Tender Torment (6 page)

The family was an attractive group, the earl was relieved to discover. But that they were not of his class was uppermost in
his mind.

The Loftus board was another unexpected bonus. The master set an ample table and his cook was excellent. The dressed fowls
stuffed with truffles in wine sauce were
superb, and the earl’s wine glass was never allowed to empty of the rich, red claret that filled it.

It was Marisa who held the earl’s attention though the younger Margaret, seated to his right, was a stunning coquette. Wherever
she learned her maneuvers with the fan, she had learned them from an expert. And those dark-fringed eyes regarding him with
sly satisfaction were nothing new to him. He had met that look on the faces of ambitious females in the past, but he did little
more than nod occasionally to her animated attempts to draw him out. Instead he studied Marisa Loftus, seated at the foot
of the table, with unconcealed interest until his attention was distracted by the mention of General Seton.

“… General Seton’s fiasco. Just goes to show the army don’t know what it’s doing if you ask me.” A shrunken little fox of
a man with darting eyes peered maliciously beneath bushy brows at the assembled table. “Win one day and lose the next. Can’t
depend on ‘em, I say.”

No one else dared speak out with Straeford present.

“Must be something wrong when a ragged band of heathens can get the upper hand and send our ruddy soldiers scurrying for cover,
eh? What d’ye say, Denton?” He flung a challenge to a red-faced young man across from him who dived into his dinner plate
and began to eat furiously. Others started conversing eagerly with their neighbors hoping the old fool would have the sense
to silence himself.

The earl looked at Marisa Loftus, wishing to study her reaction. It did not matter to him what this assemblage of cits believed
since they were beneath his contempt.

The girl’s face betrayed no emotion—no curiosity or shame or fear—only calm repose. He liked that.

But she was watching him too, studying his reaction as well. Her blue eyes which were slightly tilted at the corners were
regarding him steadily, and he was surprised to perceive a lurking disapproval in their depths.

Be damned with her disapproval! The girl piqued his curiosity. For all she was the daughter of a merchant, she presented a
picture of aristocratic beauty. The features of
her face were well-defined—her brow smooth, her gaze forthright, her lips and cheeks sweetly curved.

The words of the troublesome old man penetrated Straeford’s thoughts once more.

“… only capable of abusing helpless natives.”

The old devil was growing louder and more quarrelsome, and since no one answered him, he added one more thrust.

“Seems our military are bravest when ordering executions and slaughtering helpless prisoners, don’t it?” He was staring directly
at Straeford.

“Why, Uncle Reggie, with all this talk about the military, of which we know very little, you have not eaten your dessert,
and I know it is your favorite.” Marisa Loftus intervened, attempting to cover her uncle’s breach of etiquette. He had insulted
a guest in her father’s home!

Although Straeford appreciated Marisa Loftus’s tactfulness, he felt little gratitude for her intervention. He had no wish
to be defended by this woman. He had outfaced worse than this old coot in the past, but it was time he silenced the fool once
and for all and put the girl in her place. Let them know how insignificant their opinions were to him.

“My good man, my only regret is that I have not the authority to order similar measures here at the seat of Britannia’s rule
and rid our kingdom of a passel of fools. I would greatly enjoy lining them up and giving the order to send them to perdition.”

Forks clattered to their plates, and gasps were heard before silence grew heavy.

Straeford ignored their reactions save for Miss Loftus’s, whose lurking disapproval had surfaced into open dislike.

At this breakdown in decorum, Marisa rose, cast the earl a frigid glance, and led the ladies to the drawing room.

Minx! Justin observed. This girl begins to interest me. Lady Maxwell was right. Without a doubt it will be the older daughter.
No fledgling miss for me.

Coming into the drawing room a short time later, the Earl of Straeford observed the rest of the family with
ill-concealed disdain. They had gathered into several small groups with the younger Miss Loftus already seated at the pianoforte,
ready to play and sing. Her sister continued to pour coffee for the guests until the earl’s penetrating gaze caused her to
raise her head.

