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  A Matter of Choice

  by Laura Landon

  Chapter 1

  Joshua Camden, ninth Marquess of Montfort, saw her in the distance, and smiled.

  Even though she stood with her back to him, his gut tightened when her fiery copper hair glistened. The unique coloring was like a magnet that drew him to her. She was truly a vision of loveliness: her small, lithe body waiting to be held, the smooth, creamy skin of her shoulders bared in anticipation of his touch, her long, graceful neck begging to be kissed.

  She was almost hidden in the shadowy darkness off the stone pathway in a far off corner of the garden. There wasn’t a doubt why she was here. Why she’d chosen this secluded spot for their rendezvous.

  The clouds chose that exact moment to let the moonlight wash over her. His body reacted with alarming desperation and he hastened his steps.

  He was glad she was so lost in thought she didn’t hear him approach. He wanted to take her by surprise, to hold her willing body in his arms, touch her supple flesh in the palms of his hands, taste her lips. No matter what the ton’s expectations were, he had no plans of marrying anytime soon. He’d take his pleasures where and when he wanted. And right now he wanted the willing widow, Lady Paxton. The message she’d sent him couldn’t have been clearer. She was available. No strings attached. No strings expected. Exactly the way Joshua wanted it.

  The moon slid behind a cloud, shielding the two of them in the shadows. It was perfect. In one swift movement, he stepped up behind her. He deftly wrapped one arm around her waist while the other hand skimmed her torso, over the smooth satin of her gown. When he felt the swell of her breast, he moved his fingers inward. He cupped one breast, letting its heaviness rest in the palm of his hand. Her gasp of surprise made him smile.

  The feel of her was perfection.

  With a sigh of satisfaction, he lowered his head and kissed her neck. The clean scent of lilacs and roses and other intoxicating smells he couldn’t name wafted across his senses and he moaned in pleasure.

  “You are even lovelier than I remembered,” he muttered against her soft flesh. “I’ve been dreaming of this all night.”

  He felt the sharp intake of her breath, heard her cry of surprise, and felt her move within his grasp. He steadied her as she struggled and let his hands span her narrow waist. Then she twisted out of his arms to face him.

  His mind barely had time to register that the woman he held was not Lady Paxton before her hand swung forward and connected with his cheek. The blow she delivered was hard enough to snap his head to the side. The shock of what he’d done calamitous enough to send his senses reeling.

  +++

  “Bloody hell,” he muttered, staring at her in shocked disbelief. “You’re not...”

  “I most certainly…am…not!”

  Lady Allison Townsend glared at the man who’d manhandled her with an anger so intense she saw red. Recognition dawned and she glared at the Marquess of Montfort as disgust oozed from every pore of her body. With her lips clamped tight and her fists anchored on her hips, she raised her shoulders in battle-ready preparedness. When she was sure she had Montfort’s full attention, she countered his step backward and began to verbally flay him within an inch of his rakish hide.

  “How dare you,” she hissed, straightening her already ramrod stiff spine even further.

  He lifted his hand and rubbed his jaw. She hoped she’d hurt him.

  “My abject apologies, my lady. I thought you were…I mean, I thought—”

  She listened to him stutter like a schoolboy desperate to invent an excuse for his behavior, then stop as if he realized he could hardly reveal the woman for whom she’d been mistaken.

  “There is no point in making excuses, my lord. Your reputation as a rake and a scoundrel is widely known. Every female old enough to attend her first ball has been warned about you.”

  He arched his brows. “Really?”

  If what he’d done flustered him at all, his embarrassment only lasted a moment. Then he smiled.

  Her temper raged hotter when she saw the wicked grin on his face. “You are despicable,” she hissed. “Is it normal for you to accost unsuspecting women and throw your unwelcome attentions upon them?”

  He thought barely a moment. “To be honest, most women don’t find my attentions unwelcome.”

  She sucked in a breath teeming with fury. Before her stood a perfect example of the kind of man she’d always detested. Men like the Marquess of Montfort were the reason she refused to marry, the reason she would never trust her heart again.

  She gave him as cold a glare as possible in the darkness. To her frustration, he ignored her and struck a casual pose that caused her heart to beat faster. She hated that he was so handsome. Hated even more that the feel of his hands on her body caused her blood to boil. But most of all, she hated that his smile caused molten lava to seep through her veins.

  She took a step backwards, stopping when the trunk of a large tree kept her from separating herself further from him. She pitied the poor women who were so weak that they succumbed to his charm and good looks.

  “I admit,” he continued, “that I made a mistake...”

  He stepped closer and anchored his hand against the tree. He was close. Too close. She ducked beneath his outstretched arm, needing to put space between them.

  “…and I offer my most sincere apology.” He bowed most graciously.

  She was almost ready to overlook what he’d done until he lifted his head. There was a broad smile on his face. A smile as alluring and confident as any she’d ever seen. A smile she was sure he’d used on countless women.

  “But I cannot lie,” he lifted her gloved hand in his, “and say I didn’t enjoy myself. You are a very beautiful woman. But doubtless you’ve been told that numerous times.”

