Lady Lovett's Little Dilemma

by Beverley Oakley

  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. “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 rose and walked slowly towards 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 feed 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.”

  “Little Thomas no doubt has a devoted nursemaid. But, my dear, abstinence is not the only answer. If you still harbour such a tendre for your husband, surely he is sufficiently in tune with your feelings to have remarked upon your withdrawal from the usual intimacies?”

  They had ventured too far for Cressida to feel embarrassed. It was even a relief for her to relive her awful exchange with Justin nearly ten months before and again just after Lady Belton’s ball. “My husband did ask me…” she managed, twisting her hands in her lap, “after yet another of my excuses, whether I was afraid of conceiving a child.”

  There was a pause. “And your reply?”

  Miserably, Cressida admitted, “I adamantly denied it—”

  “Good Lord, child, why? Not every husband shows such a capacity for understanding.”

  Even now, Cressida couldn’t quite understand her reasons, though she recalled that at the time she’d been fuelled by fear and obedience. Four nights ago had been no different. “My mother-in-law told me it was my duty never to question my husband and to deny him nothing. Little Thomas is our only son, and being such a sickly child she reminded me that I must ensure more sons in the nursery.”

  “But not every year! How many children did you say you had?”

  “Five. A child for almost every year we’ve been married. Then, when our youngest was only a few months old, I started making excuses to my husband each time he—” Dabbing at the fresh tears that ran down her cheeks, Cressida rose and started towards the door. “I must go! I was a fool to come here. I have friends who have nurseries larger than mine and, no doubt, far more satisfied husbands, so of course mine is perfectly justified—”

  “Stop!” Arresting her retreat with a stern frown, her friend went on, “You say you love your husband.”

  “I adore him—”

  “Yet you cannot speak to him of your fears?”

  “What do wives know of such things?” Despairingly, Cressida continued, supporting herself on the back of the sofa, “My mother died when I was a child. Whom can I ask? No one told me what to expect on my wedding night much less—” Taking a deep, sustaining breath, she calmed herself. “Do you have children?” she asked the woman.

  Her new friend certainly inferred that she knew a lot more about minimising their likelihood than Cressida did. And she must be ‘experienced’, otherwise she’d not be here.

  She thought the woman had not heard. She appeared distracted as she fiddled with the tassels of the brocade curtain. “No,” she said finally.

  “But you’ve had lovers?” Cressida heard the desperate note in her voice, as if pleading for the two to be compatible. How pathetic she must seem. This was a fool’s errand. “I’m sorry. That was impolite of me.” Wearily, she clasped her reticule, and took a step towards the door.

  “Home, to your children?” A smile hovered about Miss Mariah’s mouth as she fixed Cressida with a level stare. “Or to find your husband and explain what is at the root of your troubles? If he is as considerate as it would appear, I think your frankness will not go unrewarded.”

  Cressida winced. “My youngest is teething—” she mumbled.

  “With a competent nursery maid, I’ll wager your husband needs you more. Listen to me. I know all about husbands, too. I was married for nine years and I can assure you that husbands and lovers are no different where a desirable woman is concerned.” With an incisive look she asked, “I am curious. If you had found your husband here, in the arms of his mistress, do you think your feelings for him would survive the trauma? Yes, I know straying husbands are a matter of course, but it is easier to ignore and forgive what is not presented to you on a platter.”

  Through gritted teeth Cressida maintained what she truly believed. “I will always love him, for if he’d strayed I’d know it was only because I’d driven him to it.”

  She’d reached the door and now turned, hurt and angered by the smile on Miss Mariah’s face. “You think it’s not true? I’ve had time to reflect and I’ve been reminded of my duty. Women like me have no choice but to be compliant wives if we want to trade in happiness. I am going home to wait for my husband and to do whatever is required so that he will never seek diversion elsewhere. I shall return to reclaim his heart.” Lowering the veil of her bonnet she put out her hand. “You have been patient, listening to my foolishness. You talk of sacrifices not being required but I am not—” She swallowed, “that kind of woman. Women like me must honour our marriage vows in return for comfort and security. We have an obligation to our husbands and I’m about to fulfil mine, though, truly, I thank you for your good advice.” Righteous indignation and purpose fuelled her decisive nod as she pushed away Miss Mariah’s restraining hand to turn the doorknob, but it was the woman’s soft, suggestive words that proved too intriguing to resist.

  “It is not your husband’s heart that needs repossessing but his desire. Of course you are upset, my dear, but think a moment on the reasons you came here…of your fears and what I can teach you.” She put her hand on Cressida’s shoulder, then gently touched her cheek.

  The gesture of sympathy was almost more than Cressida could bear but she had to leave before she succumbed to the fresh wave of self-pity that threatened to overcome her.

