A Matter of Choice (6 page)

“I see you needed a little fresh air and solitude, too, Montfort.”

Joshua turned around to see Allison’s brother, the Earl of Hartley walking toward him. “Yes. There’s something about a crowd of people that makes me yearn to escape to the country.”

“I know the feeling. I’ll be glad when my wife tires of the endless round of balls and parties and suggests we visit our country estate for a while.”

Hartley stood at Joshua’s left and focused his gaze on Lady Archbite’s perfectly manicured garden. “I still miss him, you know.”

“Yes, I know,” Joshua answered, knowing who Hartley meant.

“Philip and I arrived at school the same year. We were friends from the start. Good friends. I couldn’t believe he was taken away from us so young. Has your father come to terms with his death yet?”

“No.”

“Give him time.”

Joshua sighed. “I’m afraid two lifetimes will not be enough for him to accept what happened that day. He will always need someone to blame.”

“Perhaps that is his grief talking.”

“Perhaps.”

“The accident wasn’t your fault, Montfort.”

Joshua tried to push the nightmare that still haunted him from his mind, but it refused to leave him alone. Instead, he remembered Philip pushing his horse too fast over rough and uneven ground, Philip attempting to jump the hedge that was too high for an inexperienced horse and rider, Philip’s horse refusing to make the jump, then...Philip’s broken body on the ground.

“In part, Father is right in blaming me. If I hadn’t dared Philip to race...”

“Then Philip might have tripped on the stairs and fallen to his death.”

Joshua’s breath caught.

“None of us have a say in when we will die, you know. You give yourself far too much credit if you think you could have prevented God’s will from happening.”

“It’s too bad Father doesn’t share your opinion. He constantly wishes our roles had been reversed.”

“That is your father’s loss. Perhaps he simply cannot see your good points.” Hartley shifted his weight. “Philip saw them, though. He thought very highly of you, you know.”

Joshua shot him a sideways glance with raised eyebrows.

Hartley laughed. “Yes, even though he knew about your fondness for drinking, gambling, and a willing female, he said that being irresponsible was your way of disguising your true character.”

Joshua smiled. “I always did have him fooled.”

“Philip was much too perceptive to be fooled. Even by you. We were both lucky to have known him.”

With that, the earl turned and walked toward the house.

“Hartley.”

Hartley stopped.

“This is none of my concern, and if I am overstepping my bounds, please ignore my next comments.”

“Yes?”

“During the past few weeks I have had the pleasure of becoming acquainted with your sister.”

“And…”

“And I believe Lord Archbite has formed quite a fondness for her.”

“This concerns you?”

“I know his breeding is impeccable and he seems the perfect match for Lady Allison, but…”

“Go on, Montfort.”

“Lord Archbite keeps a house near Mayfair Park.”

“That is hardly scandalous. Many men, single and otherwise keep a mistress. If that’s what you’re implying.”

“Lord Archbite’s friend is an artist, a painter. His name is Rafael.”

Hartley stiffened. His hands fisted at his side. “You’re sure?”

“I encourage you to confirm this yourself.”

He ignored Hartley’s vile oath and turned to brace his hand atop the balustrade.

“Thank you, Montfort. I appreciate your candor.”

Joshua didn’t answer, but lifted his chin to let the cool breeze hit his face once again. At least Allison would be saved from that scandal.

+++

Allison sat in the lavish music room totally absorbed by the glorious sounds coming from the magnificent Mademoiselle Miranda Bochaut. Each note, each word, each melodic phrase was a benediction, a prayer to heaven. Her rich mezzo soprano voice filled the room with unhindered clarity and grace, her unequaled talent clearly a gift from above. Never before had Allison heard anything so beautiful.

Never before had she seen a woman more beautiful.

The singer couldn’t be more than twenty-four or twenty-five, gracefully tall, with a figure as fragile as a china doll’s. Her hair was the color of spun gold, which she wore up loose on the top of her head. Shimmering tendrils cascaded down to her shoulders, framing a face so lovely it could have belonged to an angel. Her cheeks held a faint blush, her lips a deep rose, her eyes the clearest blue Allison had ever seen.

And every note she sang, every word from her mouth flowed as if inspired by some unseen spirit. But it was not the angels to whom she sang. It was to the darkly clothed, handsome man leaning casually against the outer wall at the back of the room. Her gaze rested on him, the depth of her adoration a tribute to him. Her exposed emotions a declaration of devotion that was intended for the Marquess of Montfort.

Allison had requested a selection from
Samson and Delilah
without having heard the music. She knew the opera had caused some controversy, knew the words were stirring—even provocative—but she hadn’t been prepared for the passion in the aria Mademoiselle Bochaut chose.

Every beautiful tone hinted at something private shared by two lovers. Each word a caress, each delicate note a kiss, each breath an intimate touch. And they were meant for him alone.

Tears flowed unabashedly down Allison’s cheeks. She told herself the reason was because she’d never heard anything so beautiful, had never been moved so by such a heaven-sent voice. But she wasn’t sure that was the reason.

She fought the ache that pressed against her breast. She didn’t know why the look the beautiful singer shared with the Marquess of Montfort should affect her. Why their relationship with each other should bother her one way or the other. She only knew she’d never hurt like this before in her life.

Joshua took the stairs
to his father’s townhouse two at a time and stormed through the burgundy double doors the Duke of Ashbury’s long-time butler, Higgins, held open.

“Where is he!” Joshua marched across the marble-floored entryway with Higgins following at a pace faster than Joshua had ever seen him shuffle.

