Page 24 of Sloth: The Fallen Earl (Seven Deadly Sins #4)

T he thing that had always amazed Cressida was the speed with which gossip columns managed to circulate information about ton events, even before most of the guests had stumbled in from late night soirees and balls. She’d often mused that if that same energy was put into improving the lot of those outside their social circle, who lived in squalor, every Londoner’s life would be improved overnight.

Cressida had never given much attention to gossip columns as a rule, and she didn’t read them as a habit. However, she had allowed herself to pore over those sheets for information about the dashing Lord Wakefield. That’s what made it so funny that Cressida should find herself in the kitchen of the very nobleman whom she’d admired from afar and yet still found herself reading the just arrived edition of The Times . Her bread had already been baked and now sat cooling. She stared at the front pages.

Benedict didn’t tend to make the front pages of any gossip sheets. This time, he had. Nor was it because it had been discovered he’d been slumming it with Cressida. Since she’d accepted the pages from the boy who delivered them a short while ago and set it down upon the table, she’d read but not touched the pages. And she’d since memorized the part of about. Benedict.

The Earl and Countess of S’s Ball proved to be not only the most attended affair of the London Season and extravagantly done by any hostesses of very highest standards, it also featured the surprising reunion between a certain Earl of W and Viscount W. Given their decade long friendship, it hadn’t taken much for society to deduce the timing of the fallout between the two gentlemen stemmed from the Viscount W’s marriage to the current Viscountess of W. Despite years of bad feelings, the Earl of W appeared unable to stay away for long and exuded charm and, dare this gossip say, adoration for the young Viscountess with her scandalous past, et cetera, etcetera…

“You’re awake.”

Cressida gasped and jumped to her feet so quickly, she sent the bench clattering behind her and toppling over. The Earl of Wakefield stood with his jacket removed and his long shirt untucked and sans cravat. “And it appears you haven’t yet slept, my lord.”

At the archness in her own tone, Cressida bit the inside of her cheek.

He loosened his already loose cravat and tugged it free.

“Yes, that is the price one pays for being the hostess’s brother.”

He flashed a smile that appeared to be one of the commiserative sort. One that she didn’t really understand, given she knew his sister not at all, and his smile was one as if they were sharing some kind of little secret, him and her, which they weren’t. She’d never be the woman he shared secrets with.

There came an awkward silence. Cressida fisted and unfisted her fingers at her sides, wishing he’d leave, not wanting to see him, yet another first for her.

Discomforted, Cressida gave him her back and hurried to the bench.

“I have it,” he said, quickly rushing over.

Before he managed to reach her Cressida had already seen to the task herself. “I have it,” she said firmly.

She couldn’t bring herself to look at him because the minute he’d walked into the kitchen, all Cressida had been able to see was Benedict and the eminently lovely Viscountess Waters wrapped in his arms as they danced about.

“Did you?”

They spoke at the same time and the very same words. They also stopped at the exact same time.

Benedict motioned for her to go first.

“Please. You were saying?”

Cressida shook her head. “After you, my lord.”

He frowned. That’s right. Benedict wished for intimacy between them. That left a bitter taste on her tongue. That intimacy had only stemmed from the fact he’d bought her as a whore at The Devil’s Den.

“Your work again, I take it, given the staff is still abed.”

“May I?” he asked.

She stared dumbly at him. What did he want?

Cressida followed his gaze to the table. “You want to try my bread?”

He swung a leg over the side of the opposite bench and reflexively her gaze slid to the ripple of his quadriceps and the way the muscles bunched and tightened, straining the fabric of his jacket.

Blushing, Cressida made herself busy.

“That is, unless you believe I should abstain in fear of my life.”

She frowned. “I’m not a horrid baker. I’m actually quite skilled in—”

“I was teasing,” he said, cutting her off gently.

She bit the inside of her cheek hard enough that she tasted the metallic tinge of blood.

Just a reminder, yet again, of how different she was from the women he kept company with: Anne, Viscountess Waters, and his sisters. Nearly every woman Cressida had contact with when she’d brushed shoulders in Polite Society were possessed of a wit and humor that Cressida hadn’t been gifted with. Her existence was based on survival and not a sunny disposition. Cressida hurried and fetched a plate, a knife, and butter before she faced him.

Benedict reposted, “Never say you don’t intend to join me for breakfast. Why, I should maybe fear after all that there is some intention of poisoning me.”

Cressida’s lips tugged slightly at the corners. “You’re jesting,” she said, proud of herself for recognizing as much.

He flicked his finger at the tip of his nose and winked. The endearing boy-like quality to that gesture sent warmth spiraling through her. Her smile deepened.

Cressida hurried and grabbed another dish and took a step to return. When she whirled around this time, she gasped. Benedict rescued the burden from her hands before she dropped them.

“Here,” he murmured. “I have those.”

