Tender Torment

by Meadowes, Alicia

  But the Straefords knew nothing of the dark thoughts directed toward them, and when his lordship presented himself to Marisa within her bedchamber that night, he knew he need not fear her rejection.

  Marisa was waiting for him in a gown of white lace, her unbound hair tumbling to her waist. The only light in the shadowy room was a soft glow cast by a gentle fire in the grate. She stood, with all the tremulous anticipation of a bride, in the middle of the room watching him advance toward her.

  When he clasped her to his burning body, she answered his yearling with a yielding response that quickened his breathing.

  “Dear God, how long I’ve hungered for you,” he groaned and began kissing her lips with a tender possessiveness, as if learning anew the sweetness of her mouth. She could feel the ardor rising in him, but that he was holding back his passion and would not let it surge forth in full expression. He kissed her long and lingeringly before lifting her in his powerful arms and carrying her to bed.

  “Marisa, I never thought to feel for a woman what I feel for you. The passion in me is a rage so consuming that it makes me tremble,” he admitted.

  “Justin,” she murmured and caressed his cheek, “Justin, what is happening to us?”

  He buried his head in her breast and they clung together momentarily.

  “Marisa, before I make love to you, I must know that you have forgiven me for the pain and suffering I have caused you.”

  “Hush, dearest. Do not speak of what is past.”

  “But I must,” he claimed harshly. “I must hear you say you forgive me before I can rid myself of the terrible burden of guilt I have carried since that fateful morning you fell down those stairs and nearly killed yourself. The image of your broken body is seared in my mind like a burning brand.”

  “Let it go, Justin. Do not torture yourself. You can see that my body is not broken—it is whole… and eager to beclaimed by yours.”

  “Marisa,” he cried in the throes of a passion he could no longer stem. It swept them to a rapture neither had dreamed possible, a rapture such as the Creator had envisioned from the beginning of time when He ordained the wound of separation to be healed by the joining of man and woman. For just such loving were their bodies made—that the soul might blaze forth in the glory of physical union. So brief, so sublime, so exalted, so transient and fragile and shattering. The answer to the riddle of existence. Yet the very act created a hunger that only eternity could satisfy.

  Marisa and Justin slept in each others’ arms lost in sweet dreams. It was only in the morning aftermath, as Marisa cherished the tender memories of their night of bliss, that she realized his lordship, for all his lovemaking, had not told her he loved her. He had begged forgiveness and told her of his passion, but the words “I love you” she had yet to hear from the man who now held her heart in his hands.

  While Justin and Marisa had innocently slept in each other’s arms, the dark gypsy Isabella was sending word to Colonel Dubois at French headquarters informing him of her discovery. The English devil, Straeford, was now in Portugal, living in the Trudenjos villa in Lisbon. That very morning Isabella was visiting in the Trudenjos kitchens with her cousins Donato and Carmelita who served as footman and laundress to the establishment. It was not for family fealty that the dark-eyed camp-follower sought out her relatives, but to discover what she could of the Straefords—of their life style, their comings and goings, their habits, conversations, entertainments—for somewhere in the skein of the Straefords’ daily living was the dark thread Isabella required to weave her web of revenge.

  She learned that General Straeford, though spending much time at the villa, would, nevertheless, be gone for intervals of time that were increasing in frequency lately, and that the other gentleman, Major Harding, often accompanied the general. Further questioning revealed that Straeford’s military headquarters were over seventy miles to the north in the Beira region.

  The Straefords unwittingly played into Isabella’s designing hands. The couple had accepted an invitation to visit the quinta of Senhor Joaquim Almarez and his wife, Maria, sometime during May. The country estate, between Villa Franca and Santarem, was not very far from French military encampments that had gone undetected by British intelligence. The projected visit would provide Colonel Dubois with a perfect opportunity for accomplishing his plans for revenge. Colonel Dubois was known as a daring officer who had made his reputation at the risk of his men’s welfare in past skirmishes with the British, and he would get the Straefords in his hands whatever the cost. Dubois did not intend to let the old score of Vimeiro pass when fate was assisting him so readily. He had always known the day would come when he would confront the British diable again, and now he was ready.

