“Kind?” Catherine supplied, her tone sharp at Cressida’s implication that she was not. “Perhaps she was distracted, for she has had much to occupy her with organising her sister-in-law’s wedding—Madeleine Hardwicke, if you recall…the dark, Castilian-looking creature who looked so down in the mouth when you congratulated her on her impending marriage to Lord Slitherton this evening. You remarked upon her unusual looks when she came out last year.”
“Yes, a handsome girl. Poor Miss Hardwicke,” Cressida murmured, distracted for the moment. “Lord Slitherton is old enough to be her grandfather.”
“Well, her father, at any rate. But he’s rich and titled and that’s all that counts. All men—even those who are handsome or loving at the start—” Catherine added, pointedly, “stray. Oh my goodness, Cressy, you’ve snapped your fan!”
It was all Cressida could do not to slap her cousin with the poor destroyed ivory accessory Justin had given her for her last birthday. Instead, she muttered, ignoring the feigned concern over her fan, “Not Justin.”
“Oh, he’ll deny it.” Catherine sounded as if she had much experience of such exchanges. “You must make the most of his discomfort, though. I suggest you order three fine, expensive gowns, confront him with everything you’ve heard, then present him with the bill. I promise you, he’ll pay up like a lamb.”
Cressida said nothing. That was not how she intended approaching matters. Though just exactly what she planned to do, she wasn’t quite sure. Quitting the carriage and putting as much distance as she could between herself and her poisonous cousin was a good start, though.
Changing the subject was the second best alternative. “I’m sorry for Miss Hardwicke. She and Mr Pendleton looked so in love, and Justin was saying only the other day that he’d marked Mr Pendleton out for great things. That is, once the young man’s a little older and less circumspect about putting himself forward. Apparently he’s very clever.”
“That might be, but he has no money.” Catherine sniffed as if that sealed the matter. “Lord Slitherton has more than ten thousand a year and, as Miss Hardwicke’s mother is very ill and wants to see her only daughter settled, she’s obviously prepared to overlook Lord Slitherton’s age, just as she’s overlooked Mr Pendleton’s candidacy on account of his impecuniousness. You forget how lucky you were, Cressy, that you were able to follow your heart and that you retained your husband’s interest for so long.” Her tone dripped false sympathy. “Just because Justin has taken a mistress doesn’t mean you are less to him than you ever were. He just wants more. Like most men.”
Cressida glared at her cousin while nevertheless resorting to her handkerchief to dab her eyes. “Tell me about this Madame Zirelli? I’ve never heard of her.” She was encouraged by the scepticism with which she managed to lace the command, disappointed when Catherine responded in a matter-of-fact tone as the carriage negotiated a bend in competition with a cooper’s wagon. “Neither had I, until Annabelle told me the curious story of Miss Hardwicke’s uncle’s determination that Madame Zirelli sing at his niece’s wedding. Annabelle is doing all the organising as Miss Hardwicke’s mother is on her deathbed. Well, it seems Miss Hardwicke’s uncle, Sir Robert, who’s lived abroad the past sixteen years and is returning for the wedding, charged Annabelle with the task of hunting down the finest soprano in all England. He especially instructed Annabelle to seek out this Madame Zirelli. Of course, Annabelle’s husband took over the search after Annabelle learned of the lady’s…well, unsavoury past…and it led him to Mrs Plumb’s house of ill repute. Yes! Mrs Plumb’s lodger is Madame Zirelli who, it is incumbent upon me to tell you, Cressida, since it’s not fair to keep you in ignorance, no matter how it hurts me, was Justin’s mistress before he married you.”
Cressida forced her mouth shut, realising she must appear like a gaping fish, as Catherine responded, smugly, “Surely, Cressida, you can’t imagine your husband led a blameless life before he whisked you down the aisle? Be glad his name is associated with only this one woman. Why, James—”
But Cressida wasn’t interested in James. James was a whoremonger. Innocent though she was, she’d heard the name in association with her cousin’s husband, and for that reason alone she must try and feel some sympathy for Catherine, who’d never known the love and loyalty Cressida had taken for granted all these years.
