Page 63 of Sloth: The Fallen Earl
Then the very obvious reason nearly brought Cressida brought her to her knees.
Benedict knew the duke had wanted her. Benedict, who also sought to figure out what to do with her.
She wanted to die. She wanted the Aubusson carpet to open so she could slide beneath its fabric and continue falling until she was far away from this place, the Duke of Rothesby, Benedict, and her life in its entirety.
Cressida’s stomach churned.
“Forgive me,” she said, finding her voice.
Cressida turned to go.
The duke called out in the commanding voice of a man used to having his wishes obeyed, “I was just leaving.”
Cressida stopped mid-stride. Clawing at the sides of her borrowed dress, she hovered at the side of the entryway, halfway between escape and this continued humiliation.
Benedict exchanged a handful of words with the other gentleman—words that Cressida couldn’t make out. While they finished up, Cressida stared straight ahead.
The Duke of Rothesby and the Earl of Wakefield sketched bows to one another.
Then Rothesby paused.
Please go,she silently pleaded.Please, just go.She avoided his eyes and looked anywhere but at him. In so doing, perhaps she could avoid the reality that any of these past fifteen or so hours had happened.
“I’d like you to be assured, miss.” The duke spoke in a quiet, comforting way that somehow surprisingly managed to ease Cressida’s panic some. “I’m not a gossip, though I’m a frequent object of it,” he said in what she expected was his attempt at lightsomeness for her benefit. “I am a gentleman.”
Cressida gave a tiny nod, letting him know she heard his promise.
“We never met.” With that, he jammed his hat atop his head. Offering her a deeper bow than she deserved, he left, closing the door behind him.
Cressida and Benedict found themselves alone.
“I shouldn’t have intruded,” she said stiffly. “Forgive me.”
“You have nothing to apologize for,” he said, quickly cutting off the rest of her apologies. “Please, won’t you sit down?”
It felt like a familiar way back when she’d been first in London. Trudy had taken Cressida to Merlin’s Mechanical Museum and she’d swung in circles high above the rest of all the other people who’d come to ride the flying horses. Conversations with the Earl of Wakefield were proving a remarkably similar experience.
Benedict waited until she seated herself before joining her on the opposite leather armchair.
Cressida refused to let him speak first. “I’m not looking for a protector, my lord,” she said stiffly.
His mouth moved, but no words came out.
Benedict finally found his voice. “That is good for me to know, as I’m not looking to make you my mistress.”
She flinched. Knowing he found her unworthy of being his lover hit her with a fresh, humiliating hurt.
Somehow, Cressida managed to lift her chin and glare. “Nor am I interested in being the Duke of Rothesby’s paramour.”
Benedict’s eyes thinned. His jaw clenched so hard it ticked. “Do you believe I’d hand you over to another?”
The earl’s voice fell an octave—dark, dangerous, and deep.
“I…” Uncertain in new ways, Cressida turned her palms up.
The thunderclouds in his gaze cleared.
Benedict released a sigh. “Let me begin by saying I’ve been an unmitigated arse.”
