Tender Torment (28 page)

“Apparently, I have been wrong,” he stated in an arrogant manner revealing none of his inner turmoil and self-condemnation.
“It seems I owe the countess an apology. So if you will all kindly return to your own homes, I shall get on with the business.”

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.

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.