Cressida's Dilemma

by Beverley Oakley

  “Of course not, my dear—”

  “And then there was an innkeeper’s daughter who’d married a gentleman who’d be disinherited if his marriage were to be discovered before he was five-and-twenty. She keeps body and soul together by dancing at Mrs. Plumb’s and must continue to do so until he is of age. Is that right?”

  “Please, listen to me, Cressida…” Justin gripped both of Cressida’s hands tightly and gave them a squeeze.

  Cressida, who’d opened her mouth to continue, exhaled, and let him speak.

  “We are off to attend a wedding. A joyous occasion and one for which you can take almost full credit.” His lips quirked in a wry smile. “Though I’d like to imagine I played a small role.”

  Cressida returned the pressure of his hands and nodded. “More than that, Justin.”

  “Thank you. Admittedly, it was through more than a little cajoling on your behalf, but the fact is, you made me see that rattling society’s sensibilities does not always lead to a negative result, as I’d believed.”

  “Exactly, Justin. And I tried to tell you—”

  “Indeed you did, and you were quite right.”

  Cressida waited, her heart beating almost painfully.

  “You also taught me that regardless of society’s prevailing attitudes, the changes one individual can make for advancing the happiness of even one single person makes the effort more than worthwhile.”

  Cressida bit her lip. Smiling tensely she asked, “So advancing Miss Hardwicke’s happiness isn’t the last time you’re prepared to…rattle society’s sensibilities?”

  Justin cocked his head, then raised his eyes heavenward. “Lord, Cressida, haven’t I already said I can refuse you nothing?”

  Cressida covered her face with her hands and shivered with hopeful resolve as she thought of the terrible plights of the four Vestal Virgins and of how much she’d like to see their collective happiness advanced.

  “Thank you, Justin,” she murmured, dropping her hands to smile up at her husband. A smile with an edge of devilry. Snapping open her fan, she fluttered her eyelashes over the top of its ivory tips. “Just know, my darling,” she whispered throatily, “that I’m prepared to go to great lengths to repay you for your efforts.”

  * * * *

  Well-wishers cheered the bride and groom as they stepped out of St Mary’s. The turnout might have been sparser on account of a bridegroom less well connected than his predecessor, but the joy reflected on the faces of the bridal couple showed nothing but their own happiness.

  Their closest kin had not abandoned them, nor had Miss Hardwicke’s fears been realized, that following her heart would shorten her mother’s life. In fact, rumor had it that Mrs. Hardwicke had rallied following the sudden support of her younger brother, Sir Robert, and his unexpected largesse in providing his niece with a handsome dowry.

  Justin clasped Cressida’s hand and squeezed it briefly as several children cast rose petals from their rush baskets at the now serenely smiling bride and the grinning bridegroom, his unfettered pleasure a welcome contrast to the bemused diffidence he’d shown barely a week ago when informing Cressida and Justin that his suit had been accepted. The intensely shy and quiet young man had been all but dragged out of his lodgings by Justin and his landlady, the redoubtable Mrs. Sminks, to beg his love to take a chance on the promise of his imminent elevation and renege on the bridegroom for whom she felt nothing but abhorrence. Miss Hardwicke had been due to wed Lord Slitherton within days and, although the strength of her feelings for Mr. Pendleton had been in no doubt, it had taken some persuasion to convince her that she was not going to be, indirectly, the death of her ailing mama.

  Cressida considered herself justly proud of the current state of affairs and so felt a surge of pleasure and gratification when she caught sight of Madame Zirelli. Her former benefactress had brought tears to the eyes of the congregation with her pure, sweet voice in church earlier. Now the brilliant sunshine that sliced through the lowering sky illuminated the rawness of Madame Zirelli’s feelings as she raised her head to peer past Annabelle Luscombe’s rose-trimmed bonnet in order to observe her daughter standing on the church steps with her new husband.

  Sheathed in a fashionable gown of iris blue silk with opaque sleeves and a fetching bonnet adorned with tumbling roses, Madame Zirelli was a striking figure as she stood a little distance from the crowd.

