Tender Torment (11 page)

During the interim Straeford directed care for the wounded and the dying. Going among his men to encourage and cheer the disheartened,
Straeford disregarded his own fatigue and the painful lacerations inflicted upon him by the French colonel until he was satisfied
that everything possible was being done for his comrades in arms. He also made a point of checking on John Loftus to assure
himself that the boy had come through the battle unscathed. Only then did he submit to the ministrations of the surgeon and
permit himself a few hours rest.

Several weeks later Colonel Lord Straeford sat behind a desk rifling through some papers and running an agitated hand through
his wavy black hair. He, along with several other officers, had been assigned the duty of overseeing the evacuation of the
French from Portugal.

“One blunder after another,” he muttered under his breath. First Wellesley had not been permitted to complete his victory
over the French, and then the new commandant had gone ahead and signed a treaty with the French allowing them to leave Portugal
in British ships. “Insult to injury!” Harding heard him say as he came into the room. “Look at this!” Straeford thrust a sheet
of paper into the major’s hand. “Church plate, state carriages
… they’re taking half the possessions of Portugal with them!”

“And to think we were within a three days’ march of Lisbon. I just know we could have defeated them.” Harding commiserated
with him. “Wellesley must feel like hell. Rumor has it he’s going home.”

“It’s no longer just rumor. Sir John Moore has already been assigned his command.”

“Colonel, sir!” A breathless Drake stuck his bright blond head through the doorway. “I have a message from Admiral Cotton.”

Straeford waved his young aide-de-camp into the room. After reading the message from the man responsible for transporting
the French out of Portugal, he sat in contemplative silence until he realized both Harding and Drake were watching him. Looking
up at them he demanded, “Well, why are the two of you standing around? The sooner we send those Frenchmen packing the better
I’ll like it!” With that, he jerked out of his chair and strode out of the building down to the waterfront to take a first-hand
look at the progress being made in the evacuation. If everything continued on schedule, all would be completed by late tomorrow,
and then the French would be the sole responsibility of the British navy. He took a deep breath of salt air and exhaled deeply
as he viewed the activity about him. Unexpectedly his attention was drawn to a French officer whose head was swathed in bandages.
Recognition was immediate. So the blow he struck had not been a mortal one. Instinctively Straeford felt his left arm where
the Frenchman’s blade had cut him sharply. He had been far luckier than his adversary.

Sensing Straeford’s gaze, the Frenchman turned his head in his direction, and his good eye bore unblinkingly into the British
officer’s face. A swift, easy gait brought him to the earl’s side. “Allow me to introduce myself, monsieur. I am Colonel Dubois.”
He bowed slightly. “And you, my lord?”

“Straeford,” came the terse reply.

“Ah, I have heard the name.” His small dark eye glittered coldly.

“You have the advantage,” Straeford replied cynically,
unmoved by the hatred he saw revealed in the man’s face.

“You will know me next time,
n’est-ce-pas?”

Straeford’s eyebrows rose Sardonically. “There’s to be a next time, eh?”

“But of course. This,” he pointed to his injury, “must be avenged.”

Straeford shrugged indifferently. “Until we meet again then.” With a slight incline of his arrogant head, he strolled away,
dismissing all further thoughts of Colonel Dubois.

Ever since last summer when the Earl of Straeford and her brother John left for Portugal, Marisa Loftus had been following
the newspaper accounts of the Peninsular Campaign, but not much was being written about the men in battle these days. Most
of the news stories were concentrating on General Wellesley’s decision to sign the armistice with the French. She wondered
how that man was holding up under the barrage of attacks being made against him. If he were as arrogant and cold as Colonel
Lord Straeford, there was no doubt he would survive. She sighed, putting the paper aside and picking up a length of red velvet
brocade. Kneeling on the window seat, she held it up to the mullioned window of the gallery.

“Perfect,” came Lady Maxwell’s voice as she walked across the gallery to seat herself beside Marisa.

“Do you really like it, Lady Maxwell?”

“I couldn’t have chosen better myself. You have an eye for color and design, my dear. Justin should be well pleased with your
choices.”

