My Lady's Choosing: An Interactive Romance Novel(61)
“Wonderful!” exclaims Lady Evangeline. “I say we make our move as soon as possible. We can fetch supplies on the journey.”
You nod enthusiastically. The two of you laugh, link arms, and head straightaway for the main entrance of the house. On your way, you see that the dowager is dozing upon a settee, her head tilted back, snoring full blast. You smile to yourself incredulously. Finally, you are having an adventure…who knows what it may bring?
Turn to this page.
That night, you retire to your chamber with the mysterious diary. Holding the journal of Craven’s dead wife sends a dark thrill through you. A woman’s diary may contain intimacies so private that she would wish to keep them even from herself, locked safely away in a prison of ink and page. You know whatever is contained in these pages, Blanche surely wished it never to be known by another…unless something untoward were to happen to her.
You arrange yourself comfortably (and attractively) in your bedclothes. You consider, for a moment, never reading a word of the thing. Surely there will be descriptions of certain adventures that Blanche had with Lord Craven. While your skin instantly turns hot as you envision him standing above you and stripping down to the beastly and powerful naked state you now associate with the mere mention of his name, your blood is chilled at the idea of him being so stripped by her.
You glance up at the painting of Blanche and swear you see a challenging smile twisting the corner of that perfect, bitten-nipple-red mouth.
Blast! You will read it. The damn portrait knows you will, and the devil does, too. You flash a knowing glance at the canvas. A challenging smile plays in the corner of your own mouth, as you remember how just a short time ago it made Lord Craven howl with pleasure.
It may be the wine you’ve been sipping, that wild moonlight playing on the painting, or something else, but Blanche’s portrait seems the slightest bit rebuffed. Good. You smirk, then crack the gilt-edged volume, whose cover is the color of spilled merlot.
A most splendid morning. Played hoop and stick with Alexander-my-Wonder. Picked flowers! Skipped, and rang a festive bell.
You choke a bit on the wine. This was not what you expected to find. You read on.
I used to think loving Garraway was my life’s greatest joy. After that I thought, of course, my life’s greatest joy is being mother to the most wonderful, sweet, thoughtful child in all of England and surely the world, Alexander! I then wondered how this joy compared to the joy of being Garraway’s truest love and wondered if I was being unfair by weighing my joys. I cried a fair deal, and was sick with worry. But then I had the realization that love need not be measured, if that love is as endless and true as mine for my boys!
You glance at Blanche’s portrait once more. Your cups might be thinking for you, but she looks positively smug. You continue.
I feel low for even thinking it, Diary, but Garraway has changed since Alexander has come, hasn’t he! He is cruel now, and always angry, and ever so resentful of any happiness I share with the child. Sometimes he is so fearsome I worry what will become of us if we were to rile him to the brink. I do not think him an evil man, but he does not know his own strength. Sometimes, Diary…sometimes I fear his anger will be the end of us all!
You throw the book from your bed. The dead woman’s words do not align with what you already know—or think you know—about her. Alexander regards his mother in horrified tones, but this book paints their relationship as happy and healthy. Lord Craven’s eyes flash like lightning if his dead wife is so much as mentioned, yet here, in her own hand, she writes rather sickeningly of their joy together. You don’t know if what you smell is a rat, or smoke from a distant fire.
This dubious text merits further investigation.
If you decide to confront your fears, as well as the late Lady Blanche Craven’s, head directly to the forbidden room in the forbidden wing in the dead of night. Turn to this page.
If you wish to gather your thoughts and some intelligence by interrogating—er, interviewing—the staff of Hopesend Manor, turn to this page.
You stagger back with the wounded Kamal from the marketplace and throw open the doors to the museum.
“L-Lady Evangeline,” you stammer. She looks up from her work and fixes her lustrous eyes upon you before they widen in horror.
“What happened?!”
“Oh, Lady Evangeline! It was Farouk! He has been working for another and attacked us and—”
“Delphine!” hisses Evangeline. You nod at her, eyes wide, as you cradle the unconscious Kamal’s head in your lap. To your intense relief, his soulful brown eyes flicker open.
“An angel…am I dead?” he says dreamily. You blush.
“Oh, Kamal, I do commend you for managing to be charming even after being knocked unconscious,” Evangeline quips. “But we still need to get you medical assistance immediately. Are there any other servants here who are not secretly nefarious villains?”
“My lady, I am so sorry, I had no idea Farouk was…” says the still-dazed Kamal. Lady Evangeline wipes his face with a handkerchief she has retrieved from her heaving bosom.
“Hush now, Kamal. You need to rest.” She gestures to a distinctly not-villainous manservant who has rushed into the room to fetch help.