Tender Torment
Authors: Alicia Meadowes
Contents
Her family craved nobility, his desperately needed wealth.
She rose from the sofa, trying to back away as he advanced even closer, but soon found herself with nowhere to go.
All at once, his mouth rushed passionately against hers in a long and savage kiss. She fell limp under the overwhelming power
of his arms, and then his lips found their way to her cheek, her ear lobe, her neck and the hollow of her throat.
“No… no,” she whispered urgently. “No, no,… Please, stop. The servants…”
Straeford recoiled at her pleading. “Of course. Tonight it is the servants—and what excuse will you use the next time?” Without
another word, he lifted her into his arms, muffling her cries. It was impossible for her to think clearly as he swiftly took
the stairs, her entire being firmly in his grip. Entering her room with a kick of the door, he dropped her on the bed and
followed her down…
Sweet Bravado
Published by
WARNER BOOKS
WARNER BOOKS EDITION
Copyright © 1980 by Linda Burak and Joan Zeig
All rights reserved.
Warner Books, Inc.
Hachette Book Group
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New York, NY 10017
Visit our website at
www.HachetteBookGroup.com
First eBook Edition: October 2009
ISBN: 978-0-446-56579-0
Driving wind and snow forced Marisa Loftus to pause momentarily and snatch at the fur collar of her pelisse in a vain attempt
to protect herself against the biting thrust of the frigid winter weather. She linked her arm through her maid’s and together
the pair pushed against the determined wind and picked their way cautiously over the slippery walks of the Inns of Court.
The pelting snow impeded visibility, and rounding the corner of an ancient stone building that had stood since the days of
Elizabeth, Marisa was rudely jostled by a tall, dark man in a heavy black cape. His head was hunched into his shoulders against
the piercing cold, and he jerked it up impatiently to stare with penetrating green eyes into the startled face of the young
woman obstructing his pathway. Marisa, who was struggling to regain her precarious footing on the icy walk, was shocked by
the darkling glance—a bitter blend of anger and misery—which her haughty jostler cast upon her before muttering something
indistinguishable and hastening on his way.
Ignoring the icy blast of wind that almost tore the bonnet from her head, Marisa stood with her hands on
her hips to stare after the stranger until he disappeared into the swirling snow.
“Well, I never!” claimed the lady indignantly.
“Bully,” added the shivering Lucy, who urged her mistress into the somber gray building and up the creaking stairs to the
solicitor’s chambers on the second floor.
Henry Saunders greeted the girl warmly, kissing her cheek and clasping both her hands in his. “Why my dear, whatever has disturbed
you?” he queried, noting the annoyance marring her usually serene countenance.
“I just met the rudest man outside this building,” she claimed as Mr. Saunders seated himself at his desk.
“Ah, the earl,” he sighed heavily.
“He practically knocked me off my feet and never offered an apology.”
“He probably wasn’t aware of what he was doing, my dear. That one is a very troubled young man.”
Marisa’s expression grew perplexed as she tried to call forth the features of the stranger in the snow, but his visage was
lost to her.
“Never mind him now,” Saunders suggested. “Tell me why I have the pleasure of your company on such a blustery day.”
The young woman’s sparkling blue eyes brightened gaily. “Uncle Henry, I had to come to thank you for the marvelous birthday
present. I adore the Worthington. But I have no idea where I shall hang such an impressive painting. I love those sweeping
landscapes of the English moors, but its proper setting should be in a great hall somewhere.”
“I am sure you will preside over a grand establishment of your own one day soon, Marisa, my child. No doubt the proper setting
will turn up.” A mischievous grin wreathed his homely face.
“I wish you may be right in your predictions, Uncle, but I do not foresee that day in the near future.” Marisa’s face lost
its happy animation as her thoughts turned inward to the obligations her present life forced upon her.
“It will come. It will come,” Saunders insisted heartily. “If ever there were a young woman meant to reign over a happy home,
surrounded by an adoring husband
and a covey of young, it is you, my dear. It is time you stopped playing nursemaid to your sister and brother, and I shall
tell your father so.”
“Father would not take it kindly if you did, sir. And besides, it would serve no purpose. At four and twenty I am already
on the shelf.”
“Nonsense.”
“Dear Uncle Henry.” Marisa wagged her finger at the man playfully and changed the subject to the dinner party she was hostessing
for her father’s associates next week.
Saunders pledged his attendance and shortly afterward escorted his charming visitor to the outer chamber, where she took her
leave with her maid, Lucy. From a narrow window overlooking the street below, he watched Marisa as she scurried out of sight,
wishing he might be instrumental in bringing that lovely young woman to the attention of the proper matrimonial match.
The carriage rumbled through the iron gates and swung up the circular drive of gravel to the front door of the earl’s country
estate. Halting the team, the driver jumped down, opened the door and peered into the darkened coach.
“’Ere ye be, m’lor’,” he said and withdrew to collect the luggage.
Without a word the earl climbed out and looked about him.
“Looks like no ‘uns ta ‘ome,” the coachman commented.
The Earl of Straeford ignored the coachman’s remark and simply dismissed the man by placing the required coins in his hand.
Time and neglect had eroded much of the charm of his boyhood home. Even the climbing ivy and dimming light could not hide
the desperate need for repairs. As Straeford scanned the crumbling stone structure dark clouds gathered overhead to warn of
an approaching storm. Straeford recalled the storms of his boyhood.
“It’s going to rain any minute now. Where are those boys?” Lady Straeford asked in annoyance.
