My Lady's Choosing: An Interactive Romance Novel(11)

“Well, don’t just stand there, man,” Benedict spits at him. “She’s clearly got plans for you.”

You laugh, take Cad’s hand, and flee down the twists and turns of the maze. You most certainly do.



* * *





By the time you and Cad reach America, you have posed as betrothed, husband and wife, brother and sister, governess and employer, heiress and manservant. He’s had you in countless street corners in London, inns, riverbanks, and, one time, on horseback while crossing a riverbank. After you’ve swindled honest money from crooked folk (you have a predilection for conning con men of their recent takes), you point out to Cad that his error with Benedict was in trying to trick someone he knew.

“It’s better this way,” he agrees. “Family isn’t hurt, and I get to partake of you between jobs.” He spreads your legs in the back of the coach you have hired, with stolen money, to take you to some seaside American town in search of your next easy mark. “I’m famished, ma’am,” he says in his best American accent.

Maybe you will never marry him. Maybe you will pose as lover, bride, sister, cousin, friend. The roles open to you are as countless as the cities that do not know your name, your station, or your scandal. For with your Cad, you live a life of freedom, a life of trickery, and a life of lovemaking out of doors.

The End





“What are you doing, lass?” Mac asks, desire sparking in the depths of his voice. You respond by sliding your dress down your shoulders, exposing your mountainous region, your foothills, and, ultimately, the lush and alluring forest of your lowlands.

“Come,” you whisper into the fall of indoor rain. “The water is fine.”

In mere moments, he has peeled away his clothes to reveal a pelt the color of bright flame. You hold each other and kiss with the same endless tenderness of the water washing you clean.

As Mac explores the inland ocean of your mouth, his intrepid sailor hands travel across the topography of your body, claiming new locations in the name of pleasure. As his tongue works a clear path down your neck to your breasts, you long for him to journey further. Still, there is something troubling your mind and upsetting the expedition. Something you must know first.

“Who,” you gasp through waves of pleasure, “is Constantina?”

Mac freezes for a moment, shocked into silence. “She was…my greatest regret.”

“A woman you loved and lost?” you ask. No use putting it any other way but plain.

“No,” Mac says simply, darkly, sadly. “The woman I killed.”





Do you flee? Because murder! The note was right! Turn to this page.

Or do you sit it out with Mac? We’ve all done things we regret, and you’re still a bit, ah, damp from your interlude. Turn to this page.





Perhaps you loved Craven. Perhaps you only wanted him with the fiery desire of the forsaken and profane. In any case, your shared tale is now over, writ in a book that has been slammed shut by the hand of fate.

You make a midnight run across the moors of Craven’s lands, all the way to the carriage house of Teddy Braithwaite, the handsome postman who, you will recall, carried you to the top of the hill at the beginning of this story.

He answers the door, flushed and shirtless. You want him the instant you see him, and the instant you see him, you know he wants you.

“I have been waiting for thee, miss,” he says. He helps you into his humble home and frees your body from your dress as gently as one would open a stolen letter from ‘neath its seal.

His hands trace the outline of your breasts with wonder and skill. Your nipples harden at the touch of his work-roughened fingers, and he licks their cherry tips with a tongue made strong from licking countless envelopes. He sets that same tongue to the task of running the length of your midsection, all the way down into the plush pocket of your sex. There, he pushes into you with the soft pressure of a first-class stamp. You both cry out, in pleasure and sweet, sweet pain, for the handsome postman is intensely endowed.

“The mail always comes on time in my district,” he whispers to you. “If you know what I mean.”

“It does, it does,” you cry, straddling him for another round. You live happily ever after this way, simply and with much postal-innuendo-laced sex play, for the rest of your days.

Some might say the postman sends you. Oh he sends you, indeed!

The End





“This is a fine offer, Lord Fleming,” you say carefully. “And Ollie, seeing you come back from the dead has been one of the more…thrilling experiences of my life. But—”

Lord Fleming’s shoulders droop. Ollie’s heart, you suspect, breaks.

“I must say only thank you and bid you fond adieu,” you conclude. “A spy’s life isn’t for me.”

Ollie gathers your hands in his. “But what of us, my lady? I…I do still…” His eyes are so earnest and longing that it almost pains you to tell him the truth.

Almost.

“Oh, Ollie.” You embrace him warmly before pulling away and chucking him playfully on the chin. “You should have thought of that before you allowed me to believe you dead for years.” You now address Lord Fleming and Ollie equally. “Good day to you both, and thank you for all of your assistance.”