My Lady's Choosing: An Interactive Romance Novel(73)
“What is it? Who goes there? Are ye there, lass?” Your heart throbs at the sound of Mac’s voice, but Ollie grabs you by the shoulders and stares at you with manic intensity.
“You have to listen to me! He is a murderer and a traitor!” he hisses. “You have to get out of here! There is no doubt in my mind that he will kill you, just like he did Constantina!”
“You knew her?!”
Ollie nods. “She was a fellow spy, the bravest woman I ever knew…and the only woman I ever loved. Apart from you.”
And with that he disappears into the night. As you stumble out from the darkness, Mac catches you in a warm, deliciously masculine embrace that smells of salt and spice.
“Are ye all right, lass?” he says into your hair. “What happened?”
You stare up at him, tears in your eyes, and have no idea what to do.
Still, you best make a choice, lassie.
Do you go snooping around by yourself? You trust Mac. Mostly. But still, you need hard evidence to disprove Ollie’s accusations. Turn to this page.
Or do you go a-pouring your heart out to him? You are with friends now, no matter what Ollie says. So turn to this page.
You push him away apologetically.
“So you love him, do you?” the Reverend Loveday says.
You look away, blushing, and nod.
“Oh, dear…,” he says. “But also, how perfect.”
He reaches out to tenderly caress your face…then savagely pins your neck in his surprisingly mighty grip so that you cannot escape. You stare at him in horror as he begins his monologue.
“My real name is Simon Loveday Craven, and I am truly next in line to inherit Hopesend. I was Blanche’s lover the whole damn time she was married to Craven. No one could please her like I could, and no one was ever more devoted than she was to me. I urged her to get Craven and the children out of the picture so the house would be mine, she would be mine, and happiness would be ours! If she had managed to take out the foolish boy and Craven along with the girl, they would be under our feet right now, and you, Blanche, and I would be making filthy love on his grave!”
His cornflower-blue eyes glow with bloodlust. You wish to claw them out with your bare hands. “I wouldn’t be here if you had killed Craven. Craven sent for me. So, actually, I wouldn’t be able to make love, filthy or otherwise, on his grave.”
He ignores your logic and continues with his monologue (and with gripping your neck very hard).
“So I had to come up with a new plan. I would kill Craven and the brat Blanche didn’t get to throw in the fire and make it look like a murder-suicide by Craven’s hand. To convince the villagers that Craven was crazed enough to do this, I enlisted Manvers to help me by dressing up in Blanche’s garments in an attempt to haunt sense into the man. Manvers was obsessed by the idea that Craven was desecrating the memory of the late Lady Craven by screwing the help. Once Craven and the child were out of the picture, I would inherit everything, and then silly Manvers would have a terrible accident and die by falling down the stairs.”
“You’re a monster!” you squeak. He ignores you and continues with his speech apace.
“When you showed up, warming his bed and his soul and teaching his child confidence, I had to change my plan yet again!” His eyes light up with a murderous gleam, and he tries to choke you. “Don’t you see? You make it all the more perfect. Craven will be responsible for losing a woman he loves, again. And then I, the good, purehearted vicar, find your lifeless body in the eldritch garden. After Lord Craven snaps and kills himself, I will discover that I am the next in line to inherit. The headlines write themselves. History writes itself!”
Loveday presses you into a filthy, disgusting, murderous kiss.
Do you fight tooth and nail to break free from his clutches? Turn to this page.
Or do you play dead in a desperate attempt to survive? Turn to this page.
How dare this man of high station and good breeding use his natural-born position to put you in some sort of place?
“Perhaps you mistake me for an errant servant, sir?” You let the hard tone of your address take a stab at the old boy. “While I appreciate your concern for my ladylike frailties, I insist I am made of hardy enough stuff to withstand a bit of scandal at a ball. In fact”—you muster your iciest tone in spite of the heat you feel pricking your temples and, dare you admit it, your loins—“I do hope to think I will get to the bottom of this intrigue on my own!”
Benedict’s eyes burn yours with the caustic sting of a man shown up by a woman. “Is that so, miss—”
“It is.” You do not give him time to insult you and attempt to wear an air of calm as you march away from this most detestable man.
With a concerted effort to give not a single damn about the whereabouts of Benedict’s quietly seething, handsomely dressed body, you cast a glance about the guests in the ballroom. Those who have not recovered from the shock of the evening’s events are gossiping in barely hushed tones or stuffing their faces with refreshments—shrimp and cucumber sandwiches, from the look of things.
In the corner, wringing her hands, is Henrietta. If what Cad says is true, she is a lady now and occupies a station above your own. But be it her youth, her general air of bruised innocence, or the fact that she is in danger of flooding the reception room with her tears, you can’t help but consider her a wayward ship and yourself a beacon of safe light, beaming from a not-so-distant shore.