  The handsome gentleman who joined her appeared to think so too, remarked Cressida, pointing him out to Justin. Tall and distinguished looking, Sir Robert said something that caused his companion to jerk her head up and clasp her hand to her mouth.

  A rustle of silk and the scent of musk made Cressida turn as a familiar voice murmured, “Word has it that Sir Robert is in the market for a wife and, by the cunning look on her face, the hired entertainment imagines she’s in the running.” The scorn in Catherine’s thin voice cut through Cressida like a lance. She glared as Catherine went on, “She might sing like a nightingale, but she’ll forever be tainted by Mrs. Plumb’s. Naturally, I had to make it clear to as many as I could that Mrs. Plumb’s Salon of Sin is where Sir Robert found his faded opera singer. I’m astonished she has the gall to mix with the invited guests.”

  Justin looked strangely at his wife’s cousin. Catherine’s mouth was pursed as if she’d eaten a lemon.

  “If you consider yourself more of a lady than Madame Zirelli, I’d remind you to keep your voice down, Catherine. We are in a public square, and Madame Zirelli is an opera singer whose reputation is in no way besmirched by the fact she lodges with Mrs. Plumb.” He exchanged glances with Cressida, who laughed at her cousin’s shock when he added, “You may be surprised that my old friend Madame Zirelli is now an intimate of Cressida’s. Perhaps you would be persuaded to revise your opinion of her if you were to join us for dinner next week, when we shall entertain Madame Zirelli and a selection of notables from the arts.”

  Catherine, usually so quick with her acid rejoinders, was momentarily rendered speechless. Justin continued, “For some weeks, I attended Madame Zirelli at her lodgings at Mrs. Plumb’s establishment on a legal matter, just as I’d advised her of her rights eight years earlier, with regard to her then husband Lord Grainger’s ill treatment of her.”

  “Lately, she has advised me on other matters”—Cressida’s smile was secretive as she looked first at Catherine then at her husband—“which have greatly facilitated my happiness.”

  Before Catherine could snap closed her gaping mouth, their attention was diverted by the collective gasp that rippled through the crowd. The bride had tossed her bouquet over her shoulder, and half a dozen young hopefuls were jostling each other with unseemly enthusiasm as it flew through the air. All eyes were on the trailing pink ribbons that secured the bouquet of white roses as it sailed in a graceful arc over the single misses at the front of the pack to land neatly in the unsuspecting Madame Zirelli’s now demurely clasped hands.

  Cressida, like everyone else, saw Sir Robert smile and whisper something in Madame Zirelli’s ear, causing her to raise her hand to her breast and a fiery blush to stain her cheeks.

  A few drops of rain caused a titter of concern, drawing attention from the clearly unworthy recipient—in the eyes of the crowd, at least—and galvanizing Mr. Pendleton into action as he ushered his bride across the cobblestones toward the waiting carriage.

  Sir Robert, Cressida knew, had lent the handsome equipage to his niece’s husband until they were in a position to acquire a suitable conveyance. She knew, also, that his generosity had not stopped there, and that he’d decided to reside permanently in England.

  As she glanced between the bride—whose naturally serious features were transformed into a picture of sheer delight—and Madame Zirelli, she could not help but note the astonishing resemblance. In their shared moment of joy, there could be no doubt that the two Castilian beauties were related, and with a spear of foreboding, Cressida glanced at Catherine, thin lipped, beside her.

  It was Just
in’s intuitive murmur, “What does opinion matter when one is cocooned in happiness and not rejected by one’s family?” which set Cressida’s mind at rest and reinforced the decision never to let others, particularly Catherine, cause her to question herself.

  “Loyalty is a fine trait, except when it causes unnecessary pain,” Cressida remarked with a wry smile, indicating the newlyweds, weaving their way through the crowd. “Any mother would be proud to claim Miss Hardwicke for her daughter, considering how ready she was to throw away her happiness for the sake of her ailing parent.”

