She put down her empty glass and laced her fingers, directing a level glance at Miss Mariah. “After I left you last week I chanced upon my husband unexpectedly in this house,” she said, quietly. “Yes, I was shocked but we were both in masquerade,” she said, then began to explain what had transpired.
“Good Lord, my dear girl, how have you managed this past week if your husband was so full of expectation upon meeting you last Wednesday?”
Cressida felt her mouth tremble. “I went to my great-aunt’s. I couldn’t face him. I didn’t know what to do.” She raised hopeful eyes towards Miss Mariah.
“Oh, my dear, what a terrible time you’ve had of it. If I’d known I’d have got down to business straight away. As it is, we’ve not a moment to lose. So, you ask me if it’s so easy to have marital relations without begetting a child nearly every time?”
Cressida leant even further forward. The urge to learn filled her with hope. She wanted to know everything Justin knew. Those women who’d borne her along with them in that haze-filled room obviously indulged in sensual pleasures with scant regard for the cares that beset Cressida. Knowledge was power. Cressida could use it to conduct her life and use her body as she wished. She didn’t have to be like those women but she could feel in control of her life in a way she certainly didn’t now.
Fascinated, Cressida watched Miss Mariah reach into a crimson velvet drawstring bag. Upon the inlaid table in front of them she laid out a small sponge and a brown bottle labelled vinegar. Beside it she placed a strange oblong object made of, if Cressida didn’t know better, some animal membrane.
“Men have been using French letters for centuries, but we women have our little secrets, too. Now, my dear”—she patted Cressida’s hand, “I am going to give you the kind of advice and information I’d have given my own daughter—” her voice hitched, “had I been able.”
Cressida didn’t miss the lapse of composure. She sympathised. A woman’s chief purpose was to beget and rear her children. Wasn’t she blessed to have had five, and all so robust, for at last Thomas appeared to be growing out of his childish maladies. He’d run about Great-Aunt Jane’s country garden like a little colt. But this woman had had to forgo the joy of a family in order to support herself through the pleasures of the flesh. Or the need to make money in perhaps the only way she was able.
Cressida felt the excitement building. If what Miss Mariah was telling her was true, Cressida could enjoy both.
Tending to Great-Aunt Jane had been a trial. While Cressida had nursed her fractious relative, she’d also nursed her own confusion, her lacklustre spirits bolstered by the daily, loving letters her husband had sent her. Wonderful Justin deserved far better than simple, fearful Cressida. However, as Cressida had wrinkled her nose at the foul-smelling ointment she’d used to rub her ungrateful great-aunt’s arthritic legs, she’d also found herself blushing as she’d channelled her mental energies into concocting a thrilling scenario that would set Justin on fire. Thanks to the now dream-like experience of Mrs Plumb’s back chamber and Miss Mariah’s instruction on lovemaking without consequences, Cressida’s marriage, she now felt with increasing conviction, was about to take off in a whole new thrilling direction.
* * * *
Justin couldn’t remember when he’d been at such pains to ensure his turnout was immaculate. Finally, Wednesday evening had come around again, signalling a week since the dreadful confusion with Cressida in Mrs Plumb’s sitting room and here he was, back in his friend’s modestly furnished abode, making another attempt at getting his necktie just right.
After Cressida’s abrupt departure last week for Bath he’d been at a loss. A complete and utter loss. For the first four days their communication had consisted of one brittle letter informing him of her health—a poor response to the reams of loving good wishes he’d poured on to the page. Then, extraordinarily, yesterday, after a long description of the children’s activities, she’d written that she’d missed him and that she looked forward to meeting him…
He took another breath to calm himself as he reflected on those uncharacteristic words so full of promise.
“…perhaps in unexpected circumstances tomorrow evening when all shall be revealed.”
All shall be revealed? Images of her literal disrobing competed with a frank explanation of her torments. Justin was fully prepared to offer a very loving reception in both instances.
Then, out of the blue this afternoon, Mariah had mentioned seeing again the ‘poor woman with so many children’, obliquely alluding to the ‘instruction’ she’d offered and that she hoped would benefit her.
Was Cressida really returning this evening, armed with new knowledge, to finish what they’d started the week before? On the one hand he felt deeply remiss and neglectful that she’d had to resort to a stranger like Mariah for instruction—on exactly what, he could only imagine. But he had to let that go. What husband could speak to his gently reared wife in such terms unless she broached the subject with him?
Hope that Cressida was coming tonight had turned to conviction, mutating into the most extraordinary maelstrom of emotions he’d ever experienced, as he’d envisaged the variety of scenarios that might ensue once they were together again.
Still, he could not push aside the responsibility and guilt he felt at Cressida’s apparent torment, and his attempts at communicating this on paper littered his study.
He’d not revealed to Mariah that Cressida was in fact the woman who had bared her heart to her. Mariah’s earlier criticism of his wife had stung. It might even be possible—though he doubted it—that Mariah was jealous of the wife who’d usurped her place in Justin’s heart eight years ago.
In the intervening week, Justin had tried to focus his attention on Mariah’s business and, to that end, at least, he’d been largely successful. Confirmation had been received discounting the second girl who might have been Mariah’s daughter. Now, his report was finished and his work for Mariah concluded.
