Lady Lovett's Little Dilemma

by Beverley Oakley

  “Please wait!”

  Still she ignored him, blinded by hot, mortified tears as she finally turned the key.

  His hand grazed her arm but she knocked it aside as he cried out, “Why come here if not to torment me? I have precautions but we cannot proceed without them.”

  Dear God, so he was prepared to make love to a stranger, she thought wildly, pulling open the door then slamming it upon his hand so that the last sound she heard was his cry of pain.

  At least that might act as a dampener in case the next available widow was only five minutes away, she thought bitterly, as she ran down the passage.

  “Cressida!”

  The sound of her name stopped her mid-flight and she sagged against the wall. Squeezing shut her eyes she dragged in a deep breath and forced reason to the fore. She looked down at her hands, balled fists, and tried to control her trembling. Justin had just called her by name. What a fool she was. Her brain had been trying to assimilate the worst case scenario, when of course she should have known that Justin had everything under control.

  He knew exactly who she was and why she was here. Somehow he’d cleverly guessed, without her telling him, that her greatest fear with intimacy was conceiving again. He’d merely wanted to halt proceedings to protect her.

  Joy surged through her. She nearly wept with relief.

  Of course Justin knew who she was, just as he’d known last Wednesday. He’d allowed her to proceed with her outrageous seduction at her own pace, hinting though never alluding directly to it in his loving letters of this past week to her in Bath.

  Still mortified but quickly filling with hope and excitement, she waited for him to come to her, reflecting with shame upon her cool response to Justin’s flood of correspondence while she’d been tending her fractious great-aunt Jane. She’d been too blinded by her own fears and lack of self-confidence to read between the lines and properly interpret his letters as an attempt to reason out her confusion.

  Raising her head she smiled at him, happiness radiating through her like treacle through her veins.

  “Oh, Justin, I’m so sorry—” she began as her wonderful, beloved husband strode up the passage towards her, his masquerade mask now discarded, raking his hands through his dishevelled brown hair.

  She put her hands up to untie her own mask, excitement mounting at the thought that in seconds their stupid charade would be at an end and she’d be where she should have been for the past ten months—in her husband’s arms. They’d waited far too long. Now, within minutes, they could be right back in that room, or, better still, in their own bed, finishing off the wonderful business that had brought them here.

  As she clutched at her wildly beating heart, Cressida saw her own hopes mirrored in the expression on his face and her heart surged with love and longing.

  “Justin!”

  They both turned at the cry, checked by its note of desperation, and Cressida felt her joy turn to confusion then cold, blind fury as the figure at the end of the passage ran towards her husband and Miss Mariah threw herself into Justin’s arms.

  Justin did not push her away. He did not unclasp her fingers, which gripped him behind his neck. He did not step politely away. No, his expression changed from passion to something curiously deeper in a response that quite clearly conveyed to Cressida how much this woman meant to him. Mariah. Madame Zirelli. The woman who had been Justin’s mistress before he’d married Cressida.

  In the moment that the truth revealed itself, Cressida traded hope and happiness for the sorrow of all the world’s betrayed women. She would have preferred anger to the heartbreak that consumed every hope for happiness she’d ever allowed herself. What a fool she’d been to have missed the truth that had been staring her in the face. The woman to whom Justin had turned during these long months when Cressida had not wanted him had indeed been his old mistress, as Catherine had insisted.

  “Oh, Justin!” Miss Mariah repeated in a tone so heartfelt that Cressida’s stomach roiled and she felt the bile, excoriating and bitter, burn her throat.

  Miss Mariah was apparently unaware of Cressida standing a few yards farther up the passage, her limpid gaze encompassing only Justin as she clasped his shoulder, pulling him down for her kiss, her greeting revealing a depth of feeling between them that went beyond friendship.

  Or anything a wife would condone.

  Heaving in a wrenching breath, Cressida brushed the tears from her eyes and picked up her skirts, ignoring her husband’s imploring call as she gathered speed, all but running along the corridor and out into the street where her carriage was waiting.

