Page 42 of Sloth: The Fallen Earl
Her shoulders sagged with relief. “Thank you.”
Mauley gave no indication he’d heard Cressida express her gratitude. While he escorted her from the hall, nothing changed in the somber man’s demeanor. He remained as aloof as he’d been during all their brief interactions, but for one difference—the guard had transformed into her guardian.
Likely, he didn’t see it that way and wouldn’t, but for Cressida, anyone who could spring her from this place was next to godly.
When they reached the end of their destination, Cressida stopped. He’d not taken her to the entrance she’d arrived at last evening.
Dumbly, she looked around the kitchen. Uniformed servants who may as well have been plucked from the king’s place—chefs, cooks, bakers—all bustled about. Any other time, she’d have marveled at her surroundings. Early on, when her brother let their staff go to spare expenses, he’d ordered Cressida to cook and bake in their stead. It hadn’t taken long for her to realize the kitchens were a sanctuary, a place of escape for the simple fact her brother would never show his face down there.
“Sit here.” Mauley grunted. “A meal will help.”
She distantly recognized, as if staring at somebody else from afar, herself sitting and a plate being presented before her.
A plate of eggs and sausage links and buttered biscuits.
Her mouth watered.
Oh, my God. When was the last time she’d had food such as this? When was the last time she’d had anything other than gruel or stale bread? Any other time, she’d devour every last bite.
Yet everything betrayed her because at the prospect of swallowing anything, her stomach heaved.
Cressida pushed the plate away and sat in wait for her carriage.
Chapter 8
Wakefield dropped his hands on the front of Lord Dynevor’s George II mahogany desk—the one elegant piece of furniture among the man’s otherwise garish, gothic adornments—and glared at the insolent pup who occupied the gilded throne behind it.
“My God, Dynevor,” Wakefield whispered. “I’ll make you pay for what you’ve done.”
No. That wouldn’t bring Wakefield anywhere remotely close to a satisfying punishment at what the bastard made Wakefield an unwitting part of.
“…I have no regrets, Benedict. You were the only man who I’d have ever wanted to give myself to this way…”
Wakefield slammed a fist down in a bid to drown out her tremulous voice at the exact moment Dynevor spoke.
“Oh, do tell, Wakefield.” The earl flashed a cold half-smile. “What is it I’ve done exactly?”
“I’m going to take you apart with my bare hands,” Wakefield seethed. “And I’m going to enjoy it immensely.”
The proprietor appeared more bored than offended or terrified, the latter of which the younger gentleman should be, andwouldbe. That was if he had a bloody brain in his arrogant head.
Instead, the hotheaded earl reclined in his chair and folded his arms behind his long, dark hair. “Oh, come, Wakefield. You can do better than that.” Dynevor smirked. “Or, then again, you can’t. I, on the other hand?” The young pup smirked. “I know thousands of inventive ways to make you regret your insolence.”
Letting loose a full-throated roar, Wakefield swiped the other man’s ledgers from his desk, sending them falling over the edgein a series of staccato thumps as they landed. “Is this a bloody joke to you?”
This time the look Dynevor gave Wakefield was that of distaste. “Calm down, Wakefield. Thought ye had more self-control than this.”
He did. Hehad.His gaze zeroed in on the disgusted gentleman across from him. Wakefield narrowed his eyes. That was, Wakefieldhadbeen fully self-possessed—until Dynevor…and Cressida.
Straightening, Wakefield took a moment to collect himself.
He’d always privately derided the gents with hot tempers and overblown reactions. Between Wakefield’s descent into dissolution and grave mistake with Miss Cressida Smith, he’d found himself transformed into one of those dastardly fellows, in every way, and overnight.
Dynevor lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “I can see how it’s problematic to you, a priggish sort of fellow. So ye bedded the lady? Did ye force yerself on her?”
That question brought Wakefield up short. “Certainly not,” he snapped indignantly.
His new business partner pressed him further. “Did you show her a good time?”