Forcing out the words while trying to keep the tears in check, she whispered, “I don’t believe you. Justin is deeply loyal. I have never found fault with him as either a husband or a father.” Her thoughts trailed away. It was true, though, that she knew nothing of Justin’s female associations before she’d married him.
She gulped, stricken as a thought occurred. “This Madame Zirelli…if indeed he did have an association with her… Perhaps she was not someone he could marry—” The idea of Justin losing his heart to someone else before her time but being unable to follow his inclinations was a terrible one and put their entire marriage in a new light.
“Without wishing to sound unkind, you were hardly a glittering prospect, Cressy.” With some slight consideration for the bluntness of this assessment, Catherine hurried on at her cousin’s injured look, reminding her of what Cressida had always taken comfort in. “Justin lost his heart to you the moment he saw you, and, despite all the persuasion that could be exerted, he married you, penniless though you were. This Madame Zirelli was married to Lord Grainger, though I believe their divorce was being finalised when she and Justin— Well, anyway, suffice to say you must forget this foolish idea that Justin is returning to some long lost love.”
“I must speak to Justin,” Cressida muttered, as the carriage lurched before coming to a halt outside Catherine’s Mayfair address. “What else can I do?”
In the lamplight that filtered in as the footman opened the door and put down the step, Catherine’s look was scornful. “The only sensible thing you can do,” she said with a toss of her head and a look to suggest Cressida’s remark bordered on the imbecilic, “is to get to the root of the rumours.” She gathered her skirts in one hand as she prepared to quit the equipage, turning to add, “If they are nothing but rumours, as you’re so sure is the case, you’ll not want to wound darling Justin’s sensibilities by suggesting you believe ill of him.” After gracefully descending the steps, she leaned into the carriage space to add in parting, “Discover the truth for yourself and make the most of the power you have over him, Cressy. We women have little enough of it.”
Chapter Two
Two hours later Cressida stared at her image in her dressing table mirror, forcing away the niggling doubts that had, she was sure, no foundation. Justin loved her—of that she had no doubt. But what about the other…‘thing’? The ‘thing’ they never spoke about because she didn’t know how to. If he even looked like broaching the subject she quickly deflected him.
She’d been bolstered by Justin’s praise earlier that evening but now the insipid shepherdess had been replaced by a lacklustre creature with red-rimmed eyes and sagging shoulders. Was she really just a wilfully blind and brainless wife with her head in the sand, completely unaware of her husband’s desires—well, she knew about those and that was more than half the problem—or what he might be doing about them?
Her nerves were nearly at snapping point when the door was quietly opened after a discreet knock.
“Cressy, love, Annabelle Luscombe told me you’d left the ball early. I hope you weren’t feeling unwell?”
How handsome he looked, his Grecian robes still crisp and immaculate after a night of revelry, concern in his voice and tenderness in his expression as he crossed the room. He lowered his head to kiss her ear, resting his hands lightly on her shoulders and she breathed in his special scent of sandalwood, which signified safety and wonderful familiarity.
Justin would always be the loving husband and she would always enjoy comfort and security beyond her dreams. But now, after what Catherine had told her, it seemed entirely possible that Justin had done what so many of her friends�
� husbands had after a certain number of years of marriage and she must find the courage to confront him, then come up with the words to explain what lay behind her own withdrawal these past long months.
Unable to respond to his greeting, Cressida did what she’d done for nearly a year, since Thomas’ difficult birth.
She tensed. She knew he registered it too, though his expression in the looking glass was as fond as ever.
Finally, she managed a smile. Not a convincing one—she could see that as much as feel it as she watched their exchange like a third person in a drama. Her hand went to the neck of her nightgown, the other fiddled with the silver-backed hairbrush that sat on the edge of the dressing table.
“I feel perfectly well, thank you,” she managed, lowering her eyes. “Just a little tired.”
