There were some angry protests from Loftus and his son, but Lady Maxwell quickly silenced them by insisting that there had been enough outside interference, and that a married couple had to come to terms with one another by themselves. Then she shushed Meg upstairs to bed and led the Loftuses out of the house before they realized what was happening. Only Foxworth was detained long enough by the earl to be given an ultimatum to either stay out of the Straefords’ lives in the future or his life would be forfeit. Then he personally ushered Foxworth to the front door and thrust him out of the house.
Straeford paced the drawing room floor waiting for the Countess to join him. He rubbed the back of his neck and sighed heavily. What an embarrassing mess! How many times had he been proven wrong where his wife was concerned? And to think this time it was his in-laws, whom he held in such low esteem, that had shown him his error. Their attack had come as a complete surprise to him. He had no experience in his own life of such strong family lpyalty. Familial affection and solidarity were not common among the aristocracy. Certainly they were middle-class values he could not fault, and grudgingly he had to admit his admiration. Until tonight he had cavalierly dismissed the Loftus family as beneath his consideration, but they had revealed character depths worthy of his respect, and he was surprised to discover his approval of them. John, the coward; Angus, the social-climbing cit and even Meg, the ambitious coquette, had shown strength, dignity and compassion tonight.
His wife’s arrival put an end to his contemplations.
The Straefords stared at each other across the width of the room. Very apprehensive about the reason for this summons, Marisa held herself stiffly together, unconsciously clutching the top button of her blue peignoir until her hand showed white. Noticing her tense body and red-rimmed eyes, Straeford’s feelings of guilt grew, and in a sympathetic voice he asked her to be seated.
Marisa eyed him warily wondering what kind of a game he was playing. She was not about to be lulled into a sense of peace by his pleasant manner. Refusing to move any farther into the room, she answered him. “I prefer to remain standing, if you don’t mind.”
“As you wish, Marisa. I just thought you would be more comfortable seated. You look as if you are ready to fall apart.”
Although Marisa knew she looked dreadful, she did not think Justin’s appearance was very much better, with his unruly hair and unshaven face; nevertheless she refrained from commenting on it, and remained where she was.
Justin took a step toward her and involuntarily she jumped edging closer to the door. She was hanging on to her composure by a mere thread and any further abuse from him would send her into hysterics.
Sensing her mood, Straeford backed away. “Will you stop staring at me as if I were a hunter stalking its prey?”
“I cannot help how I appear to you.” There was still a touch of defiance left in her.
“I promise I shall stay over here if you will only sit down.”
His attitude was confusing her, but realizing her knees were shaking and ready to give out, she decided to acquiesce and slid into the nearest chair.
“That’s better,” he smiled and seated himself on the edge of a table at the far side of the room.
“Last night… I made some wild accusations against you… which I regret.”
Marisa was thunderstruck by his admission, and felt a sense of relief sweeping through her.
“I have since learned the truth from your father and Lady Maxwell. Foxworth has admitted that he tricked you.”
Her relief turned to resentment. “I see. Now that there is proof of my innocence you are ready to believe me. My own assertion was not good enough.”
“Your anger is understandable. I should have given you the opportunity to explain. Will you accept my apology?”
“Oh, no, my lord,” she jumped to her feet tossing her long golden hair behind her. “Not this time! You have insulted me every way possible in the last four months and… and I will not accept your apology just like that.” She snapped her fingers in the air, her whole body quivering with the effort of her outburst.
Justin was quiet for a few seconds attempting to control his temper as pride warred with his determination to be fair. “If you think I’m going to go down on my knees and beg your forgiveness, you can forget it.”
“Even that would not be enough.” Her chin arched higher and she swept back a wisp of hair that had fallen across her eyes.
“I’ll be damned!” he choked.
“Yes, yes, perhaps you will be!”
Surprisingly, her response amused him and his face quirked in a wry smile as he chuckled, “That is a distinct possibility, my dear.”
His quixotic reply left her bereft of any further words, and she just stared at him as he came across the room to take her hands in his. “So, I am not forgiven. Shall we leave it at that for the time being? You… and I are too fatigued to discuss this matter any further at present. Perhaps we can try another time. Right now what we both need is some sleep. Come.” He slipped his arm about her waist. Succumbing to his gentleness, she went with him unresisting to the bedroom where he surprised her further by slipping the robe from her shoulders and assisting her into bed. “I shall see that you are not disturbed in the morning my dear. Sleep as late as you wish.”
Torn between a sense of guilt and a longing to comfort and be comforted, Justin leaned over her and brushed a light kiss upon her forehead, compassion welling up in him for his wife.
Fatigued by her emotional turmoil and unable to comprehend the mood of the stranger she had married, Marisa simply closed her eyes and was immediately asleep.
Confused and depressed, Justin withdrew to his own room.
