Page 3 of Sloth: The Fallen Earl
There was no escape.
Lady Marianne had apparently grown tired of whatever perverse thoughts she’d been entertaining in her head, for she gave Cressida a long, deep appraisal. “Your blasted brother,” she spat. “I should have loaned you one of my gowns and not this”—the noblewoman slashed a palm in Cressida’s direction—“burlap sack you’ve donned.”
She cast a familiarly disdainful glance over Cressida’s person. “Though my exquisitely crafted articles would likely fall off your frail, scrawny figure, which would prove helpful in its own right.”
Catching her chin in her left hand, the baroness proceeded to tap her forefinger against the side of her lips. “Hmm.” Suddenly,she stopped. Her brown eyes glowed. “Why, yes! I should have thought of that! It will add to the story crafted for you and will enflame them. You are a destitute virgin from the country with a dissolute, scapegrace of a brother, who has sold you against your will to cover his gaming debts and to fund his lavish lifestyle.”
A story? Enflamewho, exactly? Them…as in plural.
The baroness moved to the edge of her seat so quick, Cressida didn’t even have time to curl deeper into herself.
This time, the lewd noblewoman did not roughly grab Cressida. Instead, her brother’s wife shoved her own cloak off to reveal a nearly translucent, diaphanous gown with a plunging neckline that had thin strings along the front. She gave them a yank and her bodice immediately fell open, revealing her pendulous, pale white breasts.
Revolted by the shameless way she exposed herself, Cressida closed her eyes.
“I continue to forget you are a virgin.” Her sister-in-law sighed. “You have no idea how lucky you are.”
Cressida struggled to speak. “Disagree.”
As usual, her objections didn’t matter.
“Let us change quickly as we’re able,” the baroness said. “As it is—”
Knock-Knock-Knock.
“Keep your hair on, Fellowes!” The peeress’s shrill tones echoed about the chariot.
“It ain’t Fellowes. Dynevor asked if the lady is participating or not.”
Panic descended over the wanton woman’s suddenly wan features.
“We’ve arrived early,” the baroness called. For the first time since Cressida met the woman a week earlier, Lady Marianne’s voice was shaky.
“Dynevor and Latimer set the terms here. They say when you’ll meet, and if they ask you to come earlier than you’re there, there’s plenty of others to take your place.”
If possible, the noblewoman’s cheeks went an even paler shade of white. “It’ll be but one more moment, if you please,” she called, this time with less confidence and far more obsequiousness.
Dynevor and Latimer? Keeping the books for her brother, they were two names Cressida recognized, even in her cups as she was.
The proprietors of The Devil’s Den.
Why—?
“Of all the injustices.” Cursing under her breath, the horrid shrew hurriedly refastened her gown.
Cressida was to be granted a reprieve from at least one indignity this night.
“How dare those buffoons speak to me so. I shall speak to Dynevor myself.”
And yet, given the way in which the peeress whispered her outrage at that treatment, Cressida would be willing to place the first wager of her twenty-five years that Lady Marianne would do no such thing.
Her gown drawn into place, Stanley’s new wife turned all her attention back on Cressida. “This will not do,” she said to herself. In short order, she’d plucked the paste pins from Cressida’s hair and sent her blonde curls falling about her face. Lady Marianne went on to school Cressida. “You’ll determine quickly what he wants. Given he’s expecting a virgin, he’ll tolerate your chasteness, but he will expect more from you.”
More? More than the only thing of value she possessed—her virtue.
“Let him break you in well for the duke…”
Tears pricked her lashes. The spirits were beginning to wear off, which was good. The minute she was handed over to Dynevor or Latimer, she could explain there’d been a mistake. That she was given to him—to them—against her will.
