And yet…
With vivid clarity he recalled Cressida’s enthusiasm for the decorous, almost chaste lovemaking they’d enjoyed in the early days of their marriage. Had she grown bold, all of a sudden? Wished to up the pace now that she was ready to allow him access to her body at last? Why else would she bare her charms and speak so suggestively unless she knew exactly what she was about?
As to her inevitable question regarding what had brought him to Mrs Plumb’s house of ill repute in the first place, he’d be in a position to reveal everything within just a few days. Cressida’s close friend Annabelle Luscombe, who worked with him on the Sedleywich board, was too closely involved and he was honour bound to first help Mariah locate her lost child, as promised, before discreetly explaining the details to his wife.
Let Cressida assume he was examining the location’s proximity to the river as a cause of water infection, or the possible exploitation of children—perhaps she’d think he was merely here to accompany a friend from his club.
Cressida was in charge of this breathtakingly erotic little intrigue, and it was clear she had no doubts about his constancy, else she’d not be issuing such an obvious invitation for the resumption of the intimacies they’d once so enjoyed.
“I enjoy the music,” he said. Smiling, squeezing her hand, he added, “But tonight I prefer the company.” He wanted to reassure her that he was still the same loving husband, despite her emotional and physical withdrawal, that he was more than happy to continue her charade.
The feel of her hourglass figure beneath her widow’s weeds when he discreetly skimmed her waist as he shifted position speared him with another rush of lust. The rapid rise and fall of her bosom indicated she felt as he. She tilted her head and beneath her veil he could just make out the curve of her lips. It was an invitation he knew he would not be able to resist for long. An invitation he’d not had from her in years, in fact.
But when he clasped her waist to draw her to him, she jerked back.
“I must go!” Her unexpected reaction shocked him. Like a frightened deer she made an attempt to withdraw her hand and would have risen had he not pulled her back down, caging her hand on his thigh as he ground out, “I am sorry for your loss, madam, but consider me at your service.” He heard the strained suggestiveness in his voice. The tone sounded alien, even to his own ears, but he was desperate that she not lose courage now.
She sounded breathless. “I will return next Wednesday.” He felt the barrier rise between them as she pulled decisively away, smoothing her black silk skirts as she stood. He felt, rather than observed, her resolve falter and imagined her biting her lip, that adorable habit he remembered from her youth that made her dimples so gorgeously evident in her delicately tinted cheeks, though tonight he could not see behind her veil. Lord, she appeared barely older than a debutante, even now. Five beautiful children since their marriage eight years ago had only increased her womanly charms.
He let her go. Everything was in Cressida’s hands now, and he was her putty. She clearly did not want to continue in this tawdry place. He imagined the seduction scene she was no doubt planning a short while hence. He’d come to her like he’d done a hundred times and still be affected by the glow of candlelight on Cressida’s ivory-tinted flesh and the limpid look in her cornflower blue eyes as she gazed up at him with love and trust…
He swallowed, clenching his teeth against the fire in his loins, desperate to hold her with no barriers between them but knowing he must practise the restraint of a lifetime.
Though he rose he did not follow her. It was clear she had reached the limit of her bravado for the moment. From the door she hesitated, her look enquiring. “I look forward to continuing our conversation next Wednesday.”
“I anticipate it very much.”
With pounding heart, he watched her leave. Now she would return home. She had made her point, intimating that he should not be long in following her. The blood thrummed in his brain and he realised almost with embarrassment as he glanced down that he was as randy as a young buck. He’d thought he had more self-control but tonight’s play-acting had reinforced how much he missed their intimacy. For so long he’d pretended away his loneliness and confusion at her rejection but now Cressida was returning to him with all the love and willingness she’d once shown him.
Heart beating wildly, Justin tidied away the half-written report he’d prepared for Mariah. In half an hour he would be where he felt most at home—locked in Cressida’s enthusiastic embrace.
* * * *
Wind whipped the branches of the tree against her bedchamber window. A storm was brewing, said Tom, the footman. He should know, for he was a farmer’s son.
But Cressida was a parson’s daughter and she knew nothing about anything except what was required of her to be a good wife.
She drew the counterpane up to her chin and shivered, wishing it were with anticipation at the same time that she wished Justin were cuddled warmly against her. But that was not to be, not tonight.
At first, the limpid look in Justin’s eye when he’d held her hand in that tawdry sitting room at Mrs Plumb’s had sliced away at her soul. She’d seen the hunter in him size up his quarry. At eighteen she’d been easy prey, falling into his arms during their first waltz. There’d been no chase on Justin’s part, for their hearts and minds had been as one from the start.
He’d quickly realised it was Cressida, though, in that shabby little sitting room in that wicked house. She knew Justin too well. His sudden stillness and the change in his tone had alerted her to the fact that he knew exactly who she was.
Without missing a beat he’d continued the charade while her brain had been in a whirl as to whether to admit her identity. Yet when Justin so willingly endorsed their play-acting, the exciting possibilities had quickly taken on a life of their own.
He’d agreed to an assignation a week hence. Her body pulsed at the thought before fear intruded that he’d come to her too soon. How could she hold him at bay? In a week she’d have all the tools and knowledge she needed to be everything Justin could desire.
