Page 5 of Sloth: The Fallen Earl
A bearded, muscle-hewn stranger in all black glanced back and forth between Cressida and Lady Marianne, before settling his grim countenance on the latter. “Dynevor and Latimer have space for one.”
The peeress spoke for the both of them. “Yes, yes.” She sighed. “I fear that was the reason for their delay. We were hopeful there’d be space for both of us but were deciding which of us would be granted the right, and to my great frustration, my dear cousin won the navia aut caput. Is there any way you might make an except—”
A tall figure came upon them.
The cryptic stranger glanced back and forth between the baroness and Cressida, before he leveled a flat, assessing stare on Cressida. There was something familiar about the dark, coldly beautiful, and well-dressed man, but between the fog of dread and haze of drugs, for the life of her, Cressida, could not place him.
Lady Marianne, on the other hand, did recognize the young gentleman.
“Lord Dynevor.” Like a cat, she purred his name.
The gentleman—Lord Dynevor—ignored Lady Marianne. “What’s the problem here?” He put that question to a heavilyarmed, scarred bear of a man, who was either a killer or security guard.
Most likely, the fellow was both.
A giggle emerged breathlessly from her lips; the sound, faint and husky, managed to earn Cressida a rebuke-filled look from the baroness and much briefer, dismissive looks from the pair of men.
“This one,”the Beargrowled, as bears did, and notched a thumb in the baroness’s direction. “Lookin’ to join the fun.”
“Tell your men to allow the both of us,” Lady Marianne said throatily. As she’d done in the carriage, the baroness unfastened the ties of her indecent gown and put her bare breasts on display. “Imagine the money you’d earn selling two sisters to one gentleman.”
Lord Dynevor gave her a once over. “Madam, if you truly believe anyone’s going to believe you are anything other than an old, sagging mother of this one, then your brains are failing you as badly as your looks.”
Fury and embarrassment leant round circles of crimson color to the depraved baroness’s plump cheeks. “If you spent one night in my bed, Lord Dynevor, you would rethink your rejection.”
“Doubtful. Escort her out,” he ordered, his focus already squarely on Cressida.
The single, fortress-sized guard slipped from the shadows and whisked the baroness off and out before Cressida’s brain could register what’d happened.
Lord Dynevor removed his gloves. “Lady Aurum.”
Lady Aurum.
She furrowed her brow, trying to think where she’d heard that name and why this man referred to her so. “My name is—”
Before Cressida gave herself away, he stopped her. “The women who choose to be here all do so with the assurance ofanonymity. As such, masks are worn by those ladies who do not wish to be linked to The Devil’s Den, and identities are concealed, regardless.”
Lady Aurum. Cressida. All analogues of gold—that coveted mineral.
Lord Dynevor flashed a hard smile. “Must allow the nobs of London to keep up the illusion that the women they call wives are proper. Must maintain the illusion that only proper gents get to enjoy earthly pleasures.”
The young earl vacillated between the King’s proper English and rough Cockney.
That’s why she’d heard of the gentleman. The notorious, debauched gaming hell had begun to rise to prominence, knowledge only a lady who found herself saddled with a degenerate brother would be in possession of.
Suddenly, the throbbing between her legs grew keener until it pulled a moan from her. Cressida shifted in a bid to alleviate some of that searing ache, but her efforts proved futile as the sensation grew and grew.
Cressida bit down hard on her lower lip.
“It’s showtime, luv.” A knowing grin iced the Earl of Dynevor’s hard lips. “Even with you in your current state, madam, I am still required to confirm for myself, as I do with all the women who partake in this particular entertainment, that you’re here of your own volition.”
Was she here of her own volition?
Funny a question that should be straightforward should prove debatable, and with multiple answers.
Did she want to surrender her virtue to a stranger? She’d trade her soul to Satan if she were spared from doing so. But to fail in this would mean Stanley made sure Cressida’s nursemaid disappeared. And as useless as the older woman was in heradvanced years, the fact he’d sell his own sister left her in no doubt that he’d just as easily kill Trudy.
Only technically was this, in any way, Cressida’s choice.