  Allison pulled her hand out of his grasp. “You are disgusting,” she said with a renewed flare of her temper. “You are a rogue of the worst kind. So confident of your good looks and charm that you think every woman will submit to your overtures.”

  He shrugged his shoulders as if her rejection was inconsequential. “I don’t usually have problems in that area,” he admitted, his mouth widening to a breathtaking grin. “We all have to make use of the advantages with which we were born.”

  “How conceited. I’m sure you think your title and your looks are all you need to have every door opened to you. That with only those two attributes, every woman in London will clamor to be your wife.”

  His smile wavered. His eyebrows shot upward. “What makes you think I’m searching for a wife?”

  Allison studied his features. A deep frown now covered his forehead. “Perhaps that’s not your goal right at this moment, but the day will come when you will need an heir. A legitimate heir. Then you will look for a wife. And heaven help the poor, unsuspecting female who will be required to sacrifice her happiness when she marries you.”

  “I hate to disappoint you, my lady. But as to your first accusation, I have not made it a practice to leave illegitimate offspring scattered throughout England.”

  Allison had the good grace to feel her cheeks warm at his blunt words. She prayed he couldn’t notice in the dark.

  “As to the second, why are you so sure being married to me would be such a trial?”

  “Because there isn’t a woman alive who doesn’t want to be proud to take her husband’s name and walk through Society with her head held high.”

  “And you think that would be impossible for the woman who married me?”

  “It would if that woman were naïve enough to let love and fidelity be important to her.”

  “Love?” He laughed. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those romantic ninnies
who believes in love?”

  Of course she wasn’t, but she wasn’t about to admit that to him.

  He continued. “Name me one couple of the ton who married for love and remained in that unpleasant state for long.”

  She couldn’t. And it made her even more furious that he knew she couldn’t. “I suppose you consider fidelity just as impossible,” she chided, her temper flaring.

  He laughed. “Why would anyone eat the fruit from just one tree in an orchard when there are dozens of trees that offer delicacies just as enticing?”

  Allison fisted her hands at her side to keep from striking him again. The Marquess of Montfort was proving to be everything she despised in a man.

  “But don’t feel too sorry for all the wives in London,” he said. “A woman always gains far more from a marriage than does her husband.”

  His voice contained a great amount of confidence which infuriated her even more. She was suddenly incensed. “Oh, pray tell. What would a woman gain from marriage to you?”

  “Everything. She would be well cared for, as well as clothed and housed extravagantly. And, she would eventually bear the title, Duchess of Ashbury.”

  Allison nearly choked. “What more could any woman desire?” She made sure her voice dripped with sarcasm.

  “I somehow doubt you mean that as a compliment.”

  “I most certainly do not. Are fancy gowns and a title all you think a woman wants from a marriage?”

  “Of course. Every woman I know is desperate to find a husband who will provide for her every need. Every female here tonight is evaluating this year’s crop of eligible men, then ranking them according to their ability to provide for her.” He looked at her with his brows arched. “Which I assume is why you’re here tonight. Have you chosen the man who best fits your requirements?”

  The breath caught in Allison’s throat. His accusation made her feel a hypocrite, a fraud. And he infuriated her.

  He raised his darks brows inquisitively. “Is that why you have come to such a secluded spot in Lady Cowpepper’s garden? Is it possible you came out here to meet someone and I arrived first? That you were not nearly so virtuous as you’d like everyone to believe?”

  Before she had time to think, her arm involuntarily swung through the air and slapped the Marquess of Montfort’s face. Hard.

  Then, she spun on her heel and walked back to the ballroom, holding her head high and her back straight. She prayed she would never set eyes on him again. She had without a doubt, just met the most repulsive man on earth —and perhaps broken her wrist as a reminder.

  When she reached the house, she stepped across the threshold and into the crush of people gathered in the ballroom. She rubbed her aching wrist. She could not believe what she’d just done. She’d slapped him, the Marquess of Montfort. Not once but twice.

  She pressed her hands over her mouth to stop the small cry that wanted to rush out. She’d never struck anyone in her entire life. Never even been tempted.

  The first time she could surely justify. He had, after all, accosted her. Dared to touch her, to kiss her.

  A whirlpool of something she’d never felt before swirled in the pit of her stomach when she remembered being held against him: the heat of his body, the strength of his chest and arms, his hands roaming over her, and his lips kissing her neck.

  She fanned her face. She did not want the memory of his touch to affect her like it did. She refused to let his attentions have any meaning. Refused to admit that she’d been driven purely by the riotous emotions he set rampaging through her. That his touch had any bearing on what she’d done. But it had. And she hated herself for it. He’d left her with no choice but to slap him.

  The second time, though. Oh, heavens. She’d let her temper get away from her. She’d become so angry she’d slapped him again.

  Allison rubbed her wrist. Her stomach churned and she took several deep breaths to calm herself. Montfort was the most infuriating man she’d ever met.

  Why was her brother forcing her to marry? She didn’t need a man’s name. She didn’t want his—

  “Lady Allison. There you are.”

