Tender Torment

by Meadowes, Alicia

  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 demandthat 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.

  Marisa lingered in her room until the hour they would normally spend riding together, and she wondered whether the earl would summon her at the appointed time. She had not gone to breakfast deliberately as a sign of her continuing displeasure toward him and his previous night’s behavior. When Lucy came in to help complete her morning toilette the countess inquired, “Has the earl sent me a message this morning?”

  “Why,
no, my lady,” the maid replied as she held out a peignoir. Then, sensing her mistress’s curiosity, she continued in a soft voice, “I believe he has left the house already.”

  “I see.” So he was going to punish her today by not having her ride with him, Marisa thought. She knew how anxious he was for her to gain skill in horsemanship. “One of the first prerequisites of a noblewoman is that she possess considerable prowess on horseback,” he had told her the first day they had gone out together. He had been deeply disappointed by her lack of confidence in riding and he showed it. That posed a challenge Marisa was determined to meet. She was not yet able to meet it by herself, it was true. But his going off by himself without her this morning was a rebuff she was not going to take lightly.

  “I’ll wear my blue riding habit, Lucy,” she ordered with some irritation in her voice.

  “Without his lordship, my lady?” the tiny maid inquired sheepishly.

  Marisa huffed with impatience. “Please remember, Lucy, not to ask me the wrong questions at the wrong time.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, my lady. Please forgive me,” Lucy said, knowing she had clearly overstepped her bounds.

  Marisa wasn’t sure whether she had been too harsh in her tone toward Lucy. The trouble with having servants, she thought, was that you can never conceal anything from their eyes. Your privacy is never your own, really. Her observation also made her pause to reflect on the real possibility that there might be very few advantages to being part of the nobility after all.

  Tim, the elderly stable hand, was reluctant to saddle up the chestnut mare that Marisa’s father had purchased especially for her. The earl had been in a black mood earlier that morning, and Tim figured it had something to do with the absence of the countess.

  “Maybe I’d better ride with you, m’lady,” he said obligingly. “The earl wouldn’t forgive me if you didn’t have me as a groom.” Marisa agreed but wished even more that she didn’t have to depend on anyone but herself when it came to riding.

  When the mare was brought out of the stable, Marisa’s earlier courage began to wane immediately. Tim helped her into the saddle and a general uneasiness came upon her. She lacked security and equilibrium on top of this enormous animal that seemed to have a mind all its own. Every time Marisa rode her, the mare responded differently and today it shrugged more nervously than ever. Marisa grew increasingly tense, feeling her confidence slip away, knowing the mare was far from docile. She wasn’t sure she would be able to go through with this after all as her horse darted nervously, lifting a foot, then stomping it with a menacing uneasiness that sent a flash of panic to Marisa’s stomach.

  Tim couldn’t help noticing the fear in her eyes after he was mounted next to her. Leaning across his horse, he warned, “You’re holding her much too tight, m’lady. Now relax or you might cause her to start.”

  Heeding his advice, Marisa loosened her grip slightly, and the two horses walked out side by side along the path. Gradually, Tim fell back a few paces to let her test her confidence. But as he did, she felt her hands grow damp and clammy as she instinctively drew more tightly on the reins. Tim gave her a warning call as the distance between them widened, and both horses quickened to a light trot.

  “Wait up, m’lady,” he shouted, not wanting her to get too far away. “Whoa! Pull up your reins and move back in the saddle.”

  She tried to follow his instructions, but her tense grip caused her to give the mare an unintentionally hard yank that startled the animal. Suddenly it reared high into the air, screaming primitively. Marisa rolled sharply to one side, totally off balance. She was certain she was going down and struggled to regain her proper position. But as she did, the spurs of her right boot dug hard into the mare’s flesh and the animal bolted ahead uncontrollably, leaving Tim behind.

  Terror struck, Marisa screamed as the frightened horse galloped off in the direction of the forest, her hat flying off her head, her hair tumbling down about her as she swayed precariously in the saddle to avoid low hanging branches. Her hold on the reins was weakened by two quick and painful jolts in the saddle, and her heart fluttered when she realized her grip was slipping away. A look back gave her no sign of Tim. Where was he? How could she have gotten away from him so fast? Now she was somehow going to have to bring this panic-stricken horse to a halt completely by herself or lord knew what might happen.

  Marisa was going to lose the reins, she just knew it. She could feel them slide further with each unexpected bounce from her mare, and she was powerless to stop it. In desperation, she let the reins drop and then clawed frantically at the horse’s mane for something to hold onto in order to keep from falling. Woman and animal roared onward together, forming a dusty, thundering blur along the forest path. Toward what end Marisa could not know.

