Tender Torment (16 page)

“Oh,” Marisa jumped up and said hotly, “is that what you meant by my ‘winning this round’? If so, I must reject your offer
of congratulations. I am deeply sorry, but I do not view this marriage as some contest, some cheap sparring match where either
you or I must win.”

“Well, I’ll be damned!” he roared in disbelief. “You dare to rip up at me after I acquitted you? Sad want of conduct, I must
say to you, my dear wife.”

Marisa saw some justice in his retort and paused momentarily before replying with some conciliation in her voice.

“I… I did not mean to be churlish. It is only that… well, I find it difficult to understand… you.”

“There is no reason you should. You have only to obey me and hold your tongue more carefully in check in the future.”

“So what you’re saying is that you really do not intend to let me understand you, is that it?” she asked pointedly.

“My dear, this topic of conversation has now arrived at the point of boredom I must say. It now seems to me that it is time
for us to adjourn to the drawing room.” He opened the door with an air of finality, and Marisa discreetly accompanied him
to the adjoining room. Once seated on a new blue and white silk sofa, she looked carefully at Straeford. He was moving about
the room, examining its contents as if he were in a gallery. Then a curious look appeared on his face as he studied the Worthington
landscape above the mantel.

“Why have you removed her portrait?” Clearly he was disturbed, and Marisa wondered whether Lady Maxwell had been wrong in
suggesting that the portrait be removed. Perhaps the grand old dame was capable of dealing with her grandson’s wrath concerning
that woman and the dark mystery of the past that surrounded her, but Marisa knew that she herself was not up to it. It might
be prudent, she thought, to let the blame for the removal of the portrait fall on the dowager’s head.

“Lady Maxwell suggested it belonged in the gallery with the rest of the Straeford portraits.”

“I see,” he said thoughtfully. “Can’t say I disagree.
And I suppose you will have your own portrait hanging there before very long. I daresay in time it will serve in a similar
capacity.”

Marisa ignored his cynicism and broached a related subject. “Lady Maxwell thought… that perhaps you and I… well, together
we might have an oil painting done.”

Raising his eyes suspiciously, the earl gazed at his wife for a long moment. Damn! she was a beauty just sitting there with
her delicate white throat and high cheekbones, those large sapphire eyes. Yes, it dawned on him all of a sudden. Yes, a portrait
should be done, and he visualized himself standing behind her, his hand resting on her creamy white shoulder. And suddenly
he remembered her in all of her glorious nakedness the night before, and he found himself wanting her now, at this very second.

He walked close to her and drank in that subtle fragrance that captured his attention whenever she had been near him earlier
that evening. It was still there, definitely noticeable, hidden somewhere about her lovely neck—an intoxicating scent that
set off an impulse within him to seek out its source and devour it.

“Your lordship!” Marisa implored, seeing the passion stirring in his eyes. “I wonder if you heard my question to you?” She
rose from the sofa, trying to back away as he advanced even closer, but soon found herself with nowhere to go.

“I did hear your question, and I will give it very serious consideration. Does that satisfy you?” he asked, taking her hand
in his, pulling her tightly against him before she could think of anything to say in reply. All at once, his mouth pressed
passionately against hers in a long and savage kiss, making Marisa’s legs feel as though they were utterly helpless to hold
her upright against his advances. She fell limp under the overwhelming power of his arms, and then his lips found their way
to her cheek, her earlobe, her neck and the hollow of her throat, sending peculiar sensations soaring in her brain.

How different he seemed from the previous night. His hands were firm and strong, to be sure, as they moved incontestably from
her back to her waist and then
up again, but they also were slower, more sensitive to her emotions somehow. And Marisa felt herself no longer struggling
against him and his touch. Now she sensed a sudden rising wave of desire surge deep within her own body as the pressure of
his muscular thighs against hers grew more forceful. However, she found herself refusing to yield as he pressed even closer.

