Page 114 of Sloth: The Fallen Earl
And it surely spoke volumes about the old nursemaid that, despite the treatment Cressida had described, she’d abandoned her post and come here with—
“Wait…” A sick sensation churned in his belly. “Are you employed by the baron?”
She narrowed her eyes into thin, icy slits. “What’s it to you?”
“You work for Miss Alby.”
“Is that a question?” Old Trudy scowled. “I don’t work for anyone. Working suggests I get some kind of payment. I don’t.”
Any sane person would have evinced some level of resentment. Where was this woman’s?
Wakefield peered more sharply at the colorful woman. “Despite receiving no salary, you continue to remain with Miss Alby. Why?”
“Why do you think?” she reposted with a question of her own.
Some of the pieces began to slide together into a form that made shape.
“Out of loyalty,” he murmured.
Trudy’s eyes became tiny slits. “Out oflove.”
His gaze slid to the pretty painted panel.
What sane person would put up with and endure the abuse this woman clearly had? And why? Unless there had been at least one person in her midst whom she’d felt a loyalty, love, and devotion to. Such a figure would never be Lord Stanley. And the fact was that she stood like one of Markham’s fiercest guards outside of Cressida’s room now. All of which fit with the woman he had come to know these past handful of days.
Voices from within Cressida’s room brought his attention back to the doorway. His brows dipped. Who the hell was in Cressida’s—?
Old Trudy grunted. “She’s in with a doctor.”
Wakefield stilled. His stomach pitched like he’d been thrown into a storm at sea.
“Thedoctor?” his voice sounded funny to his own ears.
“Aye,” the nursemaid grunted. “My girl said she didn’t need to see one, but your fellow Burgess insisted. I myself could have told him there was no need—”
Wakefield wedged himself around Trudy, and after moving the older woman’s hall chair, he let himself in and nearly collided with a handsome, middle-aged doctor carrying his bag.
His heart pounding, Wakefield attempted to step around the distinguished, bespectacled fellow. Just as Trudy before, the man blocked Wakefield’s access to Cressida.
“My lord.” The gentleman’s voice was eminently polite but for the frosty undertones.
“Step out of my way,” he clipped out.
The other man held his ground. “The lady requires her rest.” The doctor couldn’t have looked more disgusted with Wakefieldthan had he scraped dung from the bottom of his serviceable leather boots.
Wakefield’s nostrils went into a full flare. Not even God himself could keep Wakefield away from Cressida, and that this man should try?
“It is fine, Dr. Carlson,” Cressida said quietly.
Reluctantly, Dr. Carlson stepped to the side to reveal Cressida in the middle of the bed, pushing herself up from repose.
Wakefield stared, and stared, and stared. More than half thinking…no, half believing…hoping, the sight before him would change. He stood motionless and stared, and yet no matter how long he did, the sight of her remained the same.
Her lips.
Her beautiful mouth that he’d once been left swollen and bruised from the passion of their kisses, flesh that he’d lightly sucked and nipped and licked and worshiped the way some men did before an altar were now swollen. The cracks within them hinted at the blood that had existed at some point between Wakefield’s departure—his furious departure—and his midnight return.
I’m going to be ill…
