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?”
“Damn your impudence, boy!” Angus roared. And John faltered under his father’s towering rage as he had always done. “What mean you interfering in my plans for all of you? You do as I say as long as you reside under my roof! Or I’ll throw you out—penniless—to go beg in the streets!” He swung about to include his daughters in his tirade. “And that goes for the two of you, too! Marisa will marry the earl… and John, you’ll take that commission in the army when Straeford arranges it. Then it will be Meg’s turn. She’ll have a season among the beau monde and find some other eligible lord to marry. I’ll hear no more about it! My decision is made! Make no mistakes about it!”
Angus stormed out of the room, refusing to look at his older daughter, who had not voiced her feelings in the matter. This was what Jenny had always wanted for her children and Angus was going to see that his beloved wife’s wishes were carried out.
4
A lady swathed in a dark veil scurried down the carpeted corridor searching for number 278. She tapped lightly on the door and waited breathlessly as she heard the lock turn and the door open revealing Lord Straeford’s valet, Billings. Despite that gentleman’s training, he could not prevent a look of surprise before he recovered his usual façade of cool detachment.
“Is your master in?” the mysterious woman questioned in a low, wispy voice.
Billings hesitated, not sure of himself. A woman was unheard of in the Stephens Hotel—at least a respectable woman—but something in the lady’s manner forbore his immediate rejection.
“Who shall I say is calling, madam?”
“Tell him it is… Evangeline Seton.”
“If you will kindly step inside and be seated, I shall make your presence known to his lordship.”
Mrs. Seton arranged herself stiffly on the small divan before the fireplace, not allowing herself to relax, but sitting forward as if ready for flight on the moment. The room was silent and watchful except for the ticking of a carriage clock on the mantel which revealed the hour to be three o’clock of a gloomy winter afternoon.
Lord Straeford strode into the room, his forceful footsteps announcing the presence of a man used to command and authority.
“My dear Mrs. Seton, how may I be of service to you?”
The dark-clad woman jumped back at the appearance of the man she had forced herself to seek out. Raising the veil of her bonnet, she observed his dark, alert visage through faded blue eyes and understood immediately why this was the colonel her husband had come to hate. The strength of his character was plainly revealed in the firm, chiseled planes of his face and the depths of those somber green eyes. All that discipline acting in striking contrast to Horace’s self-indulgence!
“I know it is improper for me to be here, my lord, but I… if you could spare me a few minutes?” She let the question dangle without completion.
“Certainly, madam. I am at your disposal.” There was no warmth in Straeford’s voice, but the rules of courtesy he stringently observed.
“My dear sir, I hardly know where to begin.” She looked to his lordship to help her find her way.
“If I may assist you…” Straeford offered dubiously.
Evangeline Seton nodded, clasping her hands tightly in her lap.
“You came here because of your husband, did you not?”
Mrs. Seton nodded again, but waited for his lordship to continue.
“Naturally, you are concerned about the situation in India after reading all the reports in the press…”
“They give such dreadful accounts—forgive me, but it sounds as if such slaughter were done—”
“But most of the villainy is laid at my doorstep, dear lady, not at your husband’s.”
She looked at him directly, wi
lling herself not to flinch. “Horace has written me some of the circumstances. I am aware that… that not all is as represented in the journals.” Her voice was a whisper.
Lord Straeford shifted uneasily, wishing himself out of this devilish interview.
“Mrs. Seton, do not distress yourself over public opinion. The rabble is easily stirred by sensationalism and the press seeks to satisfy its base appetites. You must choose to ignore it, if you are to have peace of mind.”
“Lord Straeford, were it for myself alone, or even my husband, I could put a brave face on it and persevere. But I—we have a son at Sandhurst whose future could be shattered were the full… truth to be revealed.” She looked to the earl with eyes imploring his forbearance.
His lordship did not reply, weighing the full import of her words. The lady was begging him to cover for her husband. It was a brazen plea to make, and yet, surprisingly, he did not resent it. It only wearied him. This frightened little woman was too pitiful for any reaction stronger than tedium. She was merely trying to protect her son.
The irony stabbed him—that she should come to him, who had long ago lost faith in the maternal instinct. And as for Seton, the fool deserved whatever public obloquy resulted from this miserable investigation.
“Mrs. Seton, let me speak bluntly. I cannot deliberately falsify the facts.” She glanced up in alarm at his choice of words. “However, I can assure you that I do not seek to harm your husband’s reputation. If it be possible, I’ll see the wretched affair speedily settled with as little damage to General Seton’s record as possible. There is no good to be served in feeding the public lust for scandal. General Seton was not always… as he is today. I remember a better man in better days.” Straeford watched the lady’s face gradually soften and lose some of the strain and tension that fear had etched so unkindly there.
Tender Torment Page 5
