My Lady's Choosing: An Interactive Romance Novel(35)
Do you continue on your sleuthing journey to London? There is intrigue afoot and you must get to the bottom of it. Especially if it assists a man you feel somewhat sorry for, though you obviously don’t really care for him. Ahem. If so, turn to this page.
Abandon your sleuthing journey for some adventures in the land of the pharaohs with Lady Evangeline? Hell, yes. Turn to this page.
Your encounters with the villagers so far have been limited to a brief but memorable ride with Teddy Braithwaite, the handsome postman, a dinner with the folk at the inn, and occasional visits with the handsome vicar, the Reverend Simon Loveday.
You don’t know what you believe about the recent unbelievable events surrounding Lord Craven, but you do know that where there’s smoke, there’s usually fire. And you hope that some more distant observers than the people you share a home with have a better idea how that fire started.
You cover much moorland with brisk, long strides and soon find yourself in the village of Ravenscar. Your face bears a healthy flush of good, honest exertion. Could it be that even spending time out of Hopesend has worked you some wonders?
“It’s really thee, i’n’t it, miss?” A sweet, low, gorgeous Yorkshire voice breaks your concentration, and you could not be happier. You turn and see, haloed by the late-day sun, none other than Teddy. “I’ve been wondering if tha were well, miss.”
You smile at him, but you are on a mission. “I am well as one can be, in my position,” you say firmly.
“I would think tha would be well in any position,” Teddy responds. And though you are sure his intentions are innocent, you find it very hard to ignore the thought of what positions you would like to try with him. “I’d hope I might see more of thee again.”
You demur—for the time being—and continue on. You arrive at the vicarage, and just as you raise a fist to rap upon the door, it swings open to reveal the handsome vicar, his fair hair positively glowing white in the setting sun.
“Let’s be naughty, shall we?” he says by way of greeting, offering up a plate of cold chicken. “It’s leftovers from the charity picnic. If anyone asks, I didn’t steal it. If God asks, let him know I already gave plenty to the poor, and his faithful servant mustn’t starve. Nor must his friends in Hopesend.” With a breezy laugh, he ushers you into his sweet and simple home.
Once you are settled with a picnic plate, he explains that he saw you coming down the hill some time ago. “Please forgive my little act of spying, my lady, but try as I might to be a loving shepherd to my faithful flock, there are times when a blue tit in flight proves more intriguing than the umpteenth damnation of Mr. Wilkie’s bunions. ‘If God exists, why must my bunions?’ This is Mr. Wilkie’s eternal prayer. He is quite fervent with it, and though I do not speak for God, I can only assume he is impressed. Oh, I am sorry. I only meant to say that your descent from Hopesend gave me much-needed interest and pleasure during my lovely church picnic. I did not have the slightest intention of putting you off your plate of stolen food with talk of bunions and blasphemy. Do forgive me, I am but a helpless wretch in the company of lovely young women who have done quite a bit of walking to see me.”
All you can do in response to this delightfully loquacious tirade is to laugh heartily and eat a bit of chicken.
“Good. Laughter is a positive sign. Laughter is prayer. And you, now here, are an answer to my prayer,” the vicar says, growing serious.
“And here I thought I would just journey down to steal some kitchen scraps,” you say in jest, but you grow curious at the sudden shift in his tone.
“My lady, I…I do not want to speak out of turn.” Unease worries the fine features of his face. “But I have been very concerned for you staying at Hopesend Manor. There has been much town gossip surrounding the death of Lady Blanche and Helena. And though I put as much stock in it as Mr. Wilkie does his bunion-meting God, some of it has me worried.”
“Well, Reverend—”
“Simon, please.”
“Reverend,” you continue, and he smiles warmly at your impishness. “I journeyed here to speak with you on just that matter. I am concerned as well.”
“I have much to tell you,” he says, looking around furtively and setting down his plate of chicken. He leans close, so close you can smell his almost vivid cleanliness. His scent is that of crisp white bedsheets baked dry in the sun, in a field of freesia, touched with the barest bit of musk to make it all go heady. You almost swoon, but hold it together long enough to make out his final request.
“I can’t talk here, and I can’t talk now, but meet me tonight. In the eldritch garden. There is something I need to show you. It is something that you should see.”
For a moment his lips are so close to your ear, without actually touching it, that you can feel each nerve sparkle and flame.
Good God, indeed.
Do you decide to meet him, for mystery and alluring vicars are afoot? If so, turn to this page.
Or have you had enough of this gothic nonsense and wish to take up Teddy Braithwaite on his offer? If so, turn to this page.
Evangeline’s kisses are charged with a soft ferocity. All the adventure that has led to this moment seems at once vitally important and entirely inconsequential. Your life has been building to this instant and nothing else.