My Lady's Choosing: An Interactive Romance Novel(56)

“I believe my name is now Mr. Granville. Or perhaps De Lacey, my mother’s name.”

“Surely you don’t believe—”

“Does it matter what I believe? What matters is what everyone else believes. What matters is that there is proof. And what matters most of all is that now Henrietta has prospects, has a future that has been denied to her all this time simply due to her birth.”

“You are a good brother,” you say, unable to conceal your surprise. He smiles at you wryly, causing your heart to skitter like a debutante’s after too much champagne.

“She’s the only decent one among us, and she deserves better from her family, myself included. The one thing I’m thankful for in this sorry situation is that she has been given a chance at happiness.”

“I rather think she has lost her chance of happiness,” you counter.

“What the devil do you mean by that?” As he glares at you, you square your shoulders and raise your chin.

“I mean that she loves someone who is now beneath her in station. A young farmer. One who has been torn away from her by the recent revelations.”

“Don’t be ridiculous—”

“It’s true! She told me herself. And I think that she is only going on with this sham of Cad’s because she is frightened. Perhaps he threatened her—”

Benedict grabs your shoulders and leans so close you can see the silver that edges those steel-gray eyes.

“Didn’t I tell you to leave this alone?” he growls. “Haven’t you listened to a damned word I’ve said?!”

Your heart may be racing, your flesh may be burning with desire at his touch, but you will not be intimidated. Instead you narrow your eyes and hold your gaze.

“She doesn’t want to be a fine lady married off to some stuffy aristocrat! She wants to be with the man she loves!”

“Love only serves to ruin lives, in my experience. Look at my father. He loved Mrs. Caddington, and it broke my mother’s heart when he returned to her. And now we must live with the consequences, the misery that has come about for his children as a result of his failure to regulate his emotions and his behavior.”

“It doesn’t have to be like that,” you bite back. “My parents loved each other! They were perfectly happy and true until the end of their days!”

“And then they died, leaving their daughter penniless and without a friend in the world!” he thunders.

You gasp in outrage at his cruel words. The nerve of the man! The very nerve!





If this will not stand, and you want to have it out with him right now, turn to this page.

If you have had enough and are now done with him, turn to this page.





“He is not my husband!” you say so loudly that the innkeeper jumps a little.

“Not even slightly?” the innkeeper asks, cruel delight in his voice.

“No!” you and Mac cry in desperate unison. The innkeeper shakes his head and gives you both a look of slight puzzlement and more-than-slight disappointment.

“Fine, then. Sleep well.”

As you retire guiltily to your room, and Mac to his stable, you cannot stop thinking about how badly you wish that you were sharing a room with him, and that he was pouring the same energy he pours into his virtuous work into the cup of your virtue.

You undress and are struck mad with desire for your cup to run over, with Mac’s true mouth working your bosom free from the bindings of your gown—and your honor. As you loosen your bodice to further aid your fantasy, the strange piece of paper that Dodger brought out of the burning building back in London falls to the ground. You pick it up and read the name again.

Constantina.

Try as you might, you cannot puzzle out Captain MacTaggart. On the one hand, he is all gruff honesty and goodness in his manner. On the other hand, he seems somewhat haunted. But by what? Oh, how you wish to smooth that furrowed brow with your delicate touch and run your fingers through the messy ruff of ginger hair.

Steady on, messy ruff of ginger hair? You of course meant the truth! You wish to run your hands through the truth…and all other clumsy metaphors you can apply to Mac’s broken, breaking, bedeviling beauty.

You collect yourself. Handsome Scotsmen aside, you must admit something unusual is going on—there was the sudden blaze, the mysterious parchment, and something else that you cannot quite put your finger on that has piqued your curiosity and your suspicion.

You look out to the dark stables, which shimmer in the moonlight and freezing cold downpour. You ought at least to bring Mac a hot drink, and maybe feel out the truth, which is the only thing you are hoping to feel out. Nothing else.

You throw on a shawl, procure a cup of cocoa from the irritatingly bemused innkeeper, and tromp out toward the stables in search of the hard, wet truth.

Of course, your firm resolve crumbles like an oatcake when a shirtless Mac greets you at the door. You stare dumbly, clutching the mug of cocoa like a shield between you and total, animal desire. He looks startled.

“Och, lass, I thought ye were the landlord! What are you doing here?”

You proffer the mug like an acolyte presenting an offering to the God of Beauty.

“I’msorryIthoughtyoumightbecoldherehavesomecocoa,” you splutter. He takes the mug from you, his hands lingering on yours.