Duchess of Seduction (Hearts in Hiding Book 3) Read online

  Now was not the time to remind Catherine that she herself was not averse to resorting to artifice to enhance her natural charms. Cressida gripped her reticule with trembling fingers and stared fiercely at her cousin. “I take it this Madame Zirelli is also a regular at Mrs. Plumb’s. Is it on this flimsy basis that the rumors are circulating regarding Justin’s...extramarital amours?” Hurt and anger banished Cressida’s propensity to soften life’s harsh realities. She rarely spoke so directly to anyone—certainly not to Catherine, who’d taunted Cressida since they’d been children for being ‘churchyard poor’, but whose respect Cressida had thought she’d gained through her glittering match with Justin. Now, Catherine had seized on the first opportunity to knock Cressida down to size. With dignity, she asked her cousin, “On what grounds am I to believe this? Come, Catherine, it is not like you to be anything but direct.”

  “If you prefer directness, Cressida,” Catherine responded with an air of injury, “do you not think it perfectly reasonable that Justin, like most men after eight years of marriage, feels the need to seek diversion? Is it not perfectly understandable that after so long, you are no longer everything to him? What woman ever is?” she added bitterly .

  Cressida gasped as if she had been struck, but her cousin went on, her green eyes glittering as the carriage passed beneath a lamp post. “He is no different from every other man, but you fail to consider your good fortune, Cressy, for at least Justin is discreet.”

  “How can you say that?” Deflated, Cressida slumped into the corner, glad of the dimness so she could hurriedly wipe away her tears. Catherine would enjoy her weakness. “You speak as if I am the last to know and that I’ve brought this upon myself. How would you feel if James—” A sudden illumination stopped her mid-sentence, and she put out her hand, saying before she could stop herself, “James has strayed again? Oh, Catherine, I’m so sorry.”

  “Save your sympathy for yourself, Cressy.” Catherine drew away, as if Cressida’s outstretched hand were as welcome as a snake. “I was under no illusions as to James’ likely fidelity from the day we wed. He was always too handsome for me—you remember we overheard Mrs. Dooley saying it at our engagement ball?”

  Cressida knew Catherine’s wounding had been close to mortal all those years ago. Six, she recalled, wondering if by Catherine’s calculations, Cressida should consider herself lucky for having retained her husband’s loyalty for this long.

  Shrugging, as if the matter were no longer of importance, Catherine went on, “James and now Justin are simply conforming to the prescribed role of husbands by doing what society condones within the limits of money and discretion and, like me, you should accept the situation and direct your energies toward the children. Though perhaps in your case—not wishing to criticize—I wonder if that is not at the root of your problem. You dote on those babies and seem to forget Justin has his needs, too. When were you last seen at his side?”

  Cressida blinked like one dazed by blinding light. Catherine, whose lack of insight and sympathy was on a par with her lack of tactfulness, had come too close to the bone.

  Seeming not to register Cressida’s stricken look, her cousin went on. “I mean, have you looked at yourself lately, Cressida? Yes, at twenty-six, you still have that girlish, sleepy-eyed charm that won him over, but must you appear quite so naïve after all those children? As I said, tonight is the first time you’ve torn yourself from the nursery to accompany Justin anywhere, and whom do you choose to masquerade as? A shepherdess, for God’s sake!” Plucking the black lace of her own daring décolletage, Catherine straight- ened majestically. “Justin has been your loyal husband for all these years and he loves you. But if you want to win him back from the arms of Madame Zirelli—and yes, I have it on good authority that Madame Zirelli is his new mistress—you’d do yourself more favors parading as something less”—her lip curled—“insipid.”

  Chapter 2

  With Catherine thankfully departed to her own townhouse, Cressida rested her head in her hands as she slumped at her dressing table, her teeth chattering, despite the merrily blazing fire that brightened the room.

  There was every chance that it was Justin who’d checked the fire was stoked and that everything was as comfortable as possible for Cressida’s return. He did little things like that for her all the time.

  He loved her!

  And yet, the ‘good authority’ Catherine had cited was none other than Cressida’s dear friend Annabelle Luscombe who’d not say a hurtful thing to a living soul.

  Yes, Annabelle had hinted that Justin’s affections had been engaged elsewhere. Not some snake-tongued society friend of Catherine’s.

  It was more than Cressida could bear. When she’d challenged Catherine on it, her cousin had at least had the grace to look ashamed and for a moment Cressida had believed she’d conjured up something baseless because she was jealous or because James had wounded her pride again.

  Instead, Catherine had shrugged. Yes, shrugged and said, “Actually, the information came as quite a shock. I was in conversation with Annabelle, who was waxing lyrical over Rossini’s opera The Barber of S evi!e when her husband, who is not known for his tact after three brandies, joined us, saying he’d just left Justin, who was marveling over Madame Zirelli’s excellent rendering of Rosina’s part. When Reggie had gone, Annabelle looked shocked, asking if Justin hadn’t been known for his high regard for Madame Zirelli in the days before his marriage.”

