My Lady's Choosing: An Interactive Romance Novel(82)

“There is more, my lady,” he says.

“YES.”

He pauses. “Do you wish me to take you roughly now, my lady?”

“Yes,” you say and grip his forearms. He releases a ragged scream of delight, and then releases his full force into you. He is so hungry for you, so lusty, and you are so closely entwined that you feel every flexing muscle, every breath, every shudder. Your bodies are silk ribbons, woven together, smooth as water undulating in a deep well of desire. Together you bend like young trees in a storm, limber and strong. He flips you and dips you and together you are acrobatic air, water, earth. You climax screaming his name, becoming stardust.

After you recover some sense of yourself, you turn to face him. He is half draped on the settee, half on the floor. His eyes are full of you.

“Where,” you finally manage, “did you learn all that?”

Nigel Frickley smiles. “I…I had a professor at Cambridge whose, um, wife, took quite a shine to me. She and her husband had an, um, arrangement where they were free to do as they wished as long as it was…discreet. She was a very demanding and thorough educator. With inventive techniques.”

Your eyes widen in shocked delight.

“Are you angry, my lady?” he asks, worry coloring his strangely beautiful face.

“Not at all, Nigel,” you say. He breaks into a wide smile.

“Wonderful!” he cries. “Now I will have to come up with something new for our wedding night. Let us sneak some wine before Mama returns and we must be respectable!”

He bounces out of bed to fetch the carafe. You lie back in satisfaction and sigh with happiness. You resolve to send a ham to the professor’s wife every Christmas from now until your end of days.

Life is good. It is very, very good.

The End





“Oh, Garraway!” you swoon, calling Lord Craven by his first name. A time for desire is no time for formality.

“I want you,” he keens, his eyes as wild as your desire for him. “I have wanted you since you first arrived.”

“But—” You attempt a false protest to at least appear to save your modesty. “But I am a governess, and you a lord. Society dictates—”

“Society!” he spits. “What do our bodies dictate?”

He wraps you in an embrace so close you feel all the firmness of his body’s dictations. You rack your mind for adequate verbiage, but ascertain that the truest depth of your emotions can only be expressed by pressing the fullness of your moonlit orbs into Lord Craven’s handsome, hungry mouth.

“The only society I care about,” he moans through mouthfuls of orb, “is yours.”

You make love with a violent passion there in the eldritch garden, amid the ruins of your purity and the angel statue bearing the face of his dead wife.

As you lie panting in each other’s arms, your reverie is broken by the haunting wails of a woman crying.

“HE SAID IT WOULD BE ONLY ME! ONLY ME FOR ALL TIME!!”

Lord Craven’s face turns as pale as a corpse. “Damnable woman!” he cries and leaves you alone among the eerie statues.





Do you decide to get the hell out of here? Turn to this page.

Do you investigate the sound? In for a penny, in for a pound. Turn to this page.





In the morning neither of you speaks of the previous night. You have many orphans to tend to, so the day is full of hard work and tension, but nothing more.

You spend the remainder of the journey in uncomfortable silence. Fortunately, the children are too excited seeing sheep and grass for the first time to pay much attention. Jane and Gertie, on the other hand, offer you sympathetic looks.

“All men is heathens,” says Jane. “Even the good ones.”

“Worse than heathens,” adds Gertie darkly.

Mac scrupulously keeps his distance from you, and you from him, and the rest of the stops in a variety of coaching inns along the way are extremely uneventful. Well, except at Doncaster, when you have to physically restrain Sallie from maiming Bert after he suggests that milk comes from cows and not bottles. And except when, you swear, you see that shadowy figure again. But of course this is impossible—to see someone from London this far north. Unless you have been followed…

Lamentably, the uneasy silence currently hanging between you and Mac has given you much time to dwell on things, and dwell you do. You cannot stop thinking about Constantina and what she could have meant to Mac to cause him such pain. About the fire and how it could have started. And about the shadowy figure and whether it is a product of your fevered mind…or something much darker. What can it all mean?

The universe smiles on your gloomy soul, for you hear the orphans cry out with excitement. You look up to see that you have arrived at Abercrombie’s crumbling ruin of an ancestral home, Glenblair Castle.





Och, you’re in Scotland now, lassie! Hoots, mon. Turn to this page.





To your surprise, the rest of the henchmen take off in the opposite direction from the route you and Fabien are taking.

“What is going on?” you demand.

“Madame St. Croix reveals her whereabouts to only a select few. These men have done their part, they have no need to go any farther or see where we are going.”