My Lady's Choosing: An Interactive Romance Novel(2)
Your fists grip even tighter around the fabric of your skirts. The repellent Sir Charles is old enough to be your grandpapa and has indeed been sniffing around your person, looking no doubt for a pretty, compliant, and much younger bride. Still, would life in a loveless marriage be any worse than the one you live now?
The carriage arrives at your destination, and you are shaken from your gloomy thoughts—if only for a moment. Perhaps tonight will be the night when everything changes?
Do you accompany your tyrannical employer to the fundraising ball for the Society for the Protection of Widows and Orphans of the War? The company may be atrocious, but balls are fun! If so, turn to this page.
Or do you run away from Lady Craven, only to find yourself with no other means of survival than to sell your young body into the cold, cruel night? If so, do not go to any other place in this book, for you will be utterly doomed and dead from syphilis within a year.
Sorry. This may be a choosable-path adventure, but as a penniless young unmarried woman at the start of the nineteenth century, your options are somewhat limited. They will get better, though! Turn to this page.
“I’m sorry, Kamal, but I’m not sure it is good for me to stay here.”
“I understand,” he says ruefully. “I’m sorry, too.”
You give him a gentle smile of companionship. You both pretend it doesn’t crush him.
“Do you have a plan for what you are going to do next?” he asks with genuine concern. You stare at him calmly.
“As a matter of fact, I do.”
What are your plans?
Do you take up that governessing job with the mysterious—and potentially dangerous—Lord Craven? If so, turn to this page.
Or are you done with danger for good? Perhaps the dragonish Lady Craven will let you have your old job back…and possibly take you to a few more balls for good measure. If that sounds more up your alley, turn to this page.
You await the cheap passage you’ve booked on the overnight mail coach with your belongings in your valise and your heart in your throat. Hopesend Manor, the home of your new employer, is located in deep obscurity amid the rolling moors of Yorkshire. Far from the ton, far from London, and, you hope, far from all you have already endured in your search for love. You try not to shiver in the cold, thin rain. The mysterious lord is the dark-horse son of the Dowager Dragon, a wealthy man who has made it his priority to keep his mother at arm’s length and with minimal assistance. You know, too, that the man has a living son and a dead wife, and that the mourning Lord Craven never married again.
“This weather’s not fit for man nor beast, miss.” A friendly, handsome face appears out of the shadows—the carriage driver. “Eee, but th’art as pretty as a flower,” he says breathlessly, with not a trace of guile in his broad Yorkshire tones.
“A rather wet flower at the moment, good sir.” You cannot help but giggle.
He smiles back, harboring a strangely haunted look in those pure chocolate eyes, and hurries to throw himself out of the carriage and help you and your bags inside the Slaughtered Lamb, your designated meeting place. The young, handsome man’s body is built with a compact, pleasing masculinity, and the rain has done both him and you a service by causing his jacket and shirt to cling to him as tightly as a lover.
“I hope tha’ll be…comfortable.” He rubs his neck nervously, as if mustering the nerve to say something out of turn…or out of the question. “Look, I shouldn’t say…,” he finally ventures, “…but after I told me mam that I were taking a young lady to Hopesend Manor—well, she’s been worrying herself sick, miss. I am, too, to be perfectly honest wi’ thee. Hopesend Manor is no place for a sweet lady such as thyself.”
“What the devil do you mean?” you ask, your heart racing.
“It’s just that…folk talk foolish things round these parts, miss, and normally I take no stock in such nonsense. But still…it is well known that bad ends have come to young ladies at Hopesend Manor. I know I am getting above myself when I say this, but I—I just wanted thee to know I am only a walk to th’ village away, should tha ever need help or shelter, miss.”
“Of…course,” you squeak, distracted as much by his warning as by his broad shoulders, which are spread in a concerned bracing stance against the carriage doorway. “Of course, Mister…”
“Teddy, miss. Teddy Braithwaite, at thy service, ever and always. I swear it.” He kisses your hand in a rush. Improperly, he holds on a moment too long and lets his hot cocoa eyes burn you with his deep, gentle desire.
Time to embrace your gothic destiny and head on. Turn to this page.
A life spent in Glenblair Castle might be safe, but now that you’ve had a taste of espionage, you know the life you truly want.
“At your service, Lord Fleming,” you say with a curtsey.
“Och.” A masculine voice thick with emotion rings out behind you. “I never did ken what to do with goodbyes.” You turn to Mac, and he laughs to conceal the tears shining in his eyes. He looks at you, his good and glorious gaze searching yours for what might be the last time.
You kiss him tenderly. “We won’t say anything, then.”