Weary from several sleepless nights before the wedding and then last night’s ordeal, Marisa slept late the next morning. Her maid had not awakened her until his lordship summoned her in the hallway.
“Tell your mistress I wish to leave for Straeford within the hour!” he commanded sternly, sending Lucy scurrying to Marisa’s room.
“Oh, do wake up, my lady. His lordship looks to be in a black temper this morning.”
Marisa stirred and winced at the stiffness and soreness she felt. The previous night’s events crept into her consciousness as she awakened to the sound of Lucy’s words. She sat up with a start, clutching the bedsheet to her bosom.
“What did you say, Lucy?”
“His lordship said he wishes to leave for the Park within the hour.”
“Within the hour! Oh, Lucy, why didn’t you wake me sooner? Forget the hot chocolate and hand me that peignoir. Is my bath drawn? I must hurry!”
Slipping into her robe, Marisa noticed the torn night dress on the floor exactly where the earl had dropped it the night before.
“Here, my lady, let me take thatt.” Lucy stooped to pick it up and bustled about her chores, but Marisa stood there locked deeply in thought. He’d done his worst to her last night, so what more need she fear? If last night’s episode were a prelude of things to come in this marital arrangement, well, then she might never be able to breathe another easy breath the rest of her wedded life.
“My lady,” Lucy interrupted her thoughts. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, Lucy!” she said resolutely. “I most decidedly am all right this morning. And do you know what I’m thinking? I’m thinking that I will have that hot chocolate after all.”
“What? But, my lady, his lordship…”
“His lordship will wait, thank you,” Marisa said pointedly as she eased herself into her chaise longue and folded her arms triumphantly.
When Straeford reread the note his wife had sent him through Lucy, he was wild with rage. She could not be ready within the hour as he had wished, the note informed him. Crumpling the paper in his hand, the earl hurled a curse in the air. Apparently this woman did not understand him, but he’d soon remedy that!
Straeford startled Jenkins by storming past him in the center hall and taking two stairs at a time. Without a knock he flung open the bedroom door at the exact instant Marisa was rising from her bath. Lucy quickly drew a towel about her mistress while the earl stood there, glowering.
“Wait outside!” he snapped at Lucy, who bobbed a curtsey and fled with haste.
Marisa tightened her hold on the towel and braced herself as he drew near.
“What is the meaning of this?” he growled, crossing in front of her and tapping the wrinkled note in his hand. Marisa walked slowly to her vanity and seated herself calmly before replying, “I thought it plain enough, my lord.”
“Did you, indeed?” he sneered. “Well, hear this, madam wife. You have exactly fifteen minutes to ready yourself.”
Marisa surprised even herself at how composed she remained in the face of his anger this morning. “Fifteen minutes! Impossible! I’ll never be able to…” But the earl cut her off immediately, his tough fingers grasping her chin with a stinging grip. “Then I shall leave without you and you may make your own way to the Park. Do you understand?”
Marisa lowered her eyes and nodded.
“I shall expect to see you at the allotted time.” Without another word, he whirled on his heels and strode out of the room.
A full twenty minutes had passed when Straeford entered the center hall, fully expecting to see his wife cowering there. A scowl creased his face as he looked up the stairs and listened for some sign of her descent. A minute passed, then two more. Fuming inside, he paced back and forth impatiently in the hallway. Finally, when an additional ten minutes had gone by, he stamped his heel in anger and marched out of the house. With a violent oath, he leaped onto his horse and galloped away.
A full hour following the earl’s angry departure, Lady Straeford finally appeared to enter her coach and make her journey to the Park by herself. There was no other choice but to follow the temperamental man she had wedded only twenty-four hours before. Her arrival there would probably end in another personal humiliation, possibly a public one, too, if the ton were ever to discover that he had left his wife before their marriage had even begun. But what alternatives did she have?
By the time the coach reached the entrance to Straeford Park, Marisa could feel her earlier confidence rapidly leaving her. As the wheels inched slowly toward the manor house and the coach came to a stop, she anticipated the earl’s reception and prayed for her courage to return. The doors to the house swung open, and she hoped that her prayers would be answered.
8
It was Manners who greeted her at the door to Straeford and Marisa was thankful for that. His hearty welcome helped alleviate the tension that had been building up during the interminable ride to Straeford Park, and when she entered the entrance hall that was now brightly lighted and airy in contrast to its former gloomy atmosphere, it was as though she had forgotten the many improvements she had made to the manor house and was now seeing it for the first time.
Marisa looked with pride at the results of her painstaking efforts. A sparkling gilt chandelier reflected on the gleaming slate floor and highly polished oak paneling. A basket of carefully arranged flowers was set on a new center table constructed of Carrara marble, and the aged portraits were now replaced by a series of lighthearted drawings. Her many hours of planning had done much to inject vitality into the house and recapture much of its original flavor.
“So good to see the house once again,” Marisa smiled as Manners helped her remove her redingote. “Tell me, is his lordship about?”
“Yes, my lady. I believe he is in the library. Shall I announce you?”
“N-… no… I’m quite fatigued from the trip. I believe I shall retire until supper. I won’t disturb him until then.”
