Page 36 of Sloth: The Fallen Earl
He’d been in the dark long enough and despised that she should have an advantage over his identity.
“We know one another,” he bluntly stated.
The lady shot her gaze to his and stared at him so dazed, it was as if she’d just remembered his presence.
She nodded just as dumbly.
Oh, Christ. Now it made sense. She’d been offended and hurt he hadn’t recognized her. That steadied him just a tad. Granted, it didn’t and wouldn’t make the lady feel any better that he had absolutely no bloody clue as to her identity.
“Forgive me.” He spoke gravely. “I want to be clear. The minute you stepped onto that stage, Cressida, I recognized you. Iknewwe’d met before.”
Skepticism and hope melded in her eyes—eyes that read like a painting. “You did?”
She was right to have her doubts. Wakefield moved closer to the bed and cupped a hand about her nape. Every nerve, every muscle, every sensation came to life all at once. His fingers convulsed reflexively upon her neck, and he found himself lowering his mouth to hers.
Somehow, he found the will to stop.
Wakefield moved his eyes over her face. “Just because I don’t recall your name or the events we met at, it doesn’t mean I am not utterly and entirely captivated by you.”
Her long flaxen lashes fluttered, and she tipped her head up just as Wakefield closed the rest of the distance and kissed her.Theirs was more a gentle reunion of two longtime lovers than the violent passion that’d raged between them last night.
His lack of control is what had gotten him into this mess in the first place.
Even so, he found himself placing a tender kiss upon the lady’s brow. Her breath caught and her lashes fluttered in the same way she had just prior to his kiss.
“Who are you?” he marveled.
“I told you, my name is Cress—”
“Your entire name, love.”
She hesitated for an instant, and he believed she’d withhold her complete identity.
“My name is Cressida Smith. I am no lady, just a mere miss.”
At last, he had her full name.
And God help him, it still did nothing to help him recall how he knew the lady or where they’d met, oranything.
“Cressida Smith,” he repeated back, murmuring those two syllables to himself to try and place her.
By the way her features softened, she took his efforts as the endearment they were not.
“Cressida,” he murmured. “I need you to know I will take care of you.”
Her breath caught audibly. The hold she had upon her sheet slackened, and the sheet dipped slightly once again.
Wakefield palmed her cheek, and she leaned so trustingly into his touch. “On my word and on my honor. If you find yourself in the family way, I promise to look after you and the babe,” he said, finishing that assurance so she knew.
Wakefield’s fingers tensed.
If hehadgotten her with child this day, he’d be no different than his father.
His stomach muscles knotted, and he wanted to throw his head back and roar his fury to the heavens at the potential irrevocable mistake he’d made.
Cressida edged away from him. “What do you mean you’ll…look after me?” she asked haltingly.
He frowned. Surely, she didn’t expectmarriage? And yet, where his late father proved unfaithful outside the bounds of his union, Wakefield now, himself, had no such commitments, which meant, he could and likely should marry—
