Cressida took it reluctantly. “I could never ask my husband to use such a thing,” she whispered, “however much I may wish it. Please don’t look so disappointed, it’s just that in my position I could never explain where I came by such knowledge.”
“Then you must induce him to come by the knowledge himself, and to encourage the pursuit of such knowledge. It’s up to you to convey to him your desire to limit your nursery so that he can take responsibility for his role in ensuring he doesn’t foist a child upon you every year.” Miss Mariah reached for the bottle of vinegar. “For centuries, women have understood that douches such as vinegar or lemon juice following the sexual act are beneficial for minimizing the risk of pregnancy, though of course it is the man who chooses coitus interruptus or to wear a French letter, who is most beloved of women who wish for the pleasures rather than the consequences of bedroom play.” She cocked an eyebrow. “I gather you fall into the category of wives who do at least enjoy the pleasures of the bedroom.”
Cressida nodded, for the first time able to look Miss Mariah in the eye. Everything the woman said was common sense, so why should Cressida act like a shrinking violent when she was here to gain the strength she needed to be the wife and bedfellow her husband desired?
“And now we come to the seeds of the Queen Anne’s Lace plant, another useful weapon in your armament.” Miss Mariah picked up the paper bag and reached for Cressida’s hand, turning up the palm and pouring some grains onto it.
“These seeds, when taken some days before, or even for some days immediately after the act, have proven enormously beneficial for many women seeking to prevent conception.”
Cressida stared at them. How tiny and harmless they looked. Unlike a bottle of vinegar in her dressing room and a hasty exit to douche herself, which would alert Justin’s curiosity if not concern, she might easily swallow a handful of these seeds.
“Where can I get these?” she asked, aware of the excitement in her voice.
“I have a dear friend who is proficient in the herbal medicines, and she supplies me from time to time. You can take these now.” A warning note crept into Miss Mariah’s voice. “However, I would prefer that you discussed your fears with your husband before you secretly went about finding ways to limit your family. Indeed, this is a discussion for the two of you, otherwise grave misunderstandings could arise.” Her expression clouded. “I know that more than anyone.”
Despite the lecture and the dampening knowledge that she must indeed speak to Justin, Cressida was almost bursting with the excitement of so many possibilities within her grasp. If what Miss Mariah was telling her was true, Cressida could look forward to enjoying long, loving sessions with Justin and loving a smaller family than otherwise might be the case.
Tending to Great-Aunt Jane had been a trial. While Cressida had nursed her fractious relative, she’d also nursed her own confusion, her lackluster 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 channeled her mental energies into concocting a thrilling scenario that would set Justin’s senses on fire. Thanks to the now dreamlike 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.
Chapter 10
Justin couldn’t remember when he’d been at such pains to ensure his turnout was immaculate. Finally, Wednesday evening had come around again, signaling a week since the dreadful confusion with Cressida in Mrs. Plumb’s sitting
room, and here he was, about to return to his friend’s modestly furnished drawing room, 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 onto 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 which 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? No, this was women’s business.
And yet...
With a curse, he tossed aside the crumpled neck linen that had failed to meet his expectations of style. He’d dismissed his manservant for the night—tying his cravat was Justin’s responsibility—but as he tried again with a fresh length of lawn, he wondered suddenly at his dependence. In a moment, he would recall Dowling, who with a deft flick of his wrist would whip Justin’s rig-out into shape, and Justin would step out with every confidence of being up to the mark. Dowling had been in his employ since he’d set up in his own residence before he’d married. The older man had been an arbiter of style and a font of knowledge to the youthful Justin, who had been just finding his own feet in a world of opportunity .
But who had Cressida relied upon for advice and to bolster her confidence? Her mother had died when Cressida was just a child, and as a poor parson’s daughter, she’d not had a lady’s maid. The two females closest to her were her crotchety maiden aunt, who of course would know nothing with regard to what went on in the bedroom, and her dreadful cousin, Catherine.
Justin had been her only honest barometer when it came to gauging expectations within marriage. Cressida would have assumed Justin wanted sons—a backup for sickly Thomas—when he was more than happy with the family he had.
By the time Justin was satisfied at the way his coat sat and was at last at Mrs. Plumb’s, hope that his wife was coming tonight had mutated into the most extraordinary maelstrom of emotions he’d ever experienced as he 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 initial 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.
At least that was one thing at which he’d succeeded for Lord knew, he was feeling utterly beastly with regard to his failures toward his wife.
Justin was just 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.
He tensed. Cressida? It was more than probable 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 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 had not was extraordinarily exciting. Intoxicating, in fact.
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.
The door opened and 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 threaded 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 manhood leap to attention in such a desperate call for immediate satisfaction that he had to drag 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 epitomize 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 license 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 risking confusion and flight once matters had proceeded.
Her warm, sweet breath tickled his ear as she clung to him. “I’d 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 were unable to halt their exploration of her shapely body as he trailed kisses over her décolletage and shoulders. 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—the demure angel of the house she presented to the world, and the lust-crazed vixen in the bedroom.
“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 still cupping her delectable bottom—she was not part of the daring set who’d adopted the craze of wearing underwear—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 tonight she was without her constricting stays. Beneath her figure-hugging gown was just flesh.
“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 buckled 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. He would not hasten this and be caught out by his own urgency when he knew the importance of this first time after so long. Cressida needed to be reassured, though not in words, that she would have no fear of conceiving another child. The fact was that she’d followed him here, choosing to reignite their passion in its rooms away from their own house and their own servants. She’d clearly discovered Justin was innocent of seeking out its pleasures and was here for some other purpose, and now she, too, had daringly chosen to utilize its ‘other’ purpose.
Cressida’s 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, only just able to restrain himself, and 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 was his paragon of virtue, his vixen of pleasure. She was everything to him, and he longed to be reinstated to the exalted position she’d once held him in. He’d failed her once, but he’d not do so again.
Justin’s explorations to the font of her desire were smooth, slippery and unimpeded. He could never remember feeling his wife quite so
excited. Arching her back, 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.
By the light thrown out by the Argand lamp, he could see the ecstasy in her half-closed eyes when, still kneeling, he tipped his head up to reassure himself that the book in which he’d placed the French letter was still on the mantelpiece. It was an observation that sent another spear of lust charging through him.
“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.
He was nearly ready to explode himself. It had been so long, though he thought he’d conditioned himself to a life of celibacy. Now he realized how combustible his responses to his sweet wife really were. She held his heart in the palm of her hand. But he would not let her down. Right now it was only her pleasure that was important, though her excitement merely ratcheted up his own. When she gripped a hank of his hair and did not let go as her pleasure mounted, her excitement traveled all the way down the shaft to spear his heart. Then farther, to his swollen, hard erection, and he had to remind himself once again that it was not his night to indulge in his own pleasure as heat swept through him and the hairs on the back of his neck stood up.
Carefully, he continued his honed assault upon her senses, dipping several fingers inside her as he swept his tongue across her most sensitive parts, loving the heat and scent of her excitement. 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. It was a paradox to say he’d not indulge in his own pleasure, when her pleasure was his. He felt he was playing her like a finely tuned instrument, and his success in creating such responses was fascinating. He longed to tear the mask from her face and then discard his own mask, revealing themselves, but he sensed it was this distance from reality which enabled Cressida, for now, to hurl herself with such enthusiasm into their sexual congress.
Duchess of Seduction (Hearts in Hiding Book 3) Page 12