Page 95 of Sloth: The Fallen Earl
Cressida gasped and jumped to her feet so quickly, she sent the bench clattering behind her and toppling over. The Earl of Wakefield stood with his jacket removed and his long shirt untucked and sans cravat. “And it appears you haven’t yet slept, my lord.”
At the archness in her own tone, Cressida bit the inside of her cheek.
He loosened his already loose cravat and tugged it free.
“Yes, that is the price one pays for being the hostess’s brother.”
He flashed a smile that appeared to be one of the commiserative sort. One that she didn’t really understand, given she knew his sister not at all, and his smile was one as if they were sharing some kind of little secret, him and her, which they weren’t. She’d never be the woman he shared secrets with.
There came an awkward silence. Cressida fisted and unfisted her fingers at her sides, wishing he’d leave, not wanting to see him, yet another first for her.
Discomforted, Cressida gave him her back and hurried to the bench.
“I have it,” he said, quickly rushing over.
Before he managed to reach her Cressida had already seen to the task herself. “I have it,” she said firmly.
She couldn’t bring herself to look at him because the minute he’d walked into the kitchen, all Cressida had been able tosee was Benedict and the eminently lovely Viscountess Waters wrapped in his arms as they danced about.
“Did you?”
They spoke at the same time and the very same words. They also stopped at the exact same time.
Benedict motioned for her to go first.
“Please. You were saying?”
Cressida shook her head. “After you, my lord.”
He frowned. That’s right. Benedict wished for intimacy between them. That left a bitter taste on her tongue. That intimacy had only stemmed from the fact he’d bought her as a whore at The Devil’s Den.
“Your work again, I take it, given the staff is still abed.”
“May I?” he asked.
She stared dumbly at him. What did he want?
Cressida followed his gaze to the table. “You want to try my bread?”
He swung a leg over the side of the opposite bench and reflexively her gaze slid to the ripple of his quadriceps and the way the muscles bunched and tightened, straining the fabric of his jacket.
Blushing, Cressida made herself busy.
“That is, unless you believe I should abstain in fear of my life.”
She frowned. “I’m not a horrid baker. I’m actually quite skilled in—”
“I was teasing,” he said, cutting her off gently.
She bit the inside of her cheek hard enough that she tasted the metallic tinge of blood.
Just a reminder, yet again, of how different she was from the women he kept company with: Anne, Viscountess Waters, and his sisters. Nearly every woman Cressida had contact with when she’d brushed shoulders in Polite Society were possessed of a witand humor that Cressida hadn’t been gifted with. Her existence was based on survival and not a sunny disposition. Cressida hurried and fetched a plate, a knife, and butter before she faced him.
Benedict reposted, “Never say you don’t intend to join me for breakfast. Why, I should maybe fear after all that there is some intention of poisoning me.”
Cressida’s lips tugged slightly at the corners. “You’re jesting,” she said, proud of herself for recognizing as much.
He flicked his finger at the tip of his nose and winked. The endearing boy-like quality to that gesture sent warmth spiraling through her. Her smile deepened.