Again disapproval registered in her luminous blue eyes. He could handle that. It was no less than he was used to. And it might
be worth a few nights’ effort to master the boldness of that direct look of hers. No shrinking virgin to contend with here,
but a desirable woman indeed. He’d like to see her with those heavy honey coils loosened and falling free. Her heaving bosom
promised a ripeness that teased his imagination, and the girl’s full red lips were tempting even though she held them stiff
and prim when she looked his way—as she was doing now, as everyone was doing—father, brother, sister and guests.

Straeford ignored the mixture of fear and alarm on their faces and boldly strode across the room to Marisa. Bowing stiffly
he offered her his arm, saying loudly for those nearby to hear, “Come Miss Loftus, let us get acquainted. I did not have the
opportunity to speak with you at supper, and I have a preference for blondes.”

A heated blush traveled from Marisa’s bosom to her cheeks in a wave of hot embarrassment which Straeford regarded impassively.

She dared no longer look at him. What did he mean by accosting her this way? She wanted to slap his face, but her good manners
forbade such behavior. Obediently she took his proffered arm.

Her obvious distress angered the earl. He hated his own rude behavior, but he hated this marriage auction even more. He could
not stem the flow of his cruelty.

“I’ll take this one,” he claimed bluntly passing in front of Loftus and marching through French doors into the small salon
beyond with Marisa firmly clamped to his side.

Angus Loftus too was suffering pangs of distress. The earl was being deliberately provocative. It would have given Angus great
pleasure to show the arrogant devil the door. But ambition warred with pride and ambition won. He would not be provoked into
hasty action.

“Meg, play something for our guests!” Angus demanded of his younger daughter who was staring thunderstruck at the earl and
her sister as they left the room.

“Father, it ain’t proper,” John Loftus whispered into his father’s ear.

“Quiet, puppy.” Angus silenced his son.

The earl led Marisa into the salon, but she would not be seated as he would have her be. She preferred standing for this confrontation.

A branch of candles on a console cast flickering shadows about the small chamber as they regarded one another silently for
some moments, each striving to take a measure of the other. The girl’s slender form, simply draped in flowing amber satin,
presented an image of elegant allure. The soft sensuous curves of her body tempted the earl, and almost drove his real purpose
from his mind.

“Well,” he demanded at last, “will I do?”

Marisa did not reply at once, but studied the arrogant face with its determined mouth set beneath those glittering green eyes
and black brows. She felt a tremor of fear. Her audacious captor in his black silk jacket and black breeches that hugged his
powerful thighs seemed a dark demon about to swoop down on her. She could believe those tales of cruelty that were whispered
about him. He held his broad shoulders in a stiff military stance that bespoke unbending authority. His hands, like the rest
of his physique, were slender but strong. In all he was a formidable specimen of manhood whose physical perfection attracted
while his cold hauteur repelled. He looked so harsh and forbidding that all sense flew from her mind, and she had not two
coherent thoughts to pull together since he had suddenly seized her.

“I… I am at a loss, sir.”

“Come now, ma’am, you know why I am here to-night.”

“Yes, I do… but…”

“Well, then.”

“I… we…” Marisa stammered, horrified at her loss of composure. What was his power that paralyzed her brain? “You are… offering
for
me,
my lord?”

“Indeed I am.”

“What about Margaret? We thought she would be the one.”

“I prefer you.”

“But she… Meg’s heart will be broken.”

“That is not my concern.”

His answer finally stung some sense into her. “How cruel you are!”

“Best know the truth from the start. I make no apology for my personal qualities.”

“What other qualities besides cruelty do you profess to recommend yourself for matrimony?”

Her audacity surprised them both.

“Why, I offer…” and here a glint of humor flashed in his piercing eyes, “experience of command, wisdom of the world, and
nerves of steel; all suitable accomplishments for the proposed state of matrimony, I daresay.” His smile gleamed wickedly
in the dusky room.

“I think you also offer arrogance, conceit, and self-consequence!” Marisa retorted heatedly.

“In large measure, my dear. In large measure.”

“I do not think those qualities lend themselves to matrimonial harmony,” Marisa claimed, hoping to discompose his galling
self-assurance.

