"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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The chaise must have been poorly built. It was that, or Beatrice's anxiety was taking a toll on her body. She couldn't sit still, crossing and uncrossing her legs, folding her hands before her in a vain attempt at stopping them from trembling as she sat in the unfamiliar drawing room and awaited the verdict of a woman she had never met.
She was here for a job, and like the other two job opportunities, she was nearly certain this one would end in a rejection. She would be given a flimsy excuse for why she could not be hired, but she knew the truth; she was being shunned by the ton, punished for not only supposedly killing her husband, but for getting caught in a compromising situation with Lord Camden in a ball.
Her father was right, her reputation preceded her, and it was for this reputation that she would never find a job.
Beatrice shook her head to shake the negative thought away. She couldn't give up in her hunt for a job, not when she needed one to survive; not when an inability to find a job would easily translate to a need to rely on Camden...
She couldn't bear the thought of Camden without feeling the sting of his words to the strange woman in his library. He had told his female company that he didn't love her, and until she heard his confession, Beatrice hadn't realized how much she wanted to be loved. She couldn't face Camden, least of all take his money. It was why she sent him the letter demanding that he stay away from her. She would see to her own care, even if it meant scouring through the newspapers every day in search of a job.
Loud clicks on the marble floors alerted her to the presence of someone. She sat up straighter, her gaze shifting to the door as she listened to unusual sounding footsteps draw near. It was several more seconds before an older woman appeared; her withered hands clinging tightly to a black walking stick as she paused by the door. Sixty, perhaps. Light green eyes dimmed by age and perhaps cataracts studied Beatrice for several seconds, the frown on her face making her wrinkles more pronounced.
"Rise!" she said sharply, the gold-colored end of her stick nearly touching Beatrice's nose as she pointed it at her.
"Your... Your Grace?" Confused, Beatrice sat watching her.
"It is common courtesy to rise upon the entry of a noblewoman into a room. You have failed to honor my presence, so I demand that you stand through this meeting."
Dumbfounded, Beatrice struggled to her feet. Although she hated the tone with which the woman addressed her, she was unwilling to further annoy her if it meant they would offer her the job.
The Dowager Duchess crossed the room and settled on a matching rose-patterned armchair, her orange skirt raising slightly as she crossed her legs.
"Before we begin, you must know I do not wish to be coddled by a companion, nor shall I be strong-armed into hiring one because my son wishes to ease his conscience after abandoning me," she hissed, placing her stick by the foot of her chair. "I don't suppose turning you away shall please Billy. He already threatened to hire a companion himself if I'm unable to settle on one by noon today."