  While Dubois studied maps of the area around Santarem, Lord Straeford planned to take Marisa to Queluz. There they would tour the former country residence of the Portuguese court before the royal family fled to Brazil in 1807. Queluz was Portugal’s Versailles, perhaps less splendid, but nonetheless a charming scene for royal intrigue and decadence. The ugly Carlota Joaquina, the Prince Regent’s Spanish wife, had conducted many of her famous indiscretions there, begetting children by unknown fathers before her quasi-exile to Ramalhao.

  Following the devastating earthquake of November 1755, the Marquis of Pombal had launched an ambitious rebuilding program in Lisbon that had transformed that city into a prime example of the “enlightenment” sweeping Europe at that time. Everything in Lisbon was rationally planned and built—residences, streets and squares—with slide-rule precision, as if envisioned by an 18th century philospher. The royal house at Queluz was undertaken during that fever of reconstruction, but unlike the classical designs of Lisbon, Queluz was a wonder of rococo fantasy, a sort of wedding cake in pink.

  Justin and Marisa strolled through its many rooms on a sunny afternoon in April, admiring chinoiserie panels from Macao, marble statuary from Italy, porcelains from Austria, ceramics from Delft and tapestries from Spain. Queluz was like a museum of art from around the world.

  They took their dinner in a small dining room out side Cintra which they approached through a garden patio overflowing with blossoming mauve bougainvillea, scarlet geraniums and pink camellias. Although the dining room was small, its interior features were cut on the grand scale. The fireplace at the far end of the room was tall enough to walk into, and the stone ceiling, decorated with blue and white azulejos in the form of scrolls and arabesques, vaulted high above them. Their meal was an exquisite collation of creamed vegetable soup, sole meuniere and a dessert of the famed peaches of Alcobaga in a light custard sauce. They sipped a superb Madeira and sat enjoying the music of a strolling minstrel who plucked haunting melodies from his guitar as a mood of romantic enchantment settled over his listeners.

  “I wonder why their music always sounds so sad,” Marisa murmured dreamily. “The Portuguese seem to be a contented people, but their music is filled with melancholy.”

  “It is the influence of the saudade.”

  “I have heard that term used to describe the Portuguese temperament, but I don’t know what it means.”

  “I think one could say it is a feeling for the poetry of loneliness. The essence of the Portuguese character is one of fatalism—they are a people entranced by the beauty of sorrow.”

  “But they do not seem unhappy,” Marisa demurred.

  “They are not, really. It is just their belief that life is colored by a darkness—that one cannot escape fate. It is a deep sense of the transitory nature of life—that pleasure is fleeting and therefore all the sweeter when it comes.” Justin’s green eyes burned into Marisa’s, as if he were explaining more than his understanding of Portugal’s saudade.

  “Is that what you have learned through your study of Portugal and the Camoes epic?” Marisa questioned softly, hoping to draw him out. “You speak as if you understand what you are describing from personal experience.”

  “I have always felt a sympathy for the darker currents of life…”
and here Justin paused as if weighing his words carefully. He clasped Marisa’s hand in his and went on. “It is only recently that I have come to appreciate that there exist those bright currents as well. It is a kind of painful awareness—an elusive joy that stirs deep within me and makes for me, at times, a… tender torment…” He stopped abruptly, as if embarrassed at his admission of gentle feelings. Never had Lord Straeford exposed his vulnerability to another.

  Marisa was deeply moved and felt that a sacred trust had been vouchsafed her.

  When they left the dining room to wander among the gardens, Justin plucked a velvety white rose and presented it to Marisa, claiming, “My dear, once you gave me a rose such as this. It has ever since been my image of you…” But whatever the earl was about to say was never finished.