  She looked up to find the Earl of Archbite standing before her. He’d shown a great deal of interest in her of late. And what was of even more importance, he affected her like the calming trickle of a lazy stream, the opposite of Lord Montfort’s crashing waves against the rocks. Like a comforting presence able to soothe her tattered nerves, compared to Montfort’s threats and turmoil. She relaxed and breathed a steady breath for the first time since Montfort had pulled her against his hard, immovable chest.

  “The musicale is about to begin. Would you do me the honor of accompanying me?”

  “I’d be delighted.” She took control of her emotions and placed her hand upon Lord Archbite’s outstretched arm.

  By the time they entered Lady Cowpepper’s elegant music room, most of the seats were filled, leaving them to sit toward the back. She didn’t mind. For as much as she loved music, she didn’t consider either of Lady Cowpepper’s daughters more than passably talented.

  She settled in her chair as Lady Francine, the oldest, began her first selection, a lovely Italian aria. When the song ended, Lord Archbite leaned closer to say something. Allison turned her head—and her breath caught.

  The marquess stood with his shoulder propped casually against the door frame, his arms crossed over his broad chest, his gaze locked with hers.

  His inordinate height separated him from the rest of the guests, and a whirlpool of raging emotions swirled out of control deep inside her. She chastised herself when she realized she couldn’t pull her gaze from him.

  A slow smile spread across his face and he graciously lowered his head in acknowledgment. Such a subtle greeting. So unnerving. So confident. As if he relished the effect he knew he had on all women.

  In a show of rebuke, she lifted her chin and turned her head. She wanted to wipe the smile from his face, and for a tiny fraction of a second, she was glad she’d slapped him. But she was also afraid. Never before had any man affected her as strongly as he had.

  She averted her gaze, struggling for as long as possible to keep from looking back to the spot where he stood, forcing herself to concentrate on the musical performance. But a power she couldn’t control pulled her gaze to where he stood. Fortunately, this time he wasn’t watching her. His gaze was fixed on someone sitting on the other side of the room.

  Without seeming obvious, she turned her head enough to see who’d captured Lord Montfort’s interest. For some reason, the recognition galled her. He was focused intently on the recently widowed Lady Serena Paxton.

  The striking redhead wore an emerald green gown with an indecently revealing décolletage. But more telling was the look on her face. It was obvious that she was extremely pleased with Lord Montfort’s attentions.

  When the overly polite applause for Lady Francine’s vocal selection dwindled, Lady Darlene took her place at the piano to play one of Mozart’s earlier works. Allison took advantage of the momentary lull to look again to where Montfort stood. With his eyes locked on Lady Paxton’s, he briefly nodded his head, then without notice, left by the nearest side entrance.

  Allison turned her gaze back to Lady Paxton. A few moments later, the woman left the room by an exit on the other side.

  Allison’s cheeks flamed. One would have to be an imbecile not to know what the two intended. Or that Lady Paxton was the woman Montfort had come to that secluded spot in the garden to meet. The woman for whom he’d mistaken her.

  Allison’s opinion of him plummeted further, if that were possible. He was a womanizer and rake of the worst kind. She pitied the woman he eventually took as his wife. He would never change. Men with those leanings never did. His poor wife would never be able to walk through Society with her head high. Everyone would know of her husband’s infidelities.

  Lady Darlene’s piano selection ended and Allison turned her attention back to Lord Archbite. If she had to marry—
and she did if she wanted to keep her inheritance —he was worth her consideration.

  He was handsome enough, yet not too handsome to attract every woman in Society. And if she were any judge, the puppy-dog look of adoration she detected in his gaze said he was more than mildly enamored of her.

  With a heavy sigh, she realized she finally had at least one name for her list of possible marriage candidates.

  The thought was not comforting in the least.

  Chapter 2

  It had been two weeks since Joshua had last seen his father. Two weeks since their last confrontation. Joshua was foolish enough to think he’d have at least a month’s respite before the next battle, but he’d run into his father at White’s earlier in the day.

  His father had never been able to tolerate him. Today was no different. In fact, today’s battle had been more hostile than ever. His father’s words filled with more bitterness and loathing. And not for the first time, Joshua realized that the growing hatred that consumed his father was unhealthy.

  Joshua stood at the back of the Earl of Ploddingdale’s ballroom and slowly nursed his second drink. He needed help forgetting the niggling fear that warned him the end result of his father’s anger would be catastrophic.

  The recurring focus of his tirade had again been that the wrong son would some day carry the Ashbury title. He never missed an opportunity to lay more blame at Joshua’s feet for his brother Philip’s death.

  Joshua threw a swallow of liquor to the back of his throat. Bloody hell! Didn’t he know Joshua would give anything to relive that day and be the one who’d died instead of Phillip?

  Joshua replayed the confrontation from this afternoon. He wanted to reject the idea that his father had lost his grip on stability, but it was almost as if his desire to punish Joshua for Phillip’s death consumed him to the point that he no longer had a firm hold on sanity.