Alone in her room that night, she painfully reviewed the evening’s frustrations over and over in her mind. Why, he hadn’t even mentioned the forthcoming wedding at all, except in jest when several of the male guests saw fit to pelt him with quips concerning his “new duties” and his “demotion in rank.” Of course, Straeford handled their barbs with his characteristic aplomb, but Marisa could not help feeling hurt by their insensitive attempts at humor. Much later that evening, she had sought in a very quiet way to talk to him concerning several details relating to the wedding arrangements. But he dismissed them with one broad sweep of his hand. “I’m certain, my dear, that you are an intelligent woman who is quite capable of attending to these trivialities entirely on your own. Can’t you see that I have far too many matters of greater importance that will demand my undivided attention for some time? Now I do hope that you will care for these details independently of me and not trouble me needlessly. All I ask, no, demand is that the ceremony be simple, brief and devoid of any embarrassing theatrics.”
Trivialities? Matters of greater importance? Didn’t this marriage have any importance at all for him? Marisa gritted her teeth in disgust as she recalled how cavalierly he treated what she thought were necessary questions for both of them to resolve. From that moment on Marisa took no pleasure whatsoever in the wedding preparations. Although she longed to have a glorious, gala wedding, she knew it was impossible and resigned herself to planning a small, undistinguished affair.
Finally, on a cold and blustery afternoon in early February, the ceremony took place. The huge Gothic church remained largely empty for the occasion and, except for the lighted candles on the altar and the dim luminescence yielded by the small stained glass windows, the nuptial rites were conducted in an uninspiring state of semidarkness. The earl had insisted on a simple wedding and, according to his wishes, pomp and guests were excluded.
While Straeford, Ed Harding and the minister stood in front of the altar, Lady Maxwell and Ann Harding occupied the first pew and awaited the arrival of the bride and her father. Impatiently, the earl referred to a pocket watch from his vest and at that exact moment the south portico doors opened to let in a gust of cold air and the entire Loftus family. Hushed whispers were exchanged among all of them before Angus appeared to escort his daughter to the altar with a proud grin on his half-whiskered face.
Marisa wore a tight-fitting ivory pelisse with several short capes trimmed in ermine, her accompanying hat and muff matching the fur of her capes. She smiled demurely as she walked in a dignified cadence up the aisle with her father. Her dress was simple but elegant, and it both surprised and impressed Straeford. His bride might be a mere merchant’s daughter but there was no denying that she had the beauty and quiet good taste of a noblewoman.
Never falterkig for a moment on her way to the altar, Marisa gracefully accepted the earl’s arm and together they faced the minister. Although she could feel her heart beating frantically inside, she appeared outwardly calm and poised as the ceremony began. She struggled bravely to maintain a placid, confident façade as her eyes glanced quickly at this tall, dark figure of a man who stood next to her, now gripping her hand firmly, almost painfully at this, the most important moment of her life. Then an eerie feeling flashed suddenly within her, making her wonder if she had ever even seen this man before—really looked at him. Actually, he was a stranger to her, and this was the first time that she became acutely aware of that fact.
The sacred words that would forever unite them one to the other echoed solemnly within the towering inner walls of the church. As their vows were exchanged, each phrase was magically repeated first once, then again and again, until the sounds of their voices became unintelligible, muffled noises which rose upward and disappeared somewhere within the dark spiraling arches of the Gothic structure. When the earl slipped a band of emeralds and diamonds over her delicate finger, Marisa wanted desperately to hear the strains of an organ or a chorus of angelic voices to glorify that instant. In just a matter of a few fleeting moments she had become a countess. But the ceremony was bereft of music, people, warmth and love, she reflected, only because this man decreed it so. How much more wonderful it might have been if only he… She was curious to know whether he felt anything at all with regard to this wedding, to its significance, to her. When her eyes turned to meet his, she could find no warmth within them. Instead, only a cool appraisal appeared, making her wonder if they always gleamed like chips of green ice.
No kiss was exchanged between them at the conclusion of the ceremony. They simply turned to those present, the earl receiving the outstretched hands of the gentlemen present while the ladies joyfully hugged the new countess and kissed her on the cheek. Expressions of good luck followed them outside in the cold February air which sent the entire wedding party scurrying to their carriages.
Inside the head coach, the newlyweds sat facing Lady Maxwell and Angus Loftus. “Tine service,” Loftus pronounced as he rubbed his hands together to warm them. “Only wish you hadn’t insisted on such a small one. Why, we could have packed that church and afterward there’d have been such a celebration, the whole town would have known about it.”
“I believe the Gazette will provide adequate coverage of the whole affair. You needn’t worry, my good man. Publicity will be ample,” the earl sneered.
Lady Maxwell’s timing and diplomacy prompted her to intervene. “I understand that you’ve provided a banquet for the occasion.”
“Oh, it’s quite a menu, all right,” Loftus boasted, “but then, why not? After all, it’s not every day my little girl gets married—and to an Earl of the Realm at that!” He patted his daughter’s cheek and beamed with pride.
