My Lady's Choosing: An Interactive Romance Novel(3)

“Nothing at all.”

You nod at each other and then, rubbing his eyes, Mac strides away.

Ollie turns to you, bewildered. “I cannot believe you are being promoted from civilian to spy with absolutely no experience!”

“That is why I am choosing an experienced handler for her,” Lord Fleming says tersely. “One who is well versed in the profession and has a connection with the young lady in question.”

Ollie scoffs. “Good luck finding a chap that fits that bill.”

Lord Fleming rolls his eyes for your benefit. “My dear Ruston, I already have. Congratulations. It appears you have a new partner.”

Ollie gapes. “But…she’s…”

“?‘Pretty as a city park, I’d love to touch her after dark’?” you offer. Ollie blushes scarlet, and even Lord Fleming lets out a patrician chuckle. “Surely you remember that verse, Ollie.”

“I assure you, my dear,” Ollie says, flustered, “I would write you a new poem this minute if I could think of a rhyme for ‘dreadful savage upstart know-it-all.’?”

You smirk. “There, there, now, partner,” you say. “I promise to let you solve a few cases on your own.”

Lord Fleming claps his hands. “Save it for the next mission, you two.”

And with that, you and Ollie go off to become lead characters in your own series of historical thrillers.

The End





There is nothing like a carriage ride back to a country estate that is in dispute between two men—one of whom you just nearly killed and the other of whom you just passionately kissed—to further frazzle one’s already frayed nerves.

You didn’t know when you attended that first ball with the Dragon that the story of your life would be so full of scandal, intrigue, and deadly lamps in the shape of certain, ahem, body parts. You never could have dreamed that the story of you and Benedict would overflow so violently, like an upended jar of ink over a fresh sheet of creamy writing paper.

Benedict seems as tense as you are. He must take your weary silence—and aching desire—for anxiety.

“Dash it, woman, you didn’t kill him. Give yourself a rest.” Benedict shifts uncomfortably in his seat.

“I nearly killed him.”

“Sorry you didn’t finish the job?”

“I am sorry for the mess we made in Madam Crosby’s fine rooms.”

“Her fine rooms have seen much worse, I am sure,” Benedict says with a sigh.

“And much better.” You’re content to have the last word with him, but troubled by your longing for his smart, tender mouth to once more press against yours. You wonder if he, too, is thinking of that moment back in the fray. You notice him struggle to find a comfortable position. You long to touch him and to reprimand him for not arriving at the obvious best solution to his problem.

“You do know if we simply remove this bench cover and arrange it thusly, we could both have a lie-down in this blasted carriage.” You brush him aside and rearrange the seating so the carriage becomes more of a traveling bed than a torture chamber on wheels. But before thinking much of it, you have flung the man onto his back and yourself on top of him. You feel a sudden heat and pressure against your skirts and realize your newfound seating arrangement is not lost on him. Not lost at all.

You retrieve the cushion and place it under his head. He arches to receive it and, by so doing, presses his straining manhood against your beskirted sex. You cannot help moaning, slightly, with the pleasure of it.

“Is that better?” You try to keep your voice as even and rhythmic as he keeps the powerful yet restrained thrusting of his rock-hard, searching nethers.

“Much,” he replies, and before the terse little word escapes his lips, they are upon you. Your mouth, ears, neck are the skin of a forbidden fruit he is desperate to taste.

“This is wrong,” he whispers into your décolletage. His fingers work swiftly against the common enemy that is your bodice, and soon all of you is tumbling between his hungry hands.

“Should we?” you whisper into his knit brow before running your fingers through his thick, tumbledown curls and pulling his face into your newly freed bosom.

“Mmmmf,” he answers before breaking free. “You know damn well I can’t respond with your amazing breasts in my mouth.”

“Did you not think that was intentional? Ohhh…” You lose your desire to sass as he pleasures first one nipple with his limber tongue, then the other.





“What does it matter what I think, what does any of it matter? Whatever happens to us, we have now. We have a discreet driver and a bed-carriage and each other and—” You cut short his tragic reverie by deftly unbuttoning the panel of his pants. “We have now.”

A bird on the wing overhead would think nothing of your carriage, a small rollicking shadow in a wide world of trees slashed with moonlight. But if that bird could hear your cries, it would know the happiness of animals who have found their mate. A joy made even sweeter by the bitter knowledge that the mate could be lost, and likely would be, in the bright light of morning.





You are a shooting star in a dark sky. Turn to this page.





You shake your head, with your heart in your throat. Mac nods unsteadily and hugs you tightly.