She tensed. She knew Justin registered it too, though his expression in the looking glass was as fond as ever.
Finally, she managed a smile. Not a convincing one—she could see that as much as feel it as she watched their exchange like a third person in a drama. Her hand went to the neck of her nightgown, the other fiddled with the silver-backed hairbrush she replaced, precariously, on the edge of the dressing table.
“I must say, Justin...,” she stammered, lowering her eyes, “I am very tired.”
“That makes two of us.” Slowly, he began to massage her back and shoulders, and she forced herself to lean into him, nevertheless reveling in the cathartic, rhythmic strokes. If only she could be guaranteed that this was where the sensory pleasure would begin and end, then she could enjoy it.
When he began working his way down from her collarbones, his touch easing as he gently stroked the skin above the drawstring of her nightgown, there was no use even trying to pretend that she embraced, as she once had, the promise of where this may lead.
She closed her eyes and miserably went through her options, brief rage having long ago given way to despair. Though what choice was there, if indeed she had to win him back from another woman?
Could it be true, or was Catherine taunting her, playing on her insecurities?
Cressida continued to keep her eyes tightly closed so she didn’t have to face the loving warmth of Justin’s expression in the dim candlelight.
He wanted her and she should be drowning in joy that he still felt the same way she felt about him. She should be doing what every good wife must do. It was her duty.
But the familiar voices were screaming in her head. Do you think, Cressida, that the rapture of a night in your husband’s arms is worth the fear and pain of yet another child?
“I must check on Thomas.”
“Didn’t you just do that?”
“He’s suffering dreadfully with his poor little gums. He keeps waking up in great pain.”
“We’d hear him, Cressy.” Was that the faintest trace of exasperation she heard?
Twisting out of Justin’s grip, Cressida rose, smiling as she
defended herself against his increasingly rare romantic overtures, her tone the practical, sympathetic, maternal concern of a woman whose life centered on her children. Giving his arm an affectionate squeeze, she reached up to kiss him on the cheek. “He’s been sleeping so fitfully, lately, that I think I’ll sleep in the nursery tonight.”
He did not let her go as he usually did. Halting her progress to the door, he swung her around, holding her upper arms so that, caught by surprise, she stumbled into his embrace, her head pressed against the hard muscle of his chest.
But not before she saw the hunger in his eyes. The hunger that had once thrilled and empowered her but that now filled her with dread as his gaze seemed to sear the naked flesh above the ruffled neckline of her nightgown. With a soft moan, somewhere between desire and desperation, she clung to him, but her body was, as always in such situations, rigid with terror.
For a second, she remained suspended between that and desire. If he ignored her wordless rejection, whisked her into his arms and threw her onto the bed to kiss every sensitive, exposed piece of her, it would be the first time he had put his desires before hers. She would not, could not, refuse, she knew. Her own lustful nature would take over, and she’d be a slave to passion, as in the early years of her marriage. How many times had she passed around cucumber sandwiches at her Thursday morning salon while her mind replayed the thrilling, amorous adventures to which Justin had introduced her the night before? Oh yes, during the day, she was the perfect hostess, but in the dark, beneath the sheets of the marital bed, her husband knew how to bring her to wicked rapture. The intensity of her response to him frightened her.
Sometimes she’d even wished for more, with the candle still throwing its light, so she could see what Justin looked like in all his naked splendor.
Very occasionally, at the height of passion, he’d latch on to her nipple with his hot, wet mouth, and she’d feel the pulsing desire in the core of her womb and want him to continue to pleasure her like this, here and everywhere.
But that was before the children came, and such lust was for those who spared no thought for the consequences of their pleasures.
Cressida clamped down on her moan of despair. Justin held the trump card. If she let him begin to stroke her into awareness, she knew she’d never want it to stop, and she doubted she’d have the strength to withdraw before it became dangerous. She certainly couldn’t tell him about such treasonous thoughts.
Which meant she couldn’t let Justin touch her any more tonight, no matter how much she desired it. Another child would kill her, yet Justin wanted another son. Young Thomas was sickly, and Cressida’s most important role was to give Justin heirs. If she couldn’t do that, she was no better than an insipid little shepherdess playing dress up. She could respond with soft murmurs indicating her delight in bed, but right now she did not have the words to tell him she’d not give him more sons. She wondered if she ever would.
Cressida seized the advantage at his hesitation. Justin was not a man to press his unwanted advances upon her. Clasping him briefly before pushing out of his arms, she made for the door where, turning, she was surprised to see how much her brief, affectionate embrace had disarmed him.
He remained in the center of her dressing room, fiddling with his cufflinks, his concentration seemingly focused on the tiny diamond studs at his wrists. When he straightened and smiled at her, her armor was not fully in place against the hurt in his eyes. It pierced her with a sharpness and intensity nearly as agonizing as childbirth, forcing her to turn away before she acted against her better judgment.
Self-disgust surged up her gullet as she turned the doorknob. So much for acting on her desperation to reclaim what they’d once had; for taking the bold step needed following Catherine’s revelation. Her shame that she was pushing him away from her was almost equal to her shame at realizing that her actions confirmed she had chosen to accept the price.
With no satisfaction in the marital bed, what other course was there for a red-blooded male?
“Sleep well, Cressida.” There was such genuine fondness in his expression as he prepared to leave her that she nearly abandoned her resolve by throwing herself recklessly into his arms.
“You too, Justin.”