Tender Torment

by Meadowes, Alicia

  Marisa did not comment, but she, too, had observed his increased reliance on spirits and even more disturbing was the change in his disposition. He was discontented and made little effort to hide it.

  At their entrance he heaved himself to his feet and grumbled, “Don’t see why I have to be dragged to the theater. Ain’t Foxworth and Lady Maxwell company enough?”

  “Oh, you are impossible. Ever since your return from Portugal, you’ve been acting like a bear.” Meg stamped her foot in exasperation. Then, folding her arms across her breast, she taunted, “Do you know, Marisa, he’s still mooning over the doctor’s daughter?”

  John’s face suffused with color, and he shouted for her to keep quiet. Turning from them he went to the sideboard and poured himself another glass of brandy.

  Marisa’s heart ached for John, who had lost the battle of wills with his father. He was still in love with his childhood sweetheart Ruth and wanted to marry her. “Meg,” she admonished softly, “don’t be unkind.”

  “Well, I think he is behaving foolishly. Here we both have the opportunity to marry into the beau monde and he’s crying over Ruth. Let me assure you, I have every intention of gaining a title for myself.”

  Marisa was taken aback by her sister’s self-assurance and warned, “These society matrons guard their families well and can be extremely difficult if they so choose. It might not be quite as easy to marry a title as you expect.”

  “You married a title! You were accepted by the ton!” she stated indignantly.

  “That’s because she’s a lady, and you, my dear little sister, are not,” John jeered and downed his glass of brandy.

  Stung by her brother’s taunt, Meg tossed her curls and replied with ill-humor, “I went to the same schools as Marisa. If she succeeded, so shall I. Besides, Richard Foxworth has told me I am a natural.”

  “Ha! That dandy! He only hangs around us because our dear father pays his bills.”

  “Nevertheless, he was instrumental in father meeting Straeford.”

  “Yes, and he fixed his own wagon there, didn’t he? He expected Straeford to be dumb enough to choose you.” John laughed gleefully as he crossed to her and pointed an unsteady finger in her face which she slapped away. Her cheeks burned an angry red. “Then Foxworth would have had clear sailing with Marisa, or so he thought. But Straeford saw through you in one night and took Marisa for himself, leaving you in the cold.”

  “You miserable lout!” Meg cried in fury.

  “John, Meg, this will never do.” Marisa stepped between them. “Let’s remember we are still members of the same family. It would be a shame to let what is past come between us.”

  After a tense moment John smiled and took each of his sisters by the arm. “You’re right as usual, good sister. Meg, I apologize. It is foolish for us to argue over what has already happened. Only the future can be altered.”

  Before Marisa had the opportunity to ask John what he meant by his last remark, Richard Foxworth was announced.

  From the moment Lady Straeford’s party entered the theater, Meg became the center of attention for a number of eager gallants. Her success that night was the preamble to a whirl of social activities that ran the gamut from Venetian breakfasts to midnight suppers at Vauxhall. The countess, as chaperon, was included in these entertainments and soon the admirers were dividing their time equally between the two beautiful sisters—and Straeford was not there to hinder their pleasure.

  In her enjoyment, Marisa found little time to brood over her husband’s defection or the missing emerald ring. It was Meg and John who occupied much of her waking thoughts. Her sister and brother were becoming difficult to handle. Meg’s self-consequence was growing with every conquest she made, and she gloated over the attention accorded her, accepting it as her due. But it was Meg’s increasing partiality for the Marquess of Alden, a known womanizer, that caused Marisa her deepest concern. When she attempted to warn Meg about him, her sister quickly retaliated, reminding Marisa of the frequency with which Thomas Relington visited the house. Although the countess went riding almost daily with Relington, she could see little comparison between the two situations. While there was no chance of her succumbing to Reling-ton’s blandishments, there was every danger of Meg—wild, young, impetuous Meg—submitting to the Marquess. Unfortunately she met nothing but stony resistance from her sister, who all but told her to mind her own business.