Marisa trembled, unable to believe that she was capable of these dangerous yearnings that tantalized her being. It happened
so fast she was weak, and then panic seized her as she realized that they were still in the drawing room. “N-… no,” she whispered
urgently. “No, no… Please, stop. The servants…”

Straeford recoiled at her pleadings. “Of course. Tonight it is the servants. And what excuse will you use the next time?”
Without another word, he lifted her into his arms, causing her to give off a muffled cry. It was impossible for her to think
clearly as he swiftly took the stairs, her entire being firmly in his grip. Entering her room with a kick of the door, he
dropped her on the bed and followed her down in single-minded pursuit of his furious passion.

He quickly satisfied himself and afterward, as she lay alone in tearful silence, Marisa chafed at the extremes in mood which
his nature seemed to constantly exhibit. The tenderness she had experienced earlier in his arms quickly disappeared. Now,
having had his way in bed, he was gone—where, she did not know. How could he be here one moment in the midst of blazing passion
and then gone the next?

During the week that followed, Marisa found herself dwelling on the earl’s traits more and more. She took careful note of
how little time he seemed to spend with her. Except for an occasional morning ride on horseback and their evening meal together,
they typically spent their days quite apart from each other’s company. Even when they were together, it seemed their conversation
was thin and superficial. Several days’ careful observations made her arrive reluctantly at the conclusion that Straeford
really had no use for women in his life, not even her except when it came to his own personal pleasure. Once
that was achieved, he appeared to have little need for a woman’s companionship. In fact, it seemed to her that he was avoiding
her company at every opportunity.

Marisa’s suspicions were confirmed at the end of that week when Manners announced that the earl had left for London. Without
so much as a word to her, he had gone and didn’t even leave her a note to explain. No, his lordship had not informed Manners
as to the nature of the business, the embarrassed butler reported to her apologetically. And Marisa realized then and there
how insignificant she really was in his life.

Lonely brooding hours linked one with another in a monotonous chain of uneventful days until Marisa felt her nerves were about
to snap. Then, chiding herself for having been so slow in coming to grips with the realities of her marriage, she knew she
had spent too many days nursing her own hurt pride. Once assured that all she needed was to revive her interests in the London
house and to come by some more amiable company, Marisa sent for Foster Duncan, the interior decorator who had helped her enormously
with the restoration of both houses thus far.

Duncan was an effeminate little man with a balding head and a thin, almost fragile body, but he was an animated talker and
always had a great fund of witty stories at his command. When he arrived, he was wearing a bright red frock coat, a red and
white striped waistcoat and pale pink trousers. Marisa never ceased to marvel at his audacity. She found herself amused by
his countless eccentricities that seemed to offend or annoy others so easily. For some reason, she had a great deal of sympathy
for this caricature of a man who spoke at an incredible rate of speed, flitting from topic to topic in such a disorganized
fashion she wondered how he ever was capable of doing the intricate work he had done for her at Straeford Park.

He had been invited every day for the entire week because Marisa was anxious to complete the restoration of Straeford and
to turn her attention back to the house in Berkeley Square. Dutifully, he arrived each morning from the village of Stray with
his design books tucked under his arms and the sample fabrics which he loved to
display in countless varieties and combinations. Each evening he would return to the inn at the same hour, but on his final
night before returning to London, the countess invited him to dine with her.

Foster Duncan had done much to elevate Marisa’s spirits over the past few days, and she genuinely appreciated his droll stories.
What a comparison with Justin, she thought, as she observed the amusing little man, his mouth chattering on nervously. And
just as he was in the midst of one of his favorite vignettes, the dining room door was thrust open unexpectedly and in strode
the earl. Marisa sat there, too dumbfounded to speak while Duncan, a glass of wine to his lips, dribbled and then choked uncontrollably.

“Who the devil are you?” the earl shot out in a booming voice that literally terrified the little man. Duncan sputtered out
his name and extended a hand weakly in Straeford’s direction, but his gesture of courtesy was completely ignored. Dressed
in his scarlet uniform, the earl towered over the two of them and glared at his wife, who had barely recovered her wits.

“Let me introduce Mr. Duncan, the decorator I hired to renovate the Park, my lord.”

