Chapter Two
Two hours later Cressida stared at her image in her dressing table mirror, forcing away the niggling doubts that had, she was sure, no foundation. Justin loved her—of that she had no doubt. But what about the other…‘thing’? The ‘thing’ they never spoke about because she didn’t know how to. If he even looked like broaching the subject she quickly deflected him.
She’d been bolstered by Justin’s praise earlier that evening but now the insipid shepherdess had been replaced by a lacklustre creature with red-rimmed eyes and sagging shoulders. Was she really just a wilfully blind and brainless wife with her head in the sand, completely unaware of her husband’s desires—well, she knew about those and that was more than half the problem—or what he might be doing about them?
Her nerves were nearly at snapping point when the door was quietly opened after a discreet knock.
“Cressy, love, Annabelle Luscombe told me you’d left the ball early. I hope you weren’t feeling unwell?”
How handsome he looked, his Grecian robes still crisp and immaculate after a night of revelry, concern in his voice and tenderness in his expression as he crossed the room. He lowered his head to kiss her ear, resting his hands lightly on her shoulders and she breathed in his special scent of sandalwood, which signified safety and wonderful familiarity.
Justin would always be the loving husband and she would always enjoy comfort and security beyond her dreams. But now, after what Catherine had told her, it seemed entirely possible that Justin had done what so many of her friends?
? husbands had after a certain number of years of marriage and she must find the courage to confront him, then come up with the words to explain what lay behind her own withdrawal these past long months.
Unable to respond to his greeting, Cressida did what she’d done for nearly a year, since Thomas’ difficult birth.
She tensed. She knew he 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 that sat on the edge of the dressing table.
“I feel perfectly well, thank you,” she managed, lowering her eyes. “Just a little tired.”
Slowly he began to massage her back and shoulders and she forced herself to lean into him, nevertheless revelling 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, it was an effort 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 kept her eyes tightly closed so she didn’t have to face the loving warmth of Justin’s expression.
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, they demanded, 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. He’s suffering dreadfully with his poor little gums.” 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 centred on her children. Giving his arm an affectionate squeeze, she reached up to kiss him on the cheek. “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 round, holding her upper arms so that, caught by surprise, she stumbled in 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 rigid.
For a second she remained suspended between fear 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 splendour.
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 desire and 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.
No, she couldn’t 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-ups. She could respond with soft murmurs indicating her delight in bed but she did not have the words to tell him she’d not give him more sons.
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 centre 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 armour was not fully in place against the hurt in his eyes. It pierced her with a sharpness and intensity nearly as agonising as childbirth, forcing her to turn away before she acted against her better judgement.