Lady Lovett's Little Dilemma

Heart beating wildly, Justin tidied away the half-written report he’d prepared for Mariah. In half an hour he would be where he felt most at home—locked in Cressida’s enthusiastic embrace.

* * * *

Wind whipped the branches of the tree against her bedchamber window. A storm was brewing, said Tom, the footman. He should know, for he was a farmer’s son.

But Cressida was a parson’s daughter and she knew nothing about anything except what was required of her to be a good wife.

She drew the counterpane up to her chin and shivered, wishing it were with anticipation at the same time that she wished Justin were cuddled warmly against her. But that was not to be, not tonight.

At first, the limpid look in Justin’s eye when he’d held her hand in that tawdry sitting room at Mrs Plumb’s had sliced away at her soul. She’d seen the hunter in him size up his quarry. At eighteen she’d been easy prey, falling into his arms during their first waltz. There’d been no chase on Justin’s part, for their hearts and minds had been as one from the start.

He’d quickly realised it was Cressida, though, in that shabby little sitting room in that wicked house. She knew Justin too well. His sudden stillness and the change in his tone had alerted her to the fact that he knew exactly who she was.

Without missing a beat he’d continued the charade while her brain had been in a whirl as to whether to admit her identity. Yet when Justin so willingly endorsed their play-acting, the exciting possibilities had quickly taken on a life of their own.

He’d agreed to an assignation a week hence. Her body pulsed at the thought before fear intruded that he’d come to her too soon. How could she hold him at bay? In a week she’d have all the tools and knowledge she needed to be everything Justin could desire.

She didn’t have them now. She was as ignorant of the practicalities as she’d ever been, but she knew now that precautions were possible.

Of course, her kindly friend at Mrs Plumb’s would advise her to explain everything to Justin. But how could Cressida tell him everything? Panic banished reason. All she wanted was one more week—then she’d be all-powerful in her knowledge. Miss Mariah could help her with the words she needed. Cressida had not the vocabulary, much less the knowledge, to say what she needed to.

A familiar step sounded just outside her room. With a start of horror she jerked upright, drawing the counterpane up to her neck as the door opened slowly, faint light spilling in from the corridor.

Her breath caught, the words she might have used—should have used—dying in her throat.

“Good evening, my love,” Justin whispered, carefully placing the candle on the dressing table as he lowered himself onto the edge of the bed. A golden glow suffused his face, the warmth of his expression kindling the need in Cressida’s soul. “You weren’t asleep, I hope?” He leaned over her and tenderly began to stroke her shoulder.

Cressida forced herself to relax, lying back upon the bed as she smiled tremulously at him in the flickering light. “No, Justin, I wasn’t asleep.” Her throat was so dry it hurt. She couldn’t find the words to begin to tell him of the confusing tumult of emotions she felt right now.

Of course he’d come to visit her on account of the charade she’d shamelessly engineered. She should have expected nothing less.

Except that she was unprepared.

Completely.

His smile in the soft glow of light held a tender poignancy that tugged at her heartstrings. He was lonely. Just like she was, and now was the time to bare her soul. She could let him down gently, explain that in a week’s time, when the woman at Mrs Plumb’s had told her what she wanted—needed—to know, she’d feel re

ady for an encounter like this. Justin was a kind and understanding man. A patient husband. He’d waited this long. He could certainly wait another week.

Horrified, she checked herself. How could she possibly speak so plainly about methods that would prevent her conceiving the second son Justin deserved, desired and, yes, as his mother so frequently reminded her, required?

Her breath hitched in her throat while her mind raced over the best way to navigate these turbulent waters.

But every thought returned to the truth—she was disloyal and depraved. How could she refuse her husband his rights? Why would she want to when she was blessed above all women?

It had been months since Justin had visited her, an eternity since his eyes had kindled with that almost forgotten look of aching want that, in the bedroom, replaced the habitual affection he showed her during the day.

The warmth of his smile gained heat as he rose to untie the cord of his banyan. It slid off his shoulders while he focused his gaze, with unmistakeable longing, on her breasts, still confined in her lace-edged night shift. Cressida felt her palms begin to sweat, her breath fizzling in her throat as her eyes raked the length of him.

Oh, he’d never reveal himself to her naked but as she recalled the bronzed warrior she’d seen earlier that evening in the mist-filled chamber of brazenness she knew Justin would look every bit as magnificent.

His good nature was etched in the fine lines around his usually warm brown eyes, now black with desire as they bore into her. His strong jaw was tense with intent, the well-sculpted cheek muscles sharp planes and shadows. Fashionably thick and curling hair brushed forward made him a handsome man. During the day, he was the urbane lord of the manor. Tonight, the finer civilities were stripped away as he pulled back the covers, the rapid rise and fall of his chest, the piercing stare and the exuberance of his manhood outlined by his nightshirt boldly declaring his desire.

For the first time Cressida focused her attention upon the masculine contours of his fine linen shift. No, Justin would never come naked to her and she’d never thought to explore the idea of skin to skin contact. Why? Because clearly this was not what a man did when he was with his wife.

At least two layers of fabric were always trapped at some point between them.

Tonight’s strange, lurid, exciting, wicked and depraved voyeurism shocked her yet filled her with longings she could not put into words.