  “Don’t act with too much haste and undo all the good that’s come from your bravery tonight,” said her friend, rubbing Cressida’s shoulder, tucking an escaped tendril from behind her ear. I would be very happy if you would like to come back next Wednesday and I can tell you more about the many women ‘like you’ who do not have extensive nurseries but who are equally dutiful wives. I can show you how to satisfy your husband without necessarily conceiving a child.”

  Cressida stilled. She felt her mouth drop open. This was the second time the woman had alluded to such a possibility, the first she’d said it in such direct words.

  “Satisfy my husband without conceiving a child.” She repeated the words, more as an incantation than questioning the assertion.

  Her friend gripped Cressida’s fingertips and gave a comforting squeeze. “That’s what women do when they’re not raised in fear and ignorance.”

  Chapter Five

  She’d learned nothing, yet she’d learned too much to go home and meekly await Justin’s return. Excitement thrummed through Cressida’s veins as she stepped out of Miss Mariah’s sitting room and into the dimly lit corridor, lowering her head as two passers-by approached. A smirking young man was holding up a woman old enough to be his mother whose drunken laughter and unsteady gait sent them on a trajectory that required Cressida to press herself against the wall for fear of being bowled over.

  Lord, she thought, panic gripping her as she touched her thick veil for reassurance, ducking into an alcove to tidy her hair so it was completely concealed by the ugly bonnet. What would Justin say if he discovered her in such a place? His faith
in her constancy as a pliant, loving wife would be rocked to the core. Could he even look at her in the same way, knowing what she must have seen simply by coming here?

  Yet she’d gained so much. And soon she’d gain so much more. In a few days’ time she’d have all the knowledge she needed to remind Justin of the glorious days when they’d revelled in their newly wedded bliss.

  Entering through a doorway at the end of the corridor, she tried to concentrate on the hope she now embraced rather than the guilt and shame that would stifle her if she let it. She must put it out of her mind. Never hint to Justin what she’d seen—

  With sudden disorientation, she realised that what she’d believed to be the hallway was instead another private sitting room, cosily furnished with a fire crackling in the grate. In the far corner was a desk lit by an Argand lamp, at which sat a gentleman bent over a document he was reading. His frown indicated the deepest concentration, his left hand thrumming his knee, his right foot tapping as if he were agitated. Like everyone else here this evening he was dressed in masquerade, a demi-mask half covering his face that he must have forgotten to remove, considering no one else occupied the room. The pristine spill of his cravat was the only relief to his austere clothing, which was cut to perfection and which clung to him…

  In the most heart-stopping way.

  Heart-stopping because this was just how Justin had affected Cressida the very first time she had met him when he’d bent to kiss her hand as he’d asked her to stand up with him for the next country dance.

  The sight of the man slowly raising his head, warm brown eyes regarding her with unmistakable interest, sucked the air from her lungs, a reaction as piercing now as it was a whole eight years and so much history ago.

  “Oh!” she gasped as she raked her gaze over the familiar masculine form. His relaxed and pleasant smile lent him an air of calm and dignified authority. And safety.

  Then terror washed over Cressida, that all her wickedness was about to be revealed.

  What could she say that would adequately explain her presence? Dear Lord, she’d been caught. Either she was sneaking after him as if she didn’t trust him, or she was the kind of depraved being who sought out the sins of the flesh in a place like this. What kind of a wife would he think her? Mistrustful? Deceitful? Depraved?

  She closed her eyes and forced herself to be calm. She could barely see clearly through the thickness of her veil.

  Of course he would have no idea who she was.

  “Madam?” He raised his eyebrows in polite enquiry and her resolve shattered. Her husband was smiling at her and every particle of her being answered in a breathless chorus—anything to be in his arms. He was the breath of her life, the sun to her moon, the axis on which her existence revolved. He was the reason she was here, so that she might rediscover the secret of the happiness they once had shared.

  “Sir.” On sudden impulse, she swallowed down her fear, forcing a smile as calm and self-controlled as his as she closed the door behind her. Here was her beloved husband, whose heart she believed she still possessed but whose desire she was desperate to rekindle…if what her new friend had told her was true—that passion and pregnancy need not always go hand in hand.

  Justin was busy working at something. She knew that his look of polite interest masked the fact that his mind was completely on his task.

  He was here…alone. There was a document in his hands. Not a woman.

  And he had no idea who his new visitor was. Cressida could say anything, do anything…

  The sense of being an actress in a play took hold. Boldly she went over to him, standing in his light just a couple of feet away.

  Now his smile was distant and there was a slight wariness in his tone as he murmured, “I think you have lost your way, madam, for the front door is down the corridor to your right. Shall I show you the way?”

  She did not move, did not falter as she gazed up at him through her heavy veil. Justin was here at Mrs Plumb’s, exactly where she’d dreaded she’d find him, but his concentration on a particular document suggested his interest in the place was not the women.

  Of course it was not, and how like Justin. Justin was just as likely to be concerned over the use of child labour as the rescue of fallen women, but had not wanted to hint to his protected wife that his work involved him with such depraved creatures.

