Page 14 of Sloth: The Fallen Earl (Seven Deadly Sins #4)

B loody hell. Things had just gone from bad to worse. Cressida stood dumbfounded, speechless, motionless once more as her ruin became greater—a feat she believed impossible.

And yet here it was. Now she’d been discovered alone in the Earl of Wakefield’s home by none other than the notorious Duke of Rothesby. The gentleman possessed a shrewd gaze and by the way he looked at Cressida, he quite correctly deduced Wakefield had been the one to outbid him at The Devil’s Den.

Her heart hammered.

Oh, God, they’d been discussing her!

Then the very obvious reason nearly brought Cressida brought her to her knees.

Benedict knew the duke had wanted her. Benedict, who also sought to figure out what to do with her.

She wanted to die. She wanted the Aubusson carpet to open so she could slide beneath its fabric and continue falling until she was far away from this place, the Duke of Rothesby, Benedict, and her life in its entirety.

Cressida’s stomach churned.

“Forgive me,” she said, finding her voice.

Cressida turned to go.

The duke called out in the commanding voice of a man used to having his wishes obeyed, “I was just leaving.”

Cressida stopped mid-stride. Clawing at the sides of her borrowed dress, she hovered at the side of the entryway, halfway between escape and this continued humiliation.

Benedict exchanged a handful of words with the other gentleman—words that Cressida couldn’t make out. While they finished up, Cressida stared straight ahead.

The Duke of Rothesby and the Earl of Wakefield sketched bows to one another.

Then Rothesby paused.

Please go, she silently pleaded. Please, just go. She avoided his eyes and looked anywhere but at him. In so doing, perhaps she could avoid the reality that any of these past fifteen or so hours had happened.

“I’d like you to be assured, miss.” The duke spoke in a quiet, comforting way that somehow surprisingly managed to ease Cressida’s panic some. “I’m not a gossip, though I’m a frequent object of it,” he said in what she expected was his attempt at lightsomeness for her benefit. “I am a gentleman.”

Cressida gave a tiny nod, letting him know she heard his promise.

“We never met.” With that, he jammed his hat atop his head. Offering her a deeper bow than she deserved, he left, closing the door behind him.

Cressida and Benedict found themselves alone.

“I shouldn’t have intruded,” she said stiffly. “Forgive me.”

“You have nothing to apologize for,” he said, quickly cutting off the rest of her apologies. “Please, won’t you sit down?”

It felt like a familiar way back when she’d been first in London. Trudy had taken Cressida to Merlin’s Mechanical Museum and she’d swung in circles high above the rest of all the other people who’d come to ride the flying horses. Conversations with the Earl of Wakefield were proving a remarkably similar experience.

Benedict waited until she seated herself before joining her on the opposite leather armchair.

Cressida refused to let him speak first. “I’m not looking for a protector, my lord,” she said stiffly.

His mouth moved, but no words came out.

Benedict finally found his voice. “That is good for me to know, as I’m not looking to make you my mistress.”

She flinched. Knowing he found her unworthy of being his lover hit her with a fresh, humiliating hurt.

Somehow, Cressida managed to lift her chin and glare. “Nor am I interested in being the Duke of Rothesby’s paramour.”

Benedict’s eyes thinned. His jaw clenched so hard it ticked. “Do you believe I’d hand you over to another?”

The earl’s voice fell an octave—dark, dangerous, and deep.

“I…” Uncertain in new ways, Cressida turned her palms up.

The thunderclouds in his gaze cleared.

Benedict released a sigh. “Let me begin by saying I’ve been an unmitigated arse.”

There he went, disconcerting her again by saying the unexpected. Yes , she agreed with his second disparagement of the day. She’d be damned, however, if she showed it.

Cressida gave a little toss of her head. “You have been.”

“I could sit here and profess to you all the ways in which I’ve been a decent gentleman and carried myself in a way that, by society’s standards, are considered above reproach.” Benedict rubbed at the back of his neck. “But the truth is we may have met, but I am still a stranger to you.”

Her chest hitched. She knew more of him than he thought.

Cressida closed her eyes and returned to their first waltz.

“Favorite Season, Miss Alby?”

“Oh, it must be the winter, my lord.”

“Mine as well.”

They shared a look and spoke at the same time.

“Less lords about.”

“None of the awful peers around.”

Their long-ago laughter peeled like distant church bells around her mind. She’d been so certain that moment had been as memorable to him as it had to her.

“Cressida?”

His concerned voice drew her back.

“Hmm?”

“As I was saying, the only opinions you have to draw on about me come from our one night together.”

Cressida let him think that. She’d never admit the truth. To do so would be to reveal just how infatuated she’d been by him over the years and how much she’d resented and envied her friend for being the one whom he fixed his attentions on.

“Until recently,” he was saying, “I’ve never frequented establishments like The Devil’s Den.” His lips formed a wry smile. “That is, I’ve only ventured into them with the intentions of retrieving wayward friends. But those are not my usual haunts, and those are not my usual pastimes.”

Cressida had finally tired of his need to justify his presence last night and his involvement with her. “My lord, why are you telling me all of this?” she asked, impatient.

His grin faded.

“The fact remains,” he said, his tone conversational, his words far less so, “how I conducted myself before matters not. I did attend The Devil’s Den and we did make love.” His eyes darkened. “Many times.”

Her body burned, not with shame, but in remembrance of the wondrous things he’d done to her and with her.

“It was dastardly for me to suggest you remain—”

She looked pointedly at him.

Benedict hunched his shoulders and pocketed his hands in an endearingly boy-like show of sheepishness. “That is, it was dastardly for me to order you to stay here.” He turned his palms up. “I had no right to put that demand to you. You are free to remain. You are free to leave. Your wishes and choices are your own, and I will honor them. I will await your word as to whether a child was conceived.”

