Page 127 of Sloth: The Fallen Earl
And the ease with which he’d taken control over the mess that had been her life left her light and buoyant. This feeling of not having to solve her every woe proved heady. Potently intoxicating.
Benedict lingered. He stared at her mouth and his gaze darkened, passion turning his sapphire eyes nearer obsidian. He’d awakened her in every way—mind, body, soul, and spirit. As such, she understood the look of longing there and felt like desire coursing through her, heating her veins.
She leaned up and tipped her head back to take that kiss—That didn’t come.
“Rest, love. Just rest. I have the doctor coming around later this afternoon to check on you.”
And this time, the kiss that did come Benedict placed ever so gently upon her forehead. Choked with emotion, Cressida stared as he quit the room. It turned out she’d been wrong all along. Dreams did come true for women like her after all.
A fortnight later
Over the next fortnight, Cressida achieved something she hadn’t known since she’d been a small girl in Somerset—peace.
It had been so long since she’d known the simple pleasures of life—helping the staff in the kitchens, tending flowers, playing the pianoforte, embroidering. Embroidering not for the simple reason of darning socks and repairing other families’ linens for the pences it brought, but rather for the sheer sake of creating. She’d forgotten how much she loved to create the canvas of a garden landscape. Like keys on a keyboard that had never been played before into a medley, she’d created colors and images upon the palette of an empty embroidery frame.
Bent low over the hydrangea bush that was just beginning to bloom, she paused to wipe sweat from her brow and then drew her bonnet back into place to shield her face from the relentless sun. In truth, it’s not that she’d forgotten all these simple but greatest pleasures of life. It’s that she’d made herself forget because the alternative of living in the hell she’d been left with, after her father’s and mother’s passing, had made it entirely too painful to think about how life used to be. Life could be good and kind and wonderful. She knew because that’s what her world had become these past fourteen days.
A shadow fell over her, blotting the too radiant spring sun, and she didn’t so much as startle this time, already knowing who had joined her.
On cue, Benedict offered Cressida pruning shears, which she accepted. “Thank you. You, Lord Wakefield, are late.”
“Yes, my apologies,” he said effortlessly, coming down to join her in the garden as though it was the most natural thing in the world for a powerful earl to kneel in the mud and grass.
From out of the corner of her bonnet, she slipped a glance his way. As he always did when joining her, he’d already shed his jacket and wore nothing more than his long white shirtsleeves, brown trousers, and boots. His skin had since developed a golden-brown hue to match Cressida’s sun-bronzed skin.
“You may rely on the fact, my future Countess of Wakefield, that I’d far rather be spending the afternoon with you and not on the various meetings I’ve had to deal with.”
Her heart danced. His future Countess of Wakefield. They’d not yet determined the date when their nuptials would take place. Those were some of the details Benedict was seeing to. But it didn’t matter. Every day they spent here together, they felt more like a happy husband and wife than had the vows already been performed before the eyes of God and in a church. Perhaps this was why many women were so content to be mistresses. Maybe those gentlemen treated them with the loving regard that Benedict treated Cressida, even though they were not yet wed.
Having dug as much as she’d been able to clear this portion of the beds, Benedict, knowing the next part of their goal for this place, collected the axe and began chopping at the roots of a thick birch that had overtaken the garden that Cressida had cleared in his absence.
Partaking in the rest he’d given her from her morning work, she sat with her legs stretched out and watched him while he made quick masterful work of the large roots. He paused periodically and sank on his haunches, using all his strength to pull at the gnarled pieces. Every now and then, he’d pause to wiggle the branch back and forth before then taking the axe tothe root. He continued to work in that way, the two of them silent.
They weren’t always silent. They’d spent so much time here talking about their pasts, their favorite times of year, the seasons, everything down to their favorite desserts and least favorite foods. But with all the moments they’d filled with their chatter, they’d also found they were just as comfortable with the quiet too. There wasn’t a discomfort or need to fill a void. There wasn’t a void.
Benedict finished up his latest task here in the gardens and tossed his axe aside. The moment he sat down to join her, Cressida scrambled over several feet. She carefully withdrew the glass carafe of water and two glasses she’d packed early in the morn, after she’d seen to the baking. After providing him with a drink, she fetched a Cornish saffron bun. In their time together, she’d learned that, unlike most of England, he wasn’t keen on ices. Interestingly, he could do without fish as an entree and far preferred venison and beef, and she had learned that he’d never, before her, had a Cornish saffron bun, but he favored them greatly.
Even as he took a bite, he closed his eyes and groaned. “Bloody hell,” he said around the mouthful of pastry. “This is your best yet,” he said, his words slightly jumbled as he spoke around a sizable mouthful.
Her lips twitched.
“You say that about everything I cook or bake.”
He opened his eyes. “Because it’s all bloody delicious, Cressida.”
He gave her a wink, that slight sensuous flutter of his golden lashes did the strange things it always did to her heart. Benedict took a long sip of his drink. He didn’t finish it, but instead he handed his over for Cressida to share. She took it and sipped, even though her own glass sat beside them. That was anotherthing they did. They’d come to share items almost intuitively, offering what they had to the other person.
After they had sipped and snacked, they sat back. A quiet breeze wafted around them, stirring the air and providing a gentle but welcome sough left by the heat of the sun and their hard work. Benedict drew his knees to his chest and looped his arms around the long muscular limbs.
“We can’t stay here, Cressida.” He grimaced. “You can’t stay here, and I certainly am not going to stay here if you’re not here.”
Her heart stilled. “What do you mean?”
Benedict bestowed a gentle look upon her.
“Cressida, this is where I keep…” He paused and grimaced. “This is where I was to keep my mistresses. You are going to be my wife. You are my betrothed. You do not belong here. You cannot be here.”
She knew as much. As it was, with the way he cared for his reputation and honor, it would have been a great struggle for him to come and meet her here and keep her here, when only questions and scandal would ensue. Granted his staff were as loyal to Cressida as they would have been to the king himself, but eventually someone would find out.