  Then there was John, who had withdrawn behind a wall of silence and indifference, blocking out every overture from his sister. If possible, she was more worried about him than Meg because there was less and less communication between them, and she did not know what to expect.

  The nagging state of worry and stress took its toll on Marisa’s endurance, lowering her resistance. She came down with a spring cold that forced her to take to her bed for a few days, much to Meg’s displeasure.

  It was a relief just to lie in bed and not have to participate in the activities of another hectic day, although Meg was silently reproaching her for spoiling her fun.

  “I think it was mean of Lady Maxwell to refuse to act as chaperon tonight.”

  “Meg, how can you be so selfish? That good lady has run herself ragged these past few weeks for us.”

  Meg pursed her lips and swung to look at her reflection in the mirror. “Well, I do wish you would contrive to see that I don’t miss the opera,” she said peevishly, fingering a straying curl.

  Her attention was diverted from Meg by Lucy delivering a note from Richard Foxworth. “He has an important message for me and wants to come up to deliver it.”

  “Do you want me to leave?” Meg asked archly.

  “No, of course not. I do not intend receiving a gentleman in my bedroom alone. Hand me my shawl, Lucy, and then you may show the gentleman up.”

  “I can’t imagine what important message Richard could have for me.”

  “Well, you will soon find out, won’t you?”

  After that rather snide remark from Meg the sisters waited in silence for Richard Foxworth to be ushered into the room by Lucy. As always his dandified appearance brought an irrepressible smile to the sisters’ lips. He was wearing a lavender jacket, pink striped waistcoat, and embroidered breeches. And as usual the starched wing collar of his shirt reached the middle of his cheek.

  “Dear ladies,” he smiled superciliously and bowed over Meg’s then Marisa’s hand. Straightening, he placed a small box in the countess’s fingers. “For you, my dear Lady Straeford.”

  “Richard, you know I can not accept a gift from you.”

  “Believe me, this one you can. Please open it.”

  “Yes, do,” Meg insisted and seated herself on the bed.

  Puzzled, Marisa lifted the lid to discover an emerald ring winking at her, and although in her heart she knew it must be hers, she was afraid to believe it. “Richard, is it…?”

  “Yes, dear lady, it is the emerald you lost in my carriage.”

  “I thought you told my sister you searched your coach and could not find it,” Meg interjected skeptically as she leaned over and lifted the ring from her sister’s nerveless fingers. Then she slipped it on to her own hand and held it up to the light to admire it.

  “What you say is true. It was mere chance which brought it to light. Yesterday as I stepped into my carriage, I noticed the carpeting had come loose. Naturally, I instructed my coachman to repair it. It was then that Freddy discovered the ring lodged beneath the flooring.”

  “It’s too good to be true.” Tears glistened in Marisa’s eyes. “It is the most wonderful news. Isn’t it, Meg?”

  Her sister shrugged her shoulders indifferently and handed the emerald back to the countess. “In the future I would suggest you take better care of your belongings. I would have had it sized long ago.”

  “Yes, yes, I should have, and I will see to it as soon as I am over this cold.” Gratefully, she clasped Fox-worth’s hand. “I shall never be able to thank you enough, dearest Richard.”

 
; “Lady Straeford, do not give it a second thought. My only wish is that I had discovered its whereabouts that night and saved you all this anguish.” He bowed deeply and then kissed her fingers.

  “Fiddle dee dee, it was nothing but a tempest in a teapot,” Meg suggested petulantly. “And now, will one of you tell me how I may attend the opera this evening?” She gave Foxworth a speculative look.

  “My dear child, I would be delighted to escort you, and I will ask my cousin Madeleine to act as chaperon. That is… if Lady Straeford consents.” He raised his monocle and looked at Marisa, but it was Meg who made a smug reply.

  “Of course, she will approve. After all, you are the gentleman who just saved her from the embarrassment of having to explain to Lord Straeford that she lost a priceless heirloom.”

