Page 100 of Sloth: The Fallen Earl
In this moment—this quiet, perfect moment—Benedict gently swept a damp curl from her cheek, tucking it behind her ear with a tenderness that turned her insides to velvet.
“Why so serious?” he asked, his voice low and teasing.
“I’m not,” she murmured, her lips curving just faintly. “I’m just…happy.”
His brow furrowed with playful concern. “Ifthisis you happy, love, then I’ve clearly got work to do. I’ve yet to see a proper smile from you.”
“I’m not smiling?” she asked with feigned innocence.
He shook his head, their foreheads nearly touching.
“If it’s any consolation, Iamsmiling inside.”
She huffed a breath of laughter, and he leaned in closer, his tone turning soft and solemn.
“But I’ll not call the job done,” he whispered, “until you’re smiling—insideandout.”
Her heart gave a treacherous little lurch. Oh, God.
She fell in love, deep, hard, fast, and profound. It was not an unfamiliar state where she and Wakefield were concerned. She’d fallen for him before. Then, however, she’d fallen for who he was and how he treated her and other people.
She’d fallen for him because he was good and honorable and carried a love for his sisters. That fact was talked about amongst Polite Society, where the majority of lords ultimately were more like Cressida’s brother, Stanley, when it came to their female kin. This time, however, Cressida fell in love with him for how he treated her, how he was with her.
Now, she was the complete and total recipient of his charm and regard, and nothing would ever be the same. He stretched a finger up and brushed the tip along the right corner of her mouth.
“So serious,” he murmured, “all the time, you are. I’ve spent hours and days wondering at the cause of it. Life?”
It was the easiest answer to offer—the first and most obvious. But she wouldn’t say it. She wouldn’t court his pity. Because if she told him the truth—told him the full measure of what her life had been—it would change everything.
Benedict, the Earl of Wakefield, with his open heart and fierce compassion, would see her differently. She was certain of it. And she would rather have him curious—wondering after her in quiet contemplation—than looking at her through the lens of sorrow.
“I’ve noticed your smile doesn’t come quite so easily these days,” she said softly.
The effect was immediate.
His expression went still. Shuttered. As though she’d pulled aside a curtain and glimpsed too much. He turned from her, sat upright, and in the next breath, placed a careful bit of space between them.
So, he didn’t like being seen.
He didn’t care to have someone read him—not the parts he kept hidden, not the shadows behind his charm. And for all the things she hadn’t said, hadn’t shared, she understood that. Too well.
But still, she didn’t regret the words. Not for a second. She would have said them again, just the same, even knowing they would shift the air between them. Even knowing he’d retreat.
Because in that moment, he had been the one under her gaze. He had been the one studied, the one unsettled. And for once, it wasn’t her being laid bare.
Cressida stood and made a show of adjusting her skirts and her hair. “It doesn’t escape me that I’ve left you uncomfortable with my observation.”
“I’m not uncomfortable.” His piped tones said differently.
“I understand, Benedict,” she said soothingly. “You’re a private man.”
“What about you, Cressida?” he said. “Tell me, what does your silence mean? What does your unwillingness and inability to speak up about your life and circumstances and why the hell you ended up at The Devil’s Den say about you?”
A coldness invaded her breast. How easily she’d let herself forget his earliest suspicions and response to her.
“Is that what this is?” she asked, solemnly trailing her gaze over his face. “This reason for you suddenly being warm and kind and charming. Is it merely an attempt to get me to spill whatever secrets that you think I carry, whatever dark duplicitous plans I have for you?”
Pain struck like a lash against her heart.
