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“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.” The woman rose and came toward her, placing a gentle hand upon Cressida’s shoulder. The sensation that swept over Cressida 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 shook 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 on a sob.
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.
Cressida was dimly conscious of the clink of glass before a second measure of brandy was placed into her hands. “Would you like to tell me about it?” the woman asked. “Are you looking for someone?”
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. “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—returned 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 idea made her squirm with embarrassment at the same time as she felt her body burn with a slow, intense heat, accompanied by another gush of wicked moistness in that mysterious part of her body that no one talked about.
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. “If I’d been a better wife, he’d never have strayed, would he?”
“How like a woman to blame oneself. If your husband has strayed, who has committed the sin?”
Cressida stilled. She’d never thought of it in those terms. Then guilt, a far more loyal companion than she was a wife, washed over her, and she blurted out the truth of their failing marriage—her terror of pregnancy.
And as she spoke, she felt the tenseness drain from her for it was catharsis to voice the sense of obligation and the continual fear which drained the joy from her marriage and which she could not even hint at to Justin because it branded her such a failure.
“Mama died giving birth to my brother, her sixth child. I’ve had five children in less than eight years…” She’d started so well, but now she could barely get the words out as she hunched over, speaking between sobs. “Each year, I have another child, and each time, it’s been harder. I cannot bear it anymore. I need a rest, yet until this moment, I couldn’t even put my fear into words. No wonder he’s hurt and confused and”—she gulped—“needing diversion.” For as she said the words, she a
llowed in just a little more doubt. Justin was the kindest of men and she knew he loved her, but men needed physical release in a way women did not. Would it be so very surprising if he had come to Mrs. Plumb’s seeking what he could not get at home? Had Cressida any right to despise him if he did? After all, she was hardly honoring her side of the bargain. As part of their marriage contract, she was obliged to fulfill her conjugal duties, yet not once had Justin persisted in an act that clearly was distasteful to her these days.
She glanced at Miss Mariah, disappointed, though not surprised, to see the shock on her face.
So this woman thought Cressida gravely remiss, too. Quickly, she rose, wrinkling her nose at the smell of cheap perfume and staring at the faded, drawn curtains, wondering if the moon was out and how fast she could be back in the safety of her own home. “I’m wicked, I know! You have every right to look at me like I’ve failed my duty. I know what I must do now. I have to win him back. I have to be the wife he wants and needs.” She only realized how hard she’d been shaking when the woman put her hands on her shoulders to push her back down into her seat. Cressida welcomed the comfort in the gesture, the soothing smile. Closing her eyes, she whispered through clenched teeth, “Even if it kills me.”
Her companion’s words had the comfort of a caress as she deflected blame away from Cressida, letting in hope like the sun into her dark, dull mind. “My poor child. Surely you don’t think I condemn you for such an understandable fear. If you only knew how easy it was to be helped, and yet women like you are kept in ignorance. Truly, you may hold your husband in thrall, or submit, or whatever it is that makes you feel you’re doing your duty, but please understand there is no reason for you to make sacrifices.”
In all her life, Cressida had never discussed the intimacies of marriage. To do so now felt like a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders. She raised hopeful eyes. This woman didn’t think Cressida a disloyal wife? No reason to make sacrifices?
Her companion cleared her throat, as if understanding the delicacy her approach required for one of Cressida’s innocence and ignorance. She smoothed her cerulean skirts as she began to pace, biting her lip as if she were contemplating a great conundrum. “Lord knows, it’s important enough, but preventing conception is not a subject considered appropriate talk between husbands and wives of your station. It would be safe to assume you have not asked your husband to take precautions?”
Cressida gasped. “Precautions?” For a moment, she grappled with the meaning, much less the concept. “How could I—?”
Smiling, her friend turned and walked slowly toward the window. “Of course not,” she said, turning as she grasped the sill. “It is a conversation a man has with his mistress, not his wife. I daresay you do not even know wet nursing your child will lessen the likelihood of conception.”
Cressida frowned and shook her head. “When I wanted to suckle my children myself,” she said, “my mother-in-law told me it was not the role of a woman in my position. She found me a wet nurse, a healthy, kind woman, who has nursed all except little Thomas, my only son, a sickly child who needs all my care.” Her voice broke. “I should be with him now.”