  As she pulled in her trailing skirt she heard his desperate cry from the top step of the portico.

  “Cressida, come back!”

  She rapped on the roof, signalling impatiently for the coachman to go.

  “Cressida, it’s not what you think. Talk to me—!”

  He was at the carriage door, grasping the handle, while she gasped her anger and outrage to John the coachman in one imperative command that he obey her and whip up the horses. Hunched up in the carriage, numb and trembling with shock, she dared not look out through the window in case the sight of Justin, pleading and confused, staring after her in the street, caused her to weaken her resolve and turn back.

  She’d accepted that Justin had a very good reason for being at Mrs Plumb’s. No, she hadn’t questioned that at all. At every turn she’d given him the benefit of the doubt before challenging her greatest fears in order to give herself once more to him.

  What a fool she’d been.

  Justin would follow her and try to make her believe some concocted story but right now she needed to talk matters over with someone who knew all about straying husbands.

  Chapter Eight

  The moment Catherine received her, Cressida realised her error.

  For a start, the house was in darkness. She’d hoped to find her cousin up and playing cards, or recently returned from an evening out and full of post-revelry cheer.

  Instead, a glowering Catherine appeared at the top of the stairs, an enormous muslin cap covering her elaborately dressed hair and a shawl thrown hastily over her nightgown.

  “Good Lord, Cressy, do you know what time it is?” she demanded. “Unless Justin has thrown you out I’ve not the patience to listen to tales of Thomas’ teething woes.”

  Cressida swayed at the bottom of the stairs, the fury of her anguish over recent events turning to indecision. She’d not come for a sympathetic hearing for there was scant kindness in Catherine at the best of times, but she’d not expected such a vituperative greeting.

  Oh Lord, what had possessed her to seek out Catherine? It was Justin she should be speaking to, not her viperish cousin. She was bound to Justin for life and, if he could explain his way out of this or persuade her out of her misery enough to enable her to forge ahead, a happiness only temporarily wounded was more than most wives could hope for under such circumstances.

  With a brittle smile she half turned. “I beg your pardon, Catherine, and apologies for disturbing you. I’ve decided to return home, after all.” Gathering up her skirts she turned back towards the door, unable to shake the image of the woman she’d considered her friend, cosily making up to her husband at Mrs Plumb’s…

  For a moment she thought she was going to be sick.

  Catherine seemed only then to take in the extraordinarily daring cut of Cressida’s gown for her eyes widened then gleamed as Cressida turned, gasping at the sound of a vehicle drawing up in apparent haste by the front door.

  “My, my, Cressy, love…marital dramas!” Her cousin hastened down the stairs and took her arm, leading her back from the door. “You’ve come to the right place. I apologise for my rude welcome but I’m never at my best when my slumber is disturbed.”

  “Then I shan’t continue to disturb you,” Cressida said, dignified while she prepared for Justin’s entrance. At least he’d valued her sufficiently to make coming after his wife his priority. Recalling a
gain the familiarity of gesture and caress between the two who, it must be borne in mind, each had known the other intimately before Cressida had even met her husband. She clenched her teeth. Not only had she been deceived, but she’d also been made a laughing stock, and by a woman she’d considered her friend. It only proved how naïve and credulous she was.

  When she opened her eyes again, Catherine was hustling her into the drawing room, leaving the butler to attend to the pounding on the door.

  “I made a mistake. I must go to Justin.” Cressida tried to pull away but her cousin held her firmly, pushing her down onto the Egyptian sofa and adopting an attitude of the greatest solidarity as she positioned herself close, her arm about Cressida’s shoulders.

  “So I was right?” The edge of prurient interest was greater than the sympathy for which Catherine obviously strove as she pursed her mouth and patted Cressida’s knee, saying, “My poor love, I thought you were the lucky one and that nothing could touch the magic that seemed all too apparent between you and Justin. Now you see he’s like all the rest and you have to learn that sorrow is a woman’s lifelong companion.”

