Tender Torment

by Alicia Meadowes

Genres: Historical Fiction; American Romance; Victorian Romance

Synopsis

In an arranged marriage, feelings prove all too inconvenient in this tempestuous Victorian romance from the author of Sweet Bravado. Her family craved nobility, his desperately needed wealth. So Marisa’s moneyed father arranged to wed one of his daughters to the brooding, mystery-shrouded Justin St. Clare, Earl of Straeford, soldier and woman-hater. For although the Earl’s dashing good looks attracted every coquette in England, his mother’s secret and terrible deeds had driven him to total disdain for the opposite sex. Only to save his beloved Straeford Park—and to acquire an heir, would the Earl consent to marry But to Marisa Loftus, the Earl was more than a purchased title. He was her lord—and even as Napoleon’s armies battled Europe’s bastions, so would she storm the armored fortress of his sealed heart to fight for their growing love, the love that was such Tender Torment.

Release date: September 26, 2009

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 303

Sample

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.


“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.


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.”


“Perhaps, but it is much too early.”

“Never acquired the vice, eh?”

“Not that one, at any rate.”

“Gammon! You don’t think I believe for a minute those scurrilous attacks in the papers.”

“Past or present ones, ma’am?”

“Both! And don’t try my patience with a lot of balderdash about your reputation. When that tiresome hearing is settled, we
must think to your future.”


“My future?” His eyebrows rose a fraction. “I thank you for your concern, but it is misplaced. I have always done very well
for myself, and I shall continue to do so.”


“So you’re telling me to mind my own business.”

Her candor disarmed him momentarily, and he found himself able to respond to her directness with a short laugh “Again I bow
to vour perception.”


“But I won’t be hushed that easily. Justin,” she said in that confident manner which irked him. “It’s time someone took you
in hand.”



The earl’s annoyance surfaced and his politeness quickly vanished. “I warn you, Madam!” he said in rising tones, and punctuated
his words with a thrust of a pointed finger.


“Don’t threaten me, young man!” Lady Maxwell stomped her cane on the floor. “It’s time some plain speaking was done! Your
mother has been dead…”


“Madam!” He came to his feet, but Lady Maxwell ignored him.

“If you had remained to defend yourself against your mother’s insinuations at the time…”

“I would still be branded a scoundrel!” he said through clenched teeth. “Now have done with it!”

“I don’t wish to cause you pain, my boy.”

“Pain!” he laughed harshly. “Don’t you know I have no such human feelings? Try my patience no further, Grandmother, I desire
nothing more than to be left alone.”


“That’s just my point! You can no longer be left alone. Your obligation as the Earl of Straeford supersedes all else.”

He turned his back on her and walked toward the window without replying, but Lady Maxwell was not deterred. She plunged on.
“You must marry!”


“Marry!” he said with deep sarcasm.

“The line must be secured and the Park saved!”

“I shall save Straeford in my own way.”

“I already have the solution.” Lady Maxwell rose and walked slowly toward the tall slender chair behind which he had positioned
himself.


He eyed her suspiciously under half-closed lids. “Very well, Grandmother, I see I shall have no rest until you have your say.
So tell me your scheme.”


A triumphant sparkle lit her eyes and lips. “There is a wealthy merchant who is mad for the ton. He has two daughters…”


“My God!” He threw up his hands. “Not only do you condemn me to matrimony but to a climbing heiress!”

“If my calculations are correct, you will be thirty-five come August. Do you intend the line to end with you?”


“I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.” Turning, he pulled the bell cord hoping to close the discussion.


“Are you afraid of women?”

Straeford whirled to face her and hissed, “This is beyond endurance, Grandmother.”

“For heaven’s sake, Justin, all women are not like your mother!”

“Enough!” he roared, slamming his fist into the wall. She had pushed him too far! But with superhuman effort he dropped his
arm. Then wheeling on his heel, he stalked out of the room as Manners entered with the tea tray. Lady Maxwell sighed heavily.
She had been hard on him, but it had to be said. If only he would drop that protective armor he had built about himself and
permit himself to feel again. The tragedies of the past had forced her grandson down a bitter, lonely path for too many years.
And she was determined to change all that somehow!


Since Justin left home at the age of seventeen, he had returned only twice. The first time was for his father’s funeral. There
was no assuaging the grief Justin suffered for never having explained himself to the man he idolized. There was no way possible
to explain without disclosing the shame that had sent him fleeing in the first place. Sometime later he had sold out and returned
from India at the hasty summons of his grandmother. His brother Robert was dying. But Robert was dead by the time he reached
England. The deep personal loss, along with his mother’s disastrous remarriage, had placed the seal of destruction on the
family.


Straeford stood in the long gallery before the portraits of his distinguished ancestors. Holding a glass of port in one hand
and the bottle in the other, he walked down the gallery to the picture he had come to view. Lord Straeford, seated beside
his wife, with Robert standing next to him and Justin on his mother’s knee, presented a false picture of family tranquility.
Justin thought about that coldly beautiful woman, his mother, and how he had tried to warn her.


“Justin, you don’t know what you are saying!”

“And I told you I have written proof!”


“You were always a headstrong boy,” she laughed weakly.


“I am no longer a child, Mother, you can’t put me off!”

“So much like your father…” she went on.

“And that ploy won’t work either! I’m here to talk to you about Huxley…”

“No! Don’t you dare speak those filthy lies again! You hate Ellis because I love him!”