Sitting among the dowagers at Almack’s and watching Meg dance with one gallant after another, Marisa wished her sister would soon make up her mind and settle on a beau before the Season was over and all the young men were off to Portugal with the army. Straeford, too, was scheduled to leave for the campaign in Portugal, but she still did not know when. Since the fiasco over the emerald ring she had seen very little of him. The countess shifted uncomfortably on a hard seat. She had gambled and lost with her angry decision to refuse his apology that night. She had hoped that Justin would at last open his eyes and see her as she truly was but he refused. A solution to their torment was not forthcoming. He made no further overtures to rectify the situation between them.
Marisa was not to know the restraint under which her husband was laboring to do what he believed to be the right thing. He felt his wife was justified in her attitude toward him. His treatment of her had been harsh and cruel from the beginning, and there was no guaranteeing it would not happen again. He believed his distrust of women was too ingrained in him to change even if he wanted to. In this bleak frame of mind he made no attempts to patch up his differences with Marisa.
Her reverie was interrupted by the arrival of Lady Maxwell.
“I wondered if I would find you here.” The old dowager seated herself beside her granddaughter-in-law.
“Where else should I be when you worked so hard to secure us vouchers?”
“That’s not what I was referring to.”
“Oh, what did you mean then?”
“Justin leaves for Portugal tonight.”
“No!” Marisa ejaculated before she could hide her shock. “He… he never told me.” She was seized by embarrassment—embarrassment at such an insult. Why had he not mentioned it to her?
“I suspected as much,” Lady Maxwell said with great exasperation. “I’m beginning to believe that grandson of mine is a dolt, after all.”
“Ohh, he’s much… much worse than that!” Marisa hissed vehemently under her breath.
“Let him go. You’re better off without him.” Lady Maxwell watched Marisa’s face pale.
“Yes, yes, you’re absolutely right. I am through with him.” Marisa settled back in her chair to watch the young couples waltzing. Unfortunately it brought to mind a night not so very long ago when
Justin had held her in his arms and her hopes had soared only to be cruelly dashed in the next instant. Yes, let him go without so much as a goodbye. She would be well rid of him.
“I suppose you will want all communiques concerning him to continue to be sent to me then?”
“Wh-what communiques are you referring to, Lady Maxwell?”
“Oh, you know, the usual war reports—if he is wounded…” Lady Maxwell smiled indulgently as she watched Marisa scurry across the hall on her way home.
Boxes and luggage were stacked in the hallway, and the earl, dressed in his scarlet uniform, was conferring with Billings when his wife entered. Catching sight of her standing motionless in her pink sarcenet gown Justin caught his breath. Their eyes met and locked in an unguarded moment of regret and yearning. Wrenching his eyes free, he frowned and demanded, “What brings you home so early?”
“You’re leaving?” she asked breathlessly trying to control the tumult of emotions crowding her breast.
“I’d assume that’s obvious,” he drawled, hoping his ridicule would antagonize her into a like response and lessen the danger of any tender emotions erupting between them. That would only lead to the weakening of his resolve to put this episode in his life behind him.
But she persisted in a faint quavering voice. “And you weren’t going to tell me?”
“How could I? You weren’t here!”
“But all day… no message…”
Her bright blue eyes censured him unmercifully, and he found himself swinging away from her to give Billings some quick orders. Then he stepped around the many boxes to take her unresisting arm in his and lead her into the darkened library where a mere candle flickered on the desk.
He placed the desk between them and began toying with a pen before explaining in a more kindly voice, “There seemed no need to disturb you with my departure.”
“No need?. but I am your… wife.”
“I don’t see where that makes any difference under the circumstances. We both know this separation is for the best. So what does it matter how it is effected? And frankly, Marisa, I thought you would prefer it this way after our last unfortunate encounter. It would be foolish for either of us to say things we really don’t mean… just because I am going away.”
Marisa wrapped her arms about her waist and leaned weakly against the desk for support. He was scorning her attempts at a reconciliation. He did not want one, and he did not want her here now.
“Our life together has not been easy… for either of us. You will be the first to admit that, I think.”
She lowered her head in acquiescence to his statement, and it only reaffirmed his belief that her injured pride over not being told of his imminent departure had brought her here tonight. He knew she would be relieved once he was gone. Straeford walked away from her into the darkened recesses of the room. Impulsively, her arms went out to him, but the figure in the shadows did not heed the gesture as he cast his eyes upward—anywhere but on this woman who caused him such torment.
A blanket of silence covered the still room as the two tortured figures struggled with their doubts and longings until Billings knocked on the door and broke the tension.
“All is ready, my lord.”
“I shall be along directly,” Straeford said as he moved out of the shadows and threw the pen he was still holding onto the desk. “Well, I am off.”
“I shall… write.” She made a last desperate effort.
“If you wish,” he hesitated- and then forced himself to add, “but there’s no need to trouble yourself.”
“It’s no trouble. I should… like to.”
Her solicitude made him extremely uncomfortable. “Yes, well, I may not be able to respond.”
“I know you shall be very busy, but if time permits, I would appreciate a line or two—now and then.”
“I’ll see what I can manage. Goodbye, Marisa. Take care of yourself.”
“Justin!” she cried as he wrenched open the door to leave. Swinging about to face her, his hand clenched the door jamb, holding himself in check. “Please… my lord, be careful.”