  Her words were cut short by the drawing room door being thrown open over the whispered admonitions of Catherine’s butler that Justin wait to be announced.

  “Evening, Catherine. I’d like to see my wife, alone.” His glance did not even encompass his wife’s cousin. The tightness around his mouth and the flare in his eye as he rested his gaze upon Cressida indicated the storm raging within. Never had Cressida seen Justin so discomposed.

  Despite the raw hurt that scored deep into her heart, there was no denying Cressida’s pride at being allied to such a handsome man, or her admiration as she raked her gaze over his tall, determined form. Certainly these were cosmetic, but it had always given her a thrill to know that Catherine—and others like her—envied Cressida her husband for his outward charm, good looks and obvious intelligence, in addition to his pocket book. Catherine must indeed be curious as to the extent of Justin’s manly attributes, which only Cressida was in a position to know.

  As Cressida’s eyes met Justin’s, the intensity of his look sent her stomach lurching. In an agony of anticipation she watched him rake back his hair and draw in a breath…to apologise? Beg her forgiveness?

  Relief made her nearly weep, despite the suspicion of his infidelity and the guilty knowledge of her own part in pushing him away. The fact that Justin was standing here now showed he’d made her his priority. If Cressida valued her happiness, she must show the good sense to sweep everything under the carpet and simply forgive and forget. They were bound to one another for life and, if he’d strayed, it was only because she’d denied him his marital rights for ten months.

  She started to go to him. Justin was her world. She belonged with him.

  As long as he didn’t cast her as the credulous fool in front of Catherine, the wife who could be relied upon to turn a blind eye to future peccadilloes, she could put all this behind her.

  She patted her cousin’s hand, which had swooped up to stop her, whispering, “It’s all right, Catherine, I’m going with Justin.” If there was more resignation than joy in her tone, she needed to convey her acceptance of the situation so she could simply depart. Justin’s confession could wait.

  Catherine thought differently. “Let Justin say what he came to say, first,” she responded, gripping Cressida’s skirt and pulling her down, hissing in an undertone, “Be strong, Cressy. If you meekly accept everything he tells you, he won’t respect you.”

  Justin glared. Damn, but how could Cressida resist a man who incorporated everything her heart desired—determination, charm, good looks, a desire to see to her happiness and that of their children? She sucked in a wavering breath. If he’d strayed, he regretted the pain it had caused her. She still came first in his world. She had to believe it, or her world was nothing but dust.

  He spoke quickly, holding out his hand before Cressida could reply. “Please, Cressy, I need to speak to you alone.”

  Justin could always make him want her. Even now she felt her desperate need for him override every other painful emotion she’d endured during the past week. He could put her through nameless torments and she’d still want him. The knowledge threaded its way uncomfortably through her veins.

  Should she accept everything he said so meekly? Catherine was right. There came a time when, for her own survival, it was incumbent upon her to stand up for herself.

  With another short, sharp tug, Catherine forced Cressida to resume her seat on the sofa beside her while she took the initiative, saying in her thin, superior voice, “Cressida came to me because she was deeply upset by recent events.”

  Although Catherine had had no direct confirmation that Cressida had ventured into Mrs Plumb’s sinful establishment, her words suggested a knowledge that went far deeper than any confidence with which Cressida had entrusted her. Catherine’s capacity for interference suddenly frightened her. Justin would not, could not, deny the existence of Mariah Zirelli, but now was not the time for such a confession. Catherine would be like a dog with a bone. She would use Justin’s guilt for her own ends. His remorse, and the torture Catherine would put him through, would go some way towards alleviating the pain caused by Catherine’s own husband’s painful lack of any finer feelings, but it had the potential to destroy Justin in his own eyes.

  “It’s all right, Catherine.” Cressida stood once more, no longer desperate to hear her husband beg her forgiveness. He could do that later, without Catherine to witness it.