Slowly he began to massage her back and shoulders and she forced herself to lean into him, nevertheless revelling in the cathartic, rhythmic strokes. If only she could be guaranteed that this was where the sensory pleasure would begin and end, then she could enjoy it.
When he began working his way down from her collarbones, his touch easing as he gently stroked the skin above the drawstring of her nightgown, it was an effort to pretend that she embraced, as she once had, the promise of where this may lead.
She closed her eyes and miserably went through her options, brief rage having long ago given way to despair. Though what choice was there, if indeed she had to win him back from another woman?
Could it be true or was Catherine taunting her, playing on her insecurities?
Cressida kept her eyes tightly closed so she didn’t have to face the loving warmth of Justin’s expression.
He wanted her and she should be drowning in joy that he still felt the same way she felt about him. She should be doing what every good wife must do. It was her duty.
But the familiar voices were screaming in her head. Do you think, Cressida, they demanded, that the rapture of a night in your husband’s arms is worth the fear and pain of yet another child?
“I must check on Thomas. He’s suffering dreadfully with his poor little gums.” Twisting out of Justin’s grip, Cressida rose, smiling as she defended herself against his increasingly rare romantic overtures, her tone the practical, sympathetic, maternal concern of a woman whose life centred on her children. Giving his arm an affectionate squeeze, she reached up to kiss him on the cheek. “I think I’ll sleep in the nursery tonight.”
He did not let her go as he usually did. Halting her progress to the door, he swung her round, holding her upper arms so that, caught by surprise, she stumbled in his embrace, her head pressed against the hard muscle of his chest.
But not before she saw the hunger in his eyes. The hunger that had once thrilled and empowered her but that now filled her with dread as his gaze seemed to sear the naked flesh above the ruffled neckline of her nightgown. With a soft moan, somewhere between desire and desperation, she clung to him, but her body was rigid.
For a second she remained suspended between fear and desire. If he ignored her wordless rejection, whisked her into his arms and threw her onto the bed to kiss every sensitive, exposed piece of her, it would be the first time he had put his desires before hers. She would not, could not, refuse, she knew. Her own lustful nature would take over and she’d be a slave to passion, as in the early years of her marriage. How many times had she passed around cucumber sandwiches at her Thursday morning salon while her mind replayed the thrilling amorous adventures to which Justin had introduced her the night before? Oh yes, during the day she was the perfect hostess but in the dark, beneath the sheets of the marital bed, her husband knew how to bring her to wicked rapture. The intensity of her response to him frightened her.
Sometimes she’d even wished for more, with the candle still throwing its light, so she could see what Justin looked like in all his naked splendour.
Very occasionally, at the height of passion, he’d latch on to her nipple with his hot, wet mouth and she’d feel the pulsing desire in the core of her womb and want him to continue to pleasure her like this, here and everywhere.
But that was before the children came, and such lust was for those who spared no thought for the consequences of their pleasures.
Cressida clamped down on her moan of desire and despair. Justin held the trump card. If she let him begin to stroke her into awareness, she knew she’d never want it to stop and she doubted she’d have the strength to withdraw before it became dangerous.
No, she couldn’t tonight, no matter how much she desired it. Another child would kill her, yet Justin wanted another son. Young Thomas was sickly and Cressida’s most important role was to give Justin heirs. If she couldn’t do that, she was no better than an insipid little shepherdess playing dress-ups. She could respond with soft murmurs indicating her delight in bed but she did not have the words to tell him she’d not give him more sons.
Cressida seized the advantage at his hesitation. Justin was not a man to press his unwanted advances upon her. Clasping him briefly before pushing out of his arms, she made for the door where, turning, she was surprised to see how much her brief, affectionate embrace had disarmed him.
He remained in the centre of her dressing room, fiddling with his cufflinks, his concentration seemingly focused on the tiny diamond studs at his wrists. When he straightened and smiled at her, her armour was not fully in place against the hurt in his eyes. It pierced her with a sharpness and intensity nearly as agonising as childbirth, forcing her to turn away before she acted against her better judgement.