Suddenly he crossed to her and, taking her hand in his, he kissed it. She placed tentative fingers on his bent head, and he jerked away and strode out of the library before he allowed any further demonstrative action between them to take place.
Straeford refused to look back as the carriage pulled out, and he held himself rigid until Berkeley Square was left far behind. Then with a sigh of relief he thanked God for Napoleon Bonaparte. The campaign would keep him from thinking or remembering.
Marisa had watched his departure from the window of the library. There was no backward glance, no smile, or wave of the hand to remember him by—just his brusque, controlled farewell. Silent tears coursed down her face as she fingered the pen he had been holding and she sat in his leather chair, wishing and remembering.
14
All during the crossing of the Bay of Biscay Marisa had fretted disconsolately. What would Lord Straeford say to her when he saw her in Portugal? She was mad to dare this journey without her husband’s approval. And yet, when Lady Maxwell had suggested that Marisa accompany Ann Harding’s party of wives traveling to Lisbon, something reckless had leaped in her heart and she felt she must go. Although she had fought against loving the man who made such havoc of her emotions, the truth could not be denied. She loved Justin helplessly. Why else had she suffered over the thought of his entanglement with Amanda Relington? And why suclf frenzy on the night of his departure lest he be gone without her seeing him?
But the parting had been so inconclusive. And in the six months he had been gone he had barely troubled himself to write a line to her. There had been no reply to her last letter.
And so she took Lady Maxwell’s suggestion and came in haste to Portugal. She had not even waited for a reply to the note to Lord Straeford that apprised him of her coming. And Mrs. Harding had written to her husband, Edward, telling him of the countess’s sudden decision. She also warned him that she was taking their son with her. At first Ann had considered leaving little Eddie at home with his maternal grandparents and his nurse. But she could not bear to be parted from the child, and, instead, brought him and the nurse and all his infant trappings with her to Portugal along with her newest and best friend, Marisa Straeford.
Valerie Claridge and the newlywed Carol Belvoir tried to dissemble their curiosity over Lady Straeford’s sudden decision to accompany them, but secretly they burned to know the inside story of the Straeford marital relationship. The Earl of Straeford and his countess were considered an ill-sorted match by the gossip-loving ton. Much speculation flew among members of that elite sect in eager anticipation of discovering a juicy morsel to satisfy their avid hunger for tales of marital discord. During most of the journey Marisa had managed to turn aside her companions’ subtle probings, and to keep her thoughts private.
Only Ann Harding knew what it cost the countess to chance the displeasure of that forbidding man Lady Straeford called husband. Having known Justin for a time when she lived in India, Ann believed the man to be of a hard nature whose consuming interest was the pursuit of war. That his lovely wife had lived in a state of anxiety ever since the news of the battle of Talavera reached London would never occur to such a man as Straeford, Ann feared.
The threat of more battles need not have troubled Marisa. Unknown to the British public, the Duke of Wellington had no thought for further engagement of the enemy. Talavera had been such a bloody battle so bitterly fought that both sides were forced to a standstill. However, Wellington had succeeded in holding his position and the French finally withdrew late in July of 1809.
But it was a fruitless victory. Wellington was beset by a host of calamities that cost him his hard-won advantage. First the Portuguese general, Venegas, did not appear as was planned; next, Soult was on the march again, and finally, Cuesta did not hold Talavera as ordered, but evacuated it instead. As with Oporto, the British were forced to call off purs
uit of the French in order to regroup and recommence battle plans again.
No. Wellington was not about to engage again until he was quite ready. And when he did, it would be to fulfill a grand design he was constructing for the safety of Portugal and the destruction of the French. But the British government and people, and the Portuguese government and people, and even Wellington’s own men were fretful and discouraged, wondering why the duke so often seemed to prefer caution to glory.
As the summer of 1809 wore on, there was hardly an officer who did not expect to embark for home. Wellington was under constant pressure to provide reasons why the British should remain in Portugal with the outlook so unpromising. Even the Military Secretary at the Horse Guards talked of sending Wellington to India should they evacuate Portugal. But the “Iron Duke” was not to be stampeded into hasty action. His was a campaign, for the present, of “knotted ropes.” If anything went wrong, Wellington was heard to say that he “tied a knot and went on.” He would wait his time. Nevertheless, the future success of his methods could not be discerned at that time, and dissension was rife.
The temporary cessation in combat was unknown to Marisa however, and she suffered visions of Justin wounded in battle. She wished him removed from harm’s way, even though she knew her lord lived for war—that he found the pursuits of ordinary life dull and uninspiring—that a certain dark strain in his nature sought violence and conflict.
Still, she was sure there was another side to Justin—the one he concealed from everyone. Once she had seen a flash pf his deeper and, she prayed, truer nature. That first night in her father’s house she had received an intuition of his torment and yearning toward tenderness. Marisa had to discover whether her instincts about the man were true or not.
And what if she were wrong? What if there were no heart made for love and tenderness within the man, but only stone clear through, as he had done his best to convince her so far?
Tender Torment Page 22