  She was prepared for silence, even for a mumbled, “We’ll talk about this later,” but Justin’s response struck a heavy blow to her new resolve when, in a tone almost of injury, he said, “I’m sorry to see you’ve been caused pain, Cressy, but you’ve misunderstood matters.” The flinty gaze that he’d levelled upon Catherine softened as he held out his hand to Cressida. “I’m so glad to see you, my darling. Everything will be all right when we are alone.”

  Alone… Oh, how Cressida longed for it.

  “So Cressida’s eyes deceived her.” Catherine’s voice was smug. She smiled at her cousin. “I’m sure you’re greatly relieved to hear that, my dear, but I think the fact you’ve woken me at such an ungodly hour deserves an explanation. What is the cause of your distress, which Justin is so anxious to make you believe was nothing?”

  “It is nothing, but clearly Cressida thinks otherwise.” Justin fixed a cold look upon his wife’s cousin, adding in clipped tones, “Leave it, Catherine, so I might explain everything in private.”

  Torn, Cressida sank back in her seat, wavering, then ultimately rejecting the hand her husband extended towards her. Justin had quite clearly denied the truth of that which could not be denied. Did he think her such a gullible fool? Was she nothing more than a doormat who could be relied upon not to make a fuss and to turn a blind eye whenever he chose to stray?

  Catherine was not to be denied her evening’s entertainment. Ignoring Justin, she ran her hand over Cressida’s black silk skirts. Her eyes glittered with curiosity. “Where have you come from tonight, Cressy? I can see it’s not masquerade, so surely it’s some wild disguise?”

  “Nowhere you’d know,” Cressida mumbled while she still agonised over whether she’d stay or go with Justin.

  “Nowhere I’d know.” Catherine repeated Cressida’s words slowly, clearly intrigued. “Why, Cressy, I didn’t think you had it in you. It’s Wednesday, isn’t it? And if you weren’t at home or with me, why surely you’ve been at Mrs Plumb’s? Look at you. I’ve never seen you look so dashing…” Her words trailed away. She tilted her head to look at Justin and her mouth curved in a speculative smile. “But I fear something at Mrs Plumb’s has upset you. Something involving your husband and—” she added, carefully, “perhaps another woman.”

  Justin seized Cressida’s hand and pulled her to her feet. “Cressida’s eyes deceived her. She is coming home with me.”

  Cressida’s eyes deceived her? Indignati
on gained the upper hand and banished Cressida’s desire to meekly return home with him. She was prepared to accept a watered down version of the truth but, unless she showed some backbone, as Catherine put it, she realised in this instant that this might well be only the start of even greater sorrow. She had to stand up for herself.

  Snatching away her hand, she challenged him for the first time in their married life, her voice thick with emotion, her heart pounding so hard she could barely hear her own words. “I saw you with Madame Zirelli. Did my eyes deceive me as to the—” she choked down the painful swelling in her throat—“familiarity of her greeting?”

  Justin dropped his hand. “Madame Zirelli is an old friend.” He spoke carefully. Was that because he was afraid of incriminating himself? “It could not have escaped your notice, Cressida, that she is also at least ten years older than you.”

  So it had come to this? Oblivious of everything around her, Cressida stared at Justin for the first time as if he were not her husband. The eyes that generally regarded her with genial warmth were wary. Surely that must suggest—she nearly choked on her grief—guilt? The lean, handsome jaw was clenched as if he hung on her response, and his whole stance was as tense as if he were about to spring.

  This was not the Justin she knew. She wanted her loving husband back. She wanted this whole nightmare to go away so she could wake up in Justin’s arms feeling warm and safe like she’d done almost every morning until…

  She hung her head as she finished the thought.

  …until ten months ago when she’d withdrawn, physically, from him.

  “Do you deny she is your mistress?” she whispered, even though to hear him confirm it would be like a lance through her heart.

  “I don’t know what made you think it, but Madame Zirelli is not my mistress.”

  Catherine cocked her head. “Then why were you at Mrs Plumb’s with her?”

  “I heard she was your mistress before you married me,” Cressida whispered.