Embarrassed by her father’s shallow comments, Marisa stole a quick look at Straeford to detect his reaction, but he was paying her father no attention at all. Instead, his face bore a glazed stare of indifference as he watched the winter countryside pass beyond the carriage window. She breathed easier, knowing that the earl held Angus in low regard and kept mental tally of the unpolished man’s social blunders. Hoping to avoid any mortification her father might cause, Marisa found herself struggling to steer and control the conversation to protect her parent from the earl’s disdain.
Angus would have been deeply hurt if he had known his daughter’s concern on this matter, for he just assumed he was admired as well as loved and respected by all his children since he had dedicated himself to the goal of providing them with every advantage possible. The supper he had ordered for that evening was yet another example of his desire to lavish his family with all that his money could buy. It was an extraordinary banquet consisting of at least a half-dozen of the most delectable dishes, including turtle soup, crab salad, potato puffs, mint-glazed carrots, asparagus a la Polonaise, white breast of turkey and veal Marsala. Special servants had also been engaged for the occasion. Dressed in formal livery, they quietly served the meal with an almost military precision.
Marisa found it difficult, however, to enjoy her wedding feast to the fullest. Seated next to her new husband, she seemed unable to rid herself of the many doubts that nagged her regarding his true feelings for her and the adjustments she would now have to face as his wife. A magnificent multi-tiered cake was set in front of them, helping her to dismiss these thoughts for the moment. But when her father rose to deliver a champagne toast to the two of them, she was touched by his words and she found herself again searching the earl’s eyes as they lightly tapped their glasses.
What Straeford thought of the whole affair she could only guess for his characteristically stoic expression remained etched on his face throughout the entire proceedings. Even when they were alone and on their way to their newly acquired home on Berkeley Square, he remained almost sullenly silent until the carriage pulled up before their residence. In his enthusiasm, Angus Loftus had even managed to acquire the mansion that had once belonged to Straeford’s mother. He and his daughter had little realized the painful memories it held for the earl.
It was an imposing structure, a three-story town house, with an iron picket fence surrounding it and two tall street lamps standing at either side of the entrance gate. When the carriage came to a halt, the main door opened and Jenkins, the newly engaged butler, smiled broadly to welcome them. Inside, they made their way along an elegantly decorated corridor to the drawing room where a cozy fire burned invitingly in the hearth’s grate.
“The house has only been partially furnished,” she said. “I hope that what I’ve done so far is to your satisfaction. Possibly you might even have some suggestions as to the rest of the decor…”
“I? This is your home, my dear. I shall be a mere visitor from time to time. You may do as you wish with it.”
“But this was once your home.” Marisa’s brow wrinkled in a puzzled expression. Surely he recognized her father’s efforts to restore completely everything that once had been Straeford’s.
“I barely recall it and it holds no special significance for the Straefords. My father bought it years ago simply to please my… the countess because she felt she needed a home in the fashionable section of London. And now your father has seen fit to purchase it as a wedding gift.” He gave a short laugh laced with irony.
Marisa seated herself in one of the mauve wingback chairs as Straeford poured two glasses of sherry from the crystal decanter set on a nearby table. As he handed her a glass, he proposed a toast. “Let us drink to our mutual good fortune on this our wedding night, my dear wife.”
That was the first time she had heard him use that word and he said it with a peculiar ring, Marisa thought. Obligingly, she rose to lift her glass to his and, as she sipped her drink, her eyes received a penetrating gaze which made her instantly uncomfortable. It was a slow and complete appraisal of her entire body, and it caused her to turn away from him and fidget with her goblet nervously.
She was a remarkably beautiful woman. As she stood near the fireplace her ivory satin dress seemed to change colors in front of the flickering fire. Her delicate white neck and smooth shoulders were bare except for the tiny capped ermine sleeves and a single strand of pearls she wore about her throat. Her complexion was milky and translucent in appearance, her hair a glorious gold.
Straeford continued to survey her classic figure during a long moment of silence that made Marisa think her nerves would snap. She forced her eyes to meet his squarely.
“My lord,” she said, swallowing hard.
He replied with a deep but unintelligible mumble that shook her confidence.
“My lord… I…”
“Yes, yes! We’ve gotten that far twice around.” He seemed amused at her faltering attempts to get to the point.
“I… I must speak forthrightly with you.” Her voice was now breathless, and her composure completely deserted her when his eyebrows arched arrogantly and that satanic glint streamed from his eyes.
“By all means, please do. Isn’t that an essential ingredient of wedded bliss? An honest, straightforward discussion between man and wife.”
His mocking manner was loathsome, but she had to make him understand her feelings at this moment.
“We barely know one another, my lord… and… well, two people thrown into a marriage like this need time to learn one another’s ways and…”
“On the contrary, I think we know each other well enough at this moment to be able to share our marriage bed together. What is this talk about needing more time? What difference will time make?”
“I mean… we need more time… at least in our personal relationship… before we… become intimate.” She didn’t like the way her words sounded as soon as they left her lips.
“Ah hah! I see! You wish to renege on our bargain, is that it?”