As he hurried over to the table to set the things down, Cressida stared after him unblinking and motionless.

Get my bloody breakfast, you stupid cow.

Her throat worked spasmodically. Not once had any gentleman, or any man, for that matter, raised a finger to help her.

Certainly not Stanley nor his goon. Not even her own father. After her mother had passed and Cressida was left and the staff began to dwindle because of declining finances, she’d served.

“What is it?” Benedict’s quiet concern jolted her to the present.

“I’m not accustomed to gentlemen either visiting the kitchens or helping set their own table.”

“Well, that would be two of us. I’ve never known a lady who enjoyed spending time in the kitchens, and at such an early hour at that.”

“Not like the ladies you keep company with, my lord,” she murmured.

He stood, clearly waiting for her to join him. When she had taken up a place on the other side of the table across from him and sat, he spoke.

“You’ve alluded to this several times now, Cressida,” he said, just as she started to reach for the knife, “and you insist we’ve met before.”

“Because we have.”

“And I trust at some point, you’re going to let me know when those times were.”

“Well, you didn’t ask.”

He froze with the bread halfway to his mouth and chuckled.

“That’s a fair point.” He took a bite and went absolutely motionless. His eyes slid closed and his hard aquiline features went soft like he’d just partaken of that forbidden apple, the first fruit that had led men to sin.

“Holy hell,” he breathed. “This is bloody fabulous.”

His complete reverence could not be feigned, not even by the best stage actor at the Royal Theater Company.

Cressida felt her face warming for entirely different reasons, not embarrassment. When was the last time she’d received such a compliment? One that came from truth and not pity as she’d often received from her friends at the Mismatch Society.

“You still haven’t said,” he said after he’d finished his big mouthful.

No, she hadn’t. She’d rather hoped he’d have forgotten because—

“You may have courted one of my only friends.”

Benedict’s eyes flared wide. She saw the wheels of his mind churning as he sought to place her.

“You’re wondering which of the women you courted.”

Neither of which had been she. Both of whom she’d envied tremendously, so deep to the point of sinning. She took mercy on him. “The Marchioness of Landon,” she said, and the fact that confusion continued to pray across his eyes, managed to somehow, and possibly, hurt her even more than she could believe.

He still had no clue about her identity. Burning with humiliation and hurt, Cressida quickly set to work, slicing herself a piece of bread, slapping butter on it and stuffing her mouth even as light as the inside of the loaf. The crispy loaf was as dry as dust in her mouth and yet thick as clay so that she struggled to choke and swallow.

“I’m sorry.” He said as he didn’t even try to deny that he couldn’t recall her.

She shook her head, grateful that she couldn’t finish her swallow.

“It was only one occasion,” she finally said, after choking down her bite.

Benedict peered at her, and it was clear he searched for the truth of her claim.

“How could I not recall you?” His question came distant and low, as if he spoke to himself.

“How could you?” she asked drolly. Self-deprecation had become a skill to save face instead of laughing with her as she’d done with her friends.

Benedict’s expression grew dark. “Do not do that.”

“Do what?” she asked, truly confounded.

“Do not make light of yourself. My God. Cressida, you’re bloody remarkable. Any other woman would have been in tears and reduced to a shadow of herself were she to have gone through what you’ve gone through…” He flinched. “If they’d been put through what I’ve put you through.”

“You didn’t put me through anything.” It had been her brother.

He appeared as uninterested in her defense of him as he did in stopping his praise of her.

“You’re bloody courageous. You not only set out on your own for the worst streets in London, you didn’t ask for help and bloody hell. I both admire that and want to howl and seethe with frustration that you think nothing of going off on your own and facing the harm that you did. And that you could bake a bread the Queen would be honored to feature at her breakfast table.”

Cressida cringed. “Please don’t do that.”

Genuine befuddlement filled his features.

“Do what?” he asked earnestly.

“Just stop acting as though I’m this remarkable woman. You and I both know the qualities that are admired in a lady, and it’s certainly not baking bread,” she said on a hysterical half laugh, half sob.

Benedict stood and reached for her. “Cressida.”

She wrenched away from him.

“No,” she said, her voice pitchy. What he was doing was unforgivable, unpardonable. He was making her believe that he could love her and admire her when she knew the truth. He saw her as some kind of circus freak.

“I know who you—” She caught herself. “I know who you noble men seek as your wives. You want them to be polished on the piano forte, clever in their speech, possessed of a light winsome laugh and humor. I possess none of that. So don’t you sit here remarking about me as though I’m somehow special, when you and I both know that not to be true.”

His blond eyebrows flared. “Cressida.”

She took another hasty step away. “Because if it was true,” she said as if he hadn’t even spoken, “we also know that you bloody well would remember me.”

As soon as the pitiable lamentation burst from her lips, she hunched into herself, mortified that she’d exposed herself and her hurt at his indifference of her.