Page 58 of Sloth: The Fallen Earl
Cressida made haste, not allowing him a chance to do the gentlemanly thing and help her down. Before the carriage had come to a full stop, Cressida threw the door open and jumped out.
Lord Wakefield cursed roundly. “You’ll get yourself killed.” Concern filled his voice.
How could there be any concern? With the ill opinion he carried of her, how? With the suspicions he had, why, in the face of his clear disgust and mistrust, would he be in any way worried?Oh, yes, that’s right, she thought. Fear for his potential babe.
He’d make a great father. He’d just make a miserable, terrible husband.
Biting the inside of her cheek to keep from weeping, she took in her surroundings. It was an unfamiliar street. Every single townhouse upon the row was an immaculate white with red brick steps and black doors. The stench of feces and refuse didn’t hang in the air. There were no thieves and whores resting against the buildings, watching plainly for their next prey.
A firm, commanding hand rested upon her shoulder in a reassuring way, startling her. She considered herself tall by society’s standards. But for a woman of nearly five inches past five feet, she had to crane her neck back to meet Benedict’s gaze.
“I’ve been boorish,” he said quietly.
“Yes, you have been.”
Benedict swiped a hand through his hair in what she’d quickly learned was his way of dealing with his unease. She’d never before seen this side of him, but then she’d never before been in his life. Everything about Cressida and her family’s existence brought trouble to everyone.
He let his arm drop. “I will not hold you here against your will.”
“How good of you,” she said.
Her droll response put a ghost of a smile on his previously tense lips.
“May I ask you to please come inside where we can speak privately? Everything…all of this…” He stopped, paused a moment, and collected himself. “I’ve handled this poorly. If you’d allow me an opportunity to start again, I would be grateful.”
Cressida eyed him guardedly. She had no reason to trust him. For all the ways he’d shown himself to be a good man, in this one day, he’d also proven to be remarkably like all the other lords in London.
Benedict stretched his left arm out, gesturing towards the brick steps leading into the magnificent townhouse.
“Please, Cressida?” he asked quietly.
Please.
“Please,” he repeated.
He’d asked a second time. Maybe it was the fact that he put that single word to her as a slight plea. Or maybe it was just that she was delaying going back to her house, where she’d have to face her brother and confront the rest of her future, but Cressida found herself nodding.
Then, following alongside him, she entered the Earl of Wakefield’s townhouse.
Chapter 12
Wakefield paced the office.
He had bought himself time.
He’d sent a servant to escort Miss Smith to her chambers, where Cressida was even now receiving a proper bath. After she bathed, the girl assigned as her maid would dress Cressida and see to her hair. Then she’d be provided a meal and tea.
Invariably, though, time was running out.
There came a knock at the door.
Wakefield stopped in his tracks. “Enter!” At bloody last.
His butler, a discreet, loyal fellow named Stetson, drew the panel open to reveal the long overdue guest.
For most men, being born a duke was enough. The Duke of Rothesby had been blessed with it all. Good looks. Not a strand of midnight black hair out of place. His gaze ice. His tall, muscular frame put together.
Charming personality. The men wanted to be him. The ladies wanted to bed him.