  Justin squeezed Cressida’s waist. “And Mr. Pendleton’s astonishing persistence in persuading his young bride of the merits of a love match with an aspiring man of the courts, over security and money, has convinced me he will go far.”

  Another glance in the direction of Madame Zirelli and Sir Robert made Cressida catch her breath. In the twilight of their lives, each looked as if they’d discovered the elixir of happiness. Their radiance almost eclipsed that of the newlyweds, until with a shriek the new Mrs. Pendleton was whisked into the arms of her new husband, who covered the final yards to the carriage as if he couldn’t wait to escape with her.

  “My congratulations, Lady Lovett,” Justin said fondly, “for notching up such success in your first matchmaking venture. I shall not hesitate to recommend you.”

  His words were overheard by Sir Robert, engaged in conversation with Annabelle Luscombe nearby, to whom he appeared to be introducing Madame Zirelli.

  “I’m a strong proponent of the love match,” he remarked, turning now to smile at the three of them, “of which the happiness of my niece is clearly testament.” With a discreet, barely noticeable gesture, he encompassed Madame Zirelli more fully into their circle, weighing up his next words to Cressida, whose acquaintance he’d made the week before in Annabelle’s lavishly decorated drawing room. Cressida had liked him upon the instant. His contemplative manner was tempered by a propensity for quick humor, and he clearly meant to do his utmost in advancing the best interests of his dependents. “Congratulations, Lady Lovett, for your part in securing my niece’s happiness. I hope, too, I might be allowed a little credit for counseling Madeleine to follow her heart.” His smile broadened. “And for persuading Lord Slitherton of the advantages of knowing when to beat a graceful retreat.”

  Before Cressida could respond, his attention had strayed and now encompassed only his companion’s shining face. “I’m also of the firm belief,” he said softly, as if speaking only to Madame Zirelli, “that the opinions of others should be of no account when it comes to advancing one’s own happiness.”

  Cressida felt a rush of emotion, clearly not shared by her cousin, as he added tenderly, “I trust the radiant Madame Zirelli shares my sentiment.”

  With another glance at Catherine, whose mouth had dropped open, Cressida returned the gentle pressure of her husband’s hand.

  Awareness of him consumed her like a living thing. It had always been thus, even when she’d been unable to bridge the divide that her fears had erected between them.

  Now all was right with her world, and once again that peculiar, intimate awareness she felt whenever she was near him enveloped her heart and body like tentacles of welcome enslavement. She shifted a little and wondered if her blush revealed the aching need in her lower belly and her desire to slip away from the wedding breakfast and instead spend the afternoon in wanton abandonment, wrapped in her husband’s passionate embrace.

  As if concerned with removing a piece of lint from the shoulder of her smart pelisse, Justin leaned toward Cressida. “And I’m of the firm belief,” he whispered, his warm breath tickling her ear, his words sending shivers of anticipation directly to her groin, “that, like myself, my beautiful wife, who has proved herself so surprisingly eager to make up for lost time, is more than ready for bed again.”

  Also available from Totally Bound Publishing:

  Bodices and Boudoirs: The Cavalier

  Beverley Oakley

  Excerpt

  Chapter One

  On the eve of battle between King Charles’ Cavaliers and a Puritan stronghold

  The acrid smell of smoke made Elizabeth’s eyes water as she shaded them against the setting sun and watched the enemy make camp on the other side of the beech wood. The chirping of sparrows preparing to nest for the evening reminded her of previous, less dangerous summers, but the beads of sweat that had gathered on her brow and upper lip were as much owing to fear as to the heat.

  “They’ll attack at first light.” Silas’ hand was heavy on her shoulders as he stood beside her on the battlements. “We must get some rest while we can, for there’ll be heavy fighting tomorrow. Come to bed, wife.”

  It was an order Elizabeth could not refuse, though she’d have rather remained and kept the King’s Men in her sights.

  She glanced at the ravens that roosted on the stone ramparts nearby. Shivers of dread twisted themselves about her entrails. Before nightfall the following day, the ordered world she knew would be gone and the undulating patchwork of tilled and forested land over which she and Silas now gazed would be theirs no longer. Forfeited to the Crown.