“Why must you refer to it as a ‘bargain’? I would respectfully remind you that this day we entered into a marriage…”
“… of convenience!” he cut in quickly. Towering over her, he jutted his jaw directly toward hers and snatched her chin between his fingers. “And it is my convenience to consummate this marriage tonight. Now do be a good wife and go upstairs and prepare yourself appropriately as an obedient woman should on her wedding night.”
He escorted her to the door and pronounced, “I’ll be up shortly. Now do hurry and don’t disappoint me.”
Perhaps he was right, Marisa thought as she mounted the stairs. What difference would more time make, indeed? She could have a lifetime and still never be ready for his demands.
Inside her room, Marisa rummaged about a bureau drawer until she found a coarse muslin night dress, a garment she thoroughly detested. Much more suitable for his temperament, she thought, as she slipped into its long sleeves and buttoned the high neck. Hopefully, he would find this more “appropriate” than the alluring sheer gown she discarded in her drawer.
Pleased with her act of defiance, Marisa seated herself before a vanity mirror to undo her hair and brush its long honey-colored tresses as she pondered his entrance at any moment. She must not be afraid, she told herself. But when the adjoining door between their bedrooms clicked open, her hand hesitated in midair before continuing its descent on the next downward brush stroke. In the mirror she could see his reflection. Wearing only his tight white britches, his athletic V-shaped body made her feel as though she were being stalked in a game of hunt. Suddenly she felt unable to move, and her mouth became dry as she stared at his approaching muscular image.
A long thin white scar ran through the curling black hair on his strapping chest while a newer red scar coiled along his right shoulder. She wondered how he had survived that chest wound, but as his hands touched her shoulders she saw the look of displeasure which kindled within his eyes.
“Is this what the fashion magazines are recommending these days for enticing men into your bed?” He examined her gown, mocking it as a travesty of modesty.
Marisa said nothing, but tossed an indignant frown in his direction as she rose to douse the candles on the vanity.
“Wait!” he commanded. His arm clutched her waist in a whiplike grip, and she remembered the strength and solidity of his arms which now grasped her with terrifying ease.
“I wish to see what I bargained for,” he taunted, his words utterly distasteful to her.
She struggled to release herself from his grip and came face to face with him. Two strong hands tore at the front of her dress and Marisa reeled backward.
“I won’t be humiliated like this,” she said, her voice cracking. “You have no right to deal with me in this manner.”
“Oh, but I do indeed, my dear spouse, have every right to do as I please, or have you forgotten your vows which you solemnly spoke this very day?”
“Why must you be so heartless, so insensitive?” she protested.
Seizing her arm with one hand, Straeford thrust a menacing finger at her with the other. “Now you listen to me and listen carefully. I do not take kindly to criticism from anyone. But least of all do I expect it in my own household and from my own wife. You should be clear on this point right from the start. I expect no defiance from you any more than I would from a servant. If you are going to have the privilege of bearing the Straeford name, then I am justly entitled to your obedience to my bidding. And my bidding at this moment requires you to remove that ridiculous and insulting piece of rag you are wearing. I expect you to do it right now!”
With shaking hands, Marisa slowly unbuttoned her night dress, realizing that she should have expected him to retaliate. Suddenly her hands were abruptly pushed aside, and before she could defend herself in any way, he clenched the front of her dress with both hands and ripped the bodice open with a sound that brought a sinking feeling to the pit of her stomach. She shuddered helplessly as he shredded the remainder of the garment from her shoulders and let it drop in pieces to the floor. Marisa shivered, aware of her nakedness, powerless to deal with the tears which now threatened to flow.
“That’s better,” her captor said, both hands on his hips. He walked slowly around her, surveying his
spoils. One hand slid along her shapely form and stopped to cup her sculptured breast. And then the other reached about her tiny waist and drew her against his rock-hard body. She felt weak, near to fainting, when he lifted her into his arms and carried her to the nearby bed. Now, with his warm body beside hers, she was alarmed at the strange stirrings welling within her as his powerful hands stroked the lovely valleys and hollows of her form, boldly, shamelessly.
“Oh, please…” she pleaded, just as he brought his lips down on hers hard and bruising, blocking out her protests. But there was little she could do to resist his total domination over her and she feared that any serious efforts to do so might trigger that lightninglike anger which he had revealed only a few moments earlier. This was not at all what she imagined her first act of love would be like. He treated her roughly, with only one purpose in mind—his own lust, totally disregarding her feelings. It was all she could do to keep from crying out as she submitted quietly to her conqueror’s hungry advances.
When he finally took her body for his own, Marisa groaned audibly, and she felt his searing movements halt briefly in response. It was only later, when his passion had subsided, that the earl realized she had been a virgin. Rising abruptly from the bed, he left the room without so much as a backward glance.
The devil take her! he thought. A virgin at her age? But how? There had been some talk of a lover. He poured himself a drink and flung himself into a chair. Why didn’t Lady Maxwell warn him? Well, too late now. No sense trying to second-guess the whole matter. He just thoroughly, if not too gently, initiated her to the act of love.
A stifled sob came from the adjacent room and Straeford swore out loud. “Damn her! Damn her to hell!” No woman was going to prod him with pangs of guilt ever again—not as long as he lived. He’d finished with that years ago.
Tender Torment Page 11