“Here we are, mama.” Justin ran into the room followed by his brother Robert.
“Justin, what have you been up to this time?” Lady Straeford frowned at her younger son. “Look at your clothes!”
“Mama, he rescued Emily!” Robert explained excitedly.
The Earl of Straeford chuckled as he regarded his two sons. “Where was that stupid cat this time?”
“On the roof,” Justin said proudly, stroking the cat. “I climbed out the dormer window…”
“I don’t wish to hear about your escapade,” Lady Straeford interrupted. “Go change your clothes at once, young man. You look
like a chimneysweep. I cannot bear the sight of you!”
“Come here, son,” the earl beckoned to Justin who was now attempting to scrub his face with a handkerchief. “Don’t get yourself
into a dither, Marian,” he said as he finished wiping the dirt from the small boy’s face.
“He’s irresponsible risking his neck that way, and you encourage him to do it!”
“Justin can take care of himself,” the earl retorted with thinly disguised impatience.
“What if we’d had guests and the boy had walked in here looking like that?”
“Is that your only concern?” he asked disdainfully.
The countess ignored his question and placed her arm about Robert’s shoulder. “You’re fortunate that Robert knows how to behave,
and that he is your heir.”
“I’m proud of both my sons, and I know if the responsibility for Straeford were Justin’s, he’d be an excellent earl.”
“Why?” she sneered, “Because he patterns himself after you?”
“And that’s not to your liking, is it, Marian?”
Straeford reached the door of the old house just as the rain began to fall. He grasped the heavy brass knocker and heard it
resound through the empty house.
“Who be it?” a rusty old voice asked as the door creaked open.
“It’s me, Manners, open up.”
“Who?” The old man raised the candle in his wizened hand and squinted at the caller.
“St. Clare.” Straeford rarely referred to himself as the earl. In his mind the title belonged to his father and brother before
him.
“My lord, we weren’t expecting you. It’s been such a long time.”
“Yes, it has,” Straeford replied as he stepped into the entrance hall. Immediately he was arrested by its somber appearance.
The darkened oak paneling and unlighted tarnished chandelier threw the room into shadow and the aged portraits on the walls
peered at him out of the gloom. As he crossed the slate floor, his booted feet echoed solemnly. In the center of the foyer
stood a cracked marble table, and to his right was a grandfather clock that no longer chimed. Upon entering the east drawing
room his attention was riveted to the portrait above the fireplace. The late Lady Straeford, his green-eyed, black-haired
mother, stared boldly, defiantly out at him.
“I’ll have the covers off the furniture at once, my lord.” Manners shuffled his ancient body about the room as he removed
the dust cloths.
Crossing to the corner window, Straeford opened the tattered blue velvet draperies, letting in the dwindling twilight. Then
turning his back on the threadbare furnishings, he stared out of the window at the meadow and sloping landscape where he had
played as a boy.
“William?” a woman’s voice called from the hallway.
Manners went to the door. “It’s all right, Bess. It’s his lordship.”
“Lordship?” An elderly plump woman came into the room and stopped abruptly as she recognized the earl. “Well glory be, if
it ain’t Master Justin.”
“His lordship the Earl of Straeford!” Manners corrected indignantly, and she bobbed a curtsy.
“Bess, you haven’t changed in all these years.”
Straeford remembered this good-natured cook with kindness and gave her a half smile.
“Ah, I only wish it was true, m’lord, but if you don’t mind me sayin’ so you look the same as the day you left the Park. You
be the image of your mother with those green eyes and black hair…”
“Yes! Yes!” he cut in shortly and changed the subject. “Could you provide me with a cold supper?”
“I’ll see to it at once, m’lord.” Bess withdrew hastily, knowing she had overstepped herself.
“Is there anything left in the wine cellar, Manners?”
“Yes, your lordship, there be several fine clarets and burgundies.”
“Good, bring me one… a… make it two.”
Manners nodded sagely into the stormy green eyes. “Right away, your lordship.” And he shuffled out of the room.
“Goddamn,” Straeford swore under his breath as he caught a glimpse of his face in the Chippendale mirror and saw his mother’s
eyes reflected there. Suddenly a deep scornful laugh erupted from him, and he swung about to face the portrait of the countess.
Bowing mockingly, he spoke aloud, “I will always be haunted by you, Madam. Does that satisfy you, I wonder?”
The sardonic picture remained silent.
Later, the better part of two bottles of claret downed, he managed to climb the creaking stairs to his bedchamber. An inviting
fire was burning in the grate and the tartan coverlet had been turned back. Starting across the room towards the washstand,
his boot caught in the carpet, almost tripping him. Catching himself, he glared at the frayed rug. “Damn!” he swore. “Is the
whole place going to come down about my ears?” He threw himself on the bed fully clothed and fell into a fitful sleep. Only
a few moments passed when he sensed a presence in the room. “What is it?” He rose on one elbow and blinked at Manners, who
hovered at the foot of the bed.
“Would your lordship wish to have his boots removed?”
“You’d be surprised how often I’ve slept with them on.”
“Your batman?”
“Doesn’t disturb me unless I call for him.” He studied the old man’s solemn face and shrugged his shoulders. “Go ahead if
it will please you.” Immediately Manners began to struggle with the earl’s right boot. “You did a bit of valeting in your
younger days, didn’t you, Manners?”
“That I did. For your grandfather before I became his major domo.” He managed to pull the boot free, and then started on the
other one.