“His Grace is in his study, my lord. But I don’t believe he wishes to be disturbed.”

“I’ll just bet he doesn’t.” Joshua tossed Higgins his hat and cloak without breaking stride.

The butler’s granite facial expression did not change. It was the same frozen look of regal indifference he’d worn for the twenty odd years Joshua had known him.

Without waiting for Higgins to catch up with him, he headed toward the study.

“Do you wish to be announced, my lord?”

“No,” He clenched his teeth. “I believe His Grace is expecting me.”

Each step thundered on the marble, the ominous clomping of his boot heels the only warning he intended to give his father. The old man had pushed him too far this time. The bastard would be lucky if he didn’t kill him.

He gripped the handle of the study door and threw it open, then kicked it shut with his foot. He was alone with his father.

The room reminded him of a tomb: dark, cold, musty-smelling.

He focused on his father and anger surged though him. The familiar inborn fury he experienced every time the two of them were together reared its ugly head. Years of animosity created a barrier neither of them could breach.

It was impossible to believe he’d been sired by this man. They were so different from each other, different both in looks and temperament. Or perhaps they were so alike it was like looking into a mirror and not liking the person who stared back at you. Perhaps that was why Philip had always been closer to their father. Joshua always the one kept at arm’s length.

He stared at his father, then walked to the windows and jerked open the draperies.

Bright, invasive sunlight flooded the room. He let the warmth wash over him while he tried to get his emotions under control. If he faced his father now, he might commit murder, he was that angry.

His father took another swallow of his liquor without acknowledging Joshua’s presence.

Joshua turned. “Ignoring me won’t do any good.”

“No. It never has.”

The duke’s words came out slow and slurred, the garbled sounds indicating a man who’d been drinking for several hours—or days.

“No, Your Grace. It never has.”

“I wondered how long it would take for you to discover what I’d done.”

His father’s words were directed toward him, but he didn’t lift his head, nor did he look at him. Instead, he sat slouched in one of the two matching burgundy leather chairs angled before the lifeless fireplace. With his elbows propped on the arms of the chair, he cradled a full glass of brandy in his hand. An empty bottle lay on the floor.

Joshua marched to the chair and stopped in front of him. “What the hell possessed you?”

A slow smile crossed his father’s face before he lifted the glass and drank a long swallow. When he finished, his hand dropped to his side, oblivious of the liquor that sloshed onto the floor.

Joshua’s temper snapped. “Answer me, damn you!”

Ashbury’s reaction was slow, but not at all unexpected. He lifted his head and smiled, the lopsided grin of disdain giving him a malevolent look. Hatred glimmered in his eyes. “Did the news tear you away from your mistress, Montfort?” His voice dripped with sarcasm. “Or were you having an afternoon tryst with the lovely, and ever-popular, Lady Paxton?”

Joshua glared at him, all the bitter hostility he’d felt from his youth surging to the forefront. “You’re drunk.”

“So I am. It’s how I choose to handle the death of a great dynasty.” Ashbury picked up the bottle from the floor and tipped it over his glass. When he realized it was empty, he carelessly tossed it against the stone fireplace. Pieces of glass flew back into the room but the duke didn’t notice the ones that hit him.

Joshua didn’t care.

“Did you come to talk finances?” Ashbury said, pointing to an empty chair halfway across the room.

Joshua fisted his hands. He refused to talk to him from anywhere but right here. “What have you done with my inheritance?”

“I spent it. Or rather, I lost it. It’s gone.”

A fresh wave of fury erupted inside Joshua. “You fool!” He grabbed the front of his father’s expensively tailored, hunter’s green jacket and lifted him out of his chair. The old man’s expression didn’t change except for the sneer of disdain that crossed his face.

“I see you are finally concerned with where your mistress’s next bauble will come f
rom,” Ashbury slurred.

Joshua dropped his father back into the chair. “I didn’t think I had cause to concern myself with such mundane matters.”

“What? You thought there would always be an endless supply of money for you to squander?”

“I was never given reason to believe there wouldn’t be. I was never allowed a hand in the running of the estates. Only Philip was given that privilege.”

“Only Philip
deserved
that privilege.” The duke swung his arm through the air as if emphasizing his words.

Joshua struggled to root himself to the floor even though the impact of his father’s venomous words nearly knocked him flat.

“If Philip were here,” the duke slurred, “everything would have been different. I wouldn’t have had to do what I did.”

“But Philip’s not here!”

The duke bolted to his feet and staggered precariously. “And whose fault is that?!”

Joshua reeled as if he’d taken a blow to the gut. He braced his hand against the nearest piece of furniture and fought the nausea that threatened to make him ill.

Herein lay the root of the hatred that had worsened every day since Philip’s death. Their father had looked upon the tragedy as
his
tragedy, the loss as
his
loss. And blame must be assigned. The favored son was dead and the son who survived would never be worthy to take his place.

He stared at the cold look of hatred on his father’s face, a look that said with Philip dead, the duke didn’t intend for there to be anything left to bequeath to his remaining heir.

“What happened to the money?” he asked, trying to hold his temper at bay until he could figure out what to do.

“Does it matter?”

“Yes, it matters!” Joshua swiped his fingers through his hair and took a deep breath. “I just came from Nathanly’s office and he informed me that as of today, there’s not enough money to pay even one more monthly allowance. That you gambled it all away on doomed ventures. Unless we come up with a solution to our problem,
Your
Grace
, we will have to sell off every piece of Ashbury property that is not entailed. And even that will not get us out of debt.”

The duke did not react, but staggered to a side cupboard. He took out another bottle of his fine liquor.