Cressida's Dilemma (4 page)

Self-disgust surged up her gullet as she grasped the doorknob. So much for acting on her desperation to reclaim what they’d once had. 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 Three

A night of revelry hadn’t been the antidote for which Justin had hoped, and even as he knocked upon the heavy oak door, he questioned his motivation. Business or the need to unburden himself? He had a good excuse for both.

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 disguised in some way.

On this occasion, Justin, now wearing evening clothes, had not resorted to more than a simple masque, though he was regretting that now as he stepped aside to allow a large woman wearing an elaborate, ostrich-plumed face mask that hid most of her features to pass. 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. He had to admit that now as a howl of raucous laughter from somewhere above him was followed by a moan of apparent ecstasy from a room nearby. 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 wife to go home to. A wife who, if anything, was more exquisite than the day he met her. Even after five children and eight years of marriage, he still desired Cressida more than he had desired any woman. Ever.

An unbidden flash of memory made him squirm. It was an uncensored image of Cressida’s pale limbs, fully exposed in the dawn light. He’d woken beside her after a night of passion, conducted as was usual, in the dark. 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. 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’d never seen by daylight or even 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.

He’d never seen her body so completely revealed since then. But
when
had that been, he wondered? That’s right, 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 an indiscretion.

So when the young servant girl simpered at him with a far too knowing look as she asked him if there was anything else he required for his comfort, Justin was conscious of the smell of cheap perfume that wafted through from the other rooms of the house and more than a twinge of guilt at being here. Cressida’s sensibilities would be highly offended by even the existence of such a location. If she ever learned he was here, she was quite likely to jump to the worst conclusion.

The young girl disappeared into the shadows after he’d told her he needed nothing else, and Justin removed his masquerade mask as the door opened.

“It was good of you to come again, Justin. And at so late an hour.” His old friend’s smile was tired, 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 after so long an absence, she seemed to have faded.

“Mariah.” He rose and 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, and the knowledge that you had discovered something was too much for me to wait until the morning. We both know it is never too late to pay a call to Mrs. Plumb’s establishment, but I was afraid that family considerations might prevent you from coming so soon.” There was a trace of bitterness in her wry smile as she offered him a seat beside her on the chaise longue with a languid wave of her graceful arm.

He sat, reflecting that she was still striking for that regal grace of hers, which transcended the signs of aging. Only a few strands of gray peppered her almost blue-black hair, and her body was as ripe as he remembered it. But her heart had been broken, and the melancholy that had leeched her vibrancy tugged at his heartstrings.

“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 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.

Whatever happened, he’d always be devoted to Cressida. He’d come here, tempted to expand on what he’d only hinted at to Mariah. He needed the advice of a sensible woman, and there were few of those in his life, he reflected, thinking of his mother, who now lived with them, and of Cressida’s frightful cousin, Catherine. Perhaps Mariah, as a kind woman with considerable experience of life, could offer some insight into the reasons for Cressida’s withdrawal the past ten months.

First, though, it was understandable that Mariah would want to know his progress concerning the unexpected request she’d made several weeks ago. There was much to admire in this woman who had suffered with such dignity.

Almost businesslike, she said, “You have discovered something, Justin, and I have not the patience to wait for you to tell me in your own words and time.”

Justin nodded slowly. “You have waited a long time, Mariah. I understand that.” He weighed up the kindest way to couch his response. The truth was, he had discovered nothing that could either give her hope or a reason to accept that she must suspend her desire for answers for the sake of everyone’s happiness. Directness was always the best way forward, he decided, before realizing he and Cressida had been anything but direct with one another lately. “There are several avenues, Mariah.”

“
Several
?” She took a breath, drawing herself up and fixing him with an incisive look.

One dainty, black slipper peeped from beneath the flounce of her once fashionable cerulean gown. Mariah had always dressed elegantly, but in the dim light, Justin could see the signs of wear, the discreet darning.

“Yet nothing concrete?”

He shook his head. “Mariah, if you need money—”

She raised her hand, cutting him off. “I sing for my supper every Wednesday, Justin. Mrs. Plumb has been a good friend.” She indicated the small drawing room in which they sat. “She gives me my privacy when I need it and ensures I do not lack entertainment.”

Justin gave a wry laugh as he removed his face mask. “I wish it weren’t necessary to disguise myself, Mariah. I feel like a thief in the night and don’t know how I’d begin to explain these visits to my wife.”

“Your wife should strive a little harder to value the prize jewel she married. You’ve not told her about what you’re doing, Justin? You promised me.”

His urge to confide in Mariah about his marital problems was checked by her mild criticism of Cressida, and he regretted unburdening himself when he’d hinted that his wife was no longer as eager for the joys of the marital bed as she once had been. But it had been so good to see Mariah again after so many years and natural to revive the friendship with its old familiarity.

“Cressida is an angel. I’d trust her with my life, but since you are concerned that she mixes with some of the parties concerned in my investigation, I assure you that my lips are sealed.”

“Cressida is a lucky woman.”

He glanced at Mariah’s face, serene and faintly sympathetic in the light cast by the Argand light on the low table nearby. He did not think jealousy was behind the faint contempt he sensed. Mariah and he had shared similar interests and an affectionate rather than passionate physical relationship all those years ago. He’d been generous when he’d given Mariah her
congé,
though her illustrious marriage to Lord Grainger ought to have ensured her comfort for the rest of the days. It was, in fact, when Mariah looked set to be left all but destitute by the aging peer who was in the process of divorcing her that she and Justin had met. Mariah had already risen to great heights of her own accord when she’d won Grainger’s heart. The once-famous opera singer had gone on to win Justin’s after she’d sought legal advice while struggling to maintain her dignity—and enough support to keep body and soul together—in the face of Grainger’s appalling treatment of her during the final months of their marriage. Mariah had given the youthful Justin her loyalty and her gratitude for his friendship. Much later, she’d given him her body, but never a hint as to the reasons for her humiliating divorce. Not all of them, anyway.

“It seems Cressida would rather put you through the mill than offer a reasonable argument for her cruelty.”

Mariah looked so disdainful that Justin laughed. “You always were my champion, my dear Mariah,” he said, “but since you have never met my wife, I beg you to refrain from passing judgment. I must be blamed for this erroneous perception of her, for, I assure you, a man could have no better a wife.” Smiling, refusing to countenance the churning in his breast, he added, “Cressida is the most conscientious of mothers. It is a trial and a sadness that our youngest is not robust, but I will not hear Cressida criticized for choosing her son’s comfort over mine on occasion.”