Read Lady Beauchamp's Proposal for Free Online Page B

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.
    She raised a shaking hand to her fevered
brow and pushed a damp lock of hair out of her eyes. “I…I don’t
know what to say, Lord Rothsburgh.” There was a hard