Cressida's Dilemma (3 page)

Cressida glared at her cousin while nevertheless resorting to her handkerchief to dab her eyes. There were still another few minutes to endure in the carriage together, so she might as well be as armed with as much information as Catherine knew or suspected. Surely the more Catherine said, the greater the chance Cressida had of finding a hole in her theory. Justin would never take a mistress. Not if he loved Cressida. “Tell me about this Madame Zirelli. I’ve never heard of her.” She was encouraged by the skepticism 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.”

“Miss Hardwicke’s uncle? Sir Robert, do you mean?” Cressida frowned. She’d heard Annabelle mention this illustrious member of the family who’d made a great fortune across the seas and had never been back to England.

“That’s right. Well, he’s coming back for Miss Hardwicke’s wedding, and of course Annabelle is doing all the organizing as Miss Hardwicke’s poor mother is on her deathbed—”

“But what’s Sir Robert got to do with Madame Zirelli?” What did this have to do with Justin? Cressida leaned forward to quiz her. Catherine was wrong.

“Well, Sir Robert has lived abroad the past sixteen years, in case you didn’t know, and he’s returning for the wedding but with the oddest request. He charged Annabelle with the task of hunting down the finest soprano in all England and has especially instructed Annabelle to seek out this Madame Zirelli.” Catherine leaned back and her voice took on an edge of scorn. “Of course, Annabelle’s husband took over the search after Annabelle learned of Madame Zirelli’s…well, unsavory past…and it led him to Mrs. Plumb’s house of ill repute.”

“Then perhaps Justin was merely helping to locate this Madame Zirelli.”

Catherine raised an eyebrow. “And it would seem Justin knew just where to look.” She sighed as if her cousin were displaying the greatest ignorance.

“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 label used 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 finalized 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 rumors.” She gathered her skirts in one hand as she prepared to quit the equipage, turning to add, “If they are nothing but rumors, 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 now 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? Every time Justin even looked as if he was going to broach the subject, she quickly deflected him.

Cressida shifted on her dressing table stool. She’d sent away the maid sometime earlier, and now she’d simply been staring. She didn’t know how long she’d been there, though her thoughts had been taking some convoluted twists and turns. First she remembered how bolstered she’d been by her husband’s praise earlier that evening.

She’d felt strong and convinced Catherine was wrong. Now, perhaps twenty minutes later, the insipid shepherdess had been replaced by a lackluster creature with red-rimmed eyes and sagging shoulders. Was she really just a willfully blind and brainless wife with her head in the sand, completely unaware of her husband’s desires? She shifted uncomfortably. Well, she knew about
those
,
and that was more than half the problem—or what he might be doing about them.

That was what this was about, after all, wasn’t it? A man had needs, and Cressida certainly hadn’t been doing what she’d happily done in the early years of their marriage to satisfy them.

But little Thomas was teething. He needed her. He was such a delicate child and their only son. The girls were far more robust and self-sufficient, but Thomas needed his mother. Cressida slept in his nursery every night. Justin would be surprised to find her here, perhaps. But she
must
speak to him. Her nerves were nearly at snapping point when she heard his faint footstep upon the stair. Her ears strained and her heart pounded as she registered his pause as he turned in the corridor, not toward his own chamber but toward hers.

Cressida squeezed shut her eyes. Justin was coming to her. She must play the good wife. He loved her—and dear God, she loved him—but she was panicked. What if he—

The door opened after a discreet knock, cutting off the thought.

“Cressy, love, Annabelle Luscombe told me you’d left the ball early. I hope you weren’t feeling unwell?”

How handsome he looked, his Roman robes still crisp and immaculate after a night of revelry, concern in his voice and tenderness in his expression as he crossed the room. His lean, muscular body cast shadows across the walls. Cressida remembered how, in the past, she’d focused her attention on his flickering shadow as she’d waited with such anticipation for him to come to her. How she’d welcomed him in those early days.

Now she looked down at her lap. She’d regained her figure quickly, even after her fifth child, and was proud of the fact. But misery banished any good feeling she might have felt about the fact she’d retained her youthfulness, or even that Justin might still genuinely desire her. No, there was nothing to be proud of now when that same body that should provide for the needs of a loving husband was tense and resistant. Not when her mind silently screamed its fear that somehow Justin would unleash the gates of her latent desire and she’d succumb to—

She turned her face away as Justin lowered his head to kiss her ear, resting his hands lightly on her shoulders.

Breathing in his special scent of sandalwood, which signified safety and wonderful familiarity, she fought to remain calm.

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 at his touch. 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 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, 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, 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 centered 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 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.

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 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 had come, 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.

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 up. 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 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.