"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...
Trigger warning: This chapter contains mentions of abuse.
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Beatrice didn't forget—she couldn't forget. She didn't wish to forget. Every second of that kiss, the tenderness of it, the gentility and beauty of the moment was relived so often that evening, she couldn't fall asleep.
Lying in bed, she watched the fire consume the wood in the hearth, its heat reminding her of the heat of Lord Camden's hands as they laid claim to her waist, setting her body on fire. It was the heat of his lips against hers; the heat of his breath; the heat of his body pressed to hers.
How could she forget?!
How could she forget the lost seconds trapped in his arms, exploring new emotions she had never felt before then? She couldn't forget the slow drumming of her heart in her chest, almost as if it had forgotten the art of beating. Nor could she forget the sudden reliance of her knees on the strength of his arms to keep her from collapsing to the ground.
They were new—strange—feelings, things she never felt with Oliver; things she was never given the opportunity to feel; things she knew in this moment she had silently craved in her marriage to Oliver. She had wanted him to hold her in his arms, to be her safety, to touch her, to kiss her...
But Oliver never held her, nor did he ever make her feel anything but dread in his presence. His touch had burned, leaving painful scars, and his lips, rather than kiss her, had abused her.
Still, Oliver and Lord Camden were related and Beatrice didn't wish to delude herself into thinking the two men had completely different characteristics. Perhaps Lord Camden was a good kisser, but that didn't make him a good person, nor did it negate the fact that he could be using Beatrice.
Perhaps Lord Camden's interest laid only in bedding Beatrice. Oliver would have been well capable of such cruelty—of using a woman and tossing her aside once he was done. Hadn't Oliver done the same to Beatrice when he married her, only to discard her like a worthless piece of rubbish? Blood was thick, and it was blood that joined the two men. Beatrice couldn't let her guard down with Lord Camden like she had done with Oliver when she trusted him enough to marry him.
At that moment, Beatrice made a painful decision; she would never kiss Lord Camden again, even if the opportunity presented itself. She would stay away from him. Oliver fooled her when he lured her into a loveless marriage and the shame was on Oliver, but the shame would be on Beatrice if she let herself be fooled a second time by allowing Lord Camden to lure her into his trap.
Turning over to the side, she let out a soft sigh and closed her eyes, fighting to rid herself of thoughts of Lord Camden's lips. But the appeal of sleep was nothing compared to the pleasure of the memory of the kiss, forcing her to stay awake for several hours staring at the white ceiling.
A soft creaking sound drifted to Beatrice, and thinking it was the wind opening the gate, she ignored it. Until she heard yet another sound, like the sound of heels upon the cobbled walkway.