Of all that’d come to pass this day, it proved to be this offer from Benedict that overwhelmed her.

Cressida rubbed at her suddenly aching temples.

Benedict had corrected his course, making it impossible for her to hate him with the same venom she had earlier. He’d given her precisely what she asked for—freedom to leave. There was nothing left to say; she should go.

Instead, Cressida sat fixed to the brown Italian leather seat.

He’d said she was free to go.

But…

She was also free to stay.

Cressida worried her lower lip between her teeth.

Her emotions had been so frayed, she’d not been able to think clearly or logically, until now.

The minute she returned to her brother’s residence, she’d be whisked off to some libidinous, ancient duke. But if she remained here, at least until she started her monthly courses, she would have freedom from Stanley and his wife. She could buy time.

Cressida began to find purchase with every passing second. She could fetch Trudy. They could be…

Safe.

If even for a short while. The word swirled in Cressida’s head, suddenly not such an impossible dream. Her chest moved up and down.

Benedict cleared his throat uncomfortably and began to rise.

“Wait!”

At Cressida’s cry, the earl automatically reclaimed his chair.

Cressida clasped her hands on her lap. “You indicated I am free to stay here,” she said slowly.

“That is right. There are no terms or conditions. You are free to go.” Again, he started to stand.

“Wait!” she exclaimed a second time, freezing him before he could leave.

His brows came together.

Cressida steadied herself and proceeded more carefully. “I am not opposed to remaining here while I wait to start my courses.” Somehow, she managed to not blush.

A speculative glimmer entered his enigmatic brown eyes. “You have changed your mind.”

His voice betrayed none of what the earl thought about her sudden change of heart.

He was suspicious. That she knew.

“Is that a question, my lord?” Cressida angled her jaw up.

Benedict bowed his head. “It was a mere observation.”

He wrested control of the discussion from Cressida. “As long as you live here, this townhouse belongs to you. I’d be remiss if I did not mention that any time you venture out, you put your reputation at risk.”

Cressida arched a single eyebrow. “Just as you would be at risk for entertaining a lady not of the demimonde?” She fought to keep from rolling her eyes.

“Yes,” he conceded. “We’d both find ourselves subject to scrutiny.”

Hers would be greater. He didn’t need to say it. She heard the unspoken reminder.

She’d given enough of herself in this life. Cressida intended to take this reprieve here at the earl’s for her and Trudy.

Benedict recalled her attention. “By staying here, I’m sure you’ll have concerned relatives who worry about—”

“Ah, you’re worried I have family and that we are trying to trap you?” Cressida managed a tight smile.

His cheeks grew flush with color. “I did not say that.”

“No.” Cressida held his gaze with her own. “ This time you were restrained in insulting me, Lord Wakefield.”

The redness in his face intensified.

“Let me spare you the time,” Cressida said bluntly. “I don’t have relatives you need to worry about. There is no family who’ll miss my presence.” That much was true.

He eyed her dubiously. “I find that hard to believe.”

He wouldn’t if he actually knew Cressida’s circumstances, or Stanley and the baroness, but he didn’t.

Cressida quietly watched him. By the erect way he held himself, poised slightly forward, he wanted to ask her for details about her response.

In fairness to the gentleman, any person with a brain would question how a young, virginal lady, part of the ton , who on occasion moved in social circles with him, could just up and disappear. What other conclusion was he to reach?

In the end, he proved the gentleman the world knew him to be.

“I’ve only recently let this property but haven’t set up a mistress in some time.”

Cressida glanced about. So, this was the posh neighborhood where honorable gentlemen brought their fancy pieces and set them up with the same lavish lifestyles they would their wives. They gave them everything—just not the benefit and security of their names.

Benedict misinterpreted the reason for her silence.

“Not that you’re a mistress,” he said abruptly. “That is, not my mistress or—”

Cressida saved them both from further discomfort. “You needn’t worry, my lord. I have no intention of dancing about town and paying visits.”

The part she withheld was that there were few invitations that flowed her way anymore, only when her friends hosted. Those ladies at the Mismatch Society were so in love with their husbands and families, the events they now held were few and far between.

This time when Benedict stood, she jumped up.

“Do you intend to…?” Cressida bit her cheek at the needy desperation in her voice.

He stared patiently with a question in his eyes.

Cressida took a breath. “Do you intend to return?”

“I do not suppose unless there is a need.”

In other words, he’d come back in several weeks when he received word that she wasn’t with child. And if she was…

Her mind lingered with a dangerously tempting thought of a small babe with Lord Wakefield’s tousled blond hair and serious smile.

Were Adamson men born with such serious smiles or did life make them that way?

Either way, she was destined to not know the answer.

Benedict captured her fingers in his and drew them close. “If there is anything else you need or require at all, Cressida, not just when that time comes, please send word immediately. My servants are loyal. They’re here to serve you.”

Cressida nodded. “Thank you, my lord.”

His lips quirked up at the left corner in a crooked, boyish smile that made her wonder what kind of child he’d been.

“Given the circumstances of our meeting, might I be so forward as to suggest you refer to me going forward by my given name? My name is Benedict.”

Benedict . Yesterday she’d claimed it, but today, he’d given her leave to refer to him by his Christian name. It was an intimate offering. Gentlemen and ladies did not refer to one another by anything other than their title. He would not make that offer to just anybody, and that touched her somewhere in her heart.

“I am Cressida,” she murmured.

“Cressida,” he repeated, like tasting it for the first time.

This exchange of names between them, not in the heat of passion or in the throes of lovemaking, somehow felt far more special and far more intimate than anything physical that had occurred between them last evening.

Benedict sketched a deep bow and, without any other words flowing between them, he left Cressida staring after him.