The Youngest Dowager: A Regency romance(38)
The moon had disappeared behind a bank of high cloud and Marissa slowed Tempest to a walk to allow the horse to pick its way across the tussocky grass of the park. Now that her instinctive flight had ended she found she was acutely aware of every sensation, every sound. Her wet hair clung to her coat, soaking through the cloth between her shoulder blades, sand gritted between her toes inside the leather boots and her eyelashes felt salt-sticky. Yet despite these discomforts she felt alive, tingling with the consciousness of her body. For the first time she was truly aware of herself, of her skin, of her lips, of her breasts, of the caress of the night air on her cheeks.
She held her face up to the breeze as it sighed through the beeches and allowed her mind, at last, to be free, to think about what had just happened, what Marcus had done to her.
Through the stillness hoof-beats sounded, loud on the still night air. Marissa drew Tempest back farther into the shadows as Marcus’s hunter galloped by, his master low on its neck. Marissa let Tempest move forward to the edge of the copse and watched as the big horse vanished under the arch of the stable block.
Chapter Thirteen
Marcus was angry with her. She had spurned him, not once, but twice. He could never guess – and she could never tell him – why in the end she had rejected his lovemaking when he must have realised that she wanted him. Wanted him…
Marissa rubbed her forehead in perplexity. It had never occurred to her before that a woman could want, could welcome, a man in that way. With Charles she had feared it, forced herself to do her duty, endured what happened, prayed for it to be over swiftly.
But Marcus… Marcus had said he wanted to make love to her. He had intended that she should feel pleasure, had done everything to ensure it, been patient with her. Tempest, sensing her mistress’s distraction, began to walk slowly across the park, retracing her earlier route past the front of the big house.
Marissa shivered as she remembered the sensations that had awakened her body, and her mind. It had never occurred to her that a man would care for a woman’s pleasure, would actively incite it, revel in it, enjoy it as much as she did.
The realisation, when it came, hit her with the force of a blow. This was how it should be. It had been Charles whose warped view of the world had dominated her mind and body in the two years of their marriage. What she had accepted as normal was anything but. Suddenly the pattern of his behaviour was revealed to her as a whole: his demand for perfection in everything, his coldness, his cruelty. There, she had thought the word, for Charles had been cruel to her; she could see it now.
He had been unfeeling, self-centred, critical, frozen at the core, incapable of love, or even of caring for another person. He had made much of her childlessness, yet if she had produced an heir for him Marissa sensed that he would have found something else to punish her for.
Now he had gone, but he had left a legacy of fear. Tonight Marcus had unlocked the door to the prison of her mind and emotions, shown her the daylight, the freedom beyond. But she was afraid of stepping out into the air, she knew that. When Marcus had sought to consummate their lovemaking she had panicked, frozen, rejected him. And just as the sight of Charles’s portrait could reduce her to trembling fear, so his shadow would always fall across her bed.
Candlelight shone from a window in the front of the house and a shadow moved across the uncurtained casement. It was Marcus, back in his bedchamber. Marissa gathered up the reins and turned Tempest towards the house, drawn by the light and the thought of Marcus.
His figure loomed at the window, staring out blindly from the lit room across the darkened landscape outside. She drew closer, so close that she had to tip up her head to watch him as he slowly unbuttoned his shirt and shrugged it from his broad shoulders. The candlelight glanced off his unruly blond hair and the recollection of the feel of it beneath her fingers sent a frisson down her spine. She wanted to be there with him, her palms flattened against the strong, satiny planes of his chest, drawing in his warmth, his vitality.
But when he led her to the big bed it would happen all over again, she knew it. The fear would overwhelm her desire for him. And she could not risk that, she realised now, loving him as she did. A man who loved her would be cruelly hurt by the rejection and a man who wanted her would not tolerate her rejection of him. Marcus had not spoken of love, she reminded herself, only of his intention to marry her, to make things right after their scandalous behaviour together on the beach.
Marissa turned her horse’s head and rode steadily away. No, loving Marcus, being with him, was a fantasy. She was irretrievably marked by the past and there was no future for her with him. Or any man.
A light burned in the stable loft as she slipped wearily out of the saddle. Despite her orders, Tom had waited up for her. Even as she put her hand on the door latch it opened and the lad emerged, tousled and sleepy, hay sticking to his coat.
‘There you are, my lady. It’s getting cold out. Let me take her now.’
Marissa handed him the reins with a smile. ‘Thank you, Tom, but I did say not to wait up.’
‘I’ve been asleep right and tight in the hay, my lady. Mr Peters would have my guts for garters if I had gone back to bed with you out. ’Night, my lady.’
Back in her chamber Marissa peeled off her damp clothes and dropped them on the floor, too tired and drained to do more than get into her bed and fall into a deep, dreamless sleep.
Jackson placed a dish of eggs on the buffet. Marcus could feel his gaze on him, sense the caution with which he was keeping quiet. Normally breakfast was a good time to discuss the household’s domestic affairs because Nicci never stirred from her room before ten and peace could be guaranteed.