“I must say, Justin...,” she stammered, lowering her eyes, “I am very tired.”
“That makes two of us.” Slowly, he began to massage her back and shoulders, and she forced herself to lean into him, nevertheless reveling 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, there was no use even trying 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 continued to keep her eyes tightly closed so she didn’t have to face the loving warmth of Justin’s expression in the dim candlelight.
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, 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.”
“Didn’t you just do that?”
“He’s suffering dreadfully with his poor little gums. He keeps waking up in great pain.”
“We’d hear him, Cressy.” Was that the faintest trace of exasperation she heard?
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 centered on her children. Giving his arm an affectionate squeeze, she reached up to kiss him on the cheek. “He’s been sleeping so fitfully, lately, that 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 around, holding her upper arms so that, caught by surprise, she stumbled into 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, as always in such situations, rigid with terror.
For a second, she remained suspended between that 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 splendor.
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 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. She certainly couldn’t tell him about such treasonous thoughts.
Which meant she couldn’t let Justin touch her any more 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 up. She could respond with soft murmurs indicating her delight in bed, but right now she did not have the words to tell him she’d not give him more sons. She wondered if she ever would.
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 center 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 armor was not fully in place against the hurt in his eyes. It pierced her with a sharpness and intensity nearly as agonizing as childbirth, forcing her to turn away before she acted against her better judgment.
Self-disgust surged up her gullet as she turned the doorknob. So much for acting on her desperation to reclaim what they’d once had; for taking the bold step needed following Catherine’s revelation. Her shame that she was pushing him away from her was almost equal to her shame at realizing 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 3
The revelry into which he’d thrown himself at White’s after he’d left Cressida the previous night hadn’t been the antidote for which Justin had hoped.
He’d slept late, which was unusual for him. When he’d appeared in the breakfast parlor and been told his wife had gone out, Justin was ashamed of the relief that had washed over him as he’d dished up his eggs and haddock from the sideboard.
The truth was, he didn’t know how to look her in the eye after their awkward pre-dawn parting.
Now, a wearying day had passed during which Justin had attended to certain pressing matters on behalf of a friend. Fortunately the surprising request had managed to divert him for most of the day during which he’d been too busy to dwell on his lack of courage when it came to discussing, in clear and direct terms, the nature of the impasse that clearly had developed between him and his wife.
Five o’ clock came and went. Cressida was still out shopping. Or she was visiting Catherine who’d entertained her to luncheon or some such thing. Justin couldn’t quite recall the reason she wasn’t
at home when it came time for him to leave and discharge a potentially awkward duty he couldn’t begin to explain to Cressida.
He was just glad he wasn’t going to be called upon to answer any questions she might have as to where he intended to spend most of the coming evening.
Dressing carefully, he left the house on foot, then signalled for a hackney to take him the rest of the way.
It was a grey, dull evening with more than a hint of chill in the air which matched Justin’s mood. Increasingly, he found it hard to summon up the lightness of spirit that had characterised the early years of his marriage.
And yet, marriage to Cressida had given him more happiness than he could quantify. Even if her ardor had waned, he still wanted her.
It was the thought that her affections might have strayed that bothered him more than anything else.
“Stop!” He rapped on the roof with his cane, jumped out into the cobbled street, then paid the jarvey before treading with dull resignation up to the railing, hesitating at the base of the three stone steps that led to the front door.
Glancing up, he saw a face at the window of one of the upstairs rooms. To all appearances, the house seemed respectable enough. The comings and goings might arouse suspicion, but both gentlemen and ladies from society’s highest echelons regularly stepped over the threshold, albeit usually disguised in some manner.
On this occasion, Justin had not resorted to more than a simple masque, though he was regretting that as he stepped aside to allow a large woman wearing an elaborate, ostrich-plumed face mask that hid most of her features to pass him on the steps. She was leaning heavily on the arm of a small, slender gentleman, clearly years younger than herself, and a glance at the richness of her gown, which even Justin could tell was embellished with this season’s trimmings, suggested she was not some tawdry imposter of the aristocracy. Justin recoiled in sudden shock when he heard her throaty murmur. Good Lord, could this really be Lady Dalton? He turned his face away, fearing she’d recognize him. This was not a place either of them would wish to be known to frequent.
The door opened then, and Lady Dalton—if that’s who she was —and her mismatched companion lurched past him and down the corridor as if they knew exactly where they were headed.
Justin, by contrast, handed his hat and cane to a young girl barely older than his daughter, he reflected uncomfortably, who led him into Mrs. Plumb’s oddly decorated, little sitting room, for the handsome paintings and sculptures contrasted strangely with the knick-knacks that might have been collected by a simple cottager’s daughter—though rumor had it that’s what Mrs. Plumb had been when she’d arrived in the city to work as a housemaid before catching the eye of a wealthy banker, the first of a number of liaisons that had secured her future.
He should not be here, he thought again as he was led to a cluster of chairs. Though this might not be a brothel in the finer sense of the word, it was little better—although there were those who claimed to come only for the music and to cure their loneliness through conversation. Madame Plumb’s previous premises near the Haymarket had been a much wilder place but as she’d got older she’d catered to a more sober clientele.
It was, he supposed, why Madame Zirelli was able to make a home here.