  All Cressida’s doubts about Justin’s constancy dissipated to be replaced by the unadulterated joy at the prospect of being taken in his arms once again.

  Yet as she stepped forward she felt again the slightest stirring of doubt. Catherine always told her she was much too credulous for her own good.

  “Mrs Plumb told me I’d find the gentleman I was looking for in this room.” She made her voice softer, breathier. Holding the back of the sofa she turned, swaying slightly towards him, striving for a tone and gesture both appealing and vulnerable. Justin’s chivalrous impulses were easily stirred. She wanted to see the effect she had on him when she was not his wife but a stranger. An appealing, interested stranger.

  She raised a trembling hand to her mouth. “I am a widow, sir. I lost my beloved husband a year ago. Mrs Plumb directed me here. She said you were a kind man who’d listen…if I wanted to talk.”

  Despite the dimness of the room she saw indecisiveness cross his face. Justin was a kind man but how far would he allow himself to be swayed by a lonely widow? How much did she want him to be?

  She caught herself up. This was madness. She had no desire to be confronted by her husband’s weaknesses—if he had any—yet here they were, in a cosy, intimate setting, where each could pretend to be someone else.

  It was too much to resist.

  Lowering herself onto the sofa, she tilted her head in invitation. “Just five minutes of your time, sir. Perhaps you knew my husband?”

  Justin was on the point of refusing, of kindly but firmly leading the woman out of the sitting room, when his senses switched to high alert. There was something familiar about the line of her throat when she tilted her head, glimpsed for a second through her thick veil. Also, the voice—the soft, breathy tone could almost be…

  When she stepped from the shadows and into the light he thought he was hallucinating.

  Why, Cressida would no more frequent a place like this than have a public affair with the footman.

  Yet the doubt refused to be dislodged.

  Frowning, Justin cautiously seated himself beside her as he was bid.

  It was impossible to make out her features but the slender line of her body beneath the black silk gown and the swell of her breasts, even more desirable after five children, were devastatingly familiar. He shook his head to clear it. He was being ridiculous. It was wishful thinking or his worst nightmare.

  The sofa was small and he sat awkwardly, his thigh touching hers. If this was, in fact, Cressida, he acknowledged wryly, then this tableau promised greater intimacy between them than they’d shared in many months.

  Doubt dissipated when she moved slightly and a faint waft of lavender mixed with his wife’s familiar scent confirmed what his sixth sense had been screaming since she’d spoken.

  This was no bereaved widow wanting to lament her late husband.

  He stared, hiding his horrified confusion behind a concerned, interested smile, as she created a fiction about her loss in that maddeningly sensual, familiar, breathy voice. Could his innocent, protected little Cressida really be in Mrs Plumb’s house of ill repute, making up to a strange gentleman?

  He recalled her obvious reluctance the last time he’d made love to her, two months after Thomas had been born. Every time he’d ventured close during the past ten months she had recoiled.

  Did he disgust her so much? Could that be why she was seeking alternative avenues of pleasure?

  Then he realised it was all part of the charade. She knew exactly who he was, just as she knew he realised her identity.

  Cressida, who had allowed him to lie with her only once since Thomas’ birt
h, was now here, using Mrs Plumb’s as the setting for signalling his re-admittance to the marriage bed. God knew how she’d located him, but she had, though it seemed too incredible to believe, it was so out of character.

  It was also unbelievably exciting. The dull ache in his loins became almost painful as he forced down his desire.

  “You miss your husband, madam?” He hoped he sounded more sympathetic than hoarse with anticipation. Cressida had used this charade to initiate their physical reunion and he was fully determined to play along.

  He took her gloved hand. It trembled in his.

  “I miss his love and his comfort,” she whispered.

  “So that’s why you came here? To Mrs Plumb’s?” He could feel her body trembling a hair’s breadth from his and longed to offer her the love and comfort she sought with no further preliminaries.

  But this was Cressida’s charade. She wanted to set the pace. Good God, Cressida could set whatever pace she wanted if it meant a resumption of the bedroom delights he missed so much. Restraint did not come easily but he satisfied himself by gently stroking her neck, tangling his fingers in the silky flaxen curls at the nape. She had always liked that.

  It was a successful strategy. He heard her faint intake of breath before she moved slightly against him, whispering, “I am not in the habit of frequenting such a place except that my cousin told me sometimes both ladies and gentlemen come here for…for reasons other than the music.” Her voice faltered. “Do you come here for reasons other than the music, sir?”

  He weighed up his answer, her hand captive in his. Without going into greater detail than he was prepared to at this time, he could not tell her about Mariah and the specific undertaking with which he had concerned himself on her behalf for the past three weeks. Cressida must have innocently followed him here in disguise. She certainly could not understand what went on at Mrs Plumb’s else she’d not have made it through the front doors.