Page 32 of Sloth: The Fallen Earl
Jagged pain cut up her heart.
Shoving back the bitter jealousy, Cressida eased herself out from under the covers, just enough to freely observe Benedict.
Notorious for being somber and solemn, over the years of observing, she’d noted physical changes in him. His sandy-blond hair, sun-kissed from time he took riding, once close kept and meticulous, with not a single strand out of place, had become unfashionably long and tousled. With the earl now asleep in a peaceful state, those luxuriant strands hung disheveled. A light beard dusted his high-chiseled cheekbones and slightly hollowed cheeks, and the earl’s straight and strong lips leant him a grave countenance, even at rest.
Somewhere after the end of his friendship with Lady Marcia, the Viscountess Waters, and his courtship of Cressida’s friend, Anwen, newly the Marchioness of Landon, he’d added muscle to his previously wiry frame.
Maybe the physical transformations that’d taken hold of him accounted for why he was here, in this horrid place with her, even now.
An errant sunbeam filtered into Wakefield’s eyes, penetrating the deepest sleep he’d had in his entire twenty-eight years.
But then, given the night he’d had, a dead sleep was both fitting and necessary.
Now, however, in the light of a new day, replete as he’d never been after a night of fucking, and yet still somehow hungry for more of the woman who’d ensnared him, the wickedness he’d been a player to refused to allow him any more rest.
He wiped a tired palm over his closed eyes and along his stubbled cheeks.
What in hell had he taken part in?
For Wakefield, the night he’d spent in the Juno-Jupiter Room at The Devil’s Den had been unlike any other night in his entire unremarkably staid life.
In fairness, since his best friend married his other best friend, Marcia Gray, now Marcia Barrett, Viscountess Waters, nothing about Wakefield’s days had been their usual humdrum.
His late father, the previous earl, had failed the Adamson family so spectacularly that Wakefield had devoted himself to raising not only his finances but also restoring his family name. Unlike the majority of the handful of noblemen who sullied their hands in trade and investments, Wakefield was fully involved in the day to day running of a variety of businesses. Railways. Coal. Banking. New technologies.
Oh, Wakefield remained committed to the respectable life he’d built for himself. He kept membership at White’s. He boxed regularly with Gentleman Jackson himself. He’d been an avid Parliamentarian since he’d taken his seat in the House of Lords. He moved in the social circles of the most venerated members of Polite Society.
Yes, he’d always adhered to a strict moral code—that is until he’d been presented an opportunity to invest in The Devil’s Den. The invitation came from his brother-in-law, Mr. Lachlan Latimer.
That offer had been made to Wakefield at a time he’d had his heart broken by his two childhood friends—Marcia Gray, né Barrett, Viscountess Waters, and Andrew Barrett, Viscount Waters. His straightlaced self should have balked at that offer, but he didn’t. He’d thought to himself, “Hell, why not invest in the greatest industry in the entire British empire? Drink, women, and wagering?”
Nothing about his latest investment came remotely near in wickedness or scandal to Wakefield’s actions last night. Maybe that’s why he found his head swimming and his body stiffly erect as he stared at the wide-eyed, luminescent creature he’d spent the entire night, and entire morning, making violent love with and to.
He made himself open his eyes. The sun toyed with Miss…or Lady…? Cressida No-Name’s curls, which hung in a waterfall of dark blondes and pale browns around her naked shoulders.
His energetic lover of last night greeted him with an adoring smile. “Good morning,” she greeted softly.
Her voice didn’t contain the sultry quality it had throughout their bouts of passionate bedsport, but rather the husk of sleep and sudden uncertainty.
That vast variation in her husky tones from then to now did nothing to stop his randy cock from stirring.
“Morning,” Wakefield said gruffly. He dedicated himself to avoiding those expressive eyes of hers, but he’d already looked at her, and the damage was done.
Her maple-burnished brown eyes scared the everlasting hell out of him. Hers were eyes befitting an enamored woman.
Panicked by that, he scurried to the other side of the bed.
Cressida cocked her head and continued to stare at him with enormous doe eyes.
Once more, he made himself look away. If he gazed upon her too long, he’d spend the rest of this new day fucking her in new, unexplored ways. He couldn’t afford that weakness. He’d never been the sort that needed to linger with his bedmates. After he’d pleasured his partner, and received like pleasure in return, he left. What was it about his newest lover that so compelled him?
“Do you know what time—?”
“Fifteen or so minutes past ten o’clock,” she supplied, correctly anticipating the rest of his question.
Past ten o’clock? That was four hours longer than he ever slept.
Eager to get the hell out of the room that contained the strong scent of sex and sweat, Wakefield swung his legs over the side of the bed, presenting his back to the siren. Even as he studiously avoided her shy, adoring eyes, Wakefield felt Lady…Miss?…Cressidawatchinghim.