  11

  Restlessly Marisa tossed about, tangling herself in the sheets. The lazy day abed had brought on a sleepless night for the recovering countess, and the stillness of the house, after John and Meg’s departure for their evening festivities, closed down around her. Throwing off the hot covers, she slipped quietly out of bed and into her robe. Then noiselessly she crept downstairs to the library in search of something to read. After placing the candelabrum on a table which sat directly in front of the window, she surveyed the room. Since Straeford had chosen it as his personal sanctuary, Marisa had rarely been inside of it. The moderately stocked bookshelves ran the length of one wall, and a large oak desk was placed squarely in the center of the room. The secretary arrested her attention because it was piled high with leatherbound volumes. Curious to discover her husband’s choice of reading material she went to the desk and began reading the titles of the books strewn across it. Disappointment was immediate, because they dealt solely with military subjects: generals, wars, tactics and campaigns. Was that the only thing he concerned himself with? Discouraged, Marisa turned away and caught sight of another stack of books sprawled carelessly at the foot of an armchair. Slipping to her knees beside them, she was pleased this time to read a variety of titles on a number of topics. Perhaps there was hope for him after all. Picking up the book lying face down in the chair, she was more than surprised to see it was Camoes’s The Lusiad, the national epic of Portugal. Was it possible that Justin was actually reading this? But here was proof—the opened book lying in a chair in a room that he occupied almost exclusively. Making herself comfortable, she began to read.

  Like to a daisy flow’r with colors fair,

  By virgin’s hand beheaded in the bud

  To play withal, or prick into her hair,

  When sever’d from the stalk on which it stood.

  Both scent and beauty vanish into air,

  So lies the damsel without breath or blood,

  Her cheeks’ fresh roses ravisht from the root

  Both red and white, and the sweet life to boot.

  Absorbed in the poetic beauty of the verse, Marisa was not aware of voices in the outer hall until the door was abruptly opened, and she heard Straeford saying, “You may bring me a decanter of port, Jenkins.” Then he was standing over her—his booted feet planted directly in front of her. “Well, what have we here?”

  “Oh, my lord,” she cried and scrambled to her feet with his assistance.

  “I saw the glow of the candles from the street and wondered who was in here.”

  His well-intentioned explanation was accepted coldly by his wife who was remembering her outraged honor. “So, now you know!” The frigidity of her reply immediately put him on his guard, and the rush of pleasure he had experienced at seeing her curled up on the floor with her unbound hair cascading down about her blue-clad form was forgotten, and he retaliated.

  “Why are you in here without my permission?”

  “I didn’t realize this was restricted territory.”

  Her sharp retort not only surprised him but angered him as she stood before him with her hands defiantly on her hips. “It is, if I say so! These,” he said thrusting a hand out indicating the dislodged papers and books, “are my personal belongings.”

  “I wasn’t prying, if that’s what you think.” Her own doubt of the truthfulness of those words caused her to blush and noticing it he asked suspiciously, “Weren’t you?”

  “No, of course not,” she persisted in her own defense. “I simply came in here to find something to read… and I just happened to catch sight of The Lusiad. I only meant to glance at it, but I became so absorbed in it that I couldn’t put it down. Did you find it that way when you were reading it?” She forgot her anger in remembering the poem.

  A slight flush rose under his cheeks before he had time to turn away and toss the book carelessly among the others on the desk. “I only read it to discover something about the nature of the people who are to be our… allies in the coming campaign. A mere practical interest. It had nothing to do with its poetry.”

  Marisa pursed her lips. Why did she persist in trying to locate a soft spot in this man? Indignant, she turned her back to him and walked over to the bookshelves and quickly selected something to read. She would have left him then without a word, but Straeford had no intentions of letting the interview end.

  Blocking her exit, he drawled with marked cynicism, “Not much of a greeting for a spouse you haven’t seen in weeks, m’dear.”

  “Funny, I was thinking the same thing.” Her sarcastic rejoinder nonplussed him, and she made good her escape.