  As to their own fate… Well, that was in the hands of Almighty God.

  Slipping her hand into the crook of her husband’s arm, Elizabeth glanced up at his harsh, uncompromising profile, his mouth hard, his eyes as cold as stones. Even as he contemplated the death and destruction ahead, Silas’ expression was not so different from his usual look, she reflected. For once, she almost envied him his lack of emotion.

  She kept her voice steady. “Dorcas says you have briefed the household on what’s expected of them.” Elizabeth was glad Silas did not remark upon the trembling of her hand as he led her down the twisting stairs from the south tower. Courage was a requirement of a wife. And loyalty. Loyalty to the death, as Dorcas, her maid, had unsurprisingly told her was the master’s uncompromising dictate to his servants. It was the return Silas expected on the security he provided those who lived under his roof at Drummond Castle—his minions and his wife.

  He grunted. “They’ve always known what is expected of them and they will put up a good fight. Drummond Castle is the only home they have.”

  It was also the only home Elizabeth had. Although she inhabited it reluctantly, she had nowhere else to go. The King’s Men were on a mission to crush all resistance from the Parliamentarians, men like Silas who abhorred the corruption of Royal power. Not even her mother’s sister—a lapsed Puritan now married to one of the King’s courtiers—could save them, she reflected, wishing she’d spoken to her Aunt Anne of the simmering danger and her fears in greater depth when her aunt had visited the previous year.

  “God is on our side.” Silas ushered her into their bedchamber. “We will fight them, wife, for God would expect nothing less.”

  “And if we don’t win?” She did not look at him as she removed the linen cap that bound her long pale hair, exiting briefly into an antechamber where Dorcas was waiting to help her out of her dress. His harsh voice followed her. “If we do not win the fight, we will win the battle.”

  Once Dorcas had laid aside her dark green gown with its modest trimming of lace at the collar—a fitting ensemble for a Puritan of rank who must appear sober yet distinguished from the lower orders as God ordained—Elizabeth returned, wearing her night shift.

  She pulled back the counterpane and lay down, tensing as she prepared herself for what would follow.

  “Their numbers are greater but we will fight to the death,” Silas snarled as he rolled on top of her, pinioning her to the mattress, hiking up the hem of her night rail as he did every night. This time, though, Elizabeth saw in the summer twilight that bathed the room that he was looking directly into her face. A fire burned in the depths of his usually cold grey eyes and she shivered, despite the heat and the stifling weight of her husband who was demanding ever yet more from her. The fact that he had access to her body had never been enough for him. She wondered h
ow he could expect to have her heart when he had not the capacity for kindness.

  One day, she thought, the burden of her obligations to this man who controlled her, virtually to her last breath, would break her.

  “Aye, husband. A sacrifice I will gladly make,” she whispered, closing her eyes against his harsh face, her heart doing strange things as she imagined the tiny figures she’d seen in the distance. Cavaliers. Fear was in the ascendant, naturally, but even after all these years she felt a tremor of excitement—limned with bitterness. Not all Cavaliers were the enemy…

  Constancy was another matter.

  She must have allowed her thoughts to get the better of her. With a grunt of irritation Silas inserted his knee between the two of hers, which were clamped tightly together, and jerked them apart. The next moment Elizabeth felt the sharp, painful thrust of his manhood as he forced himself into her—staking his claim. There was no other way to describe the brutal breaching of her tender, unwilling parts.

  Noiselessly, obediently, she lay unmoving on her back and stared at the canopy of the bed, blocking her mind to this man who drove into her with the determined concentration of a rutting bull.

  For eight years Silas had claimed her like this. No preliminaries. No words of love. She was his wife, his chattel. The woman whose beauty delighted him but whose temperament disappointed him. She knew it was so, though he’d admit to neither. Love was a weakness, an indulgence. Reining in his wife’s failings—the determination and softheartedness she displayed towards her children and those weaker than herself—was part of his life’s work.