Page 52 of Sloth: The Fallen Earl
The honesty of her quiet response, and the strength behind it, jarred him. Would a duplicitous woman manage both? Certainly not.
Those were questions for later. He shoved them aside.
“Given our…activities.” He grimaced. “I don’t believe you are, in fact, fine.” He winced. “And I am deeply…sorry for that,” he said weakly.
How paltry.
Cressida Smith bowed her head in acknowledgement, and that motion drew his gaze to the slight lump forming on her forehead.
The fury that’d sent Wakefield tearing after the lady long forgotten, he stared at that knot. “You were hurt.”
Cressida gave another one of those confused head bobs, a cross between a nod and a shake.
“Here,” he murmured, pointing to the mark.
She followed his fingertip, and as one only just aware of her injury, she touched the little bump and started. “Oh. Uh…the carriage stopped suddenly, and I was unprepared.”
His eyes flicked away from Cressida. Christ. How many ways had he hurt her? Self-loathing threatened to swallow Wakefield whole.
He made himself return his stare to hers. “I have an addition to make to my…” He pulled a face. “Shamefully growing list of offenses against you.”
Unlike before when she’d insisted he hadn’t brought her pain during their intimacies, this time the lady didn’t deny Wakefield’s acknowledgement. It spoke to a woman comfortable in her truth, and it also revealed she’d not been lying for his benefit when she’d spoken about the discomfort he’d left her in after last night.
“You left without a word,” he murmured.
Miss Smith gave him a wry look. “Was I supposed to stay?”
Her question brought him up short. He hadn’t known what to expect where the lady was concerned.
Once more, his guard went up. This defiant side of the shy, blushing beauty he’d bedded so many times he’d lost count further roused his suspicion. How did a woman slide so easily between two personas?
He had plenty of reasons not to trust a woman who would portray herself to be one thing and then turned out to be an entirely different. A lady, a virgin, all of which screamed duplicity.
Wakefield got right to it. “What do you want?”
“What doIwant?” The feisty sparkle in her eyes mocked him. “You, my lord, are the one who boarded my carriage.”
His jaw ached with restraint. “Is it money you are looking for?”
“If that were the case, I’d have taken your payment, my lord. If you are in need of the funds, you can find them precisely where you left them, on the nightstand at The Devil’s Den.”
Wakefield would have to be without hearing to fail to pick up on the soft but unequivocal sarcasm she mocked him with.
“I’m not in need of funds,” he said curtly.
She gave him a look. “I’m well aware, my lord.”
His attention caught on that. He narrowed his eyes on the mystifying minx. “Are you?”
Her bold swagger flagged. “I don’t know what you are suggesting,” she said, coolly indignant.
“Oh, I believe you do, Miss Smith.” Wakefield rested his palms on his thighs and leaned close, shrinking the space between them. “Let us not play any more games, madam,” he whispered. “Let us focus on the matter at hand.”
“What exactly would that be?” Her regal brows dipped. “I was of an opinion we’d already said everything there was to say this morning, my lord?”
Did he detect a faint note of bitterness in her reply?
Wakefield sat back against the uncomfortable carriage bench. Taking his jaw in hand, he contemplated the mysterious creature who’d left his world upside down.
