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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 3
The revelry into which he’d thrown himself at White’s after he’d left Cressida the previous night hadn’t been the antidote for which Justin had hoped.
He’d slept late, which was unusual for him. When he’d appeared in the breakfast parlor and been told his wife had gone out, Justin was ashamed of the relief that had washed over him as he’d dished up his eggs and haddock from the sideboard.
The truth was, he didn’t know how to look her in the eye after their awkward pre-dawn parting.
Now, a wearying day had passed during which Justin had attended to certain pressing matters on behalf of a friend. Fortunately the surprising request had managed to divert him for most of the day during which he’d been too busy to dwell on his lack of courage when it came to discussing, in clear and direct terms, the nature of the impasse that clearly had developed between him and his wife.
Five o’ clock came and went. Cressida was still out shopping. Or she was visiting Catherine who’d entertained her to luncheon or some such thing. Justin couldn’t quite recall the reason she wasn’t
at home when it came time for him to leave and discharge a potentially awkward duty he couldn’t begin to explain to Cressida.
He was just glad he wasn’t going to be called upon to answer any questions she might have as to where he intended to spend most of the coming evening.
Dressing carefully, he left the house on foot, then signalled for a hackney to take him the rest of the way.
It was a grey, dull evening with more than a hint of chill in the air which matched Justin’s mood. Increasingly, he found it hard to summon up the lightness of spirit that had characterised the early years of his marriage.
And yet, marriage to Cressida had given him more happiness than he could quantify. Even if her ardor had waned, he still wanted her.
It was the thought that her affections might have strayed that bothered him more than anything else.
“Stop!” He rapped on the roof with his cane, jumped out into the cobbled street, then paid the jarvey before treading with dull resignation up to the railing, hesitating at the base of the three stone steps that led to the front door.
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 usually disguised in some manner.
On this occasion, Justin had not resorted to more than a simple masque, though he was regretting that as he stepped aside to allow a large woman wearing an elaborate, ostrich-plumed face mask that hid most of her features to pass him on the steps. 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—although there were those who claimed to come only for the music and to cure their loneliness through conversation. Madame Plumb’s previous premises near the Haymarket had been a much wilder place but as she’d got older she’d catered to a more sober clientele.
It was, he supposed, why Madame Zirelli was able to make a home here.
A howl of raucous laughter erupted from somewhere above him and was followed by a moan of apparent ecstasy from a room nearby. Justin felt increasingly uncomfortable. The contrast with his own domestic haven could not have been more stark. 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, loving wife waiting for him. A wife who, if anything, was more exquisite than the day he met her. Even after four children and eight years of marriage, he still desired Cressida more than he had desired any woman. Ever.
Fidgeting while he waited, he glanced up at a painting on the wall depicting a couple in a the throes of unbridled passion. The woman was pale and beautifully rounded with pert breasts, long golden tresses, wearing nothing more than an expression of the greatest rapture as she writhed in the arms of a handsome adonis.
An uncensored image of Cressida’s pale limbs, fully exposed in the dawn light flashed through his mind, making him squirm. A long time had passed since he’d woken beside her after a night of passion, conducted as was usual, in the dark. He remembered one occasion, 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 for he’d rarely seen her fully exposed.
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 now reflected sadly, he’d never seen by daylight and, rarely, by 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. But she had been an enthusiastic participant. Her murmurs and responses had indicated that, hadn’t they?
Fearfully, he tried to remember the last encounter where she’d exhibited signs of pleasure.
