Page 57 of Sloth: The Fallen Earl
“A babe?” she whispered. “You are worried about a babe?”
Benedict gave a small, tight, but discernible nod.
Cressida cocked her head. Did all gentlemen carry the same worry after they made love to their mistresses and lovers? By the number of illegitimate bastards littered throughout England, she ventured not. She hated these continuous reminders of the ways in which he was decent and good.
It had been far easier to cut all ties with him here, believing he was no different than all the scoundrels and scapegraces out there, though, yes, in some ways, he was.
He had attended the debauched gaming hell and partaken in shockingly scandalousenjoyments. He did shockingly naughty things with his lovers, of which she’d become one last evening. But the fact still remained; he wanted her to accompany him because he feared he’d left her with child.
Cressida glanced at her lap. “Benedict, you’ve given me instructions as to how to reach you should I…should I…need to.” She wouldn’t.
Her brother had her marrying an ancient duke; the date of their unhappy nuptials was imminent. Perhaps she should tell him that and alleviate his worry.
His expression became pained. “Miss Smith, if you are…on your own,” he said, appearing to carefully weigh his words. “Then I’ll not be aware of your goings-on.”
Hope filtered into her heart. “You are worried about my circumstances?” she ventured, scarcely daring to believe that anyone cared, let alone this man.
“I am.” Benedict answered like she were the mad one of their pair for even asking. “If there’s a child, there’s also the matter of determining if the babe is…”
A curtain of rage descended over her vision.
With a feral hiss, Cressida backhanded him in the face with a slap her former defense teacher, the Duke of Wingate, would have hailed.
The force of her blow sent Benedict’s head whipping back and left a stark imprint upon his cheek. He ran his palm up and down his injured cheek. “This might also be a good time to share I’ve directed your driver to one of my properties.”
Cressida gasped. “The insolence of you. You…You…bastard.” She’d hate him forever, but she’d hate herself more for having ever admired him. To think she’d considered herself in love with him.
“In the figurative sense, yes, but in the literal? No.” Benedict flexed his jaw, opening and closing his mouth several times.
Good. Let him suffer. He deserved that and far more.
The earl let his hand fall and gave her a firm, unbending look. “I am a man who is determined to protect any illegitimate issue I may have, which in turn requires I ensure the woman whom I spilled my seed inside is carefully tended.”
“Ah, if only you’d been more careful with where you spent,” Cressida spat.
Benedict’s lips formed a firm, flat line.
Yet again, he’d not take her bait. He’d insult her, then act like some sort of martyr.
Determined to get a rise out of him, Cressida released a harsh, jeering laugh. “How honorable you are. I take it you make it a regular habit of abducting all your whores and waiting for them to get their monthly courses.”
“You are not my whore,” he rasped with a sharpness that sent her falling back in her seat.
He looked away a moment, and when he returned his eyes to her, he was composed once more. “I’ve never been careless like this before, Cressida.”
“Lucky me,” she spat.
Neither of them spoke for the long length of the carriage ride.
Cressida sat absolutely motionless, stiff as a board upon her seat. She stared unblinkingly at the corner of the curtain he’d forbade her from touching.
If anyone had told Cressida that she’d one day find herself sharing a carriage with the Earl of Wakefield and would be completely miserable about it, she would have scoffed in disbelief, laughing at the very thought.
Sorrowful regret tightened in her breast.
That’s what she got for dreaming. The same thing she had gotten for hoping.
At long last, they arrived.