  “Well, if it isn’t My Lord Straeford and his charming wife.”

  Marisa and Justin were accosted by Adele Buxton, the unpleasant woman she had met at the Christmas reception in Lisbon. Adele was in the company of a middle-aged lady, Evelyn Canfield, another of the recently arrived British wives. The tender mood of intimacy between the Straefords was shattered as the earl assumed his habitual manner of cold disdain.

  The group exchanged polite greetings and his lordship would have immediately taken leave of the couple were it not for Adele’s persistence in pressing conversation upon them.

  “Your wife and I met at the Christmas reception, Justin. I looked for you there when I learned of your presence in Lisbon.” Marisa was surprised at the familiar manner of Adele toward Justin.

  “I chose not to attend,” Straeford replied rudely.

  “You were ever the lone wolf, were you not, Justin?”

  Lord Straeford ignored her pointed remark and turned to her companion. “Have you seen much of the Portuguese countryside since your arrival here, Mrs. Canfield?”

  “Not as much as I would like to, I’m afraid. This is the farthest beyond Lisbon I have come so far. But I have been to Belem and the Geronimos.”

  “You must get that solitary husband to bring you to one of my evenings at-home, Lady Straeford. All the English community can be found in attendance,” Adele said to Marisa.

  “It is very kind of you, Mrs. Buxton, but my husband is often away on matters of duty lately, and it is not possible for me to plan very far in advance,” Marisa answered vaguely, sensing that his lordship was not desirous of furthering the acquaintance.

  “Your husband and I go back a long way together,” Adele claimed in a rather sudden shift of topic.

  “Oh, indeed,” Marisa rejoined lamely, and looked to Justin who was regarding Adele with barely concealed contempt.

  “Yes indeed,” Adele stated. “You may not believe it, but…” she laughed superciliously, “it is only by the merest shuffle of the cards that I, myself, am not… the Countess of Straeford.”

  For a heavy moment nothing was said.

  “What Adele refers to so charmingly,” Straeford’s voice dripped acid, “is the fact that she and my brother Robert were once betrothed.” He did not elaborate, and Adele, who realized she had overstepped the bounds of discretion, held her tongue from further transgression. “And now, if you will excuse us, ladies, I don’t wish to keep you from your tour. Charming to see you again, Adele. Your servant, Mrs. Canfield.” Lord Straeford, a look of smoldering hostility on his dark brow, steered Marisa away with such a tight grasp on her elbow that she almost winced with pain.

  17

  Later that night, as the Straefords prepared to retire, Marisa forced herself to broach the subject of that strange encounter with Adele.

  “Adele Buxton is a person whose existence I prefer to dismiss,” his lordship stated with a finality that brooked no challenge. His face had not worn such a look of forbidding hauteur in a long time.

  “Forgive me if I distress you, Justin, but you must allow me to speak.”

  Lord Straeford regarded Marisa coldly before shrugging his shoulders elegantly and claiming, “This conversation you press upon me may prove to be one you shall rue, my dear. Are you sure you want to pursue it?”

  “No, I’m not sure,” Marisa admitted. “And yet, look at us right now—such distrust and fear between us that it breaks my heart. Before Adele Buxton appeared this afternoon, I felt that at last we were learning to open our hearts to one another. Tell me truthfully, Justin, have you not felt of late that we were growing… closer?” She reached out a hand to him yearning to speak her love as she groped for the right words to thaw the coldness growing between them.

  Lord Straeford, who had been pacing restlessly in front of the fireplace, stopped to look carefully at Marisa. There were tears shimmering in her eyes, and he could not ignore the pleading of her gesture toward him. With a groan, he clasped her harshly to his breast and murmured against her hair, “Ah, don’t cry, dearest, please don’t. What a vile brute I am to cause you more grief. Whatever you ask of me, I’ll give it. Only never let me cause you pain again.”