  Cressida had been starting to feel marginally better. Catherine was simply making wild suppositions. Relaxing, she’d managed a smile. “And that is the only basis for these cruel rumors and gossip? The fact that Justin has been praising another woman? For her singing?” Relief had surged through her.

  That is, until Catherine’s viper-direct response. “Surely you must know that Madame Zirelli was Justin’s mistress until five minutes before he married you?”

  That’s when the world had gone very quiet. And then a great roaring, whistling noise had had Cressida holding her hands to her ears.

  She was holding her hands to ears once more, now, in the silence of her dressing room as memories of Catherine’s false sympathy dripped like poison through her consciousness.

  “Oh, my poor Cressida,” her cousin had whispered before she’d quit the carriage. “How awful to be the last to know what is common knowledge. And how I wish it had not fallen to me to tell you the sordid details.”

  Cressida had rallied at this point. Catherine not only delivered her barbs like a skilled marksman, she savored the kill. When she’d clicked her tongue, adding in an undertone, “Let us hope the music was all he was enjoying when he paid a visit to Mrs. Plumb’s notorious salon,” Cressida was not going to take it like some pathetic lap dog hungry for a pat.

  “That’s...just cruel!” she’d managed with some energy. “Madame Plumb’s is not the kind of establishment Justin would visit.” At least on that point she could be very firm. The whispers and innuendo that had circulated about the notorious house of assignation in Soho had penetrated even the staid and respectable circles where Cressida felt most at home. Amongst contented matrons and dowagers was where she belonged whereas Catherine belonged to a wilder set. One which Cressida had no wish to consort with.

  And there was no way on earth or in heaven that Justin would step over the threshold of such a place.

  Catherine, was otherwise convinced. “Indeed, I believe he has. Like Madame Zirelli, Madame Plumb, also, was an opera singer and actress before Lord Layton set her up, then after he moved on, and with Mrs. Plumb’s looks too faded to snare another of his ilk, she set up her salon. It’s where she’s now invited Madame Zirelli to live—and to sing for her supper. Hence, Madam Plumb is now famous for her Wednesday salons. People attend in masquerade, supposedly to listen to the music, but really it’s just a meeting place for—” She stopped at Cressida’s gasp, saying instead, in gentler tones, “Justin has been a regular patron of Madame Plumb’s, and in view of his...close relationship
...with Madame Zirelli, one can only assume the reason for his visits.”

  “Justin loves music,” Cressida had said, dully, trying to equate Justin sneaking off in masquerade to some house of ill repute after bidding her his standard, tender farewell for the evening.

  The thought caused her another stab of pain, now, as she sat in the dark and tried to make sense of everything Catherine had told her.

  How could Annabelle have been a party to such a sordid, demeaning conversation? Catherine had suggested Annabelle was merely distracted with having to organise the wedding of her sister-in-law’s daughter. Cressida remembered again how unhappy the the bride-to-be, Miss Madeleine Hardwicke. The young woman had, in fact, looked as unhappy as Cressida felt now when Cressida had congratulated her on her impending marriage to Lord Slitherton that evening.

  She tried to bolster herself with the the thought that poor Miss Hardwicke had every reason to look unhappy whereas Cressida knew that Justin still loved her—even if half of what Catherine had suggested was true. No, poor Miss Hardwicke was to marry someone almost old enough to be her grandfather.

  Catherine hadn’t been able to help herself when Cressida had turned the subject from herself to the impending nuptials. “But Lord Slitherton is rich and titled, and that’s all that counts. All men—even those who are handsome or loving at the start—” she’d added, pointedly, “—stray. Oh my goodness, Cressy, you’ve snapped your fan!”

  It had been all Cressida could do not to slap her cousin with the poor, destroyed ivory accessory Justin had given her for her last birthday. Fortunately they’d drawn to a halt in front of Catherine’s townhouse just as her cousin had suggested Cressida make the most of her husband’s guilt by telling her, “I suggest you order three fine, expensive gowns, confront him with everything you’ve heard, then present him with the bill. I promise you, he’ll pay up like a lamb.”

  That was not how Cressida intended approaching matters though just exactly what she planned to do, she wasn’t quite sure. Putting as much distance as she could between herself and her poisonous cousin had certainly been a good start, though.

  The clock in the passage tolled another hour. Two in the morning. Cressida had been home for more than an hour meaning she must have been sitting here, all alone, mulling over this evening, her thoughts taking some convoluted twists and turns, for most of that time.

  Hugging herself, she remembered how bolstered she’d been by her husband’s praise earlier that evening.

  It seemed a hundred years ago and since then the insipid shepherdess had been replaced by a lackluster creature with red- rimmed eyes and sagging shoulders.

  Was Catherine right? Was Cressida really just a willfully blind and brainless wife with her head in the sand, completely unaware of her husband’s desires? She shifted uncomfortably. Well, she knew about those. But that was now only half the problem. The other half was what he might be doing about them?

  Madame Zirelli? Cressida had never even heard of her and yet this was the woman with whom her husband had had an intimate relationship right up until the moment he’d married her. That’s what Catherine had said.

  But what about now? Had he really returned to her?