  How dare she treat him in such a cavalier manner! Here he had come back ready to resume his marital duties, and she was acting the bitch. What could possibly be troubling her? For half a second he was tempted to follow her and find out, but instead he stormed out of the library, startling Jenkins who was carrying a tray with the decanter of port the earl had requested earlier.

  “My lord,” Jenkins hastily put the tray on a table and scurried after his lordship, who was heading for the front door. “Shall I call for your carriage?”

  “No, I prefer to walk.”

  “But, my lord, it is not safe…”

  Straeford’s disdainful scowl was enough for the butler to fall silent. Shrugging his shoulders, Jenkins watched his master disappear into the inky black night. Far be it from him to protest any decision made by that man and incur his wrath. Better to pity the poor unsuspecting footpads who accosted Lord Straeford for they would be tangling with Satan himself. Sometimes he wondered why he had come to work for the Straefords. If it were not for Lady Straeford, he would certainly have given in his notice. Only she could have induced him to work in the house of such a blackguard. His unfortunate mistress needed the loyal support of her staff, and he was determined she would have that at least. After a heartfelt sigh, Jenkins finished dousing all but one branch of candles in the entrance hall, and then made his way downstairs to the kitchen where he would sit over a hot cup of tea until bedtime.

  Being the only occupant of Berkeley Square to retire early, Marisa was the first one in the breakfast parlor the following morning. Left alone with her thoughts, they naturally turned to her husband. She had not planned what her attitude toward him would be upon his return, but now that an icy calm had asserted itself, she intended it to remain so. Only let him not seek her in bed! Knowing that he had a mistress, she could no longer tolerate such intimacy with him, even if the beau monde found it acceptable. What a mockery the polite world made of love! How they delighted in gossiping about deceived wives and husbands. It was such a distasteful subject to one of her middle-class upbringing. She did not fit comfortably into the fashionable world. The earl’s reluctance for the match made even more sense to her now. Well, once John and Meg had their chance, and the earl left for Portugal, she would retire from this kind of life. If only there had been a child from their union, she would have been content. It would have given her life a purpose. At Straeford Park she could have taught him values she thought important. They could have explored the countryside and read together, and she would have tempered the Straeford character with softness. She would have raised a
son capable of compassion and love as well as strength and courage—not like the present earl, all arrogance and cruelty.

  “Good morning.” Meg smiled pleasantly as she came into the room and began filling her plate from the sideboard.

  “I didn’t expect to see you up so early.”

  “I accepted Terence Fairfax’s invitation to go riding.”

  “I’m happy to hear that.” Knowing Meg had rejected several invitations from the Fairfax boy, this was an unexpected surprise.

  “He pleaded so sweetly I just had to relent, but you know I prefer older, more sophisticated men.”

  That brought a smile to Marisa’s lips; however, she made no comment. Her sister would change her mind many times about the type of men she liked before finally choosing a husband.

  “Did you and Richard enjoy the opera?”

  “Very much. But John must have enjoyed his evening even more since he still is not home.”

  “You mean he didn’t come in at all last night?”

  Meg’s answer was negative and Marisa said thoughtfully, “Perhaps I should send a note around to Marc Belvoir…”

  “Don’t be silly! John is a big boy. Do you think he wants you checking up on him like some schoolboy? He’s probably with some chere amie”

  “Meg! I will not have you talk like that.”

  “Oh, honestly, Marisa, you are such a prude sometimes…” She broke off as she spied the earl standing in the doorway. “Well, good morning, brother-in-law.”

  Marisa may not have known that John did not return to the house last night, but she was well aware of the earl’s homecoming. The noises emanating from his room shortly after daylight had led her to believe he was foxed. If her suspicions were inconclusive then, they were confirmed now. He looked burnt to the socket.

  After a terse greeting, he said, “If you don’t mind, Miss Loftus, I would like to speak to my wife alone.”

  “Well, I do mind. I haven’t finished eating, and I’m famished.” His sister-in-law was affronted by such a churlish manner, and Marisa could not blame her, but the countess, seeing the anger kindle in the earl’s narrowed eyes, prudently intervened.