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And yet, a good wife turned a blind eye. She’d been taught that, too.
Her nerves were nearly at snapping point when she heard his faint footstep upon the stair even though she told herself he’d continue to his own bedchamber.
Yet how she longed to feel his arms around her.
A hardness born of fear solidified and grew within her. She knew only too well where that led.
His footsteps continued along the corridor and her heart pounded suddenly loud and insistent in her ears as she registered his pause outside her door.
Cressida squeezed shut her eyes. Justin was coming to her. She must play the good wife. She must! 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.
“Why, Cressy, darling, what are you doing here? And all in the dark?” Justin set his candlestick upon the dressing table. “I thought you’d be with the children. 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 fourth 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—
“I’m quite well, thank you.” 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, despite her earlier scepticism, 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, if that were the case, 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.
Instead, she sought for something...anything...to say, and burst out, “Poor Miss Hardwicke. Imagine being forced to marry someone so...old when she’s in love with someone else.”
Justin looked confused, as well he might since he’d just rested his cheek tenderly against his wife’s. Straightening, he raised his eyebrows and, lounging against the end of Cressida’s bed, asked, “Who is Miss Hardwicke?”
“Annabelle Luscombe’s niece. Or rather, her sister-in-law’s daughter.” Cressida fiddled nervously with her silver-backed brush. “Annabelle is arranging the marriage preparations because her sister-in-law is too ill to do so.”
“And, I’m afraid, that is exactly why Miss Hardwicke is marrying Lord Slitherton. Yes, of course I know now who you’re referring to.” He sighed. “Poor young woman will be left without a feather to fly with once her mother is gone—which is imminent, I hear, though her uncle will do what he can. He’s a decent fellow. Nevertheless, it’s natural Mrs Hardwicke wants to see her only child settled.”
; “But Miss Hardwicke is in love with Mr Pendleton!” Cressida burst out.
“Really?” Justin looked rather taken aback.
“Remember how I remarked upon how in love they looked, at a ball some months ago? You said Mr. Pendleton was marked out for great things—that is, once he’s a little older and less circumspect about putting himself forward. You said he was very clever.”
Justin sighed. “Sadly, Mr Pendleton’s heart—and Miss Hard- wicke’s—is of no account when the gentleman has no money. Lord Slitherton has more than ten thousand a year.”
“And so Miss Hardwicke is to spend the rest of her life in domestic slavery?”
“Domestic slavery,” Justin murmured, and Cressida glanced up to see the flash of interest in his eyes.
“Oh, please don’t think that’s a term I’ve ever used in relation to my own situation,” Cressida hastened to assure him, causing Justin to laugh merrily as he put his arms about her and rested his chin upon the top of her head.
The scene was one of the utmost domestic harmony, Justin’s expression warm, his mood light. But that was how it always started.
Domestic felicity soon turned to tender loving which turned to...unbridled passion beneath the sheets.
Cressida’s first instinct had been to raise her hand to ruffle Justin’s curls, to stroke his cheek.
But memory curdled into fear and...
Cressida did what she’d done for nearly a year, since Thomas’ difficult birth.