Self-disgust surged up her gullet as she grasped the doorknob. So much for acting on her desperation to reclaim what they’d once had. Her shame that she was pushing him away from her was almost equal to her shame at realising that her actions confirmed she had chosen to accept the price. With no satisfaction in the marital bed, what other course was there for a red-blooded male?
“Sleep well, Cressida.” There was such genuine fondness in his expression as he prepared to leave her that she nearly abandoned her resolve by throwing herself recklessly into his arms.
“You too, Justin.”
He was nearly gone when she stopped him. Her throat was dry but she had to know his plans for the rest of this evening, though couched in such a way that no invitation could be forthcoming if perchance he was going straight to bed.
“Will you join me for breakfast?” she asked, smiling her false, bright smile.
“If you wish it.” By contrast he was no longer smiling. “However, I feel restless. I know I shan’t sleep.” Indeed, he did look distracted—and little wonder—his gaze fixed on a point somewhere near the window. “I think perhaps I’ll return to White’s. Roddy Johnson was still there when I left and had, I think, plans for a night on the town.”
Only when she was safely in the nursery and satisfied that little Thomas was sleeping peacefully did Cressida return to her chamber and give vent to her feelings. Sinking back down upon the stool in front of her dressing table she rested her head upon her arms and sobbed.
Chapter Three
A night of revelry hadn’t been the antidote for which Justin had hoped and even as he knocked upon the heavy oak door he questioned his motivation. Business or the need to unburden himself? He had a good excuse for both.
He was led into the shabby little sitting room at Mrs Plumb’s house of ill repute by a young girl barely older than his own daughter, an uncomfortable thought. He should be coming here for one reason only, not risking Cressida’s happiness, for God help him if she should ever find out. What would she think of the smell of cheap perfume that drifted from the other rooms of the house? Her sensibilities would be highly offended. She’d suspect the worst while not even knowing what that was.
The young girl disappeared into the shadows and he removed his masquerade mask as he was greeted by the single occupant of the room.
“It was good of you to come, Justin.” His old friend’s smile was tired, with no trace of the radiance he remem
bered. She looked as if she’d been working hard for a long time and needed to sleep for a month. “My boy got your message a short while ago. You should know it is never too late to pay a call upon Mrs Plumb’s establishment.” There was a trace of bitterness in her wry smile as she offered him a seat on the chaise longue beside her with a languid wave of her graceful arm.
He sat, reflecting that she was showing her years now, though she was still beautiful and striking with that regal grace of hers. Only a few strands of grey peppered her almost blue-black hair and her body was as ripe as he remembered it. But her heart had been broken and the melancholy that had leeched her vibrancy tugged at his heartstrings. They’d once been so close.
“You know I could never refuse you, Mariah,” he said, accepting a glass of brandy from the young servant who discreetly left them alone after plumping a few cushions and tending to the small fire.
She gave a little laugh and reached over to pat his toga-clad calf where it crossed his knee. “I think you could,” she said, “if I were to overreach myself. Everyone tells me what a loyal and devoted husband and father you are these days.”
Impulsively he took her hand, surprising himself. She gripped it and for a moment he was afraid she wasn’t about to let it go. But she was too shrewd not to understand, he realised, as she gave it an almost maternal pat before releasing it.
“Devoted, my dear Mariah,” he corroborated in a murmur, his mind replaying the painful events of his parting the previous night with his beloved and increasingly distant wife.
Whatever happened, he’d always be devoted to Cressida. He’d come here, driven to expand on what he’d only hinted at to Mariah some nights ago. He needed the advice of a sensible woman and there were few of those in his life, he reflected, thinking of his mother who now lived with them and of Cressida’s frightful cousin, Catherine. Perhaps Mariah, as a kind woman with considerable experience of life, could offer some insight into the reasons for Cressida’s withdrawal the past eight months.
Lady Lovett's Little Dilemma Page 2