“No, I hate him because…”

“Isn’t it enough for you that you are now the Earl of Straeford?”

“Do you think I give one blasted damn for the title? For God’s sake, don’t you see anything?”

“I will not be talked to in such a manner! You were a bad, unfeeling child, Justin St. Clare, and you have grown into a cruel,
heartless man. That’s why I could never love you.”


The glass of port cracked in his hand, pouring wine onto the floor and carpet, mingling with his own blood. Becoming aware
of his aching hand, Straeford pulled a handkerchief from his vest pocket and wrapped it about his palm before quietly withdrawing
from the gallery and the memories it engendered.


Straeford was going through the strongbox in the library when Major Edward Harding, a tall, well-built man in his early thirties,
walked into the room. He was an attractive man with tanned features, sandy hair and hazel eyes.


Easy-going and good-natured, Edward Harding had been Straeford’s friend since boyhood. If there was one person the earl trusted
and respected, it was this confidante of his youth and companion of his military years in India. Straeford was in need of
cheerful company and Harding was precisely the one to provide it.


As they vigorously clasped each other’s hands, Harding admonished his friend for not having called on him and his new wife
in London. Major Harding had married Ann Cromwell, his colonel’s daughter, shortly after returning to England. He had requested
a transfer to the western front when Ann’s father retired and the family
came home. Harding had followed them soon afterward, and Straeford had not seen him since that time.


“I went to your lodgings to see you but found Billings instead. Your batman was concerned about you.”

“Billings is turning into an old lady,” the earl stated in exasperation. “So that’s what sent you hotfooting it down here.”

“Thought you might need some company. After all, the press has been pretty hard on you.”

“Believe me, I’m not going into a decline over some scoundrels who write libel,” Straeford jeered. “I simply came down here
for some solitude, but between Manners and Lady Maxwell bending my ear about saving Straeford, I might just as well have stayed
in London.”


“What are your plans for the Park?” Harding asked as he surveyed his surroundings.

Straeford threw back his head and laughed, causing the major to smile sheepishly. Then in a more sober vein the earl explained
that he had just finished an inventory of the family jewels to discover that besides the legendary Straeford emeralds, which
were entailed to the estate, there were a few good pieces he could pawn along with the last of the Van Dycks. After that he
would try his luck at the gaming tables.


Harding was not enthusiastic about this plan, but he had to agree with Straeford that there was little else he could do under
the circumstances. They speculated about his chances of winning a fortune, and Harding volunteered to investigate the clubs
most likely to accommodate his friend in this matter.


“When do you return to London?”

“The inquiry begins next week.” Straeford scowled.

“Just, I’ve been thinking. You ought to defend yourself against these attacks in the press. Cromwell and I are only too willing
to give character references for you.”


“But you and Cromwell were not there when the Nangore incident took place.”

“Yet we know what Seton is like!”

“Hearsay. The facts will have to speak for themselves.”

“And if they don’t?”

“I’ve survived slander before.”


“Damn! I’d like to tell them a thing or two.”


“But you won’t. I can count on you.”

“You know you can.”

Straeford smiled and brought the discussion to a close by inviting Harding to join him for dinner.


“And did you not on the morning of February 18, 1807, two days after the total rout of the rebel forces under the leadership
of Dashrami al Singhe, deliberately order the public execution by hanging of twenty-three of those rebels? And was not that
order in direct disobedience to the express orders of General Seton, your commanding officer in charge of the expeditionary
forces to the Madras territory of continental India?” Major Ross Covington of the Judge Advocate’s Office droned on in the
near-empty chambers of the military court at the Horse Guards.


“The statement as read by Major Covington is in partial error—the execution was ordered by me, but not in direct disobedience to General Seton’s orders.” Lord Straeford directed his reply to the seven-man board before him.


“My lord, I hold here a direct communiqué from General Seton, charging that you were given explicit orders to take no reprisals
in reestablishing British control over the village of Nangore.” The major regarded the earl with a quiet disdain.



“I take it you have those exact charges in writing, sir?” Straeford’s reply in the form of a question was not what Major Covington
had expected.


“I have here General Seton’s letter…”

“But does the general make formal charges of misconduct, Major Covington?”

“They are not charges by writ of military code, but this represents the word of your commanding officer. Do you choose to
question the word of General Seton, sir?”


“I choose to defend myself, Major. Do you deny me that right?” The cold authority in Straeford’s voice struck the assembled
board with surprise. Whatever Lord Straeford had done in that distant Indian village, it was obvious that shame bore no part
in it.


“I should think your right to defend yourself is apparent since it is an inquiry and not a court-marital we are conducting
here, sir,” Major Covington sneered.


“In that case, I assume I have the right to explain my actions during that operation and why I ordered the execution of twenty-three
Indian rebels.” Again a statement delivered with absolute authority.


“Very well, my lord, suppose you tell us your…” the major paused significantly, “… version.”

“I will tell the board the facts, Major. I do not deal in versions.”

“Pray then, proceed.”

“It is necessary that I start with the attack on midnight of February 15, preceding the battle at dawn on the sixteenth. It
was shortly after the midnight attack that twenty-three members of His Majesty’s 74th Foot were captured by Dashrami…”


Straeford disregarded the startled looks of the board as he thought back over the events of that dark night. The jungle blackness
had been so intense that it was impossible for him to see his hand in front of his face. Straeford had struggled to prevent
General Se