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What had she done? What would Justin think if he knew she’d witnessed such a tableau and...that she’d been excited by it? He’d never look at her the same way. Never touch her...
Enough presence of mind remained for Cressida to understand the irony of such a fear. The way she was conducting herself in this marriage, Justin never was going to touch her.
She had to take matters into her own hands. But how?
“I think, my dear, you did not understand what it meant for you to come to such a place.”
Cressida opened her eyes and found she was staring directly at a pair of once-elegant dancing slippers beneath a cerulean skirt.
Taking in the faded elegance of the woman’s dress, the gray in her jet-black hair and the sympathy of her expression, she questioned her original assumption of this woman’s calling. After all, Cressida was here, in this house, and she wasn’t a...
A what? Her heart seemed to thud to her feet and she looked down.
After what she’d participated in, she didn’t know what she was.
“Who are you—?” she began before halting at the rudeness of such blunt questioning.
“A friend of Mrs. Plumb’s—you may call me Miss Mariah—and this is my drawing room, where you are welcome to remain for as long as you need to.” Miss Mariah rose and came toward her, placing a gentle hand upon Cressida’s shoulder. The sensation that swept over her was completely different to her reaction to Mrs. Plumb. Everything about this woman was motherly. Unthreatening.
“Now, perhaps a little medicinal brandy?” Miss Mariah suggested, moving to a small table by a bookshelf. “You’re shaking like a leaf, and it’ll be an aid to unburdening yourself of your troubles, if nothing else. You would not be in this house with such a look in your eyes if you were free of fear or troubles.”
“Thank you,” Cressida managed through chattering teeth as she accepted a glass. Miss Mariah was right. She was out of her depth, amongst a sophisticated, worldly, depraved crowd—with whom she had nothing in common. In this cheaply decorated house of ill repute, witty conversation and good music were enjoyed and physical attractions acted upon through discreet assignations.
Oh, dear Lord. A fresh tremor of guilt wracked her as she was revisited by the sensations that had gripped her when she’d watched the four lovely women. Envy. Envy that they could enjoy gentle loving without fear of the repercussions. But worse was her reaction when she’d watched Ariane pleasure the man on the bed.
She’d been speared with excitement and, yes, lust as she’d gazed upon the scene and registered the pleasure with which he received Ariane’s ministrations.
Was it possible such things happened in the intimacy of the marital bedroom, too? Justin had never indicated in all their private moments together that there was anything missing in their relations. That there might be more and different acts of pleasure beyond the enjoyable, predictable buildup of sensation she felt prior to his plunging into her.
Planting his seed and leaving her with the consequences. She gasped. Where had such a wicked, disloyal thought come from?
Her companion touched her cheek and, dazed, Cressida looked up into her compassionate eyes.
“Guilt will not help.” Miss Mariah’s look was knowing. “When a woman like you comes to this house, she usually has a good reason.”
Cressida thought of all the other people who’d come to this house. People driven here by their lustful, depraved impulses to find release in sinful pleasures of the flesh. Driven here through... With devastating clarity, truth limned the conclusion of her observation. Driven here through desperation, when the domestic arena failed to satisfy.
She gasped.
Was it any surprise Justin had felt the need to stray? What pleasures did his wife offer him since she had denied him her body? She’d even stopped being affectionate except in the company of the children, too afraid her overtures may lead to the bedroom.
She was dimly conscious of the clink of glass before a second measure of brandy was placed into her hands. And then the question, a gentle enquiry that unleashed a torrent of emotion: “Would you like to tell me who you are looking for?”
How quickly the tears flowed. Wiping her face with the back of her hand, Cressida cursed her frail nerves. The past few months seemed to see her lurch from one emotional episode to another.
“My husband,” she whispered through her fingers as she hunched over, covering her face. “I heard he attends Mrs. Plumb’s salons and that he’s”—she sucked in a shaky breath—“taken a mistress.” What did it matter that her dreadful fears were revealed to this stranger? A kind stranger with a motherly touch. Cressida was too distraught for caution. “At first, I didn’t believe it. No.” She drew herself up straight and fixed a defiant stare upon Miss Mariah. “I don’t believe it. Not my husband, who’s shown me nothing but kindness, respect and affection since we met. And yet—”
The specter of what the unknown man in the room beyond had come for, and why—taking his pleasures like an arrogant young god—continued to haunt her. Was that what the men who came here indulged in? Did it really give them pleasure? Cressida had never touched her husband intimately with more than a fleeting, half-accidental caress. She’d allowed him to take control, and although their lovemaking had been wonderful, she’d never in a million years dreamed of taking the initiative in such wanton exploration.
The very idea made her squirm with embarrassment at the same time as her body burned with a slow, intense heat.
She shifted position, unable to look Miss Mariah in the eye.
“You must love your husband very much to come to a place like this if you are the innocent you appear to be,”
remarked her new friend. “I think you are very brave.”
“Or very stupid,” sniffed Cressida looking at her and feeling the truth of her words lie heavily upon her shoulders. “If I’d been a better wife, he’d never have strayed, would he?”
