"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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TW: This chapter contains mentions of suicide.
Steadying her breathing, Beatrice didn't flinch, nor move, nor attempt to hide. She sat straight-backed before him, her head held high, her gaze never shifting from his rage filled eyes.
He leaned down. "I married beneath me!" He spat into her face, his saliva stinging her eyes as it slid slowly down her nose. "You are beneath me! And if it wasn't for your bloody father, I would never have offered you a second glance. You are nothing! You're a mistake; the worst kind, and tonight, while you humiliated yourself at the ball, you were doing nothing but living out your reputation as a peasant," he finished, leaning back.
Tears stung Beatrice's eyes, but she didn't dare let them fall. Perhaps he was right, but she would not-never-let him see how broken she truly was.
Struggling to her feet until she was face to face with him, her small frame barely matched his over six foot form as she held his gaze. He was handsome, she thought for the umpteenth time since she set her eyes on him six months ago, when she had based her assessment of his ability to be a good husband on his good looks. He would love her-she had tried to convince herself that evening as she conceded to her father's demands to marry the young baron. And if he didn't love her immediately, he would love her eventually.
But he didn't love her; she realized that after only a night in his home as his wife.
He would never love her; she realized that after a week and the rumors of his affairs began to filter back to her. She knew society would usually not throw knowledge of a man's mistress in his wife's face, but it turned out that society was willing to throw anything in the face of a woman who wasn't of noble birth, and Beatrice was anything but noble-she was a lowlife, a daughter of a scoundrel, and somewhere in her dirty past, she was a thief.
"Perhaps I am, my lord," she breathed. "I am unfit to be your wife, unfit for society... A mistake," she said, stepping forward until the gap between their bodies was bridged. Placing a hand on his chest in a bold move, she undid a button of his waistcoat. Beatrice wasn't certain, but she thought she saw his eyes darken. If she was right, then it was the first time she would ever arouse him-the first time he would ever look at her with an inkling of lust.
A sinister look, she thought, suddenly disgusted as she considered him. She had always wondered what it would feel like to share his bed, but now, Beatrice was thankful he never bothered with the consummation of their marriage.
She undid each button, never tearing her gaze from his lust filled eyes as she did, until his waistcoat was fully undone. "Perhaps I might be the worst kind of mistake." She paused, inwardly recoiling as her fingers brushed the thin fabric of his shirt once the waistcoat had come undone. Signing, she began replacing each button. "But my lord must learn to properly button your shirt once you are done engaging in your shameful tryst with your mistress, lest you make a fool of yourself once more, taking the scornful eyes of the ton off of your drunken, peasant wife, to your philandering ways like you did tonight." Stepping back once she had replaced each button in their rightful place, she straightened.
