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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?