“Decorator?” he sneered, looking with contempt at the cringing guest.

“Uh… perhaps I’d better be going, Lady Straeford. I… I… I have all of your suggestions now. They’re really quite good a… and I… I most certainly will get to work on them immediately.” Then, turning toward the earl, he stammered, “G-… Good
night, m-… my lord,” and made a hasty retreat.

Straeford continued his steely glare at his wife, who was seething inside with so many strong emotions she didn’t know which
one was uppermost. “How dare you insult my guest like that!” Marisa was standing directly in front of him now, her hands placed
squarely on her hips.

“Your
guest?”
He rolled the word insolently off his tongue. “How dare you consort with mincing fops such as that behind my back?”

“I beg your pardon. Mr. Duncan is a gentleman, I’ll have you know.”

“Have you forgotten your new position in society, madam? You are no longer a merchant’s daughter but my wife. You are the
Countess of Straeford now, and I will expect you to select your acquaintances in a manner fitting your title.”

“You may hold your title and position in very high regard, my lord, but I must say to you in all honesty that I care not a
twit for either at this moment.”

“Indeed? I was under the assumption that you married me for both. Could I have been mistaken?” He paused, then added caustically,
“Don’t tell me now that it was for… love?”

Marisa could barely contain herself as she blurted out her reply. “No… no… never! Never could I love a man as… cold and
as callous as you!”

“Well, then, if it wasn’t for those reasons, pray tell what
was
it for?”

Marisa turned her head away, unable to withstand his relentless assault, but his stern fingers clawed at her shoulder and
he swung her around to face him. “You’re not going to tell me that you were forced to do your father’s bidding, are you?”
That was something he would not be able to accept, Marisa realized, and she stood there, numb, unable to reply. He could never
understand the complicated reasons for a decision she herself did not totally comprehend, so what good would it do to try
to make any sense out of it? Marisa just shook her head in answer to his question.

“Then admit it, woman, and be done with your prevarications. You married me for my title and all of the comfort and respectability
that are attached to the same. Now perhaps you may not ‘care a twit’, as you say, for my good name, but rest assured that
I will
demand
that you respect it. See here, there’ll be no sluttish hole-in-the-corner affairs for you. At least not yet, anyway.”

Marisa trembled with rage and, completely forgetting herself, slapped his arrogant face roundly with a sound that cracked.
A dangerous glint smoked from his eyes as he retaliated with a sharp slap first on her left cheek and then on her right one.
He could overwhelm her in an instant, and she knew it was foolish to have let this
happen at all. The fight went out of her and, Covering her face with her hands, she sank into the nearest chair.

A brisk knock on the door brought an end to any further altercations, and Marisa was thankful that Manners had chosen that
moment to enter the room.

“Beg pardon, your lordship, but I thought to clean up if the countess be finished.” Manners eyed his mistress sympathetically.
He knew he had failed her by not announcing the earl’s entrance in advance, but he had been forbidden to do so once it became
apparent she was entertaining a male guest.

“Yes… yes, Manners,” she was unable to hide her tears, and she hurried away, grateful for the kindly butler’s help. He cast
an accusing stare in the earl’s direction, causing Straeford to say in defense, “Acquit me, old man!”

Straeford stalked off to the library to pour himself a drink and sort out his thoughts. This woman brought out the worst in
him, he was sure of that. He had never planned to strike her. It was the furthest thing from his mind. But where in God’s
kingdom did she get the starch to hit him? For that, she deserved much more than a slap, of course. And Manners? Why, that
old fool! He was bewitched by her. That was obvious. It was almost as if he were going to receive a reprimand from his own
butler! By God, the whole household would be on his neck in the next breath. Damn all women! Damn them all to hell! Nothing
but endless troubles.

Marisa examined her cheeks carefully in front of her yanity mirror the next morning and found no bruises. Fortunately, he
had not struck her very hard. Whatever possessed her to slap him first? She must have run mad. But then she remembered his
rudeness to Duncan and his accusations and… well, wasn’t she really justified? The contemptuousness of his behavior was just
too much to bear.