She didn’t have them now. She was as ignorant of the practicalities as she’d ever been, but she knew now that precautions were possible.
Of course, her kindly friend at Mrs Plumb’s would advise her to explain everything to Justin. But how could Cressida tell him everything? Panic banished reason. All she wanted was one more week—then she’d be all-powerful in her knowledge. Miss Mariah could help her with the words she needed. Cressida had not the vocabulary, much less the knowledge, to say what she needed to.
A familiar step sounded just outside her room. With a start of horror she jerked upright, drawing the counterpane up to her neck as the door opened slowly, faint light spilling in from the corridor.
Her breath caught, the words she might have used—should have used—dying in her throat.
“Good evening, my love,” Justin whispered, carefully placing the candle on the dressing table as he lowered himself onto the edge of the bed. A golden glow suffused his face, the warmth of his expression kindling the need in Cressida’s soul. “You weren’t asleep, I hope?” He leaned over her and tenderly began to stroke her shoulder.
Cressida forced herself to relax, lying back upon the bed as she smiled tremulously at him in the flickering light. “No, Justin, I wasn’t asleep.” Her throat was so dry it hurt. She couldn’t find the words to begin to tell him of the confusing tumult of emotions she felt right now.
Of course he’d come to visit her on account of the charade she’d shamelessly engineered. She should have expected nothing less.
Except that she was unprepared.
Completely.
His smile in the soft glow of light held a tender poignancy that tugged at her heartstrings. He was lonely. Just like she was, and now was the time to bare her soul. She could let him down gently, explain that in a week’s time, when the woman at Mrs Plumb’s had told her what she wanted—needed—to know, she’d feel re
ady for an encounter like this. Justin was a kind and understanding man. A patient husband. He’d waited this long. He could certainly wait another week.
Horrified, she checked herself. How could she possibly speak so plainly about methods that would prevent her conceiving the second son Justin deserved, desired and, yes, as his mother so frequently reminded her, required?
Her breath hitched in her throat while her mind raced over the best way to navigate these turbulent waters.
But every thought returned to the truth—she was disloyal and depraved. How could she refuse her husband his rights? Why would she want to when she was blessed above all women?
It had been months since Justin had visited her, an eternity since his eyes had kindled with that almost forgotten look of aching want that, in the bedroom, replaced the habitual affection he showed her during the day.
The warmth of his smile gained heat as he rose to untie the cord of his banyan. It slid off his shoulders while he focused his gaze, with unmistakeable longing, on her breasts, still confined in her lace-edged night shift. Cressida felt her palms begin to sweat, her breath fizzling in her throat as her eyes raked the length of him.
Oh, he’d never reveal himself to her naked but as she recalled the bronzed warrior she’d seen earlier that evening in the mist-filled chamber of brazenness she knew Justin would look every bit as magnificent.
His good nature was etched in the fine lines around his usually warm brown eyes, now black with desire as they bore into her. His strong jaw was tense with intent, the well-sculpted cheek muscles sharp planes and shadows. Fashionably thick and curling hair brushed forward made him a handsome man. During the day, he was the urbane lord of the manor. Tonight, the finer civilities were stripped away as he pulled back the covers, the rapid rise and fall of his chest, the piercing stare and the exuberance of his manhood outlined by his nightshirt boldly declaring his desire.
For the first time Cressida focused her attention upon the masculine contours of his fine linen shift. No, Justin would never come naked to her and she’d never thought to explore the idea of skin to skin contact. Why? Because clearly this was not what a man did when he was with his wife.
At least two layers of fabric were always trapped at some point between them.
Tonight’s strange, lurid, exciting, wicked and depraved voyeurism shocked her yet filled her with longings she could not put into words.
Longings that curdled in her womb and made her damp, no, slick with desire. She ached to hold her husband to her breast, to wrap her legs around his waist and to rock with him in an embrace that would envelop them in sensation and sweep before it all the pain and loneliness of these ten long months.
But she could not.
Not yet.
Panic ripped through her as the mattress dipped beneath Justin’s weight. What should she do? How could she explain that the only thing between her and Justin was ‘a little matter’ she’d attend to by next week? She’s already used her monthly excuses, last week.
Stricken, her mind raced. She could hardly breathe through the fear as he slipped beneath the sheets and drew her to him, his fingers gently tugging at the ribbon of her night rail. She felt herself go rigid in his arms and nearly wept at the pain she’d soon cause him.
Taking her gasp as encouragement, he gently kissed her lips.
“Lovely creature,” he whispered as the fabric yielded and her breasts spilled out into his hands.
She whimpered as he found just the right pressure to knead her into compliance. His tongue, hot and wet, circled her nipple while one hand gently massaged her heated inner thighs. She felt her body all but surrendering at the rightness of enslaving itself once more to him. The throbbing at the apex of her legs was agonising. Once he recognised her need she was doomed. She would conceive another child tonight, she knew it.
Another child, she truly believed in that moment, that would kill her.
