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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.
‘Out with it. I can feel you thinking from here.’
‘I apologise if my thoughts were loud, my lord. I noticed you were looking a trifle heavy-eyed and preoccupied. I therefore decided this was not the time to raise the matter of the under-footman who was found last night asleep on the pantry floor clutching an empty bottle of your lordship’s best port.’
‘No, definitely not the time. I trust you to deal with it.’
Jackson lowered the lids of the chafing dishes silently and moved to take up position by the buffet as one of the double doors opened and James peered round. Jackson raised his eyebrows in silent reproof but the footman ignored the look and beckoned urgently.
‘Excuse me, my lord,’ Jackson murmured, and left the room.
Marcus watched him go. The footman had been not so much discreet as positively furtive. He stood up and walked silently to the door, which was just ajar.
Through the gap Jackson’s low voice was just audible. ‘What are you about, James? You know his lordship doesn’t like being disturbed at breakfast and he is not in the best of moods today. Can’t it wait?’
‘I’m afraid not, Mr Jackson. It’s her ladyship, you see.’
‘Lady Nicole?’
‘No, her ladyship, the Countess. She’s here, pacing up and down the hall – and she’s in an odd mood too, I can tell you.’
‘I’ll come – and don’t go gossiping about your betters, lad. Doubtless her ladyship is experiencing some problem with the travel arrangements up to Town.’
Marcus opened the door and followed them on silent feet along to the point where the corridor opened out onto the landing. As Jackson neared the head of the stairs Marcus could hear the swish of long skirts on the marble floor of the hall.
‘Good morning, Jackson.’
‘Good morning, your ladyship. I hope you have had a pleasant ride. Lady Nicole is in her room. Would you like me to send up a cup of chocolate for you?’
Marcus could make nothing out from Marissa’s tone of voice and from where he stood he could not see her.
‘Thank you, no. I have come to see his lordship, not Lady Nicole.’
‘His lordship is at breakfast, my lady. Will you wait in the Blue Salon and I will let him know you are here?’
