss the significance of her wearing it on her
right ring finger; Mrs. Eliott obviously still honored the memory
of her husband. She’d intimated he’d perished at Waterloo so he
would have died less than four months ago. She would still be in
deep mourning.
    A cynical smile quirked the corner of his
mouth. He, on the other hand, barely grieved for Isabelle, even
though her death was recent. But then, his love for her had died
long ago. Indeed, he didn’t even know where Isabelle’s gold wedding
band was. Even sadder was the realization that he didn’t really
care. How could he, when Isabelle had hardly ever worn it? Like
holding to her marriage vows, the ring had obviously meant