Tender Torment Read online

  Contents

  Also by Alicia Meadowes

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Her family craved nobility, his desperately needed wealth.

  “YOUR LORDSHIP!” MARISA IMPLORED, SEEING THE PASSION STIRRING IN HIS EYES.

  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…

  Also by Alicia Meadowes

  Sweet Bravado

  Published by

  WARNER BOOKS

  Copyright

  WARNER BOOKS EDITION

  Copyright © 1980 by Linda Burak and Joan Zeig

  All rights reserved.

  Warner Books, Inc.

  Hachette Book Group

  237 Park Avenue

  New York, NY 10017

  Visit our website at www.HachetteBookGroup.com

  First eBook Edition: October 2009

  ISBN: 978-0-446-56579-0

  Prologue

  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.

  1

  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.

  “There’s not much you don’t know about the Straefords, is there, Manners?”

  The ancient servant observed his master’s eyes before offering his guarded reply. “I’ve seen much in my time, my lord, and I’ve forgotten what is best laid to rest.”

  “A very convenient mind, and a wise one too, I might add.” The earl allowed Manners to take his jacket and hand him a robe.

  “Would your lordship be requiring anything else?” he asked as he hung the uniform in the wardrobe.

  “Go to bed, old man, you need your rest more than I do.”

  “That’s what I do most of these days, rest.”

  “There’s not much to take care of at Straeford Park now, is there?”

  “Oh, there’s much to be done, and Bess and I are glad you have come home, so that we can get to it.”

  “Don’t count too heavily on my straightening this mess out!”

  “You’ll find a way, my lord. I was telling Bess when I heard you were in London, ‘He’ll come Bess. Straeford Park is the earl’s home. He’ll set it to right.’ “

  “Did you now?” The earl raised his eyebrows and frowned at the old man. “Well, we’ll see,” he mumbled, “we’ll see.”

  “Yes, my lord. Goodnight.” Manners permitted himself a smile before closing the door behind him.

  The old reprobate! the earl thought as he closed his eyes and stretched on the bed. He was trying to manipulate him. Well, why not? Manners’s loyalty to the Straefords and the Park was well known.

  A crack of thunder followed by a streak of lightning caught his attention, thrusting him backward in time to another stormy night when, as a boy of seventeen, he had made the shattering discovery that set his life on its lonely course.

  Dear mama! She had done her hatchet-work well. He could not remain at Straeford once she had spewed forth the full poison of her hate. The knowledge was too bitter a burden. He tried to explain his reasons for enlisting in a letter to his father; but it was a futile effort. Lord Straeford had written an angry summons demanding a further accounting for Justin’s rash action. But Justin remained in India, the full horror of that confrontation with his mother forever sealed within his heart.

  The morning light streaming into the dining room did little to enhance its shabby appearance. The chipped wainscoting and dull rosewood table showed up pitifully in the merciless light. Straeford sighed ruefully. The only things that remained the same were Bess’s good cooking and the quiet peace of country life.r />
  Manners removed his plate and informed him that he had a visitor in the drawing room.

  “Grandmother.” Straeford walked into the room and bowed formally to the thin, white-haired lady seated on the sofa. His father’s mother. Dressed all in black except for a white lace ruffle about her high-necked dress and holding an ebony cane in her gnarled right hand, she looked every bit the formidable dowager she was. Having survived two husbands and reached the grand old age of eighty, Lady Maxwell commanded respect and sometimes obedience even from this obstinate young man.

  She eyed him sternly, her ebony eyes flashing. “So you’ve finally decided to come home.”

  “For the moment, Madam.” He remained standing.

  “Don’t try to put me off, Justin St. Clare. I’m not frightened by that glacial stare.”

  The earl’s face was a study in stern dignity. The luminous green eyes gazed out from inner realms that the observer sensed were inviolable. Few dared trespass the private sanctum of that inner world where the proud spirit reigned in isolated disdain. Many a foolish female had sought to probe those depths only to suffer so thorough a rebuke as never to broach the edges of that gentleman’s personal being again.

  Despite his austerity, he was a handsome man. His well-shaped head carried a rich crown of crisp black curls that owed nothing to art other than a hasty brush carelessly applied each morning. The mouth was well-formed but severe. The chin and nose firm, strong and manly. It was a beautiful face for all the hardening years of exposure spent in the deserts and jungles of India.

  To Lady Maxwell’s surprise, a smile creased his mouth as he replied, “You were always perceptive, ma’am.”

  “And you were always obdurate!” She decided to press her advantage. “Sit down, boy, I don’t like having to look up at you. You are taller than I remember.”

  He sat opposite her and stretched out his long legs in front of him. “To my knowledge I’m still six feet, ma’am.” He smiled lazily. “Shall I ring for refreshments?”

  “I informed Manners we would call for the tea tray later.” She studied him closely before adding, “Although you might want something stronger.”