Page 40 of Sloth: The Fallen Earl
There was no way out for Cressida. There was especially no way out for Trudy. There was no way out for any woman. They were trapped.
Every breath she drew came inordinately loud in her ears.
She couldn’t stand being here one minute longer. She didn’t want to return home. But if she stayed here one second longer, she’d shatter into a million pieces.
Just as Benedict had done, she hastily rushed about the room, pillaging her garments.
Unlike his wrinkled but still respectable articles, Cressida found herself staring at outrageously indecent pieces she could not don—at least not again, and definitely not in the light of day.
Her frantic gaze clapped on the armoire across the room.
Cressida made a beeline for it and tossed the doors open. Sure enough, the garment she’d arrived in lay hung within the cupboard. There was also a folded package. She hesitated a moment. It contained her name, or at least it contained the fictional name she’d gone by. Whatever it was belonged to her.
With unsteady fingers, she ripped open the package and revealed a gown—a day dress to be exact. Unlike the scandalous one she’d been made to wear last night, this piece was a respectable muslin dress, striped blue and white with a modest neckline.
Amusement built inside her throat. It appeared the Earl of Dynevor gave parting gifts to the women who took part in his wicked games here at his debauched club.
Forget the tears of before, it was all she could do to keep from tossing her head back and roaring with hilarity.
Cressida hurled the gown to the floor and stepped on it as she reached inside to collect her tattered and aged articles.
She reached for her shoes and then stopped. At the bottom of the armoire, there sat a pair of functional leather boots—functional and brand new. Cressida closed her eyes, hating herself for being so pathetic and pitiful as to kneel down and take those precious shoes.
She needed them.
She darted her gaze back to the gown. She also needed funds. Cressida found herself looking over her shoulder to the velvet purses Wakefield left behind. Payment for a whore was different than a parting gift, she told herself, as she gathered up the dress left by Lord Dynevor. At least this could be sold. At least she hadn’t sold herself for it.
After washing herself with the basin of clean water and cake of soap that’d been set out at some point, she dressed. Before she could talk herself out of it, Cressida recovered Dynevor’s gift and held it close like the cherished lifeline it was.
She paused and looked at herself the mirror. Her haunted gaze stared, reflected back in the windowpane in the bevel mirror. “You are so beautiful… You are a treasure…” How sincerely he’d uttered his praise. They now whispered and danced around her mind like the greatest taunt.
Cressida pulled a face. “What an utter fool you are.” The fact remained; the man who’d taken her virginity hadn’t been cruel or unkind. He’d been gentle at first. But his lack of restraint and the way in which he’d made love to her later in the night made sense.
He hadn’t believed she’d really been a virgin, but even so, he’d still put her desire first before his own. His had been a gift in its own way—the greatest gift. He hadn’t been violent or selfish or cruel as any other man who’d bought her might have been.
Her throat wobbled.
Selfishly, however, she just wanted more. She’d wanted the ultimate dream. She’d wanted it all to be real.
Again, tears threatened. Cressida gave her head a hard shake. She couldn’t afford to think about him and what could have been. No, it’d only ever been what she’dwantedit to be. There’d be plenty of time enough later to weep.
Cressida remembered to don her mask. Then, hurrying to the door, she left just as Benedict did—without taking another look at the scene of their sin.
The moment she was in the hall, Cressida looked left and right. Recalling the path she’d taken the night prior, she continued on that exact path. She concentrated on the directions in her mind, going over and over the layout—anything to keep her from thinking about Benedict.
The violent sound of raised voices stopped Cressida in her tracks.
She frowned.
No, those weren’t justraisedvoices…
Distinct shouting spilled from the western hall, all the way down to the east corridor. Outrage leant that deep baritone that would follow Cressida forever an even deeper timbre.
Benedict.
Yet again, she came to, if not see, witness a new side of him—enraged.
Cressida shivered.
