Page 34 of Sloth: The Fallen Earl
Fuck.
This is when he could have used some of the urbane charm of his former friend, Lord Waters, or Lord Rothesby. The dashing duke would’ve known how to handle a clearly wounded young bedmate.
And how very close the charming rogue had been to claiming—
“You’re leaving,” Cressida murmured soto voce.
Hers sounded more like a question, but he answered anyway. “Yes, yes. Business matters. Important ones to see to.” Perspiring, Benedict grabbed for his jacket. He found himself fumbling to get his hands through the arm holes. After he’d managed the nearly impossible feat, he fished a purse from within the pockets of his wrinkled evening coat.
“This is for you,” he said. He set the bag down on the table next to her.
The lady’s gaze flickered from the velvet sack to Wakefield, then back to the sack before it finally landed on Wakefield again.
This time, her eyes shimmered, not with tears but unutterable…anger.
Hell, he’d offended her.
Wakefield reached inside again, fetched another purse, and dropped it beside the nightstand. The bag gave a damning jingle, mocking the both of them with their awkward silence, and this time, Wakefield looked away.
The floor moved under his feet, and he grabbed one of the bedposts to keep himself upright.
Of a sudden,everythingmade sense. All of it.
“Christ,” he whispered, and every moment they’d spent together came rushing in like a violent wave, sucking him under, determined to sweep him off.
There’d been his complete lack of restraint, a loss of self-control which he’d never before shown and he’d prided himself upon that fact.
He had at last figured out the reason for her hesitancy, and he wanted to reverse time to when he’d been seated at the table with Dynevor and the young proprietor offered the lady up.
“No,” he said to himself. All the memories of what he and his lady had spent the night doing—all the ways in which she’d taken him, all the ways in which he’d made love to her—flooded his memories. He realized going back to the beginning and undoing all of it was still not something he’d have done, even in the light of day. He would, however, have gone back to one particular moment.
Navigating unchartered territories, Wakefield grabbed a chair and tugged it closer to the mattress. The lady stared at him warily. He couldn’t blame her. He loathed himself in ways he’d only previously hated his father, but he now understood the problems his father had gotten himself tangled in and why.
“I understand the reason for your distress,” he said somberly.
Cressida eyed him with a rightfully healthy dose of mistrust. “You do?”
The bewitching nymph traced the tip of her tongue over her lips.
Heady with lust all over again, he managed to nod. “I’m sorry. I’ve never behaved so deplorably.” Wakefield grimaced. “None of this manner of love play is”—he slashed a hand at the air for emphasis—“anythingI’ve ever partaken in, and I’ve handled it all very poorly.”
That certainly made for the understatement since the calendar had made the switch from BC to anno Domini to now.
“No!” she said, showing him entirely too much grace. “You needn’t apologize!” At the force of her vehemence, the lady’s wounded expression vanished.
Her delicate countenance leant an ethereal serenity that stole his breath away and briefly distracted him.
“You haven’t behaved poorly, Benedict. You were patient and kind and…generous,” she added shyly.
Color blossomed on his skillful lover’s cheeks and chased a path of pink down her neck and shoulders. The rest of that blush he’d wager carried on under the sheet she held adorably close.
A fire roared to life within him. Despite all the ways in which they’d made love, he found himself wanting Cressida with a hunger to match the moment she’d stepped onto the stage at The Devil’s Den.
The morning cockstand, which had faded the moment his lover turned those dewy eyes on him, sprung fully erect.
“But you are deserving of an apolo…” He trailed off.
Wakefield frowned.
