"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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Noah studied the woman across from him, his frown deepening as he tapped a finger to his temple in utter confoundment of what it was that possessed his cousin into agreeing to marry such a woman. It was certainly not love. Noah had heard a few things about Lady Atkins from Oliver, none of which was pleasant. If he remembered correctly, Oliver had referred to her as a gold-digger in his last letter.
She was thin—devastatingly so. Gaunt, he thought, his gaze shifting to the neckline of her black dress where her pale, freckled skin clung to her bones. Thinner fingers fiddled with the fabric of her dress, her head bowed, her shoulders slouched.
She not only lacked the looks, she lacked the grace of a proper lady, for she had failed to welcome him upon his arrival the evening before. She had shunned his visitation to her home, and at the funeral, she failed to eulogize her dead husband and to acknowledge the presence of her guests, choosing to slip out of the building the second it was over.
It was the closest Noah had ever come to Oliver's widow, and in that second, he formed his opinion; he did not like her.
His gaze shifted to the unfamiliar stranger next to Lady Atkins on the couch. His shabby white and brown number seemed out of place in Oliver's lavish drawing room, and his messy gray hair that bore a striking resemblance to a rat's nest told of his lowly position in society. Black sacks sat underneath sunken blue eyes that stared back at Noah.
"Shall we begin?"
Noah tore his gaze off of Lady Atkins and the stranger long enough to acknowledge Oliver's solicitor, Mr. Johnson, seated on a matching gray sofa next to him. The middle-aged gentleman held a document in his hands as he stared at Noah in question.
"Perhaps you must ask Lady Atkins?" He shrugged, turning to motion to the red head. She raised her gaze then, her eyes intriguing him to silence.
Blue... And green!
He hadn't seen anything like it, he thought. He hadn't seen anything so odd, yet so wonderfully captivating...
He hadn't seen anything so poetically sad.
Noah didn't know why, but he instantly recognized the grief in her eyes, the nearly unspeakable sorrow as she stared back at him. Then, it was gone, and in its place a hardness that dragged him back to the present, reminding him of who it was he was dealing with—who it was Oliver had described in his letters.
Leaning back against his seat, he crossed his legs and clasped his hands.
"Shall we begin, my lady?" He raised a brow.
"Of course!" The man beside her chirped, reminding Noah of his presence. He leaned forward, anticipation brightening his blue eyes and further helping to annoy Noah.
"I must insist you be introduced before my cousin's will is read. I cannot help but wonder what business you have here," he said colly.
The look in the man's eyes died, and leaning back, he folded his arms. "I'm her father." He gestured to Lady Atkins and sat up straighter, a strand of his silver hair falling to his creased forehead. "Lord Atkins's father-in-law."
