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.
Standing still before him, Beatrice watched as the blood drained from his face, humiliation dimming his eyes, and in that moment, she didn't bear the slightest remorse for not pulling him aside at the ball and informing him of his poor appearance. She had known he was with his mistress when he disappeared in the middle of the ball, only to reappear several minutes later with his waistcoat hanging loosely on his form and his buttons done incorrectly. His silk cravat was missing, his shirt stuck out of his breeches, and his hair was a terrible mess. His reemergence had caused a silent stir in the ball, but his huge ego and his disdain for his wife had made it impossible for him to notice.
"Get out," he ground out, gritting his teeth.
"With pleasure," she said, turning from him. She managed to stalk through the halls and up the stairs with her head held high, only giving into her tears once she was alone.
***
The faint sound of an approaching carriage pulled Beatrice out of a light sleep, alerting her to the arrival of the baron.
It was unusual to have him return so early from his time with a mistress, she thought, turning to the side and studying the bright moonlight from the transparent silk curtains at her window. He always left every evening, when the house staff was dismissed, and returned before dawn to keep his affairs a secret.
Beatrice thought the carriage might have returned without him-it was an unusual scenario, for he usually drove the carriage himself, but it was possible. She simply could not imagine him leaving his mistress's side so early in the evening.
Her mind wandered to his mistresses, and although she knew she cared nothing for who those women were, she wondered about their appearance-if they were beautiful, if he liked a particular type of woman with a particular type of appearance and personality, or did he just choose to bed anything as long as it wasn't his wife?
The carriage drew near, and curios, she rose up, the cold wooden floors tickling her feet as she crossed the room and pulled the curtains aside.
True to her suspicion, she watched as Oliver parked the carriage before the front porch, leaving the horse unattended as he took long, hurried strides up the front stairs and disappeared into the building. Certainly, he was upset. Furious even, she thought as the sound of the front door slamming shut echoed through the building.
Turning from the window, she decided he must have had an argument with a mistress, one that most likely bruised his ego. She settled on her bed and laid flat on her back. Surely it was his ego that was bruised, for six months of marriage told her that he cared for nothing other than his ego. He was selfish and self serving and everything he did, he did for himself; he didn't love her, but he pretended to be in love with her in public for his reputation, he cared nothing for her, but he provided her with the best of comforts for his ego. He had mistresses but was very discreet about it and his discretion had nothing to do with his concerns for her feelings, but his concern for his own name.
She cared nothing for him as well, she thought, pulling her eyelids shut. Theirs was a marriage of convenience-little, perhaps, but convenience nonetheless. She was given comfort and security from her father and wasn't required to pay for it. She was allowed into London's highest societal parties and while she loathed those gatherings, she gained pleasure from the displeasure of the high class women who were always uncomfortable with her presence.
She didn't care how many mistresses her husband had, but she was suddenly interested in finding out what this particular mistress did to bruise his ego so terribly. She was slightly thrilled by the bruising of said ego, and the thought of seeing him hurt-as hurt as he had hurt her time without number-prompted her to her feet once more.
Knowing she would find him in his study when she failed to hear his footsteps ascending the stairs, she shrugged on her night-coat and made her way out the room. She stood still for a few seconds, long enough for her eyes to readjust to the darkness and the for shapes of furniture to begin to get clearer. Then, she took hold of the banisters and began slowly making her way down the stairs.
The lower part of the building was lighted up, but there was no servant in sight. She reached the foot of the stairs and took the familiar path to his study. The light from underneath the door told her he was inside, and without bothering to knock, she reached for the doorknob, the door giving way to the sight of the room and the man who stood behind his desk with a gun pressed to the side of his skull.
Horrified, she felt the blood drain from her face as she stood glued to her position, her mouth dry, her heartbeat slowing, her fingers tightening their grip on the knob. Beatrice knew she was required to do something-anything-to stop what she knew was about to take place in that moment. She tried to speak, to beg him to end the madness and put the gun down, but the words wouldn't form as she stood staring into her husband's haunted gaze. She tried to move, but her legs stubbornly held her prisoner as common sense screamed at her to do something.
Barely breathing, she forced a foot forward, stopping dead in her tracks as a loud sound tore through the silence of the building. Her heart stopped, time losing its essence as she held Oliver's horrified gaze, watching while life slowly seeped from his eyes.
Then time regained control, and she heard the gun crash to floor. Blood appeared, trickling down the hole in the side of his skull. His once tall, handsome, intimidating frame, began to wobble.
And just as her lips tore apart and a blood curdling scream tore from her lungs, his body crashed to the floor and she watched in horror as he breathed his last.
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