With a grunt of irritation, he gave up any further attempts at fashioning the snowy linen at his throat into something of which a Corinthian would be proud and was pouring himself a fortifying brandy when there was a tap at the door.
Mariah had promised him privacy in her small sitting room for the evening while he finished his report, saying she’d join him at about midnight after she finished performing in the salon.
It was entirely probable, then, that the timid rapping was his wife, and yet his response put him in the league of some inexperienced greenhorn. His hand shook as he replaced the stopper of the cut-glass decanter.
Relief that she’d come surged through him while excitement roared through his veins. Could it really be her? He’d half expected she’d lose her nerve, but the fact that she’d continued to take matters so boldly into her own hands was extraordinarily exciting.
Commanding himself, he assumed the safest position—that of languid host, kindly disposed to receive his invited guest. Such a relaxed attitude when the maid showed Cressida in would help calm her no doubt disordered nerves. And his. She might be his wife of eight years but the tenuous resumption of physical relations was too serious a matter for him to risk frightening her at this early stage.
As the door opened, he adjusted his mask, balled his fists and forced a smile, his breath leaving him in a rush. He felt his temperature rise and swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry.
The widow had returned.
But this was not the bereaved, frightened and needy creature who’d approached him in this room the week before.
Nor the graceful, demure goddess of his household and his wife of eight years.
No, this was a strange, alluring vixen-like creature with eyes that sparkled at him like gems through the slits of her demi-mask and deep pink lips that curved with lustful intent.
Cressida looked utterly magnificent in a stunning figure-hugging sheath of midnight shot silk encrusted with black beads, which twinkled when they caught the light. Her corn gold hair was thr
eaded through with a thin rope of pearls, tendrils framing the lovely, oval-shaped face he knew so well but that was now obscured by her ornate opera mask.
Even through her disguise he could see she was looking at him like he could imagine her looking at no man, not even her husband—indeed, with such lascivious intent that he felt his cock jump to attention in such a desperate call for immediate satisfaction that he had to drag the air into his lungs to stave off the reeling in his head.
Dear God, he’d never beheld such a captivating creature and the fact that she was his wife and that clearly she wanted him brought him so much pleasure it took all his willpower not to close the few feet between them and ravish her on the spot.
Cressida’s frank examination made it clear there was no need to extend the polite preliminaries. A small toss of her head and a knowing look was all it took to have him cross the floor in two great strides to greet her, turning the lock in the door behind her before crushing her in his arms. She wilted like a hothouse flower, pliant and clinging, and the light fragrance of lavender water that seemed then to epitomise her essence of goodness nearly undid him on the spot. If she did not want more children he knew how to ensure the loving frolics he was so looking forward to could become a daily ritual without ever adding to their family.
The blend of ruse and ritual was a heady combination. How many times had he held Cressida in his arms as adoring husband, passionate lover and comforting helpmate? Never, however, had he done so while pretending both were strangers. It offered licence to behave with playful artifice, and as he grazed her jawline with kisses, murmuring, “The lonely widow need not remain lonely,” he was sure he sensed her tacit acceptance that gone were the rules that had hitherto governed their relations.
God, he was mad to have let her drift away like he had, he reflected as he cupped her shapely bottom, pulling her tightly against him so she could be in no doubt as to his arousal. He would let her know what he wanted now, instead of risk confusion and flight once matters had proceeded.
Her warm, sweet breath tickled his ear as she clung to him. “I hoped you’d be waiting for me,” she whispered, offering him greater access to her bosom so he could slip his hand inside her bodice and gently squeeze one taut—and, he hoped, aching—nipple.
In the dim light the fire crackled and the heat level rose.
“Waiting for you, my love?” He rasped in a breath. “I’ve been waiting for nothing else.” His hands contoured her shapely body. Since Thomas’ birth she’d grown slender again. Yet it was not only her body that sent him wild. It was everything. He had to make sure she knew. “I’ve been insane with desire…driven mad the whole week at the mere thought of this.”
Her shuddering sigh suggested she ached with the same need that consumed him. He wondered how any woman could combine such sweet innocence with such a provocative manner. He felt doubly blessed. He was a man who could enjoy two wives.
“My beautiful widow has the most magnificent breasts,” he murmured, nibbling her lower lip, loving the way she arched against him, thrusting her chest against his in open invitation for more of his tender ministrations. He was pleased to find that the tiny buttons that fastened her gown ran down the front rather than the back. With his right hand cupping her bottom, his other deftly undid the top five pearl fastenings, his senses thrilling to hear her low groan as her breasts spilled out of their confinement, for she wore no corsetry.
“I have missed my husband so very much,” she gasped, whimpering as he suckled first one soft, white mound, then the other. “So very much,” she reaffirmed on a sigh, stroking his cheek while he rolled her nipple against the palm of his hand, before tickling it with his tongue. He felt her tense, then her legs buckle as he gripped her hips, grinding them against his almost painful erection as he took possession of her lips once more.
So much for taking it gently. The pace escalated quickly, yet his response was entirely governed by her own eagerness.