“Do you think so?” she asked teasingly, yet there was a touch of sincerity in her tone which was not missed by Lady Maxwell.
“You know what I think, my lady? I think Lord Straeford wishes me to blazes.”

Her ladyship frowned. “Now, my dear child, do not be put off by Justin’s brusque manner.”

“How can I not be?” Marisa asked honestly. “He’s made his feelings clear to me. Your grandson views me as an interloper, an
upstart, and he does not cavil to show his disdain for me. His behavior has been exceedingly rude and his manner arrogant…” Seeing the dismay on
Lady Maxwell’s face, Marisa fell silent, ashamed of her own poor manners. “Oh, forgive me, your ladyship, I had no right to
say those things to you.”

“No, do not apologize. I know how difficult my grandson can be, and I will not deny much of what you say about him is true.
But, my dear child, there is another side to him. There is a fairness of mind and a generous nature beneath that cold, vain
exterior.” She held Marisa’s gaze. “Believe me, it’s there. Do you think I would let you marry him if I did not know it to
be so?”

The sincerity with which Lady Maxwell spoke touched Marisa deeply. It gave her sagging spirits a lift. “Thank you, Lady Maxwell,
you’ve made the prospects for the future seem a little less bleak.”

“I want your happiness as well as Justin’s because I’ve grown to love you as if you were my own granddaughter.” The elderly
woman smiled reassuringly and clasped the young girl’s hand.

“You have become very important to me too, your ladyship.” Impulsively Marisa kissed the lady’s parchment-like cheek. Lady
Maxwell appeared slightly flustered by such affection, but she quickly recovered.

“You are just what my troubled grandson needs. Someone who is sincere, honest and loving. Give him time to become accustomed
to his good fortune. He’s too intelligent not to realize it.” The urgency in her voice and the tightening of her grip on Marisa’s
hand expressed the intensity of emotion she was feeling. It disturbed Marisa, who found it so uncharacteristic of this usually
cool, self-controlled woman. Evidently the earl’s welfare was extremely important to his grandmother.

Noticing the troubled expression on the girl’s face, Lady Maxwell relaxed her grip on Marisa’s hand. She had no wish to frighten
her with her own anxiety. To lighten the mood, she waved her walking stick at the portraits lining the wall.

“Did you ever see such a motley crew? Come, let me introduce you to some of the saints and sinners.” Marisa followed Lady
Maxwell as she passed before the notables and continued to expound on their virtues as well as their vices until they stood
before the portrait of the seventh Earl of Straeford and his wife.

“You were a very handsome couple.”

“I used to think so,” she smiled fleetingly, “but you and Justin will be a much more striking pair. I look forward to seeing
a painting of the two of you.”

Marisa smiled at the prospect. “I’m afraid I do not see the present earl sitting still for a portrait painter.”

Lady Maxwell cackled as she pictured the scene of her scowling grandson sitting before the portrait painter. Then she led
Marisa down the gallery to the figure of the ninth earl, a pale, green-eyed, light brown-haired youth. “Justin’s brother Robert.”

“He looks so different from the earl.”

“As night is to day,” Lady Maxwell agreed. “Not only in looks but in temperament as well, and yet they were devoted to one
another.”

“How did he die?”

Her ladyship did not answer immediately but stared at the portrait of her dead grandson as if willing him to speak for her.
When she finally did reply, her voice was strangely hollow. “He broke his neck in a fall from a horse.”

“How dreadful!”

“Yes, it was, but there are reasons why some things happen.”

It was a strange comment for her to make, Marisa thought; however, she had little time to reflect on it as Lady Maxwell continued
speaking.

“Although Robert was a nice boy, he was also shallow and self-indulgent like his mother. She dominated him completely and
he was too weak to withstand her blandishments. Only Justin was capable of doing that. Naturally, that did not endear him
to his mother.”

Now was the opportunity Marisa had been waiting for. “Lady Maxwell, will you tell me about the earl and the late countess?
Something about the kind of relationship they had. It’s a question which has had me curious ever since I met the earl.”

It took her ladyship so long to answer that Marisa feared she was angry with her. Finally, however, the elderly woman nodded
her head affirmatively.