“Then what about a noble lineage, title to vast lands, and that most important consideration above all—entrée into the best
circles of society? Does that lend itself to matrimonial harmony, do you think?” he questioned insolently.

Marisa bit back an angry retort, lest she get into deeper waters. But it was a visible effort as fear and anger struggled
to express themselves.

“And what of you, my dear? What do you offer?” The earl came to stand before her, his eyes traveling the full length of her
body and lingering on her heaving bosom.

“I make no offer, my lord. I have no wish to marry you!”

This time it was
her
words that startled coherence from Straeford’s mind, and he stepped back and regarded Miss Loftus anew. Angry tears gleamed
in her eyes, and for a moment her distress touched him. He turned and
walked to the fireplace trying to sort out his thoughts. He had no appetite for this heartless bargaining. Women! Damn them
all to blazes! It would be a relief to be out of the whole money-grubbing business.

But what of his home—his debt to his father and brother and the Straeford line? He turned to Marisa once more, but his guard
was not securely set and for a moment the girl read something of the inner torment of the man. Without words, much of his
early history communicated itself to her. Could this really be the slaughterer of innocent natives? She was not consciously
aware of her thoughts, but Straeford in turn felt her softening toward him. He steeled himself against her tender feelings.
He would have none of the female arts used on him.

“I will leave it up to you, dear lady. I will marry you, not your sister Margaret. Make up your mind to that! I bid you good
evening.”

Straeford took his leave of the Loftus residence stopping only long enough to notify Loftus that he had made his decision
and the matter now lay in his daughter’s capable hands.

“But you can’t marry the earl,” Margaret cried angrily. “Papa bought him for me. You have no right!” Margaret was pacing the
room furiously. “Tell her, Papa. Tell her. Tell her!”

“Now, Meg, child, calm yourself.” Angus was beside himself with chagrin. The Earl of Straeford had managed to turn the tables
on him and rout his entire household. There was no quieting Margaret for the past hour, and she was insisting that he force
the earl to marry her.

Loftus had been certain that the earl would prefer his younger daughter, Margaret. Her flamboyant beauty put most girls in
the shade. And her youth, he felt, was an added attraction.

Secretly he admired the earl for choosing Marisa. Her quieter beauty was a durable loveliness that would improve with the
years. No doubt Straeford had an instinct for quality. But what would Angus do without his good right arm? Drat the man!

It was this girl who had maintained the warmth of his home in the eight years since the death of Jennifer
Loftus, Angus’s much loved wife. Marisa had left school a year earlier than was planned to return home and take up the duties
of hostess for her father and mentor to John and Margaret.

A more efficient and loving daughter no man could have. So like his dear Jenny. The only trouble she had ever given him was
the time she almost married the Aiken lad. But Angus had put his foot down. He would not hear of an alliance with a nobody… same thing Jenny had done, of course, but that was different. Now he was going to see his offspring properly launched into
the
ton
where they belonged.

“I do not like that man, Father.” John added his disapproval to the broth of contention. “Neither Meg nor Marisa should be
given to him.”

“What can you object to? He has rank and lands enough to satisfy the ambition of any female.”

“Whose ambition is it you wish to satisfy, sir? Surely not Marisa’s!”

“Hush, John,” Marisa cautioned, lest he go too far.

“I have ambition enough if she does not,” Meg proclaimed vehemently. “I want him. He’s beautiful!”

“Meg, darling!” Marisa placed a hand on her sister’s shoulder, but it was angrily shrugged away.

“Don’t ‘darling’ me, dear sister. Your sweet reason act doesn’t fool me, even if it does papa. What passed between you two
in that salon? I’ll vow you threw yourself at his head.”

“Margaret, be still!” Angus thundered at last. “I’ll hear no more of your brazen talk this night. If it’s Marisa the earl
wants, then it’s Marisa he’ll have!”

“No, I say you cannot do this, Father!” John dared to contradict, although his father’s temper when roused was fearful to
behold. “He’s a black-hearted devil. Did you not hear him at dinner tonight?”