Duchess of Seduction (Hearts in Hiding Book 3)

by Beverley Oakley

  Let Cressida assume he was in this house to examine its 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.

  “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, and that he was more than happy to continue her charade on her terms.

  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’d never been able to resist. 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.

  “Let me go now, sir, and I will return here to meet you next Wednesday.”

  She sounded breathless and full of indecision 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. Four 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 practice 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 inquiring. “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 realized 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.

  Chapter 7

  Wind whipped the branches of the tree against Cressida’s 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 realized it was his wife, 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. Miss Mariah had promised.

  But she didn’t have them now. She was as ignorant of the practicalities as she’d ever been, though at least she now knew 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? That she was afraid of giving him another child? Another son? 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 to explain that she was not abrogating her childbearing duty, she just wanted to be in control of it. It was a treasonous sentiment, and there must be more artful ways for a wife to communicate such a thing, or at least make it palatable to her husband. Cressida had not the vocabulary, much less the knowledge, to say what she needed to.

  Here, protected in her own bed, which Justin had visited but once in ten months, she tried to comfort herself with the knowledge that in a short time, all would be well between her and her adored husband. For so many years, she’d been granted every mate- rial luxury she could have wished for. The soft, featherdown mattress was a comfort she’d not enjoyed as the daughter of an impecunious parson, the luxurious bed linen something else she’d never taken for granted. No, she’d taken nothing for granted in her wonderfully happy marriage, not even Justin’s love. But it was Justin’s love and companionship she lacked now. It’s what she missed more than anything, and she’d trade every physical luxury just to feel their hearts in tune once again; though Catherine often insinuated that after eight years of marriage it was not only expected, but inevitable, that a husband would stray.

  A familiar step sounded just outside her room. With a start of horror, Cressida jerked upright, drawing the counterpane up to her neck as the door opened slowly, faint light spilling in from the corridor.

  What was this? She’d said she’d meet him in a week? Had he misconstrued her invitation for an earlier assignation?

  The words she might have used—should have used—died in her throat while her brain reeled in horror and her body felt closed-up and dried-up, not the life-pulsing vessel that had so desired the feel of her husband’s body pressed against her—inside her—earlier.

  “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, if not her body. “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, darling, I wasn’t asleep.” Her throat was so dry it hurt as she struggled with the urge to tell him of the confusing tumult of emotions that held her hostage. Emotions she could not explain or even
justify. She wanted him, but she didn’t. It made no sense.

  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 ready 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. It wasn’t that simple, for her reluctance went deeper than simply denying Justin pleasure. She was his wife, the bearer of his children. His sons. How could she speak about desire when what she really wanted was knowledge of the 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? To her body? To another son? 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 gaze had raked her with that almost forgotten look of aching want that, in the bedroom, replaced the habitual affection he showed her during the day .

  In the flickering candlelight ,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 unmistakable 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 she feasted her eyes on 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 of the bed, the rapid rise and fall of his chest, his piercing stare and the exuberance of his manhood outlined by his nightshirt boldly declaring his rampant want.

  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 skin to skin contact was not part of the marital act between a man and woman of Cressida’s respective stations.

  At least two layers of fabric were always trapped at some point between them.

  Tonight’s strange, wicked and depraved voyeurism had added a new perspective to her understanding of physical relations between men and women. It had shocked her yet excited her, filling her with longings she could not put into words.

  Longings that stirred 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.

  Reason told her she need simply explain to Justin that she

  wasn’t ready, yet reassure him that she soon would be.

  Instead, panic ripped through her as the mattress dipped beneath Justin’s weight; and reason—and with it, words—deserted her. 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’d already used her monthly excuses last week.

  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, and her rigidity as anticipation and perhaps a little fear after so long, he gently kissed her lips. “Lovely creature,” he whispered as the fabric yielded and her breasts spilled out into his hands.

  Glancing up at his face, she was not surprised at the warmth of his love, radiating from him. Justin had always made her feel loved. As if she were a temple to the depth of his feelings for her, which ran so deep.

  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 and her body all but surrendered on the spot at the rightness of enslaving itself once more to him.

  But she held herself back. She had to, even though the throbbing at the apex of her legs was agonizing. Once he recognized her need, she was doomed. She would conceive another child tonight, she knew it.

  And another child, she truly believed, would kill her.

  “My sweet Cressida, I have missed you.” There was so much yearning in those few words before he transferred his attention to her other breast, she nearly wept. Meanwhile, she was acutely aware of the desperate need within her own body whipped up by his hot breath and skillful tongue.

  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.

  Justin found the hem of her night rail and gently tugged. Making the most of drawing it languidly up over her thighs, his fingers trailed a devastating path of lust and longing.

  Feelings Cressida knew only too well. Feelings that would be the end of her.

  Fighting every fiber 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 as he withdrew, the few inches between their heated flanks like a chasm of ice and fire.

  “You don’t want this?” 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 of the 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 minimize conception during love-making? 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 whiskey at his club.

  And then, as her gaze inadvertently beheld the size of his erection beneath his nightshirt, that alternative sensory exploration returned as a possible salvation.

  She blocked her mind to the fact he might question her motivations when it was so out of character for her to take such an initiative. All she needed right now were delaying tactics, and if th
ey 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.

  His entire body was rigid with surprise—and anticipation?— 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. And how delightful it was to be the giver of such pleasure. Always she’d waited for Justin to initiate any variation on their bedroom delights.

  Another groan. Surely she wasn’t hurting him? The look of ecstasy on the face of tonight’s bronzed warrior suggested a man did not find such attention painful. No, Justin’s groan was definitely pleasure, for he was as tense as an arrow’s bow. She shifted onto her knees, feeling the moisture between her thighs, a sign of her own excitement. She gently increased the pressure with her hands around his rigid shaft while her mouth moved up and down, her tongue flicking the length of him. 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 entire attention upon pleasuring Justin, using her tongue along 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 spiraling into the glorious abyss.