Clearly the earl had no wish to see her any more than she cared to see him at that moment. He had not come into the hallway to greet her, and surely he had heard the carriage arrive. Was this war of nerves going to continue?
Marisa went directly to the white chamber, a room that was part of the master suite. Upon opening its door, her eyes danced with delight as they reviewed the wallpaper, the canopied bed, the brocaded draperies, all of which had been scrupulously selected to create a pink and fawn motif in a white background. A rich Persian carpet coordinated perfectly with the basic pastel shades of the room, and the Hepplewhite furnishings completed the total effect of warmth and elegance.
Pleased with what she had accomplished in such a short period of time, Marisa wondered if the earl would be appreciative of her efforts. She tried not to think of the confrontation the two of them would eventually have. Muttering to herself in order to allay her fears, she curled up for a restful nap wishing that all her problems would somehow just disappear. But instead of sleeping, she found her thoughts going back again and again to the problem of what she would say to him when they finally met. How did she get here in the first place? It all seemed like a bad dream, she thought, as she stared absentmindedly out her bedroom window while shadows appeared, slowly elongated, and then cloaked the room in dusky silence.
When Lucy came in to dress her for supper, Marisa felt relieved since she had convinced herself that the anticipation of adversities was, perhaps, far worse than the realities she would have to face. Besides, there was no good reason for her to be fearful toward her husband. After all, what had she done? And if she acted timidly toward his threats and his rantings—well, she knew he would think even less of her. This marriage would have to be built on the basis of mutual respect or it would be a hopeless farce. Whatever the outcome, she vowed that she would, at the very least, carry herself with dignity and self-respect through it all.
To bolster her confidence, Marisa decided to dress herself with as much style as she could muster. She ha
d learned a long time ago from her mother that the anger of most men was often a result of a woman’s charm and grace. A graceful Empire dress of pink shot-silk seemed the perfect selection for the occasion. Its close-fitting sleeves and slim skirt edged with a delicate embroidery gave her a sense of refinement and self-assurance. In front of her mirror, she looked approvingly at its fit and toyed briefly with the Grecian ringlets and curls which Lucy had carefully fashioned. A simple silver chain around her neck matched her earrings and now she was ready, hoping that it was all worth the effort.
When she reached the last step of the staircase, the earl suddenly appeared and, to her surprise, merely harrumphed an unintelligible greeting in her direction. Perhaps he was going to be civil after all? Nattily attired in a forest green cutaway, matching vest and white pantaloons, he looked every bit the aristocrat he was, and Marisa could not help admiring his imperial figure.
Unexpectedly, he escorted her to the dining room where once again Marisa’s decorative work was everywhere to be seen. When he had last viewed this room, it was gray and unattractive, but now it assumed the same style and color scheme as the drawing room. Each chamber displayed rich blue velvet draperies which swept dramatically to one side and were held in position by a leaf of gold. The overhanging cornices were intricately designed structures that resembled a royal crown, and clusters of delicate golden petals flecked the cream-colored wallpaper that had been chosen for the background.
The effect was striking, and Marisa could feel instinctively that he was impressed. But the earl said nothing at all as the two of them ate in silence under the watchful eye of Manners and the newly hired maid. It was only after dessert had been placed before them and both servants had disappeared that Straeford decided to speak. He found himself on the horns of a dilemma. Ever since he returned to the Park, he had been taken aback by the extraordinary transformations his new bride had accomplished. He was grateful for that, but he did not know how to approach her at this juncture, since he had every intention of raking her down good and proper for her earlier defiance. Manners had added to Straeford’s perplexity by heaping lavish praise on his wife and pointing to minuscule improvement she had made when the earl completed his first tour of his ancestral residence. As if that were not enough, Bess also took up the cudgel on her behalf when he visited the completely remodeled kitchen. The relief and gratitude he felt at seeing Straeford Park restored to this degree continued to war with his rage at her defiance of him.
The earl drummed his fingers impatiently on the long rosewood table as he watched Marisa linger over her dessert, seemingly oblivious to his presence. Had he known the deep inner anxiety she was experiencing at that moment, he might not have given in to his mounting sense of frustration so easily. But he felt he could no longer continue with this game of silence.
“Well, madam,” he said with resignation. “I suppose you win this round.”
“I… I win?” She was totally mystified by his remark.
“Yes. I am telling you that I intend to overlook your act of defiance earlier today.”
“But, my lord, it was not defiance that caused me to be so late this morning. It was simply impossible for me to get ready in the brief amount of time you…”
“Enough!” he cut in. “Regardless, and above all else, I expect to be obeyed in all things, madam. All things!”
A brief moment of silence followed his angry command but Marisa thought it wise not to say anything at that point.
“Nevertheless,” his tone was much quieter now, “I prefer to overlook this morning… for I believe that you deserve some measure of gratitude for what you have done here at Straeford Park. The work of restoration has been accomplished with, I must say, extraordinary good taste.” He came to his feet and nodded politely in her direction. “I think you should know that it’s far beyond my expectations and I offer my sincere congratulations.”
“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 Mar
isa 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.
Tender Torment Page 12
