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Preview
The Choice
by Edith Layton
Harper, July 1999
You now can have CHOICE
bookmarks!
Really snappy, color-coordinated, extra fancy
bookmarks available for SASE to:
Edith Layton
PO Box 764
Hicksville NY 11802
Tell Edith you read about THE CHOICE at The Romance Club!!!
DEDICATION
For Norbert, of course.
Now, as then, and always.
It was mild, but cool in contrast to the ballroom. The trees
above him were in full green leaf, the music from the ball seemed
faint and faraway, and somewhere a nightingale did scales.
It was a small walled garden, cleverly designed, Damon thought.
London had built itself up at an incredible pace since he'd gone
abroad, but the best townhouses still had gardens. Damon was
grateful for it. He stood alone in the shadows, near a stone
cherub tipping his pitcher of water so it spilled into a small
pool. The tumbling water sounded better to Damon's ears than the
music of the waltz he heard faintly from afar. There was a bench,
but he stood, his back against a tree, one ankle crossed over the
other, relaxing, smoking his thin cheroot. His friends thought it
was a filthy habit he'd picked up on his travels. It was. But he
thought it better than shoveling snuff up his nose, the way they
did. And it had gotten him outside now. He stared up at a
camelia-colored moon and decided the fashionable world of London
was much better seen through a thin blood smoky haze.
He soon saw it much more clearly.
"Here!" a male voice called excitedly. It was so close
Damon's pulse raced. He dropped his cheroot, grinding the glowing
ash beneath his heel. From force of habit, his hand snaked into
an inner waistcoat pocket, closing around the small pistol he
always carried there.
There was a patter of footsteps on the shell path as a gentleman
and a lady suddenly exploded from the shadows into the moonlight
in front of the cherub. Damon's shoulders relaxed. They were
unaware of him.
The moon lit them theatrically. He had to think fast. An
assignation, probably. Why else would a man and a woman stray
from a ball, and go off alone into the moonlight? A married
couple or engaged couple wouldn't have to, a proper couple
wouldn't dare. It would be awkward for all of them if they
noticed him. Maybe they'd move on. He hoped so. From where he
stood it was better than a front row at the theater. And just as
bad. Because a man leaving a front row seat before the act was
over made himself noticed by everyone in the audience, and was an
insult to the actors, too.
But there was no place Damon could go without being seen. There
was nothing but bushes at his back, and the garden wall behind
those. He was a captive unless they left. Even if he stepped
lightly he'd set the shrubbery to rattling. He sighed and
resigned himself to being uncomfortable-bored, at best. Or so he
thought until he saw the lady clear.
"Where is the poor thing?" she asked worriedly, looking
into the shadows.
Damon shrank back. The sprite! Unmistable. He'd noticed her
earlier, inside, at the ball. He'd noticed little else after
that. She wore a pale gauzy green gown that showed a small,
delicately curved figure to perfection. She was so lithe, it had
taken him a moment to realize she had all those curves when she'd
first danced into his view. Because, for once, it hadn't been the
first thing he'd seen.
Hair pale as moonlight, little animated oval of a face glowing
bright as sunlight. Her small, even features made a man look
twice at that pretty pink mouth. He couldn't see the color of her
eyes from where he'd stood. She was the most enchanting female
he'd seen since he'd come to London. She looked ethereal as she'd
stepped through the intricate paces of the country dance.
He'd forgotten what he was about to say.
"Even you?" His friend laughed when he saw it.
"Even such a rebellious jaded rougue as you, Damon, find ehr
delectable? Well, but she is something, isn't she? Utterly
ineligible, of course. At least for you and me. Too
well-connected to sport with. Not half enough to wed. But
something to look at, isn't she?"
"Ineligible? How so?" he asked, his eyes never leaving
her.
"A ward, merely, of the Viscount Sinclair's. But there's no
birth there at all. No money neither, except for what Sinclair
decides to settle on her. She and her sister are orphans. Their
parents were great friends of the family or somesuch, who knows?
There it is. Obscure or nonexistent family, parents complete
unknowns. Lovely piece though, aint she? Why can't I find needy
orphans like that? If Sinclair wasn't... the man defends her like
she was his daughter. And he, the greatest rake in London Town
after his wife died, until he wed again. Still -- who better than
he to know a fellow's evil intentions? He's a devil with the
sword and a demon with pistols. Yet there's that wretched
Dearborne prancing with her. He'd better watch his step in more
than the dance. So should she. A rake's one thing. But there's no
greater cad in London than Dearborne."
Damon had watched, waiting for the music to stop. But when it
did, the sprite immediately waltzed off with another gentleman.
"Fortune or no, her dance card's probably filled," his
friend said with a smug smile, "serves you right for coming
so late. Don't worry, you won't be alone long. Most of the
females in the room are watching you, hoping you'll claim their
next waltz. Daresay not a few would burn their dance cards for
the chance."
...Apart from the sprite, the young women at the ball all looked
alike to him tonight. Most were dressed in the height of fashion,
in simple white Grecian-style gowns that made them look like
garden statues. They all sounded alike, too, and were about as
animated as what they resembled.
... He recognized her in the garden before she turned that flaxen
head. He needed no more than a glimpse. She was radiant, her skin
luminous in the pale light. Even her slender arms were shapely,
he thought entranced. But she was here with young Dearborne?
A young lady could dally with a gentleman, he supposed. But not
when the gentleman had such a bad reputation that even he, so
lately arrived in London, had heard about it. Lord Dearborne
didn't have a decent bone in his whole long, comely body. He was
more than a rake. Handsome as sin, they all said, and just as
virtuous. He was famous for his folly and for leading females
into it. And then abandoning them.
So what in God's name was the chit doing romping out into the
garden with him? Unless she wanted to entrap him? But what woman
with half a brain would want such a rogue? Unless she was lost to
same -- or could she be a fool? Or an innocent beguiled?
He was a captive audience, but the drama was suddenly riveting.
And potentially disturbing. The last thing he needed to see
tonight was this lovely creature locked in another man's arms. He
wondered whether to step out of the shadow, or stay. Until
Dearborne spoke. Then Damon's eyes narrowed...
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