My Lady's Choosing: An Interactive Romance Novel(43)

“You mean—”

“I mean I want to keep you in my life. I have no doubt Fleming will be impressed with your pluck and quick thinking—”

“And use of stockings,” you add.

“Indeed. So I have proposed that you and I work together.” Ollie smiles. “Well, my darling? What do you say?”





If yes please, you want to be a spy and have sultry intrigues with your sultry ex-lover, turn to this page.

If no way, Ollie has too wild a past, you don’t know him after all these years, and you’d prefer a career that doesn’t involve getting shot at, turn to this page.





Nothing has prepared you for the spectacular yet elegant beauty of Manberley, the ancient seat of the Granvilles and home of Sir Benedict. Crossing the tastefully furnished receiving room, filled to the brim with the cream of the ton, you remind yourself that you are the longtime companion of Sir Benedict’s aunt and have been personally invited to this house party by his cousin, Lady Evangeline. Truly, you have just as much right to be here as all these fine ladies and gentlemen, even if their handkerchiefs probably cost more than you make in a year. You raise your chin defiantly and search for a friendly face.

Unfortunately, Lady Evangeline is nowhere to be found. Even more unfortunately, you see the toadlike form of Sir Charles Burley-Fanshaw swiftly approaching, his face florid with excitement. And gin.

Desperate to escape, you turn sharply left and find yourself running headlong into a body that is at once familiar and disturbing. You force yourself to look up into the searing gaze of him, the man you detest and desire in equal measure.

“Sir Benedict,” you say through gritted teeth. “What a pleasure.”

“The pleasure is all mine.” He kisses your hand, his eyes narrow with suspicion, and you curse your traitorous body for shivering at his touch.

“It was so kind of you to invite the Dowager Lady Craven and myself to this gathering,” you continue in a honeyed tone laced with arsenic.

“Lady Evangeline would have had my head had I not.”

“Of course. I forget how easily intimidated you are. I am so very sorry,” you bite back.

“Your kindness is quite extraordinary.” Benedict nods toward Sir Charles Burley-Fanshaw, who is currently hovering in your vicinity. “Especially when directed towards those who are able to give you something.”

“Oh, Sir Benedict!” you trill. “Your meticulous morality, even in the face of such hardships as a baronetcy, a fine estate, and a fortune, does you credit.”

Sir Benedict leans closer and whispers in your ear. A scent that is a mixture of leather, sunlight, and all man envelops you.

“By the way,” he whispers, “what is it exactly that you have done with my aunt?” Your faces are so close that it would take moving but an inch for you to kiss his cruel, barb-slinging mouth.

Across the room, a glass smashes. Sudden silence descends upon the crowd.

There, at the entryway, stands a man so beautiful he looks like an angel of Botticelli’s—an angel very much of the fallen variety. Behind him, a mousy young woman holds a kerchief to her mouth, fighting back tears.

“Who is that?” you whisper. But Sir Benedict is as frozen as the classical statues lining the walls of the room you are standing in, his patrician face drained of all color.

“Cad,” he hisses. “What the devil do you think you’re doing here?”

The fallen angel pointedly ignores him. “For those of you who are not aware, my name is Rafe Caddington,” he says. “Or, should I say, Rafe Granville.” The room heaves a united gasp. “You see, until recently my sister Henrietta and I believed ourselves to be mere by-blows of an affaire the late baronet had with our notorious mother, the famed doyenne of the stage, Mrs. Caddington. How wrong we all were.” He tosses Benedict another look, at once triumphant and venomous. Another thrum of whispers travels throughout the room.

“What do you mean by that?” Benedict’s silver-gray eyes are ice cold as he stares at the intruder.

“Well, brother of mine, all that has changed. You see, I have discovered a most interesting document.” Cad thrusts a worn yet official-looking sheet of paper into the air. “What I have here is the secret marriage certificate of our late father, the baronet, and Henrietta’s and my mother. You will see that it is dated two years before the nuptials of the baronet with Sir Benedict’s own high and mighty mother, and six months before my birth. I believe anyone passably acquainted with mathematics has already worked out what that means…”

Cad stalks toward Sir Benedict like a hyena circling a lion.

“It means that Henrietta and I are the legitimate offspring of Sir Piers Granville. It means that I am the true baronet and owner of this fine estate and all its attendant privileges. What is more, seeing as my mother was alive and well until just eight years ago, it means that the marriage between Benedict’s mother and father was very much illegal!” Cad steps toward Benedict until their noses almost touch. “And that makes dear old Benny—”





“There, at the entryway, stands a man so beautiful he looks like an angel of Botticelli’s—an angel very much of the fallen variety.”





Cad pauses a moment, a golden version of his dark glowering brother, the profiles almost perfectly matched.