Her mouth, usually so sweetly yielding for the chaste kisses she’d always enjoyed, was a cavern of unexpected delights. She kissed him back with passion, her little tongue darting, licking, exploring. Her breath came in short, staccato bursts as he led her to the mantelpiece where he placed her hands on the shelf at shoulder height, facing her away from him so that he could nuzzle her neck, his hands roaming all over her. The grinding of her hips and her sighs of pleasure as he contoured her thighs and skimmed her waist before pulling her against him to suckle her earlobes left him in no doubt as to her enthusiasm.
Sinking to his knees, Justin gently turned her round, lifting the hem of her skirt to trail hot kisses from her ankles, up her calves to her knees. He felt her tense as he reached her inner thighs. She’d not been pleasured like this before, but then she’d been an innocent when he’d married her, and lovemaking was for producing heirs. Now that she’d obviously, and no doubt unexpectedly, learned a thing or two at Mrs Plumb’s, she’d come to him with the express purpose of indulging in lovemaking with absolutely no desire for procreation, and Justin was determined she’d enjoy it to the full.
She wore no undergarments, he was surprised and gratified to discover, so his explorations to the fount of her desire were smooth, slippery and unimpeded. He could never remember feeling his wife quite so excited. Arching away from him, Cressida tried to push him away as she moaned her guilty pleasure—clearly she’d not expected to be so enthralled by this new pastime he’d devised for her.
“Dear Lord, no!” she cried as he kissed her swollen bud. Her movements were becoming jerky, he could tell she was on the cusp of her pleasure, but long experience had taught him how to measure her responses, bringing her to the summit before letting her down again. Taking it one step further as he continued his carefully honed assault upon her senses, he dipped two fingers inside her as he swept his tongue across her most sensitive parts. Why had he not imagined indulging in such wicked pastimes with his own wife before? Cressida was in paradise and so was he.
She gasped, one minute begging him to stop, the next minute begging for more. He’d never seen her in such thrall, making his own excitement almost unbearable.
Her climax was cataclysmic. She bucked and moaned, twisting her hands in his hair as she fought against it, finally crumpling to the floor beside him, her breath coming in short bursts.
Then suddenly it was as if new life were breathed into her. With a low, wicked laugh she rolled on to her stomach and clawed her way on top of him, her little fingers clumsy in their haste as she grappled with the buttons of his breeches.
He could hardly believe it. Now she was straddling him, her skirt hiked up to her waist, her soft lily white body pulsing to receive him. This was no way to maximise their pleasure if they wished not to add a sixth little angel to the nursery. The French letters were almost within arm’s reach upon the mantelpiece. What should he do when she was hell bent on satisfying her extraordinary desire? She must have forgotten herself. And her fears. But if Justin wanted to reclaim such exquisite carnal pastimes on a regular basis he’d better not forget himself too.
“Wait,” he ground out as he gently but firmly pushed her hand away and rose to his feet, his eyes scanning the mantelpiece. To his horror they weren’t there. He cast around in the gloom but could not see where they had fallen. It must have happened when Cressida had been gripping the mantelpiece just seconds before.
Cressida froze, her fingers still beneath his hand as his protest reverberated round her fevered brain.
Uncertainty replaced desire like an arctic wind through an open doorway.
She’d come here in disguise fully believing Justin knew exactly who she was. With the little piece of sponge soaked in vinegar placed within her offering some protection against conception, she wanted this moment to be the greatest gift she could give him after ten months of silent resistance to his loving overtures.
Now his words tore asunder her confident assumptions.
Justin’s reluctance to consummate their sexual congre
ss suggested he was either deluded, or in the habit of receiving strange women in Mrs Plumb’s private sitting room.
She shrank back from him. He did not want her? He did not know it was her? She was too confused and uncertain to know what to say. Could he really kiss and fondle and suckle a desirable stranger as long as he virtuously refrained from penetrating her so he could still guiltlessly smile at his wife over breakfast the next morning?
She could not see his face beneath his mask in the dim light but she sensed he knew something was amiss.
“Darling, please just wait a moment. I…I’m looking for something. We mustn’t get carried away.”
Carried away? Not wanting her reaction to strike a discordant note, she smoothed her skirts and rose with dignity while she re-buttoned the front of her dress, saying, in a strained attempt at sounding jaunty, “We did get carried away but…it’s late and time I left.”
“Don’t leave. Wait. I must find something and then we can—”
But Cressida wasn’t waiting to hear more. The roar in her ears drowned out his protests as she hurried to the door, fumbling with the key in an attempt to put this, her greatest, humiliation, behind her.
“Darling, stop… We need to talk about this.”
She ignored him, still too confused to know what to say. She’d exposed herself in a way she’d never believed possible and he’d egged her on all the way, only to reject her at the end. Revenge? Tit for tat? He really didn’t know it was her?
Oh God, she should remove her mask this minute. Reveal her identity and uncover the truth, except that Justin’s reaction had been so unexpected she couldn’t help but think she’d missed something gravely important and had just made of herself the biggest fool ever.
Lady Lovett's Little Dilemma Page 8