Page 8 of Sloth: The Fallen Earl
Cressida stared into the girl’s eyes. “My name is Cressida,” she whispered faintly.
Another overwhelming wave of desire went through Cressida, reminding her all over again that she was not a person. She was a vessel, here at the bidding of one man to bring pleasure to another.
The young but life-hardened maid peered at Cressida a long moment. “Used to be called Addien.” She shrugged. “ButDynevor named me Snap.” Addien gave a shy smile. “Ye don’t need to tell me what ye want. I’ll make ye even more beautiful.”
Even more beautiful? For the first time in years, Cressida managed a wistful smile.
As if Addien were either embarrassed by their brief personal connection or worried that it could be construed as displeasure with the head of the club, her face fired red. Without speaking another word, her fingers flew wildly in front of Cressida’s face, until Cressida went cross-eyed.
When Addien finished, she stepped away to assess the results. “Gor, ye look beautiful, ye do, miss,” the girl whispered. “’Tis a shame we ’ave to cover yer gorgeous face.”
While another maid came over, covered Cressida’s face with a mask, and began to tie it, she managed her first smile on this hellish night. “That would be a first,” she said.
There came a murmur of dissent from the gathered maids who’d attended her.
And as they guided Cressida down a corridor that emptied out onto a long stage concealed by crimson draperies, she could almost believe them—that she was, in fact, a proper lady being praised for her appearance before she arrived at a ball.
Any such illusion ended when her fictional name was called, and the long velvet curtains were drawn back, leaving Cressida on display.
Thick, overwhelming silence met her.
Cressida, blinded by the flash of bright lights from the crystal chandeliers overhead, squinted through the haze of cheroot smoke hanging in the air. She had to blink several times and promptly wished she’d left herself without an ability to see.
A small section, three rows of twelve gilded, golden upholstered hall chairs, had been cordoned off from the rest of the crimson-carpeted gaming hell. Every last of the thirty-six seats were occupied by various gentlemen. Some she recognized.Most she did not. They were of varying ages, from what must be lads in university to decrepit fellows with but one foot from the grave. Behind the red ropes, there were a handful of tables for what she’d venture were the club’s most distinguished guests.
One of thesegentlemenwould be her first lover. This man, still a stranger to her—but only for a short while more—would, for the rest of her life, be the man she’d freely give herself to. Ironically, he’d also be the one who’d bought Cressida as the whore her brother made of her this night.
Oh, God.
It was too much.
Tears blurred her vision.
Unable to let the dissipated spectators witness her misery, she closed her eyes tightly. Alas, even Cressida’s own tears failed her and began to fall for the leering crowd to see.
A loud buzzing went up around The Devil’s Den. Sharply drawn breaths and incoherent murmurings of the approving gentlemen who sat enjoying theshow.
A horrifying realization hit her squarely in the chest.
The patrons here at The Devil’s Den were aroused by the sight of her suffering. Why…these men wanted her to be a pitiable, weeping, lost creature. Whether they believed hers to be an act or real mattered not. That they’d gone lust-crazed at the idea of her weakness marked them as monsters.
On the heel of that sickening truth, whatever drug she’d been given sent a wave of lust so powerful sweeping over Cressida she couldn’t stop herself from running her palms down over her stomach.
She bit her lower lip; her wanting was so great, she was past the point of shame at touching herself.
Having another touch her? That continued to horrify her, and yet she desperately craved surcease from this debilitating need.
Cressida moaned.
“Ah, as you see.” A deep voice coming from somewhere on the stage boomed throughout The Devil’s Den. “Lady Aurum comes to us as a virgin. She feels shame in being here.”
Both of those were true.
The patrons’ breaths caught on a collective gasp.
A memory slipped in of one of the meetings she’d attended of the Mismatch Society where they’d discussed the readings of Diderot.
“…Women are not weak, they are made so by men who fear their strength…”
