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.
Confused and slightly terrified for she lived alone, she climbed out of bed quickly and hurried to the window. Plastering her body to the wall, she pushed the curtain aside slightly, peeking through it to glimpse the intruder.
A man.
The small patch in the center of his silver locks shone in the moonlight, and while Beatrice didn't see his face, she knew who it was.
He reached the front door, the sound of his fist against the heavy wooden door echoing throughout the building.
Unwilling to accommodate him that evening, Beatrice ignored him. She would ignore him until he was tired of knocking, then perhaps he would leave.
Releasing the curtain, she returned to bed, placing the pillow over her head when his incessant knocking continued for several more minutes.
"Beatrice!" His angry voice carried to her window, followed by a rock that crashed through the glass pane, slicing across the wooden floor to her bedroom door.
She jerked upright, horrified.
"Open this door! I'm not leavin' until ya let me in!" he slurred, his voice echoing in the darkness.
He was drunk; Beatrice realized, saddened by the thought. He probably spent the evening in the tavern nearby drinking and certainly gambling his last penny away. Her damn father might be the bane of her existence, but Beatrice knew she couldn't turn him away tonight. If she did, he might tire himself out and pass out on the cold front porch. There was also the possibility that he might risk returning home in the unsafe streets in the middle of the night, alone and drunk.
Grudgingly, she crawled out of bed and shrugged on her coat. Grabbing the oil lamp from the table, she carried it down the stairs to the door and pulled it open, a wave of chilly air washing over her.
"Finally!" he hissed, shoving her aside as he entered the building, his worn shoes leaving mud tracks in his path, the foul smell of cheap liquor polluting the air. "I'm 'ere for bread and honey. Nifty Quid and I'll be on me way."
Fifty pounds! Where in Hades did he think she would find that sort of money to throw in his face?!
Beatrice knew her father was high on liquor, but in that moment, she thought he was also delusional for even considering the possibility of her sponsorship of his life of debauchery. Perhaps Oliver might have sponsored her father's lifestyle for some absurd reason Beatrice could not put her finger on, but it was unfortunate that Oliver, her father's cash cow was dead and that Beatrice was unable—and certainly unwilling—to fund his lifestyle.
Heaving an exasperated breath, Beatrice closed the door. "Get out first thing in the morning." She barely glanced at him, and without another word as to his sleeping arrangements, began making her way to her bedchamber. He could sleep on the floor for all she cared!
"Wrong answer, Beatrice! Not leavin' until ya hand me that money! 'eck, I might never leef!" he yelled. She ignored him, unwilling to engage his drunken behind in an argument. "Is that it, just garn ter ignore me? After everythin' I've done for ya?" He hurried after her, his clammy hand taking her wrist captive and dragging her to a halt on the stairs.
Wincing, she jerked her hand, failing to release herself from his hold. "Unhand me!" She gritted her teeth, swallowing the foul word that threatened to spew out her lips as she glared into his bloodshot eyes.
"Where do ya fin' you're garn?!" He shoved her against the wall, pain slicing through her skull. "Thin' you're better than me, beatrice?" he snarled, his saliva slapping her face.
"I think you're drunk!" she spat, struggling to free herself from his painful grip. "You're a drunken fool!" she cursed, his mirthless laughter infuriating her as he tightened his grip on her hand. Jagged nails buried themselves in her flesh, bruising her.
"Fool?! You're the chuffin' fool, Beatrice! if it wasn't for me, you'd be nuffin'! You'd be workin' in a whorehouse! I gave ya everythin'! This roof over your head, the bloomin' food in ya belly, the blimey man ya married—"
"A roof I helped pay for with the many lies I told! Food I stole! A husband I couldn't stand! A husband who didn't love me!" She spoke through clenched teeth. "No, Mr. Hobbs, none of this was for me. It was all for you! You were the one who sat under that roof smoking a pipe and gambling all we were worth away! You were the one who ate that food at no cost to you! You were certainly not the one who sacrificed your happiness to be with a cold-hearted man! I do not know in what way, Mr. Hobbs, but I'm certain you gained something from my marriage to Lord Atkins! It certainly explains your sudden emergence from bankruptcy, your ability to gamble—"
"Ungrateful whore!" He slammed her against the wall once more, and she gritted her teeth at the pain in her back as memories of the many years of abuse she had endured in his hands rushing back. She fought against the fear that gripped her heart, refusing to cower before him.
"I gave ya everything!"
"What you gave to me was misery, and I loathe you for it!"
His eyes darkened, his frown deepening. "You will give me wot I demand!"
She didn't have the money, but Beatrice refused to admit to being improvised. She refused to admit to the fact that her father had tricked her into marrying a cruel man for nothing, and now she was left with nothing but her independence. She was ruined, and she had no one to blame but her damn father.
She inched forward, anger rippling through her veins until she trembled from it. "I shall die before I do one more thing you say."
"Then I will derive pleasure in diggin' your grave!"
A cracking sound followed his words as his fist made contact with her face, pain exploding in her skull and knocking the air out of her nostrils.
She groaned in response, grabbing his forearm as she fought to be released. But he was stronger, pinning her to the wall as his fists ravaged her body until she was crumbling to the ground, barely breathing as darkness and tears clouded her vision.
"Beatrice!" Realisation laced his voice as he fell to his knees before her, gathering her broken form in his arms. She stared into his eyes, his rage gone—his fury abated, having found expression through his fists. The man she loathed was gone, and in his place, the man she loved—the man she pitied. This man who lurked in the shadows, trapped by her father's rage and greed, caged by liquor.
Beatrice didn't get to see this man often, only when she was injured, sprawled on her back, fighting for her life. It was then he showed up, present to hold her—present to rock her in his arms.
She closed her eyes, unwilling to look at him; unwilling to have pity on him or to forgive him. She didn't wish for his face to be the last she saw before she died—if she died. She instead thought of someone else, a man whose arms caressed, not bruised; a man whose touch was gentle, devoid of malice; a man who didn't join the rest of the world to shame her, but who for her sake would walk through a room full of scornful lords and ladies, sharing in her shame.
As Beatrice heaved a final breath, she thought of Lord Camden.
Copyright © 2021 Lily Orevba All rights reserved.
Foul-mouthed fellow, this Mr. Hobbs!
This chapter was A LOT difficult to write. Not even sure why, but it was.
Oh well, do let me know what you think of the chapter. I hope you leave a vote behind as well. Thank you in advance❤️