Page 125 of Sloth: The Fallen Earl
“Is this real?” she whispered, afraid that in speaking aloud, she’d shatter the most glorious imagining she’d ever allowed herself except…
A somber, solemn Benedict nodded his head almost awkwardly but also in an apparent confirmation. Tears filled Cressida’s eyes, blurring his sculpted visage. His pain-filled groan filled the room, and he stretched out his fingers to caress her face, and this time he caught himself.
“Please don’t do that,” he said.
“I’m not unhappy.”
“I despise the sight of any of your tears, Cressida Everly Alby. You deserve to smile. Your entire days ought to be filled with gladness and goodness, and I intend to devote my life to that goal.”
This time a sob ripped out of her.
Using his shoulder and elbow, Wakefield dragged himself closer to her.
“If my proposal brings you sadness, what must I do to bring you to smile?” he murmured, part wistful, part contemplative.
A watery laugh bubbled from her lips.
His expression grew serious.
“Do you know it occurs to me, Cressida Everly Alby, that I’ve arrogantly made an assumption? You merely asked if this was real, but you did not, more importantly, answer yes to my proposal.”
There it was. His proposal. Hearing him utter it aloud made it real in ways that it hadn’t been. And reality came crashing in. Her happiness withered on the vine with which stupid hope grew.
There’d been so much Benedict found out on his own about her, and yet so little she’d truly shared. But this omission hadn’t been deliberate. Cold reality intruding, Cressida rolled onto her back and lay there, staring fixedly at the ceiling once more.
His head propped on his hand, Benedict angled his head over hers and searched her face concernedly.
“What is it?” he asked gravely.
What was it?she thought to herself. It could be everything. It could be absolutely nothing. She knew not what the betrothal her brother arranged entailed or her legal obligations or how powerful the enemy she’d make. More importantly, the enemy Benedict would make if she defied the agreement that had been reached between the duke and Stanley.
As much as she’d been guarding her pride and circumstances, she’d also kept Benedict from knowing her truths, but she didn’t want to do that anymore with him. She wanted to be open and honest in every way that she could because he deserved it.
Benedict didn’t push her, which made sharing even easier.
“I mentioned before…my brother made arrangements for me to marry.”
While she spoke, she directed her explanation up at the ceiling. His body, but a breath apart from hers, went so taut, she felt his muscles flex against her.
“Who?” he asked, as rage trembled in his deep baritone.
“He is a duke.” Cressida couldn’t bring herself to face him because to do so would require her to confront the impossibility her arrangement with that duke made of any future with Benedict.
“Who?” Benedict repeated, this time in the commanding tones of a gentleman accustomed to being answered in the way he wished.
That wasn’t, however, the reason Cressida answered him. The desire to be forthright with Benedict still compelled her.
“He’s the Duke of Harrowden.” Benedict went silent for so long, Cressida turned and looked at him. The angular planes of his face were arranged in a terrifying mask.
“The Duke of Harrowden,” he repeated.
This time, it was Benedict who didn’t look at her, rather his gaze, sharp and piercing and fury-filled went all the way through Cressida.
“You know him,” she said tentatively because she had to say something, but obviously he did know him. The Earl of Wakefield was connected, well-connected, with all the peers of the ton.
“I do,” he bit out. “He is a vile, depraved lecher with one foot and a half in the grave. And this is who your brother would marry you off to?”
She nodded. “You don’t know my brother.”