“Let us sit in the warmth of the sun. This room has
a chill upon it.” An expression of distaste passed over her face, and she pulled the black lace shawl closer about her shoulders.

Was it the gallery or her own question which had produced Lady Maxwell’s chill? Marisa wondered.

“Actually, child, it is not my story to tell,” she explained after they were seated with their backs to a sun-drenched window,
the rays filtering across the room to the still faces of the Straeford ancestors. “It is Justin’s tale, and some day I hope
he will see fit to confide everything in you. Nevertheless, I think it my duty to give you some idea of the situation. It
had its beginnings so very long ago, but it still affects Justin’s life today. You see, my daughter-in-law was not overly
fond of children—even her own. And Justin incurred her wrath even more by being an inquisitive, independent daredevil.” She
smiled, remembering the bright little boy who always delighted her. “He was very much like his father.” A twinge of pain seemed
to cloud her dark eyes. “My son’s marriage was not a happy one. Marian hated her husband, and she transferred that hatred
to her own son because he was a constant reminder of the earl. So whatever affection she was capable of giving went to Robert,
and Justin grew up without the love a child needs.”

Marisa looked across the gallery at the portrait of Straeford at his mother’s knee. It was intended to create a tranquil image,
the child’s look of innocence giving no hint as to the anguish he must have experienced according to Lady Maxwell’s account.
To Marisa the painting was a contradiction, the innocent young child a contrast to the impassive, enigmatic man she now knew.
She was about to offer this observation but decided it better not to interrupt her ladyship’s running commentary.

“Perhaps he would have adjusted to the lack of a mother’s love in his life if he had not discovered as a young man her… infidelities.
I am afraid that was the last straw…” She paused as if to go on, but thought better of it. “Well, maybe now you will have
a better understanding of why he has neither love for nor faith in women.”

This last disclosure disturbed Marisa greatly. If his
lordship’s feelings were of such long standing, what chance did she have of altering them? And she said as much to Lady Maxwell.

“Don’t think like that! You must not be discouraged.” Her ladyship was vehement. “He can change and he will! What he has needed
is someone in his life like you, a good woman who will give him compassion and love.”

“Lady Maxwell!” Marisa rose to her feet and twisted her hands in agitation. “You don’t realize what you’re saying. There is
no… love between your grandson and me, and I cannot promise there ever will be!”

There was a strained silence as the two women stared at each other. Then Lady Maxwell rose and took the girl by the shoulders.
“Forgive an old woman for being so insensitive. You barely know Justin and I will have to be content to let matters take their
course.”

Marisa relaxed and then apologized for her outburst. “I… I overreacted, my lady, I did not mean….”

“Never mind, child, there is no need to explain. It is I who said too much. Now I am going to let you return to your decorating
while I go check with Bess about tonight’s dinner.”

With great dignity the elegant lady crossed the chamber. Pausing at the exit, she turned to face Marisa. “There is one thing
more, my dear. Do my grandson a great kindness and remove the portrait of the late countess from the drawing room.” Without
waiting for a reply she stepped out of the gallery and only the sound of her tapping cane lingered.

The interview with Straeford’s grandmother had done little to reassure Marisa about the earl and her future. The future Countess
of Straeford felt as confused and uncertain as before. And at this moment she was exasperated, too. Stalking over to the family
portrait, she glared at it. The serenity of the picture angered her for it was a lie. A deceitful lie! And as for that innocent
looking little boy on his mother’s knee, he was a total enigma. To listen to Lady Maxwell, he was the victim of an unloving
mother who was responsible for turning him into the cold, ruthless man she knew. Even if that were true, could she
give him the tenderness, understanding and… and love he needed to soften his outlook on life? But wasn’t she jumping to conclusions?
There was nothing in his behavior that suggested he wanted to change… except for that one evening at her father’s home when
she thought she glimpsed deep sadness behind his haughty manner. Possibly that was only her imagination, too. Wasn’t he simply
a professional soldier, a man of war, who was perfectly satisfied with his life and brooked no interference in it? She shook
her head. It seemed doubtful that she would ever come to understand the man who was to become her husband.