Tender Torment (35 page)

“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.

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 explained, “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!”

He left, and Marian came to stand over her son, who was striving to clear his head and rise from the floor. His face was distorted
with disgust and misery as he glared at the angry countenance of his mother, the countess.

“I’ll kill him!”

“Fool! Why couldn’t you mind your own business?”

“It is my business when…” he choked, “my… mother betrays my father so shamelessly in his own home!”

“Don’t prate to me of betrayal when you play the sneak!” she scorned.

“I should kill you too!” He lashed out futilely.

His mother’s jeering laugh tortured him and tears welled in his green eyes and spilled down his cheeks.

Angrily, he dashed them away. “Mother, why does my father’s honor mean so little to you?”

A burst of laughter broke from her, and sweeping back her long black hair, she held him with her own glittering green eyes.
“Which father do you mean? The one whose name you bear or the one whose loins sired you?”

Justin’s head jerked involuntarily as the significance of that cruel denunciation was perceived. “You… can’t… mean…” he
hesitated, horror-stricken.

“Oh, but I do, my dear,” she taunted. “You are a bastard!”

“No!” The word was torn from him.

“Yes! And if you dare to oppose me in any way in the future, I’ll tell the man you call ‘father’ that the son he loves so
well was sired by another. Do you understand me?” She grasped the stunned, heartsick boy by the shoulders. “You’ll do nothing.
You’ll say nothing.” Suddenly she delivered a stinging blow to his cheek which aroused him from his stupor and he tore himself
from her griP.

“I hope to God that I never lay eyes on you again as long as I live!” he cried and flung himself out of the summerhouse with
her laughter ringing in his ears.

“Justin.” Marisa grasped his limp fingers in hers as he continued to stare into the fire unblinkingly. “Oh my dear, my dearest
love.” She kissed his cold hand trying to draw him out of the painful past. “We shall never speak of it again. It is over
and done with forever. Your mother can hurt you no longer. We have each other and nothing else matters—whether you are the
Earl of Straeford or General St. Clare.” He looked at her uncomprehendingly, as if coming out of a trance. “We’ll build our
life together with a dozen children and live happily ever after.” She smiled encouragingly.

“It really doesn’t matter to you—about the title, I mean?”

“My darling Justin, you may renounce the title tomorrow, but I shall never leave your side. Never! Don’t you know by now how
much I love you?”

“God, I don’t deserve you. But I need you desperately. I have been given a second life through you.” Justin began to rain
a storm of kisses upon Marisa’s joyous face. The floodgates were down, and he no longer fought against the admission he thought
never to make to any woman. “My dearest heart, I
love
you. I would die for you.”

Their lovemaking was rapturous. Each burned with a new fire of devotion from which their very souls drew life. At last Marisa
was ready to reveal the secret she had been carrying beneath her heart for many weeks:

“Justin, darling. I have news that I have been waiting to tell you when the time was right.”