  She was sobbing, oblivious to everything save her own fear, breathless and choking on words which she was paralyzed to release. Then for a fleeting instant something registered in her brain, a faint but dimly familiar sound that she was not sure she had heard at all. And then she heard it again, this time more clearly. Hanging on for dear life, she dared a quick look over her shoulder, fully expecting to see Tim. To her surprise, it was the earl, shouting unintelligibly to her amidst the deafening rumble of the horse’s hoofs. Again and again he yelled out instructions to her, but as he inched closer, he saw her reins fluttering aimlessly beneath her, out of her reach. Even if she could hear him clearly, she was totally incapable of helping herself.

  Straeford goaded his stallion ahead with a furious lash of his riding crop. He knew he would be unable to stop her horse, but if he could get close enough to her… Now his horse was astride hers, and he knew there was only one thing left for him to do. Leaning far to his right, he waited for just the precise moment, regulating his reins so that both horses swerved nearer and nearer to one another. And then, with a sweeping whiplike motion, his right arm encircled her waist, lifted her out of her saddle and clamped her safely on his stallion while her mare raced blindly ahead.

  Marisa collapsed against him in a faint, her breath completely taken away. The earl brought his horse to a standstill and quickly carried her limp body to a nearby grassy clearing to make her comfortable and examine her injuries.

  “M’lord! M’lord!” It was Tim, and he prayed that his mistress was unharmed for he knew that the earl was certain to be angry with him. “Be she all right, yer lordship?”

  “Yes, she’s all right. Just had the wind knocked out of her.” Straeford looked down at the countess nestled in his arms. “What the devil happened here, man? Why was she alone? She could have been killed!”

  “She got away from me so fast, your lordship,” Tim protested weakly. “I tried to get to her, but I couldn’t. Thank God you came along.”

  “Go fetch the other horse,” Straeford commanded sternly, having heard enough of the stable hand’s excuse. “I’ll get the countess home by myself.”

  Marisa’s eyelids moved slightly, and then she groaned. “Don’t try to talk now,” he said, comforting her. “I’ll get you back to the house in a minute.” He pushed her straying golden curls off her muddied cheek, and then she felt him lift her up once again. That was the last thing she remembered until she was awakened by soft voices in her own bedroom.

  “She’ll be coming around any time now.” It was Straeford whispering to Lucy who hovered anxiously over her mistress. The earl ran his fingers gently along her face. “Have her rest until dinner,” he said, turning to leave.

  “My lord,” Marisa’s voice stopped him at the door. “Please don’t leave,” she importuned as she sat up in her bed.

  “But my lady…” Lucy pleaded, “you must rest.”

  “Please, Lucy. I would prefer a moment alone with his lordship.”

  Straeford’s hand remained on the doorknob even after Lucy had gone.

  “Won’t you close the door for a moment? I’d like to speak with you.”

  He seemed reluctant as he slowly seated himself on a tufted stool next to
her bed.

  “I… I want to thank you for what you did this morning…” She started to continue but he interrupted.

  “What I want to know is why you did such a damn fool thing.”

  His response annoyed Marisa, but she was determined that he would not provoke her this time.

  “I did behave rather foolishly, didn’t I?” she agreed, folding her hands demurely in her lap while an ever so slightly reddish coloring appeared in her face. Her admission surprised Straeford and he asked more kindly, “Why didn’t you tell me you were afraid of horses?”

  “I did!” she said, this time more strongly.

  “No, you are quite wrong, my dear. What you said was that you didn’t ride ‘well’.”

  “A slight deception,” she smiled weakly.

  “Women! Ever deceivers,” he grumbled.

  “Well, I didn’t think you would approve if I told you I was afraid.”

  “I wouldn’t. That’s true. But that doesn’t mean I expect you to lie to me about it.”

  “Perhaps you’re right,” she admitted. “Perhaps I should have told you the truth.” Her willingness to admit her error helped to mollify the harshness in his stare.

  “Why are you afraid?”

  “Oh, it’s really a long and unpleasant story I know you will not care to hear. I never have been able to speak of it with any ease.”

  “Why don’t you try telling me. It might help you, you know.” He was actually encouraging her, and this caused her to take a long suspicious look at him before continuing.

  “A few years ago, a friend and I were riding… his horse was difficult to handle, a very temperamental animal… And…” She sighed to alleviate the rising tension in her voice. Marisa swallowed hard, and he could see her eyes growing misty as she continued. “… and his horse went wild. My friend was practically stomped to death in front of my eyes and there was absolutely nothing I could do to prevent it. He was so badly disfigured from the incident that he never again was quite the same. In fact, he was mentally disfigured as well, and he” It was clear she couldn’t continue, and the earl rose to pour her a glass of water from the pitcher on the bedside table. He sat on the bed next to her as she tried to regain her composure.