A howl of raucous laughter erupted from somewhere above him and was followed by a moan of apparent ecstasy from a room nearby. Justin felt increasingly uncomfortable. The contrast with his own domestic haven could not have been more stark. Men and women came here to seek pleasure when pleasure was lacking in their own homes, their own lives.
But Justin was not one of those. He had a beautiful, loving wife waiting for him. A wife who, if anything, was more exquisite than the day he met her. Even after four children and eight years of marriage, he still desired Cressida more than he had desired any woman. Ever.
Fidgeting while he waited, he glanced up at a painting on the wall depicting a couple in a the throes of unbridled passion. The woman was pale and beautifully rounded with pert breasts, long golden tresses, wearing nothing more than an expression of the greatest rapture as she writhed in the arms of a handsome adonis.
An uncensored image of Cressida’s pale limbs, fully exposed in the dawn light flashed through his mind, making him squirm. A long time had passed since he’d woken beside her after a night of passion, conducted as was usual, in the dark. He remembered one occasion, as he’d rolled over sleepily to pull her against his chest, he’d been jolted by the sight of the sun slanting through a chink in the curtain, burnishing the naked limbs of his sleeping wife. Even now the memory made his throat dry for he’d rarely seen her fully exposed.
How innocent she’d looked, her lips curved in a slight smile, her hair loosened and spread about her like a halo. He had gazed at her for what seemed like hours, drinking in every curve of her body, which he knew like a treasure map by touch but which, he now reflected sadly, he’d never seen by daylight and, rarely, by candlelight. He’d been riveted, in fact. How elegantly her limbs melded from dainty feet and ankles to finely tuned calves, thighs, then to that secret juncture, thatched with fine blond hair.
Justin had no idea how long he’d had gazed at her, drinking in the beauty of her body. She’d woken when he’d touched her, his hand lightly skimming her curves, cupping her pubic mound. In the dark, during their frequent lovemaking, she’d indicated her pleasure at being touched there, but in the daylight, shock and embarrassment scarred her expression and she’d scrambled to pull down the thin linen night rail always present between them, even in the midst of the most passionate of lovemaking. But she had been an enthusiastic participant. Her murmurs and responses had indicated that, hadn’t they?
Fearfully, he tried to remember the last encounter where she’d exhibited signs of pleasure.
In fact, the last time they had made love.
He ran his forefinger around his collar that suddenly seemed too tight and wished he was wearing last night’s fancy dress. Not only was a toga more comfortable to wear, it made it easier to pretend that everything was still perfect between himself and Cressida when, clearly, it was not.
Memory returned. Yes, the last time they’d made love was several months after Millie’s birth, and in fact, a few hours before Dr. Milner had examined Cressida and announced she was with child again. Their third. Naturally, Cressida had been over the moon, though Justin remembered his twinge of disappointment at the knowledge that he would have to resist his wife and keep his hands off her during her later months of breeding. For that was how it was, and not to be questioned.
With each successive child, the passion between them was diluted as Cressida focused more on the infants than on him, as he supposed was to be expected. Some men would have sought pleasure elsewhere, still loyal to their roles as husbands and fathers but comfortably justifying their need for sexual diversion.
Not Justin. He wanted no other woman, and besides, it would destroy Cressida if she ever learned of such a betrayal.
So when the young servant girl entered the room, simpering as she asked with clear innuendo if there was anything else he required for his comfort, Justin shook his head, conscious more than ever of the smell of cheap perfume that wafted through from the other rooms of the house while suffering more than a twinge of guilt at being here. Cressida’s sensibilities would be highly offended by even the existence of such an establishment. If she ever learned he’d stepped over the threshold she was quite likely to jump to the worst conclusion.
The young girl disappeared into the shadows after announcing Madame Zirelli and Justin removed his masquerade mask as the door opened.
He rose as she entered, noticing the heaviness of her movements when she’d once been all light and energy. It sharpened the edge of his guilt—both for the fact he wished he were not here, and for feeling that way .
“It was good of you to come again, Justin.” His old friend’s smile was tired, again with no trace of the radiance he remembered from days gone by. Even in the few weeks since he�
�d acceded to her extraordinary summons so many years after they’d last parted, she seemed to have faded.
“Mariah.” He clasped her hand in both of his, conscious as he’d never been before of the great weight of sadness she carried. And of what she’d once been to him. Mariah had altered greatly in the years since he’d first met her, but she was still a beauty. Now, though, she looked as if she carried the weight of the world on her shoulders.
Mariah smiled wearily. “My boy got your message a short while ago. I appreciate you making the time to see me when I know how busy you must be. I was afraid that family considerations might prevent you from coming to see me.”
There was no trace of bitterness in her wry smile. In her maturer years, she was still striking for her regal grace transcended aging. Only a few strands of gray peppered her almost blue-black hair, and her body was as fine as he remembered it. But her heart had been broken, and the melancholy that had leeched her vibrancy tugged at his heartstrings. Mariah had been dealt a cruel hand.
“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 thigh. “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 reached over and 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 the delicate boundaries of their altered relationship, and 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.
Yet whatever happened, he’d always be devoted to Cressida. His visit here had been prompted as much by a need to unburden himself as to respond to Mariah’s summons but it suddenly seemed a betrayal of his intimacy with Cressida to hint at domestic discord.
Duchess of Seduction (Hearts in Hiding Book 3) Page 3
