My Lady's Choosing: An Interactive Romance Novel(75)

Suddenly, the earthly plane beneath you shudders and bucks. At first, you think it is Evangeline trying something new, and a little rough, until you realize that what can only be the lost Temple of Hathor is breaking through the desert floor like a giant hand reaching out to steal the sun.

As the temple rises impossibly high, nearly blocking out the sun with its enormous beauty and size, Evangeline leans over to you.

“Do you think it is for us?” she asks.

“Who else would it be for?” You laugh, then she laughs, and the more you laugh and kiss, the higher the tower seems to rise. It shimmers for a moment and then solidifies, a mirage no longer. The temple is risen. The temple is as real as your love.

You both marvel at it, then at each other, awed.

“Well,” Evangeline asks after a moment, “what do you think?”

“I think”—you flash her a roguish grin, before rising to your feet and flashing her a good look up your skirt—“we should continue this, inside.”

You two have many adventures ahead of you, don’t you think?

The End





The eldritch garden definitely does not have vegetables in it. This garden is like your soul right now: overgrown, ripe, rotten. You are unsure how to right the wrongs you’ve done, if you even want to. You came to Hopesend Manor a silly little chit, and now what are you? Your blood burns with desires you have no shame for, and your heart beats with love and fear so strong, you worry that your mind will be completely drowned out by this minor-key symphony.

You are about to plant yourself on an overturned gravestone to have a good cry when none other than Lord Garraway Craven emerges from a tragically tangled curtain of wisteria.

“This is for you, my love.” He hands you a small, smooth, polished-ash box.

You take it. “What is it?”

“A new beginning.” A diamond dewdrop of a tear slides down his plush lashes and explodes onto the box lid.

You remove the lid to find a letter of recommendation on his finest stationery commending your governessing skills, along with full first-class passage to America. Your mind scrambles to work out what this all means when he speaks again.

“Of course, I will give you any money you need, any amount at all, for whatever it is you choose to do. A woman of your skills and drive will most likely wish to work, even if she doesn’t need to. Hence the recommendation. But if you do not wish to work, and perhaps want only to travel, that is just as well. I can pay to—”

“Pay me to leave you?” you interrupt, your broken heart lodged in your throat.

“No, love, I—” he stammers like a child. “This is not payment. It is the best way I can think of for you to be free.”

“What if I do not wish to be free?” You allow your tears to fall like daggers. “Do you not love me?”

“Of course I love you, woman! I love you more than life and breath and reason! I love you more than wind and air and—”

“Then why send me away?”

“Because I am terrible for you. I am a monster, and you are an angel—” This time you interrupt him by snorting and rolling your eyes. “A fallen angel, fine. But still, you are more angel than I.”

“Then confess.” You silence him with a kiss, and the box falls from your hands to the half-lush, half-stony ground. “Confess your sins to me, the sins you have committed, the sins that make you loathe yourself and loathe this love. Confess what would have you send me away, rather than gather me close, closer, closest. Speak now.”

You throw yourself at his mercy, fast and filthy and gorgeous. He pulls your undergarments aside just enough to allow his staff entry to your hallowed hall, and you free your breasts from your dress and into his hungry mouth with the ease and desire of a champion lover.





How could you ever leave a man who is so eager to please all the damn time? Turn to this page. Hot tramp.

However…this is a more plum offer than you’re likely to ever get. If you’d rather pick up that box, forget his confession, and get thee to America, turn to this page.





“You will have to work that out for yourself,” you sniff at Cad. Taking Benedict’s arm, you stalk out of the room with your head held high.

“This is not over! Not as long as I live!” cries Cad, lunging wildly at the two of you. You nod at Benedict, your eyes meeting in an almost psychic connection. Benedict grabs an erotically shaped lamp and strikes the blackguard squarely across the jaw. As Cad staggers away, you stick out your foot.

Cad, blinded by rage and the remnants of the smashed lamp, fails to notice. He trips and goes flying into an elegant glass-fronted cabinet. There is an almighty crash, and he slumps unconscious to the floor.

“Well, I think we best be going,” mutters Benedict. “But first…” He throws the suggestive lamp to one side, turns to you with fire in his eyes, and kisses you deeply. You cling to him like a drowning man to a raft. But you cannot spend all evening kissing in a brothel when you may have accidentally killed a man.





A low groan rises from the shattered remains of the cabinet. Cad is clearly still alive, if not entirely happy.

You and Benedict reluctantly pull away from each other and gaze at the broken man, broken furniture, and crushed watercress sandwiches strewn before you.