  A desolation so great she was unable to even articulate her pain washed over her. A man had needs—Cressida accepted that—and she certainly hadn’t been doing what she’d happily done in the early years of their marriage to satisfy them.

  Wearily, she justified herself, even as she knew her denial of her husband was in terms that did not reflect so much on her own fears as they might. Little Thomas was teething. He needed her. He was such a delicate child and their only son. The girls were far more robust and self-sufficient, but Thomas needed his mother. It’s why Cressida slept in his nursery most nights and had done since he’d been born.

  Justin knew that which was why he’d not bother to come to her bedchamber tonight. Which was just as well. Because if he did, she’d have to play the good wife and right now she didn’t have it in her.

  Yet she must speak to him.

  Only...not tonight. Not so soon after what she’d learned. If she could only force herself to go to bed and get a good night’s sleep, she’d wake refreshed in the morning and able to confront him as she knew she must.

  And yet, a good wife turned a blind eye. She’d been taught that, too.

  Her nerves were nearly at snapping point when she heard his faint footstep upon the stair even though she told herself he’d continue to his own bedchamber.

  Yet how she longed to feel his arms around her.

  A hardness born of fear solidified and grew within her. She knew only too well where that led.

  His footsteps continued along the corridor and her heart pounded suddenly loud and insistent in her ears as she registered his pause outside her door.

  Cressida squeezed shut her eyes. Justin was coming to her. She must play the good wife. She must! He loved her—and dear God, she loved him—but she was panicked. What if he—?

  The door opened after a discreet knock, cutting off the thought.

  “Why, Cressy, darling, what are you doing here? And all in the dark?” Justin set his candlestick upon the dressing table. “I thought you’d be with the children. Annabelle Luscombe told me you’d left the ball early. I hope you weren’t feeling unwell?”

  How handsome he looked, his Roman robes still crisp and immaculate after a night of revelry, concern in his voice and tenderness in his expression as he crossed the room. His lean, muscular body cast shadows across the walls. Cressida remembered how, in the past, she’d focused her attention on his flickering shadow as she’d waited with such anticipation for him to come to her. How she’d welcomed him in those early days.

  Now she looked down at her lap. She’d regained her figure quickly, even after her fourth child, and was proud of the fact. But misery banished any good feeling she might have felt about the fact she’d retained her youthfulness, or even that Justin might still genuinely desire her. No, there was nothing to be proud of now when that same body that should provide for the needs of a loving husband was tense and resistant. Not when her mind silently screamed its fear that somehow Justin would unleash the gates of her latent desire and she’d succumb to—

  “I’m quite well, thank you.” She turned her face away as Justin lowered his head to kiss her ear, resting his hands lightly on her shoulders.

  Breathing in his special scent of sandalwood, which signified safety and wonderful familiarity, she fought to remain calm.

  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, despite her earlier scepticism, 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, if that were the case, 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.

  Instead, she sought for something...anything...to say, and burst out, “Poor Miss Hardwicke. Imagine being forced to marry someone so...old when she’s in love with someone else.”

  Justin looked confused, as well he might since he’d just rested his cheek tenderly against his wife’s. Straightening, he raised his eyebrows and, lounging against the end of Cressida’s bed, asked, “Who is Miss Hardwicke?”

  “Annabelle Luscombe’s niece. Or rather, her sister-in-law’s daughter.” Cressida fiddled nervously with her silver-backed brush. “Annabelle is arranging the marriage preparations because her sister-in-law is too ill to do so.”

  “And, I’m afraid, that is exactly why Miss Hardwicke is marrying Lord Slitherton. Yes, of course I know now who you’re referring to.” He sighed. “Poor young woman will be left without a feather to fly with once her mother is gone—which is imminent, I hear, though her uncle will do what he can. He’s a decent fellow. Nevertheless, it’s natural Mrs Hardwicke wants to see her only child settled.”

 
; “But Miss Hardwicke is in love with Mr Pendleton!” Cressida burst out.

  “Really?” Justin looked rather taken aback.

  “Remember how I remarked upon how in love they looked, at a ball some months ago? You said Mr. Pendleton was marked out for great things—that is, once he’s a little older and less circumspect about putting himself forward. You said he was very clever.”

  Justin sighed. “Sadly, Mr Pendleton’s heart—and Miss Hard- wicke’s—is of no account when the gentleman has no money. Lord Slitherton has more than ten thousand a year.”

  “And so Miss Hardwicke is to spend the rest of her life in domestic slavery?”

  “Domestic slavery,” Justin murmured, and Cressida glanced up to see the flash of interest in his eyes.

  “Oh, please don’t think that’s a term I’ve ever used in relation to my own situation,” Cressida hastened to assure him, causing Justin to laugh merrily as he put his arms about her and rested his chin upon the top of her head.

  The scene was one of the utmost domestic harmony, Justin’s expression warm, his mood light. But that was how it always started.

  Domestic felicity soon turned to tender loving which turned to...unbridled passion beneath the sheets.

  Cressida’s first instinct had been to raise her hand to ruffle Justin’s curls, to stroke his cheek.

  But memory curdled into fear and...

  Cressida did what she’d done for nearly a year, since Thomas’ difficult birth.

  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.