  They kissed each other fervently as if swearing an unspoken oath of trust. Then Justin led Marisa to a small divan before the fireplace and settled her comfortably within the circle of his arm.

  “And now, my dear, whatever you wish to know, ask it of me.”

  She sighed contentedly. “It does not seem so very important now that you are not set against me, Justin.” Marisa nestled against his shoulder. “But I will finish what I started because it seems to me that there are matters concerning your early life that I need to know about to better understand you.”

  “And you really want to understand me?”

  “With all my heart.” She smiled tremulously at him.

  “Then ask away, sweetheart.”

  Marisa thrilled at the tenderness in his voice. “I realize that you have been deeply hurt in the past.” Marisa did not know how much to disclose of Edward Harding’s revelations and picked her way carefully through a thicket of thorny topics. “Perhaps if you were to tell me some of the things that have caused you to develop such… cynicism about life, you might be able to exorcise the hold the past has on you.”

  “So you wish to redeem my black soul, my little savior?” he chided her. “But I would warn you that it is a hard-won cynicism I have achieved, and I would not part with it lightly.”

  “Well, I must try, nevertheless. I felt such bitterness surge forth when we came upon Adele today.”

  “Adele is a very minor character in the shabby little history fate has contrived for me.” Justin drew Marisa closer and began to speak against her hair. He told her of Adele’s perfidy in trying to lay claim to his affections before Robert was yet in the grave and of the love he bore his brother and the aching grief he endured on his death. He went back over the events of the attempt on his life by Jem Cooper and of his mother’s deranged denunciation of himself on Huxley’s death.

  He could sit still no longer, an agitation seizing him as he recalled the incidents that scarred his soul. Abruptly, he rose. “My mother never forgave me for Huxley’s death, but had he not died by accident that night, I would surely have killed the cur myself.”

  There was such vehemence in his voice that Marisa momentarily doubted her wisdom in forcing this discussion. But she did not stop. “Did your mother never become reconciled to you?”

  “Never. But that is hardly a wonder. My mother hated me from the time I was born.”

  “Justin, surely she did not hate you as a babe.” Marisa came to him and slipped her arms around his waist.

  Straeford studied her upturned face before answering. “I am sorry to disabuse you of a favored notion about the maternal instinct, dearest, but my mother surely hated me as I lived. She did not want any more children after Robert was born. She told my father that she had done her part and provided an heir, and that there would be no more progeny.”

  “But why?”

  There was a long pause as Straeford contemplated all he was about to reveal to this woman. Then, coming to a final decision to divulge all, he expl
ained, “My mother married my father for money and position. She already had a lover. Robert was born eight months after the wedding—she claimed he was premature, but my father, who suffered doubts, wanted a son whose paternity was certain—that’s how I came to bless the union. My mother felt I was forced on her, and she could not abide me,for it.”

  “But how do you know all this?”

  “My grandmother told me when… I returned for Robert’s funeral.”

  “Why did you stay away in India so long?”

  “I could not bear to see the lie my mother lived under my father’s roof.”

  “Justin, you paint such a black picture.”

  Disentangling himself from Marisa’s embrace, Justin began to pace again, trying to control the anguish that memory aroused in him.

  He had been on his way home after a night of carousing with Ed Harding when he saw the light flickering in the summerhouse. Having heard that gypsies were in the neighborhood, Justin quickly crossed the stream and stealthily crept up to the house. He tested the handle to the door and slowly opened it and slid inside. Bright moonlight streamed across the room to illuminate the couple locked in each other’s arms on the divan.

  The strangled roar that erupted from him brought the startled couple to their feet as the wild young man lunged at his mother’s lover. There was a brief but violent scuffle between them before Justin was flung to the floor where he struck his head against the foot of the divan, stunning him.

  “Go! Go quickly,” Justin’s mother insisted as the man protested. “I’ll handle him. Don’t worry. Now go!”