"No respect for the dead." His words came out in silent whispers, his teeth clenched.
A small smile tugged on her lips. "Respect is earned in life, my lord. When a man fails to earn respect in life, it cannot suddenly be bestowed on him simply becau...
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London, 1836 Spring
She must warn him.
Silently cursing propriety for the burden it laid upon her shoulders, Beatrice drained her cup, cringing as the liquid burned down her throat, leaving an unpleasant taste in her mouth.
Placing the glass on the table, she filled it once again with scotch. She hated alcohol, she mused, lifting the glass to her lips and cringing at the smell of it. She hated the taste, smell and effect it was sure to have on her the next morning. But it was the only thing that enabled her to make it through these horrid gatherings. It gave her the courage to smile when all she wanted to do was spit in the eyes of the women who peddled lies about her. It gave her the strength to converse and laugh at the boring jokes of the gentlemen. It saw her through every social, spiteful gathering England had to offer, and when she crawled into an empty, cold bed every evening, it helped her fall asleep.
Alcohol was her necessary evil, and unfortunately for her, so was Oliver.
Turning from the snack table, she easily found Oliver in the same state she had seen him in only a few minutes ago-he still stood, conversing animatedly with the same gentleman he had been buttonholing for quite some time.
For a brief second, she wondered what it was that kept the two men engaged in conversation, but even as the thought drifted through her mind, she quickly shoved it aside, knowing full well that she didn't care. She assumed it to be talks of politics.
Chugging the liquid, she smacked her lips as it burned down her throat. She refilled her glass severally, acquainting her taste buds with the vile taste of the alcohol until she could no longer taste it, and until she was swaying on her feet as laughter filtered uncontrollably from her lips.
"Beatrice!" Something clawed around her forearm, evoking a wince from her.
Shocked and confused, she spun around, nearly losing her footing as her blurry vision settled on his brown eyes. Disdain and disapproval darkened his eyes, anger tugging on his brows as his fingers tightened their death-grip on her arm, forcing her forward, dragging her through the crowded room.
Compelled to follow, she tried to keep her feet on the ground, his long strides making it impossible to keep up with him, and her blurry vision causing her to stumble severally as she hurried after him. But he showed no sympathy for her drunken state, dragging her along, his fingers digging holes in her flesh.
A rush of chilly air washed over her the second they stepped out through the doors and she stumbled once more, her lips cracking against his elbow. The vile taste of blood filled her mouth, evoking a pained yelp.
Still, her cries failed to gain his attention, his already painful grip digging further into her skin until she feared she might pass out from the pain.
A sharp whistle tore through the night air as he steadied her, pausing at the foot of the front porch as he signalled for the carriage to be brought. He held her in place while they waited, neither loosening his grip on her, nor releasing her until the carriage appeared.
