Cressida's Dilemma

Chapter Eight

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 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 fresh linen, 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, who had married shortly after Cressida.

Justin had been her only 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 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.

At least that was one thing at which he’d succeeded for Lord knew, he was feeling utterly beastly at what he could only conclude were his failures toward his wife.

Justin was just pouring himself a fortifying b

randy 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 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 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 cock jump 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.