He transferred his attention to her other breast, his hot breath and skilful tongue stirring up the aching need within her to almost desperate heights. Prickles of sensation skittered from the tips of her toes into the core of her belly and she whimpered as she felt another rush of heat to her groin while Justin found the hem of her nightgown and gently tugged. Making the most of drawing it languidly up over her thighs, it trailed a devastating path of lust and longing.
Feelings Cressida knew only too well. Feelings that would be the end of her.
Fighting every fibre of her needy body, she caged his hand against her thigh, halting its progress. Abruptly, he stopped, raising his head to look at her. In the pale glow she saw the confusion that crossed his features. She’d met him part way but now she was telling him she did not want him? She knew it was what he was thinking and she forced out a thread of sound to tell him she loved and desired him as she always had.
“I’m sorry, Justin, I can’t—” she croaked, her parched lips desperate for his understanding kiss.
But tonight Justin did not look as understanding as usual. He stilled, his hands withdrawing themselves from her body. A myriad of emotions flashed across his countenance—surprise, confusion, a brief flash of anger, then…
Nothing but dull resignation, oh, so much worse than anger and disappointment. Those she could meet with her own protests, perhaps propelling all that stood between them into the open. He might hate her for her disloyalty, but at least he’d understand.
Right now, even Cressida didn’t understand. She had no idea of the nature or practicalities that Miss Mariah had suggested might be the answer to her troubles. How could she properly explain to Justin her encounter with a common doxy who’d promised to show her ways to minimise conception during lovemaking? Or of the alternative sensory exploration she’d witnessed earlier in the evening? She could no more do that than sail into White’s and join her husband for a whisky at his club.
And then, as her hand inadvertently brushed across his night rail and she felt the size of his erection, that alternative sensory exploration returned as a possible salvation.
She blocked her mind to the fact that he’d consider it so out of character for her to take such an initiative. All she needed right now were delaying tactics and if they made Justin happy, all the better.
Quickly, without saying a word, she pressed him onto his back and shimmied beneath the bedcovers, taking his erection in her hands and flicking her tongue across the tip of his manhood.
She heard his sudden intake of breath in the silence and stilled. Waiting. The man at Mrs Plumb’s had certainly enjoyed such a sensation but what would Justin think when it was his wife attending to him in such a manner? Would he be similarly enthralled…or horrified?
At least it was better than any other alternative that involved procreation.
She felt him go rigid but he said nothing, just placed his hand gently on her head and breathed out in one long sigh.
Emboldened, Cressida drew the length of him into her mouth. How hard and hot it was.
Another groan. Surely of pleasure?
Obviously, for he was as tense as an arrow’s bow. The moisture between her thighs was a sign of her own excitement. She was balancing the score and she was enjoying doing it. She could do this every night without ever having to worry about conceiving again.
On this happy thought she focused her attention upon pleasuring Justin, using her tongue to contour the length of his shaft—just as she’d seen it done at Mrs Plumb’s—circling it before taking him deeply into her mouth in a series of languorous thrusts.
“Cressida…darling…” His voice was hoarse as he dug his fingers into her shoulders. He seemed to be straining, using every ounce of willpower to keep still. She sensed what he must be feeling. She’d felt it many times, herself, when Justin’s pleasuring had brought her to the cusp and she’d held back, feeling a strange mixture of both terror and ecstasy before spiralling into the glorious abyss.
She wanted Justin to feel the same wonderful sensations to which he’d introduced
her. Exultation, pride and satisfaction welled up inside her. Without Mrs Plumb’s help, Cressida had discovered the secret to bringing her husband pleasure without implicating herself in anything that would return to haunt her.
Like another baby.
His breath was quick and shallow. The sound made her feel all-powerful. Her nipples ached and her sex pulsed in response but she tried to close her mind to her own bodily sensations. They could most definitely not be acted upon.
“My glorious…darling…wife,” he whispered, gripping her shoulders and kissing the top of her head, and all the pent-up tension and fear Cressida had felt during these last months at the thought of intimacy with Justin simply drained away.
Until, with a gasp, he gently pushed aside her head, deftly drew her up beside him, rolled her on to her back and covered the length of her with his hard, needy body. She felt his erection press into her stomach before he adjusted himself lower.
Lower, so that his manhood was near her slick, wanting entrance and she was balanced on the edge of well-trained silence, contemplating the destruction of all her well-laid plans.
Being plundered by her husband was so very far from them, yet this was Justin, wanting her, needing her. Even as he slid into her she felt her heart cry out at the rightness of this physical coupling, yet her brain roared its terrified objection.
One more week.
That’s all she wanted. One more week so she could learn how a man could come inside a woman without making her pregnant. It was possible. Having learned this for fact, she knew she couldn’t become a tacit collaborator in her own destruction, however much she wanted it at this moment.
Dragging her mouth from his she struggled beneath him, pushing him away and wriggling her hips in clear objection rather than escalation of the sexual act.
“No!”
Her cry sounded much too harsh and her breathing, fast and clearly distressed, reverberated through the room.
Instantly he released her and she rolled onto her side. “Cressida?” His voice was thick with concern. “What is it?”
Lady Lovett's Little Dilemma Page 6
