"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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Laughing, Beatrice ran her palm over the smooth fabric of Lord Curtis' jacket. Nothing he said was funny, but the look of pure hate on the faces of the women in the room as she openly flirted with him gave her all the satisfaction she desired.
Satisfaction, not anger, and certainly not fear.
She had learned to derive satisfaction from the scorn of the ton since the evening she burned her black dresses and wore a green dress to a ball. Her presence had set tongues wagging, and so did her green dress. Openly shunned, she had been relegated to the back of the room. It was then, as she stood with her back pressed to the wall and her gaze sweeping the room, that something snapped in her. Throwing off restraint, self pity and whatever decency she had left, she lifted her hands to her hair, tugged off the comb that held it captive and let it fall to a mess around her shoulders.
Spitting on society and its norms, Beatrice had made her way through the room with her head held high and her hair draping her shoulders. The crowd parted before her, their faces pale from lack of oxygen as they gaped at her. But she didn't care. She instead found her target in a circle of men, and squaring her shoulders, she had plastered a smile on her lips and demanded a dance.
She smiled at the memory. Since then, she had flirted with more men than she could count on her fingers. She especially found enjoyment in the women's annoyance, and the only way to provoke those women was to gain the attention of their men. When she found that older men were easier to prey on, she made them her targets.
Still, Beatrice could not bring herself to share their beds. Perhaps it was the last shred of decency left in her that restrained her; perhaps it was because she knew she cared nothing for those men, she only cared for the satisfaction of meting out vengeance on their women.
Lord Curtis offered a crooked smile in return. "Perhaps I can arrange for a trip to Paris aboard my ship."
She laughed and batted her eyelashes. "That sounds wonderful, my lord, but certainly we do not want to set tongues wagging, do we?"
"I am a man, my reputation shall survive it." He laughed, his gaze falling to her bosom, where her low-cut off-the-shoulder neckline left an ample portion of her breasts on display. "I am certain you have nothing to worry about." He ran his tongue over his bottom lip, and Beatrice cringed inwardly.
"Perhaps," she said, forcing a smile to her lips. "But my lord, I must be given time to consider your offer. Now, you must excuse me." She tried to walk away, but he caught her wrist, dragging her back.
"If it pleases my lady, I shall arrange for a room for us tonight." He offered a knowing smile, his hold on her tightening. "Somewhere on the second floor is a safe bedchamber I have arranged. No one will notice when we slip out—"
