Page 85 of Sloth: The Fallen Earl
Panic lit the servant’s eyes. Oh, hell, he’d really become that much of a tyrant. “You’re not sacked. I mean I no longer need your assistance at this moment.”
“Ah,” the other man said relief dawning. “Thank you, my lord. Thank you.”
His exuberant praise trailed off as Wakefield moved quickly through the house and headed for his kitchens, of all places. His kitchens. He shook his head. He could say with absolute certainty that there hadn’t been a mistress of his or any other single gentleman in the whole of the kingdom to ever have spent time in the kitchens.
No. Those well-kept women had servants summoned and went over menus with servants and they certainly didn’t bake. What in hell was going on? That question brought him to a screeching halt. Inside the kitchen, his kitchen staff, every last one of them, sat around a long oak table hanging on to whatever it was Cressida was saying.
Cressida, who was working while the staff did not, “Do you know why the baker’s bread is always so light?” she asked the group at large.
A staggered murmuring of ‘whys’ and ‘no’s’ rolled around the kitchen.
Cressida looked up; a twinkle in her eyes. “Because he never kneads a serious conversation!”
Laughter erupted amongst her enthralled audience.
Cressida joined in.
Cressida looked up and her eyes located Wakefield, still standing there with all his staff oblivious to his presence.
An uncertain smile wavered on Cressida’s lips. “My lord.”
What in thunderation had she donenowto earn the gentleman’s fury?
The kitchen staff’s laughter died and ushered in silence as the room registered the presence of their employer.
Maybe she unfairly judged him now; maybe he wasn’t here to express his displeasure.
“Leave us.” Benedict’s cool command cleared the kitchen.
Benedict ventured into the kitchen and strolled over, joining her at the other side of the table. The six-foot-across thick oak table provided a thin barrier when presented with a man of his strength and power.
Cressida fisted the fabric of her stained apron. She made herself relax her hands. “I’ve displeased you.”
“Is that what you believe?” he asked quietly.
He inclined his head, staring at her as if she were some creature he couldn’t quite place. “Do you take me as a man who’ll become cross with you for your every action?”
By the solemn manner in which he spoke, his was not an angry affront or accusation. Rather, it emerged as a question he asked of himself.
Unnerved, Cressida found herself fiddling with her flour-covered apron.
“Forgive me,” he said. “For having given you cause to doubt yourself.”
He walked slowly but purposefully about the table, joining Cressida on the other side. She’d far preferred when they’d had an entire table between them.
He left her feeling exposed even more, uncertain about herself, about him.
Who was he? The angry, snarling, surly gentleman who’d hurled accusations at her at The Devil’s Den and had her followed, or the reserved gentleman who’d come and found her last evening, or this tender man who’d self-flagellate himself for his treatment that had led to her reservations around him?
Fascinated, Cressida cocked her head and contemplated him. She’d fallen in love with one of those versions of Benedict. She’d allowed herself to yearn for the man who wore a tender smile and who treated the women he courted, and the stranger she’d been to him, with a kind regard and warmth, but she’d been naive. She’d been looking at him through the lenses worn by a naive girl.
Benedict Adamson, the Earl of Wakefield, wasn’t a one-dimensional man, the kind captured on an oil canvas by a masterful artist. He was flesh and blood and multidimensional. He wasn’t perfect. He wasn’t some grand god. He was, simply put, a man. A man with many layers.
The whole while she studied him, he studied her in return.
“You’re afraid of me,” he said, misinterpreting her silence.
“No, never,” she said softly. She hadn’t been stunned by a side of him she’d never before seen, but she knew more than a thing or two about abusive men. And not once had she feared this one. This kind, honorable one would ever strike her. “I know you would never put a hand on me.”
