Richard de Beaumont enters a room as though it were already his—slowly, deliberately, with the quiet certainty of one long accustomed to being watched. He is a lion of commanding stature, broad in chest and shoulder, his mane arranged in glossy, sculpted waves that frame a face too expressive to ever be truly unreadable. Near one eye rests a small, heart-shaped beauty mark, a fashionable flourish that draws the gaze and holds it. His eyes, sharp and amber, measure everything in their privy view before offering judgment.

He is dressed impeccably: a tailored royal-blue coat embroidered in gold, fitted to accentuate his powerful build, unbuttoned just enough to suggest confidence bordering on provocation. A lace frill spills from his collar, secured by a jeweled clasp that catches the light with every subtle movement. Rings adorn his claws; silk ribbons tame his tail. Every detail has been chosen, rehearsed, perfected.

Yet now, as he inclines his head, something in him has shifted. The theatrical ease falters. His shoulders lower, just so. When he speaks, the edge has been carefully sheathed.

“Pray… accept moi apologies,” he says, voice smooth but subdued.

“Je allowed vanity to speak where discretion ought to have ruled.”

The words are precise, practiced, and sincere—offered with all the etiquette of his station. For Richard knows this ritual well: the wound inflicted by pride, and the humility required to heal it.

“Please le retour to the soirée by my side, partake of the eve’s refreshments and perhaps one day you could find it in your heart to forgive the folly of moi-même.”